the pursued, the pursuing, the busy, and the tired

My mom has breast cancer. It’s the best kind of breast cancer to have (so… yay?), but the poor woman. Psoriasis, skin cancer, near-fatal car accident, diabetes, and now breast cancer. And I cried when she told me, but mostly because I was hurt that my parents had waited a week to do so. I didn’t really stop to consider all the things I’ve kept from them for far longer.

But we spent a very nice weekend together otherwise; had some good chinese food; took the dog to the dog park. My parents! They’re a bit nutso in their own way, but I do love them. I just wish it weren’t so difficult for them to be well for just one six-month stretch.

So I’m feeling a bit dejected at the moment. It’s during these kinds of situations that I wish I had a sibling for reasons I’m not sure I can quite explain.

Ah well. There isn’t much that can be done about that at this point. 

If you subscribe to one literary magazine (and you should really subscribe to more than one!), The Lifted Brow is an extraordinary choice. Beautiful art, wonderful poetry and prose — and it comes from Australia!

Last year it introduced me to the work of the marvelous Rob Shearman (from whom I’ve shamelessly stolen the title of my blog). I’m pleased to see that he’s in this year’s summer issue again, and that you’re able to read his short story, “Cold Snap,” in full online for a limited time at The Lifted Brow’s website. He can be excruciatingly British — and I mean that in a complimentary way — and strangely twisted, but I’m always charmed and intrigued by his stories.

Here’s an excerpt from “Cold Snap”:

And sure enough, the feet were already hooves, better protection against the cold, and Ben could see Daddy sigh gratefully for that. The hide stole over his body, thick and strong, not strong enough, maybe, not in this weather, it could freeze your blood—but warmer than his man skin, that was a comfort at any rate. He pitched forwards when his hands became hooves as well; his head bowed down beneath antler weight.

“That’s it,” said Santa. “There you are. You’re beautiful. You’re beautiful.” He smiled at Ben. “Isn’t he beautiful?” And Ben couldn’t deny it.

Santa turned to the other reindeer. “This is your new brother!” he said. They were too weary to do much more than shrug their heads, non-committal. “You all try so hard for me,” he said. “For me, you fly the skies. You’re the best.” He stroked their heads, one by one. He reached one near the back. “And you, you’re so very tired, aren’t you? Such a long journey. So many long journeys. But you’ve always tried so hard.” The reindeer turned its human eyes to Santa, and nuzzled his hand. Santa laughed. “Thank you. Thank you. I love you.” And so tenderly, he caressed its head. And broke its neck.

In that silence the snap of bone sounded louder than it probably was. It had been such a gentle twist, really, and so quick, the reindeer wouldn’t have felt a thing. But it couldn’t have been that gentle—one of the bones had ripped through the skin (“rip it open, rip it apart!”), Ben could see it jutting out, sharp and white. The harness kept the reindeer in place, slumped in death as it was; when Santa released it, the body fell to the ground. The snow that caught it was so soft.

I’m so glad I’m not the asshole with the Starbucks.

This is the thought I have as I glance at the woman across from me while clutching my Dunkin’ Donuts cup.

I sure hope my dad’s Facebook page was hacked because the idea of him “liking”

:|:|:|:|:|:| Smoking Hot Bartenders :|:|:|:|:|:|

is just way too disgusting to handle.