Well, it took a few months but I found it. I was afraid it fell out along with my placenta; discarded with all the other afterbirths, appendixes, rotten limbs and other bloodied remnants from the floor of the hospital. Or maybe it fell into one of the hundreds (thousands?) of diapers I have wadded into tight neat balls and tossed into the overflowing diaper abyss otherwise known as a landfill. Did it get washed too many times left faded and smelling faintly of Dreft and puke? No, I just misplaced it for a bit. Fuck, give me a break I was figuring out how to be a Mother. Which I am really fucking good at by the way. And the very thing I had laid aside for a while I happened to come upon at a most unusual time, December. Yes, motherfucking shithead of a month, December. I loathe you, I despise you, I dread you like a whore dreads a herpes outbreak. Here it was and I greeted it with two middle fingers and it said “Fuck you too bitch, now go make some goddamn Christmas cards and bake some cookies.” I obliged with spray paint, glitter and sugar sprinkles. Thank you December. The paint, scissors and glue have not been put away for over a week and I have made some very interesting cards this year.
My self, it’s still here, intact and stronger than ever.
Today I spent well over an hour getting dressed. This is seriously depressing not being able to wear 90% of the clothes in my wardrobe. I have an amazing closet filled with vintage gowns, handmade treasures, my own thrift store cut and sew jobs and all the polyester a girl can handle. I removed item after item, resigning myself to over sized sweaters and fluorescent Hawaiian moo moo’s. Then it occurred to me, the perfectly proportioned lady who is currently collecting dust in my backyard art studio. Why pack up this delightfully wacky wardrobe when there is a beautiful naked lady just waiting to be clothed and adorned? So, I pulled her from the weeds and vines, soaped and sprayed her down, pretty much gave her a perfect Valentines day pamper session. She then received a fresh paint job complete with glittery freckles. She is currently outside drying in the sunset.
Tomorrow morning getting dressed will be so much more fun. An outfit of resignation to my growing pregnant stomach (seriously, growing by the second), and an ensemble to envy for my lovely new lady.
I often succumb to inspiration overload, ideas spilling out faster than I can contain them. Today was a perfect example. The whole thing started with David Choe on Howard Stern. Oh shit fuck, my two favorite people in the same room conversing on all my favorite topics: art, freedom, gambling, graffiti and the fucked up weirdness of male sexuality. And now the Howard Stern replay on Sirius XM is starting over and I am once again consumed with the Stern/Choe melding of worlds. Two amazing men who are completely different and exactly the same.
After my first dose of Howard/Choe and a pot of coffee I was ready to start my day filled with semen smeared inspiration and paint stained fingers. I adorned myself with my new favorite fluorescently hideous vintage gown. This bitch will fit throughout my entire pregnancy if I have to stand on my head to put it on.
Today is almost rainy, the perfect weather for creating some art. But goddamn it, creating shit has been difficult without my smokes. There is most definitely cigarette ash in every single one of my art pieces. So, nothing was made. Pathetically, I haven’t even made it out of the house yet. I got out two things that help me focus; my 10 pound 1949 Dictionary and a stack of National Geographic magazines.
Ooh, that’s a new one: Nimbed, a. Having or bearing a nimbus, as a head.
Nimbus, like a raincloud? A raincloud head!! Love it, I want one.
Gotta find some cucumber tits.
Fuck it. I am spending the rest of the day reading.
I feel safe in the bathtub.Which has always seemed odd to me seeing how I hate my body and all.I have lived with eating disorders for over 20 years now. I have gone days without eating and I have consumed (briefly) thousands of calories in one sitting. I have written down every meal I have ever eaten. I write in notebooks, books I happen to be reading at the time, scraps of paper and most recently into handy little phone apps that encourage my obsessive behavior.I’m not ok with my growing pregnant body. I can’t stand the fucking “your body is beautiful” “pregnancy glow” comments. This bloated uncomfortable stomach is not beautiful. Fuck all that shit. I am pregnant, I am fat, I will give birth and then I will starve myself until I see myself as being somewhat acceptable. And I will probably be pregnant again. I want kids, i really do. I hope I don’t pass on this shit to them but who am I kidding, I probably will. But that’s why we have kids, to share our crazy shit with.I like to figure shit out in the bathtub. And did I mention I feel safe in there? When I first got sober I would spend hours in the tub chain smoking cigarettes. I knew that it would be more difficult for me to change my mind about sobriety if I had to get out of the tub, dry off, get dressed (always a daunting task), put on my make up (at least 45 minutes), poof my bouffant, OCD for about 20 minutes, then walk to the liquor store for a bottle of wine. And it worked. I have been sober for over 3 months.