Excerpts of letters from the Katie archive.
February 10, 1999
We have beekeeping yet again today. It is warm, which means that the bees will be in a good mood. They sing a happy song as they fly hither and yon.
I sang to Andy, most sweetly, ‘You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray. You’ll never know dear, how much I love you. Please don’t take my sunshine away.’ And he said ‘yeah, whatever.’
February 13, 1999
I’m getting my hair curled today, much like Wavy Gravy. I’m sick of my stupid ole face in the mirror. Do you think I can get it waved too? When I next write, just you see if my words don’t wave just a little bit.
Later…
When I was at the hairdresser’s an old lady farted really loudly and everyone pretended not to notice except the woman who was doing my hair. She turned and glowered at the farter, representative of all us fartees. It blew me off my chair and all my newly acquired curls fell to the ground.
Peter won his basketball game 18 to 2. He’s getting better, though he doesn’t have curls the way I do.
I’m going to bed, my mind is dead
Tomorrow I’ll write, in the cold morning light
In the meantime, just chill, you major dweebhead
February 16, 1999
I’m back, bold and beautiful. You better write me now ere I go to slumberland. A day spent with four energetic male chilluns ain’t my idea of a day spent in heaven. My brain is chafed. We et lots of groovy Sizzler food. The kids find it compelling that they can go back as many times as they want. This is, for them, the test of a truly fine restaurant.
March 11, 1999
We just returned from the banquet-burger where, as I suspected, we were treated to a delicately prepared ham in water sauce with boiled-past-recognition-taters. For dessert, an elegantly poised selection of delightful, throwup shaped cookies greeted us from a day-luuxe plastic tray. I only wish you had been with us.
May 20, 1999
Ned just vacuumed my feet, which, I think, shows a lot of devotion. He must feel I bear a resemblence to Our Lord’s son. He’s also quite anal and didn’t want me scattering around the grass clinging to the bottom of my feet.
June 6, 1999
I dropped my coffee mug into the opening of a port o’ potty toilet facility (Irish?). It went plop, and I knew it was a goner. Want it? I had been watching a little league game of Andy’s where he didn’t hit anything, and everybody was silent when he came to bat, but cheered uproariously for the next batter (who struck out). I feel like Anne Lammott at these things, thinking, would it be so much skin off God’s teeth for him to let Andy blast one? Is it God’s teeth or his nose, or his cake, or his cat, or what?
June 9, 1999
We just went to have the kids’ hair cut. Peter was unusually opposed to this. It turns out that he had named each of his hairs and didn’t want to lose any. When the barber first started snipping away, Peter said, “whoops, there goes Henry.”
June 16, 1999
Peter just wrestled me off the sofa, despite the fact that I was bearing down on him with all my weight, and hurled me into the trash can a la Greisinger. I am a swollen heap of bruises yet to be.
Your lack of basic intelligence worries the hell out of me. What if people judge the family on the basis of meeting with you?
I’m going to bed with my bruised portions elevated. Oh, what a world, what a world. My love for you knows no parameters. It blossoms like the spring. My sweet love holds you close, dear one. It can’t be long ’til we meet again. SSS SSSS SSSS SSSS (like precious pup), The Pale and Bruised Beauty