5 acts of truth

1. Our bedroom door doesn't latch, just sticks to the painted frame. Mornings, Snickers throws herself into it, announces the hour with the crack of paint like a suction of air from our dark. She breaks in while Scooter wags in the hall, waits until my footsteps to stretch into a hello whine I can't close my eyes to.

2. I'm in love with podcasts, essays I can listen to while I paint, while I clean, while I drive. I'm in love with Radiolab, This American Life, and On Being. Serial, TED Radio Hour, Dear Sugar, and Pop Culture Happy Hour. Stuff You Should Know, Stuff You Missed in History Class, and I Guess We're Grown-Ups Now. I want to learn, to engage in a thought conversation, to absorb words. 

3. "It isn't working," said Jack when I tried to get Master Chief to hold his gun. Master Chief has 26 recumbent joints and eight guns that attach to his body. He has hands that grip if you know where the parts go, what it looks like to hold a gun. Jack wants an AKsomethingorother angled to kill in Master Chief's hands, but his wrists won't rotate, and I can't say I want them to. "It isn't working," he says, and hands Master Chief back again and again. 

4. I tossed some of the last pre-me food over the weekend. You know, those cans of chili or preserves that the pre-me Phillip or well-meaning relative bought. Those canned peaches and single-packaged applesauce cups that are easy to eat but haven't been eaten in a year, two years, that will likely never be eaten unless after one, two years the post-me house has a change of taste or a child reminds us they exist. Sometimes even the post-me food sits untouched, an intention of home-cooked meals and the failure to plan for other appetites.

5. Wallpaper on the ceiling is the worst. Removing wallpaper from the ceiling is the worst. Dripping fabric softener, powder white texture, throbbing thumb from the pressure is the worst.