Last week when I was home with the sick kids, in the mail I received an amazing gift to myself. I had ordered a small published book called, The Zinester's Guide To New York City. So while the germs and attitudes swarmed around me, I squinted into tiny tiny print, reading about dim sum on the cheap and about free art exhibits. I was enchanted and saved from my own domestic hell, remembering the alternative me that used to exist strongly before the kids came. It was heaven.
That night after it was all quiet, I logged onto the zine site and spent $25 on a whole crop of new self published zines, instead of using the $ for . They came today in a huge envelope that Ivy opened and doled out each one to me while I drove, just wishing the time could speed by until I could be in the tub reading these amazing photo copied original beauties. Not Facebook updates, but true writing that needs to be written. I've been reminded of originality, not conformity.
I hate Facebook more and more every day. Yet, I still have an active account. I'm in an extreme hatred mode of Christmas and all of the things I'm supposed to have and be right now. Obligations are all around me, and I really do not do well with obligations. I even threatened the kids that Santa may not come unless they stop being brats. And I just heard Chris use the same threat. I don't like being like this to the kids. And they are all home tomorrow. And Chris has to work forever.
Tonight in the tub, I have read about cutting the cord, having a father be a true co parent and breastfeeding twins. I feel myself remembering who I am and liking what I remember with each small zine. Maybe I can take it minute by minute tomorrow.
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