bowel-shaking earthquakes of doubt and remorse Many of our friends have expressed their misgivings regarding our return to our home town. The consensus seems to be that we are being sucked back into a cultural and spiritual vacuum. Granted, I didn't even know what a "Bush/Cheney 2004" sign looked like until we moved back here, but other than that, I sort of enjoy the trade off, exchanging what in the city passes for culture for the relative peace and quiet and open space of the rural desert farmlands. And, as far as I can tell, "spiritualism" in the city consists of ready availability of yoga classes and vegan restaurants. I will enjoy visiting the city, and I do miss my friends, but somehow I am just more comfortable here. It is good to be the regular-sized fish in the small pond again. I mean, compared to these people I feel smart and attractive. However, I sure as fuck hope that we can get our own house soon. Cleaning up after my parents and their birds, fish, cats, dogs, chickens, and hyenas, as well as the great ape that is my father, is frustrating and tiring. My dad does everything but shit on the fucking rug: he leaves the milk in the bathroom, spils Pepsi under the couch and just leaves it after performing the ritualistic gesture of throwing a paper towel over it, which then of course conjunctively hardens to a gooey mess. The other day, shortly after I had fastidiously mopped the damn linoleum, I caught Juniper trying to suck a dollop of bird shit off the floor. Juniper is at what has to be the very easiest parenting-wise stage of babyhood: she can get herself back up to the sitting position when she falls over, but she can't quite crawl yet. She loves it here, because there are usually multitudes of people fawning over her. |