marinelli's miscellany
This makes my heart ache. But also proud - of Rob’s and John’s pride, love, forthrightness…and, marriage. That’s what makes a family. <3
Got this email from the folks - the sort of holiday letter that many people send with their xmas cards. I was mentioned…
“Robert is living in Australia with a friend he met in Madison. We don’t hear much from him unfortunately”
Well, maybe if they didn’t refer to my husband John as “a friend (I) met in Madison” we’d have more to talk about.
The famously rageaholic — but, in my memory, good-hearted — dude who played “Greg,” the villainous surfgang ex in Forgetting Sarah Marshall, has announced he’s single.
(Ladies.)
If you are a smug bastard: I probably want to shiv you.
If you are a smug bastard with whom I happen to share a great deal, in culture, politics, taste in music, and so forth: Add strangling.
They have those, right?
__
* Implicit in such a treatment protocol: First, they would hide my netbook (oh my GAWD can someone at least do that?).
Spent the entire day on the Internet.
But the point of my registering online (after weeks of methodical and careful research about my options) was OH MY FUCKING GOD, I HATE TALKING TO PEOPLE, JESUS CHRIST TAKE A HINT GO AWAY.
November 9, 1971, describing a visit to Southwestern Virginia:
Shooting stars over Hillsville. Jan and Suzi and Linda’s reunion. ‘Mountain magic.’ Cornbread and chow-chow and pickled beets and wedding cake and ‘sweet milk’ and coffee and soup beans and ham and in the mornings eggs and bacon and biscuits and glowing red jellies. Plenty in the middle of deprivation in miniature. Homecoming.
This chokes me up on so many levels.
And also makes me hungry.
from my dad’s journal, on 12/14/1971, shortly after my first birthday. I’m reminded of a few things:
(No villains in this story - just, some people who made me.)
Leave me at home to see the Clutch show I wanted to see, without the car and with no cat food in the house and two very vocal, angry, hungry cats (after specifically saying you’d pick up some cat food earlier, right before you got the call offering a free guest past to the show)…
Well then, I just might have to kick your ass once you get home.
I question its authenticity, given its failure to appear among church closings on the early Sunday news, following the snowing-est Christmas in recent regional memory.
(Whatever. I’m pretty sure that of God within recognized, collectively, it would have been a damned fool idea to hit the roads yesterday morning, and so we had cozy hunkering downs at our respective homes. If I were the Amen!-shouting type, that’s what I’d append to this comment.)
The soundtrack for the third** phase of my relationship with my husband ― in the summer of ‘90, before I went back to women, was reported to state and federal authorities as a missing person, got knocked up against my will in a homeless shelter, and finally, late in 1997, fled the state of Minnesota, bringing my beautiful daughter back with me to Virginia ― consists chiefly of Bad Company’s 10 from 6.
(I apologize for nothing.)
__
* Earlier, I wrote this as “ten days.” It’s easy to get confused when the justice of the peace arrives drunk, straight from a funeral (“If I’m not marryin’ em, I’m buryin’ em!” he nearly shouted as she scarfed up as much impromptu reception food as possible), and fucks up the date on the actual marriage certificate.
** Phase I: In ‘74, when my mother cashiered for his dad at the “Loco Sunoco” in our mutual hometown of Williamsburg, Virginia; Phase II: in ‘84, after I got kicked out of my dad and stepmom’s home in San Diego, and briefly attended James Blair Intermediate (which, back when my uncles, the Soltys boyz, et. al. went there, had been a high school), and even more briefly, dated his close friend.
