A while ago, I gave myself a year to deal with motherhood. I have three more months to loaf around, then I must figure out the rest of my life. In the meantime, this site is being redesigned by a real artist, not me. The pro website, the one that’s paying my mortgage and KilBaby’s health insurance, will be launching Aug 20th. Our son is crawling all over the apartment, he follows us from space to space. (You can’t legitimately say room to room in a NYC apartment. It’s misleading.) Best Week Ever still throws me on television every so often. I started taking more nights off, and lately I’ve been happier onstage. Less is more, at least now.
My birthday was last week, and it was one of those “what have I done with my life” birthdays. Not much, I decided. Not enough. When I started doing standup, I was so excited. When I was trying to get a writing job on Tough Crowd, I was so excited. I want that feeling again. I want to believe in something (or myself) so much that I make a miracle happen.
I also want to kill Michael Vick. War is understandable to me, but I can’t bear a rich man hurting animals for fun. Dogs, pitbulls. Like my old dog Pinky, who I haven’t seen in years because Gennady and I decided a clean cut was the best idea. And I know she’s in great hands, so I’m ok. But I saw Pinky’s face in all those dog faces, and Michael Vick in all his arrogant awfulness. Laughing, betting. I couldn’t sleep for days.
Sometimes, I wake up and run scenarios of the awful things that could have happened to KilBaby that day, had I been more careless. Like when I gave him a bath and his head went under the water for a second. What if it had been ten seconds? What about when I was swinging him from his feet? What if I’d hit his head on the wall? And crossing the street? And what if the windows fell out and he dropped on the sidewalks? The ceiling could cave in, it happens! I can do this for hours, up all night, giving myself the chills. Dogs, babies… everything wonderful is vulnerable. It’s unbearable at times.