Check one thing off of my "To Do" list. Unfortunately (?), I was in a piss poor emotional state when we pushed play. I had napped in and out of a migraine this morning, suffering through my most dependable, classic menstrual symptom. I even called Matt to come home early from work and help me take care of the three year old and the stupid, demanding dog (who has broken another backyard clothes line chord/leash and who we cannot trust to run around in the fenced backyard alone because he's dug little trenches at various spots under the fence and loves to wiggle out to run wild around the neighborhood when he's likely to get squashed on the road we live upon - a county road with a painted center line upon which cars and garbage trucks love to fly by).
So, when
Juno came on, I found myself near tears from scene one, when she's in the drugstore buying a pee-stick and the goofy guy from
Office says "your eggo is preggo" and calls her "homeskillet." Dark humor . . . I love dark humor. I was shoved into old memories of doing the penguin-wobble around my old high school hallways, the subject of rumors and stares. My dear Juno, I related. Still, Juno made me feel like shit. Because she was smart. I don't remember being that smart. Nor do I remember having any proper state of insight. She made me jealous. My love affair was shallow. I loved my first, the soon-to-be baby's father, for being nineteen and having freckles on top of his muscles. He never ate tic-tacs and was hardly avid when it came to his application of underarm deodorant (rubbing it between his legs would've been "gay"). His breath stank; he smoked cigarettes. And, my God, I never came close to having such a supporting force behind me! My stepmother and father were on another planet. I shamed them. They didn't even show up at the hospital when the little booger was born. When the baby was a few weeks old, my sister drug us to my father's house and he just shook his head at it and said "Ya' think you can take care of that thing?" I never thought for a moment that I didn't have the capacity to take care of my baby. Still, while in labor, I remember my mother and my boyfriend arguing over what channel to put the TV on; I was behind them wondering why no one had ever pointed me in the direction of Lamaze breathing classes. I thought my mother might punch tall, bald, soft-spoken Dr. Berry (in her state of hysteric tears) when he told her that I was the mother and, by law, had the right to give the baby whatever last name I wanted to give it. I do remember the moment my little boy slipped from my body (and it did feel that easy somehow) because the sun peeked out of the clouds just then (it had been a cloudy, chilly day in November), and it shined through the window of the hospital room and blinded me. It was magical. But, really, it shined through mucky, mucky glass. And I was both literally and metaphorically blinded. Nothing was clear. Nothing is clear now.
I cried through scene after scene, constantly wiping my cheeks, trying to be inconspicuous. As soon as I would have it under control, the cute little sixteen year old brunette, Juno, would once again remind me of me (but perhaps I am being conceited). Matt kept giving me "I'm sorry" half-smiles (likely still thinking I was just suffering through my headache). My two teen daughters would glance over at me occasionally, oblivious. My fifteen year old told me I was weird.
It spawned one of those "How in the hell did I get here?" moments. I rose to float above my little world. I kept looking around at my kids (intelligent, attractive and enduring their own hormonal turmoil), at our cozy living room, our shitty mismatched furniture, our precious (stupid) Border Collie, our collection of movies, our humming computers, my beloved best friend/husband (in his khakis and still glowing because he has a new job) . . . I kept thinking about this picturesque town, my Masters degree, how we have a king size bed in our own master bedroom (on floor number two) and my own overflowing closet, how I have books out the whazoo (and I have at least half of them read) . . . I thought about my "to do" list, what I've been doing to preoccupy my mind, how I was so lucky to even have such an opportunity . . . and asked myself repeatedly: "How in the hell did I get here?" Where's my trailer? Where are my bruises? My food stamps? The odds were highly favorable that, by now, my ass would be MUCH wider and I would be on anti-depressants and recovering from some type of chemical dependency.
Now, my headache has gone away. A quick trip to McDonald's for supper eased my inner coiled tension. Now, I'm tinkering around with InDesign again (a little more progress was made), and I'm thinking I should write a little intro "editors note" about the need for "revelation" in art and literature. It's too rare that I should find a poem that reaches out and slaps me in the face. I started reading Anne Sexton's biography (and I'm thinking "oh shit, not again"). I remember wanting to write a book shortly after I had little Justin Charles Thomas at age 16 - I would title it "I Was a Teenage Mommy" (lame now, but at the time I imagined it to be a dark humor play on "I Was a Teenage Werewolf." A play on the theme of being a freak. I even drew a mock-up cover, the words all green and slimy and dripping.). Now, I'm not sure if I could totally re-grasp what it was all like. Still, writing a book would be "closure." And closure is a good thing (I let Josie watch Chicken Little twice today - just ask "Ugly Duckling").
Now, moths keep banging their heads into the glass sliding door behind me as I sit here at the kitchen table typing, and it's making me nervous.
There is a frog (or two) living in the muck and rain water that has accumulated on top of our three-foot above-ground pool cover. They are singing like they're in deep love. I hate the thought of dumping the stinky stuff out and leaving them without a cozy home. And their song reminds me of camping. 
