I got an email from someone I haven’t spoken to in about 9 years. Not because of any kind of falling out, but because life just moves on and geography is what it is. And besides, I lost the charger to my PalmPilot which was the last device I had with that person’s contact information.
I didn’t recognize the email handle but the numbers in the handle mattered. I emailed back saying, “If this is you tell me the significance of the number.” He wrote back with the right answer and so then I wrote him back with the usual catch-up small talk. Hi. How are you? Where do you live? Are you married? Do you have a baby? Or are you happy you weren’t the father? Are you happy? I’m married. I have a child. I’m a Jew now. I live on Long Island. My dad just had open heart surgery. We are old. Etc.
The thing is, with the justice system as it is, for the most egregious crime illustrated here which is the dog on the bed no ma’am, the Rottweiler would be put down. She would be cleared of any wrongdoing and we’d read all about it in her cover story for People. Ain’t that some shit?
Sometime last month, I had to be somewhere that required Justin to be with the baby all day by himself. This is a rare occurrence because that’s my baby and we roll deep together, like every day. I’ve spent one night away from her and that was technically only 6 overnight hours because I got home from the out-of-town wedding at 1 ish and picked her up bright and early at 7 am because I missed her and needed her to see my face first becau … I’m crazy, I know. That night was amazing by the way. The Queen of Bambu Rolling Papers got married and I was seated next to the editor of High Times and he regaled me with tales of The Blackout Cake. Get there.
*wafts imaginary strange clouds to get back to her original point*
When Lomi and I reunited from her day with pops, she was hollering for him to play the daddy song. I figured it was a song they wrote together in the car between trips to Guitar Center and his mom’s house (because while Justin Beck is more than capable of watching her by himself you already know … )
He then played this song and my baby girl sang all the words! This is her favorite song. Each weekend that she rides in the car with him, she makes this request and sometimes I’m even allowed to sing along. Most times no. In fact, once she said, “No mommy! Stop talking. Daddy make it really louder!” and she belted it out like a professional singer. You all are really not ready for my stage mom realness. When she stops shitting her pants, you watch. You’re not ready. Not really, but I’m saying AMERICA! SHE’S GOT TALENT.
I’ve been trying to film her singing it but she doesn’t like to be filmed or have her picture taken. Where ever did she get that from?! I was able to secretly capture it exactly once and she was swaying back and forth playing her baby guitar but Justin was in boxers and so that can’t go on YouTube. One day though, I will get this on film and we will all die. It is that cute. Her taste level is — teach them well and let them lead the way, indeed.
GPOY. Yeah, why is the depression taking notes with its own clipboard and pen? Look how it hovers at the picnic too. All this to say, #justicefortrayvonmartin Let me log off forever because the more I know about the Zimmermans, the Sanford PD, the State Attorney, the white power email hackers good lord almighty, the comments on articles and YouTubes, the more faith I lose in humanity and I already had very, very little left.
