Posts Tagged 'bits'

Coming Soon

I started this blog to talk about my progress in therapy overcoming what my therapist calls “closet narcissism,” but because I’m a big weenie I’ve shied away from talking about that stuff in favor of – witty anecdotes! and pictures of my kids! and meaningless slices of life! But more and more people have been landing here after googling “closet narcissist,” and how selfish would it be for me to monopolize this rockin’ site name without ever discussing the thing itself? The googlers deserve some answers!

At least, this is how I justify Feelings Talk to myself. Because I’m a total weenie.

So: feelings talk coming soon – brace yourself. Meanwhile, here’s a picture of my bangs, which I dyed purple. I am not exaggerating when I say that this was a total whim.

purple hair

Have you ever tried to take a picture of yourself in the bathroom mirror, get everything centered and focused, and not make a weird face? This one’s a little blurry, but it’s the best of the bunch. Anyway, you get the idea – purple!

I’ll be back later with What I’m Learning In Therapy. Stay tuned.


Helpful hint

Excited as you may be about your new espresso machine (yes, another one), 11:30 p.m. is not the appropriate time to start fiddling around with your espresso recipe to figure out the perfect proportions of water and grounds. Taste-testing “just a little sip” of 12 consecutive espresso pulls is still the equivalent of drinking 3 shots, which probably isn’t the best way to spend your midnight.

Something old, nothing new

My adorably-pregnant sister-in-law teaches high school, and because she was to chaperone at prom this weekend we went to the mall to find her some shoes, which is how we found ourselves in the prom shoe aisle at Payless surrounded by a bunch of seventeen-year-old girls. It was an odd feeling, not unlike the time I had to climb into the McDonald’s playland to rescue a treed Noah and all the other preschoolers stared at me in wide-eyed awe and revulsion – “A grownup,” they all murmured. (In my head they’re all saying this in unison, like the squeaky-toy aliens from Toy Story.) “There’s a grownup in the playplace!” This same feeling translated seamlessly into prom-shoe-shopping – we were clearly out of place as Emily tried on Dyeables with her cutely pregnant belly and I watched from behind Peter’s stroller, and we left feeling acutely aware that we’re not seventeen anymore.

We struck out on shoes – heels that seemed to be a reasonable height for dancing when we were seventeen now loom threateningly when paired with a second-trimester bulge – so we wandered into Claire’s. If shoe-shopping amongst high-school students was awkward, accessories-shopping with preadolescents was surreal. “It’s like stepping back into 1988,” Emily breathed as she fingered a piano-keyboard-print belt.

“Are these earrings…Lisa Frank?” I asked, eying a display of butterfly jewelry.

The teenager behind the counter was chipper. “Yeah, isn’t this stuff, like, sooo cute?” she enthused. “It’s all so retro and stuff!”

“Retro,” I said. “The eighties aren’t retro, they’re tragic. They were woefully ill-advised the first time – bringing them back would just be foolish, and –”

“They have jelly shoes!” Emily called from the back of the store.

“The thing is,” I whispered to Emily as we examined rainbow hair clips and neon plastic bangles, “if all the twelve-year-olds are sincerely wearing leg warmers and side ponytails, that means we can’t wear them ironically anymore. Every time New Kids on the Block gets back together or they try to remake 90210, that’s one more thing we can’t be smug about having survived. If the teenyboppers have –”

“Hey, did you see we have slap bracelets?” called the teenybopper at the counter.

Emily’s and my heads swiveled toward her in unison. “You DO?”

“Those things used to be banned from my elementary school,” I reminisced.

“I used to buy them from the quarter machine at the grocery store,” reflected Emily.

“These are just $3.50!” gushed the teenybopper.

“Just think,” said Emily, “if I’d saved all those slap bracelets I bought when I was 8, I could be selling them now at a 1400% markup.”

“The past doesn’t belong to us; we simply market it to our children,” I said. Then we clutched our walkers and shuffled off to catch the early bird special at the Golden Corral.

