POOOOOOR Mr. Husband, he worked all day long yesterday. This house is sixty years old so it is crooked on the inside (adds character) and crooked on the outside (makes water drain badly).

All day I could see him outside the kitchen window, scrubbing away at the cement. Then he got all of the appropriate tools out, and hauled about a dozen bags of dry cement. Those bitches are heavy, man- you ever pick one up? They’re about as big as a smallish pillow, but they weigh eighty pounds! When it was sunny and warm in the afternoon I helped him haul bags too. He would dump a bag in the wheelbarrow and add a gallon of water, which would produce an even heavier substance. While Franny played with her ball on the back patio, I watched him sweat and his biceps strain.

“Ugh,” he said. “I bet guys who do this all the time are seriously buff. I shoulda rented a mixer.”

The sun was setting as he ran the trowel over the now-smooth surface of the cement. By the porchlight I could see through the “cream” floating on top to the sand and lighter grit underneath; it was like being at the very edge of the seashore and peering through to the sand below.

It was dark. Franny was playing with a little hand broom and he was setting a tarp up over the works in case it rained.

“I’ve got to go rinse these tools off.”

“Okay”

He disappeared around the corner to where the hose is- this was what I’d been waiting for. I rooted around in my pocket and pulled out all my coins…aha, a beautiful shiny nickel. I could see in the porchlight that it said 1998. I leaned out over the wet cement, and gently pressed it in, heads up.

“What are you doing? Did you write your name?”

“No, I…erm…”

“Let me see…A nickel! What is wrong with you woman? I worked on this ALL DAY LONG!”

“Uh, well, you know, it’s the funniest joke ever. Think about it.” I touched his arm. “Everytime someone comes over…”

“I know,” he said crossly. “They will try to pick it up.” He sighed and started to put the wheelbarrow away. I walked Franny into the house and he said to my back, “Sometimes you’re more trouble than you’re worth.” Then he laughed.

The phone rang. That’s how interesting things begin, right? Feh.

“Hello, do you still have the car for sale?” Oh yes. Oh good. “Mmm yeah, well I completely TO-talled my Jag and I need an “interim” car.” I could almost taste the quotation marks.

They come to look at the car. “Ooooh, I was raised in Shoreline but I just looooove the architecture in this area. Can I look around.” She clops back to the bedroom and peeps in the bathroom. “Ooooh, are these fixtures original?” Sorry, honey, we hide our glocks/ferret farm/heroin rigs (or whatever you were looking for) in the Heart of Darkest Closet.

“Oooooh, look at these livingroom walls? Did you do this yourself?” She smells like wine and leather and faded rich lady perfume. Our walls are an obsequiously cheerful shade of orange.

“Oh no. It was like this when we moved in.”

“Ahhh, I bet someone did this in the 60s. There was a lot of communal living in this neighborhood then.” She whispers “communal living” at me the way someone else might use the phrase “leper colony.” She asks about the hole in the backyard.

“Oh. That used to be a mother-in-law cottage.” She shakes her head and pinches up her lips tightly. “Communal living,” she hisses again, disgustedly.

The phone rings the next day. “Can you do me a favor and go run and look at the tire size. I want to buy new rims since those ones are so dinged.” Yeah, okay, I can do that. I’ll run too, if it means you’ll buy the car.

Later, they want to come back and pay for the car. The husband hovers by the car, peering at it in the daylight like he’s studying an artifact. The wife shuffles around nervously in the entryway and smells like booze again, maybe she’s a rummy. “Why does she keeps staring at me like that?” says the rummy’s little boy, uneasily.

“Ha ha, she likes other little kids. You want a cookie, fella?”

The man comes in and lets my cat out, who is not allowed out. “Oh the cat,” says the rummy, “I’ll go get her.”

“No!” he says, and grabs her arm. “What if the cat gets out in the street? You wouldn’t want it to be your fault, would you?” He glances at me. Shifty. I’m not going to sue you if my cat gets hit by a car, you fuck.

Subject change: “Well, I wiped the car with some chemicals.” You wiped a car with chemicals that you don’t even own yet? How fucking stupid are you?

“Aah ha.”

“And it looks like a lot of it’s just road grime. I think that car hasn’t been waxed in a while.” Ha! Try never.

He gives us the check which is made out for a measly twenty-five less than the absolute firm bottom price, which is actually okay because he had lowballed us by about two grand to start with.

As she signs the title, the afternoon sun slants into the window, bouncing off her diamond and momentarily blinding me. “Your daughter’s so beautiful.” I know. It’s a shame your boy looks like a troll doll though.

“Have fun with your car, bye bye.”

When they are gone I open the windows to get rid of the lingering used tobacco and leather smell.

This is Breast Cancer Awareness month. I have been seeing pink and ribbons and pink ribbons everywhere, as you might be too. So I am thinking about breasts.

Today I am also thinking about milk. Yum, yum, everyone loves milk: baby cows, me, my cousin, this guy I used to work with.

For a while I hated milk. Why? Because it was coming out of my breasts all of the time, twenty-four hours a day. It was soaking into my clothes, and even when I’d wash them and pull them out of the dryer, they’d still have that odd dairy smell. My baby smelled like milk too, of course, because if it wasn’t going into her every half hour, it was coming out in between.

