Marconi Plays the Mamba.

This is a photo of me, and it looks like I’ve been drinking.

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Remember when we all looked super cute while drinking Natural Light? Because we did. We were all droopy-eyed and mini-skirted and dangly-earringed and let ’em say we’re crazy, I don’t care about that. Put your hand in my hand, baby, don’t ever look back.

Let’s just hodge podge this, okay? You know I haven’t been around and I know I haven’t been around. Why sing songs about it? (Other than Starship songs, I guess, which I’ve already done. Twice!)

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Pussy Riot. They are fearless and powerful, I saw them in November, and I wish I had a Fuck Putin t-shirt.

This’ll have to do, although the directive is much different.

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Here’s a question. Would YOU fuck Putin if you had absolutely zero doubt that it would unfuck the world? There are so many things in the world that need to be unfucked—globally, but also way over here on my couch where it looks like my belly button (Billy Pancake for those who remember) appears to be puking bruises. (More on that later. Maybe even tomorrow, because I’ve been in the mood to write.) Here. I’ll go first. I would hate it, but I would do it. I would do it for you and I would do it for the world. (Mostly Unrelated Fact: Prince refused to be part of We Are The World. I get it.)

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It’s just avocado and red onion and tomato and jalapeno with lime juice and some sour cream on top of a black bean quesadilla. Isn’t everything, really?

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Christmas was good. Not many people got a card from us, and that’s my fault because I’m lazy. (Lazy is not a bad thing.)
Me: Who should we put on our Christmas card this year?
Meredith: John Oliver.
Me: Okay!
(passage of time)
Harper: Wait. I thought it was going to be John Oliver and us. Not just John Oliver.
Me: Oh. That makes sense.

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Well! THIS sweater is coming along nicely! (I started it in 2018.) The pattern is called Petra, because God gave rock and roll to you.

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I’ve been etching glass. (Don’t let anyone tell you that it’s difficult.)

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Finally, I met Roz Chast. I shared a secret with a cat. Benjamin Gibbard needs me so much closer, and I just wish the people in front of me would have taken him seriously.

I wasn’t kidding about maybe being back tomorrow. I’m just a fetus drawing away from go time.

17 thoughts on “Marconi Plays the Mamba.”

  1. Roz Chast is a truth teller. I haven’t sent a Christmas card since I was pregnant with my oldest. She is old enough to drink and has been accepted to grad school so…….yeah. Love the sweater, especially the color combo! See you tomorrow.

  2. Importantly, it should be noted that Roz Chast finally met Angela of Fluid Pudding — and appears to be suitably awed by the unexpected encounter :-)

    Your loyal readers, we need to hear about those bruises. Knowing you, they are probably pretty spectacular!

    XXOO

    1. The bruises are definitely not Fluid Pudding Friendly, and that says a lot considering I’ve posted a photo of a baby being pulled from my gut! (It really does look like Roz Chast was awed! Definitely not the case. (She was SO great!))

  3. Good to hear from you, Angie. Your cat is cute! Rob Chast – how did you get that name for him/her?

    Ms. Connie

    1. Hi, Connie! The cat was from a cat cafe. We were fast friends, but he isn’t mine. Roz Chast is the name of the artist in the photo above the cat. She does comics for The New Yorker. I’m a huge fan.

    1. YES! It took me a bit to figure out what was happening. I *think* we’re seeing the reflected fingers of the person who was taking a photo of the photo. (The stage right boob finger looks pretty normal, but stage left looks problematic, right?)

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