Stay-at-home mom

The robin eggs on the front porch hatched Thursday, and this afternoon I went out with the camera to see if I could get any pictures of the hatchlings. Momma Bird stayed on her nest, keeping a wary eye on me.


Staying home and sitting on the chicks is how Momma Bird spends her days. Watching her made me think of a Shel Silverstein poem that used to make me giggle: Mrs. McTwitter the baby-sitter / I think she’s a little bit crazy / She thinks a baby-sitter’s supposed / To sit upon the baby.

This is one of two Shel Silverstein poems I memorized in fourth grade – the other of which doesn’t have anything to do with anything, but I like it anyway: My beard grows to my toes. / I never wears no clothes. / I wraps my hair / around my bare / and down the road I goes.

After a while, Papa Bird came home with some wriggly things for the babies.

“Honey, I’m home!”


That’s Papa Bird – he brings home the bacon. The leggy, wriggly bacon.


Right about then, Papa Bird decided I was getting a little too close with my camera, and he flew off. Not Momma Bird, though. She stood her ground. She was gonna keep glaring at me until I backed off.


Papa Bird perched in a nearby tree where he could hop up and down and chirp at me, threateningly.


Beween you and me, he wasn’t very intimidating. But don’t tell him that.

Momma Bird, though – she wasn’t going anywhere. She was just going to keep glaring for as long as it took to make me go away.


“Don’t come one step closer, human, or I’ll glare at you so hard you’ll burst into flame. I mean it. Not one…more…step.”


My eyebrows were starting to singe, so I backed off and went inside. No momma should have to spend her Mother’s Day staring down a giant with a Canon.

Maybe for Mother’s Day I’ll get a telephoto lens, so I can get some bird family photos without giving Papa Bird a heart attack.

Or I’d settle for dinner on the grill and a bouquet of construction-paper flowers.

Conversations with a nearly-six-year-old

As I was drawing a skunk for Noah to color –

David: “I don’t like skunks. They spray stink at people.”

Me: “You know, some people keep skunks as pets.”

David: “Is that so they can use the skunk to spray stink at bad people?”

Me, trying not to raise my eyebrows too conspicuously: “They take the skunk to a veterinarian to have the skunk’s stink-sprayer taken out. Then the skunk can’t spray stink at people anymore, and they keep it as a pet like a dog or a cat.”

David: “If the veterinarian puts the stink-sprayer back in, then can they use it to spray stink at bad guys?”

Me: “I don’t think they can put it back in. I think they can only take it out.”

David: “Oh.” Noting that I’m now drawing a lion for Noah: “Are skunks afraid of lions?”

Me: “You know, I’m not sure. I don’t know if any skunks have ever met any lions, because they don’t live in the same place.”

David: “The lion might eat the skunk. But the skunk might spray stink at the lion.”

Me: “Right. I don’t really know who would win.”

David: “What if you sprayed fire at a lion?”

Me: “I’m thinking that wouldn’t be very good for the lion.”

David: “Would it make the lion dead?”

Me: “Yep, it would probably kill the lion.”

David: “What if you sprayed fire at a bad guy?”


Upon noting the mat on our porch:

D: “Why does that say ‘Welcome’?”

Me: “‘Welcome’ is another way of saying ‘We’re glad you’re here.’ So we have a welcome mat by our door to tell any visitors that come by that we’re glad they’ve come to visit.”

D: “But what if a bad guy comes to visit and reads the sign?”


Yeah, it’s been several weeks since I’ve posted. I have several new posts in the pipeline, and maybe someday I’ll get them written and published instead of just incubating in my head; but in the meantime, here’s a picture of the robin’s nest on my front porch:



Welcome to my new place! I’m Abi. I’m new here. I just emigrated from Vox, where I had a lovely little blog that I outgrew; now I have this nice little fixer-upper here at WordPress. I’ll be writing here about my experiences as a wife, mom, human, and psychotherapy patient. I do hope you’ll stick around.


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