Yesterday, Grandpa Pete and I took tiny, tiny Buckwheat to the university’s pool for family swim. Pete and I had not been to family swim so we had no idea what to expect. We also knew that Buckwheat, despite living in Florida, has not spent much time in water because Miss Sasha is not a big fan. No one understands this. Anyway, we suited up and went. The pool has a variable floor, which was set at 2’6″, which came up to an inch or so below Buckwheat’s chin. This was not threatening because the day before, she spent most of a day in a pool with my mother, who taught swim classes for most of my childhood. They blew bubbles, practiced kicking with a kickboard, jumped into the pool and were very brave about putting their feet on the bottom of the pool, so bouncing around with us was a cinch. The moral of the story is that my mother should teach all the children how to swim. I mean, obviously.
I spent much of my weekend preparing for a totally meaningless and fun Edible Book Festival at the unnamed university’s library. The Festival offered few rules and tiny prizes, but that didn’t matter. I was in it for the festive business of wild artmaking.
I had an idea I loved and loved thinking about and loved imagining how it would be received. Tiaras, bouquets and double-stick tape aside, it was fun thinking. It was fun to buy pie crusts and phyllo and I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter in spray form. No, I didn’t use butter and a basting brush because I am an artist, not a pastry chef. This is art. No one is going to willingly eat it. Anyhoo, my first attempt turned out beautifully on Saturday, two days before today. It didn’t stand a chance of surviving to this morning, except that it did. Last night, I made another, slightly larger pastry book that turned out just as crunchy but less elegant. I packed them both to transport 2.2 miles and hoped one would make the brief trip. To my surprise, both survived. I put them on a marble lazy susan borrowed from my boss Gianna and put the pastry books out among the exhibits.
It won a small prize I will put toward a science kit for my grandchildren, which is great because baking is science and science kits for my grandchildren are also fun – for me.
This is a new low:
“If it was your son, in fact, screaming as you testified, that would suggest that it was Mr. Zimmerman’s fault that led to his death,” [Murderous moron George Zimmerman’s attorney Mark] O’Mara observed. “And if it was not your son screaming, if it was, in fact, George Zimmerman then you would have to accept the probability that it was Trayvon Martin that caused his own death, correct?”
“I don’t understand your question,” [Trayvon Martin’s mother Sabrina] Fulton said. “I heard my son screaming.”
“You certainly had to hope that was your son screaming even before you heard it, correct?” O’Mara continued.
“I didn’t hope for anything,” Fulton insisted. “I just simply listened to the tape.”
“I don’t meant to put you through this any more than necessary, but you certainly would hope your son, Trayvon Martin, did nothing that could have led to his own death, correct?” O’Mara tried again.
“What I hope for is that this wouldn’t have ever happened and he would still be here,” Fulton shot back. “That’s my hope.”
“That’s a real dick move, Mr. O’Mara,” said all dick moves ever.
Pete and I took our little grandchildren, my daughter Miss Sasha, my mother and stepdad to the American Museum of Natural History today. This is my grandson Panky.
If some pathetic douchebag harmed my grandson and the pathetic douchebag’s attorney asked me if the blame rested anywhere but on the pathetic douchebag, I’m 101% sure I’d look that attorney square in the eye and tell him – or her – what sort of monstrous pigfucker he – or she – was. Sabrina Fulton deserves a medal of some kind, but at least the conviction of her son’s murderer.
Pete and I had company for a couple of nights and I’m buzzzausted. I can barely muster a passable Bronx cheer!