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April 21, 2005
they were expendable
I ate a salad of baby lettuce and bleu cheese dressing while I watched CSI Las Vegas, or whatever it's called. After it was over, a few minutes ago, I took my dishes, Herself's socks, my shoes and my glass of wine upstairs to the kitchen, and I made coffee and ate a piece of stale french bread with faux butter. I stood in the dark kitchen, chewing and scraping the roof of my mouth raw on stale-french-bread-crust, and a thought came to me: How long has it been since somebody really wanted to kiss me? I mean really wanted to. Really. Wanted to.
I don't know the answer to that, in spite of. All the rest of it. Oh, for heaven's sake. But forget bed for a while. I'll write a blog entry.
The house is silent. During dinner, their dinner--I was on my way to work and didn't want to eat--I was on the phone with Citibank. Citibank should give me my own extension, I'm on the phone with them so much. But anyway, I was on the phone and there was naturally some kind of disturbance. I can't have a phone conversation, haven't been able to for almost 15 years, without a child catching on fire in the same room where I'm trying to talk.
Herself got up from the table in a huff. "I'm not eating any more because Moo spit in my dinner." He spat in her dinner? For the past couple of days what's come out of her mouth has been a surprise. He spat in your dinner? "She started it!" Moo says. He is 14.5 years; his sister is 9.9 years. "She spit first." They spat in each other's dinner? God, that's disgusting. Okay, dinner is over. "I'm still hungry," says Moo. Of course he is. "Good," I say. "Both of you go to your rooms. And stay there." For how long? "Until I tell you to come out." Some things every parent says.
They go upstairs, downstairs. Stereos blare. I leave for work. I barely get there when Herself is on the phone. "I'm really sorry that I--"
I drive home; I get there in time to watch almost the beginning of The OC. The house is quiet. Not even the dog meets me at the door. Where is everybody? I go upstairs. She's asleep in her bed, fully clothed, under the covers, with Spike.
I go downstairs to Moo's room. He's asleep, under the covers, with Jack. It's very quiet. So I guess it's me, wine, stale bread and a salad and my favorite night of the week and the couch all to myself. Sweet.
And now I'd like to say good-night and leave you with tonight's theme song:
It doesn't hurt me. Do you want to feel how it feels? Do you want to know, know that it doesn't hurt me? Do you want to hear about the deal we're making? You, you and me.
And if I only could, I'd make a deal with God and I'd get him to swap our places. Be running up that hill, be running up that road, be running up that building. If I only could.
You don't want to hurt me, but see how deep the bullet lies. Unaware, I'm tearing you asunder. There is thunder in our hearts. Is there so much hate for the ones we love? Tell me, we both matter, don't we? You, you and me. You and me won't be unhappy.
And if I only could, I'd make a deal with God and I'd get him to swap our places. Be running up that hill, be running up that road, be running up that building, with no problem.
You. You and me. You and me won't be unhappy. Come on, angel; come on, come on, darling. Let me steal this moment from you now. Come on angel, come on, come on, darling, let's exchange the experience, oh.
And if I only could be running up that hill, with no problem.
Kate Bush
Posted by JudyLa at 10:11 PM | Comments (0)