pressure cooker on high

This is what happens when my mind is under pressure - a form of procrastination from writing what I'm supposed to be writing. Reams and reams more were written this morning while standing in line for a flu shot. Also scribbling in my lap at stoplights. Not the novel I meant to write, at all. (novel? memoir.) A lot of work but not the hard, nasty, brutish, work that, for me, is logical thought.

Meanwhile, back in Reality Land, spent the entire afternoon at Mascha's kid's birthday party. Last year was a fun filled Peaches party where we sat around playing with cars, trucks, and helicopters while listening to "Fuck the Pain Away" and that other peaches song that has the refrain "I was only double A but I was thinkin' triple X."

This year's party lived up to expectation at several points: yummy armenian food. somewhat disturbing and disturbed grandparents agitatedly flitting about exuding nervous disapproval. Sasha (code names as usual) loudly saying things not at all for a 4 year old's party, like "Vibrating Butt Plug" and "crotch licking", in rather attractive thick accent. I chimed in with many sailor-like swears and hookerish flirtation, as anyone being Bad just eggs me on. Kids all happy and cute playing with toys and getting along. Rook playing with them. Jo watching everything like a slightly bemused, wise, human sponge (and will she write of the surreal event? I can't wait to see.)

The whole house was like a huge toy and I had the pleasant feeling that if I wanted to take off all my clothes and roll around in some paint on a giant canvas, this would be the place to do it. (Again, this feeling is not quite what one associates with the words "4 year old's birthday party".) Loud techno music with dirty lyrics. Mascha looking cute and gothy with a million little butterfly clips in her hair. Her paintings up everywhere. I liked them. Her husband, who must have flirted with everyone in the room, constantly making eyes and exuding charisma like a sleazy, punk, human van de graaf generator, wrestling with me and trying to pour vodka straight from the bottle down my throat. (May I remind the gentle reader again that this is in front of his wife, parents, and multiple 3 and 4 year olds, fortunately not in front of my own mimosa, mimosa as in "sensitive plant", of a child. Unfortunately, "totally inappropriate and offensive" is always a big turn on for me. ) Clearly their kid will be golfing, joining the republican party, and dating bulemic ballerinas, along with my kid, in several years.