For seven months, my life revolved around my breasts. They grew two cup sizes (double D’s, ack. The nightmare of every woman who is already decently endowed). I was forced to imprison them in Gigantor, ugly white (because I couldn’t pony up the dough for the snappy leopard or black ones), three-inch-thick strapped slings that had a pocket in each cup that you could pop your boobie out of on a moment’s notice and stuff it into your baby’s howling maw. In addition, I was what the books refer to as “a leaker”, so I had to reinforce what was already there with cotton “breast shields” to catch leaks, which often shifted around so they weren’t covering me for leaks anyway.

The restriction didn’t stop at my chest, though. No running, no sleeping on one’s tummy, no orgasms without the accompaniment of twin geysers of baby milk, which are usually aimed for your lover’s face. Sexy!

When my lil Spud was three months old, I went back to school. My boobs were not used to being without my baby for so long, and would get hot and sore after just a couple of hours. This meant one thing: I had to tote around a breast pump. I won’t bore you with the details; suffice it to say that it looks like an air horn and sucks milk out of your boobs when your baby can’t. Total nightmare.

Since the proposed “pumping center” at school’s medical center didn’t pan out, I had to sequester myself in the dimly-lit cave (bathroom) on the third floor of the university’s decrepit art building. I chose this spot because it was convenient between classes and didn’t get a lot of traffic, so I didn’t have to worry about tying up a stall.

There I would sit, with my sweater cranked up around my neck and my poor boobie popping out of its flap, pumping until the milk would flow.

It made a really funny noise that I can hear to this day.

When I would pump the handle, the device would make a loud “SLLLUURRRPPP” as if it was draining my life force.

Then the milk would come, spraying into the pump’s neck, a sound that was amplified in the echoey bathroom: “HISSSSS”.

Finally, I would release the suction and start over. The release resulted in the milk draining out of the neck and into the pump’s body: “Blup, blup, blup,” like the sound of a slow drain.

Sometimes while I was up there, my fellow art department students would come in, often in pairs. I would be going at it full force in the last stall.

“SSSLLLUUURRRPP! Hisssss…. Blup! Blup! Blup!”

The girls would often stop their conversations.

(Quietly): “Oh my God! What was that?”

“I don’t know. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“Should we call the janitor?”

“No! Just go!” (Hurried scuffling, departure.)

One time I was in there for quite a while. It’s funny how people seem to think you’re deaf because you’re encased in this flimsy stall that doesn’t even have a top or cover your legs completely.

(Two girls enter)

First girl: “Yeah, that’s what I said… What is that noise?”

Second girl (whispering loudly): “I don’t know, but she’s been in here for quite a while. And she’s in here a lot. Marcie thinks she’s *psst psst psst*”

First girl (full volume): “Marcie thinks what?”

Second girl (back to whispering): “Shhh…I said, Marcie thinks she’s doing heroin.”

First girl (disgustedly): “Ohhh…let’s use the bathroom on the second floor.”

I bring this up because just today I was playing with my daughter, who I weaned five whole months ago, and I hugged her to my chest. When she pulled away, I noticed a quarter-sized spot on my shirt- I leaked.

There is no escaping death, taxes, or my breasts.

I’m having trouble getting too worked up about the state of the world today, and the fact that I am in a squabble with my Mom, and the fact that I have to take the GRE on Friday.

Why? Because my daughter took her first steps last night. It was exciting, and indescribable. I wish the whole world could have been there, but I was, so that’s all that matters I guess.

I often reflect on my daughter’s ass. It’s cute and round and perfect, of course, but what I usually think about is the sheer volume of liquids and solids that I have seen come out of it. You know those monumental piles of dung one sees at the zoo? Well, that’s nothing compared to what I’ve seen, sister. When she was really teensy and pooping several times a day, sometimes I would get her diaper off and she would go again. One time this happened on my bed, and there wasn’t very much coverage under her, so what else could I do? I caught it all in my hands naturally.

I also think about all of the people who have seen her ass. Her Grandmas and other people who are related to her. People in fancy restaurants. People in the bathroom at Target and Fred Meyer. friends that I am not even friends with anymore. Makes you think doesn’t it… how many people have seen your ass?

Vicki Iovine, baby writer extrordinaire, says you get one freebie with every kid- one chance to avert disaster and then you’re on your own. Hers was a forgotten cup of coffee at the edge of a table- which her toddler pulled down on himself. The coffee turned out to be lukewarm- it was her freebie. Well, this is a minor one but I still consider myself lucky.

When my lil Spud was about three months old, I invited the Spicy Vixen over for some general post-exam carousing. Many white Russians were consumed by all, and I think I fell into bed at about 3am. As usual, the Spud was due up at 7am, but I decided to face the consequences later.

At 7, she began crying in her crib and I woke up to get her. Groggily, I took the wet diaper off the image of her that was most in focus, fed her, and brought her to bed with me as was my custom.

About an hour later I was awakened by a strange feeling. I opened my eyes to see my baby staring at me very seriously, which added to the feeling that something was wrong. I said good morning and gave her a little pat which ended at her bottom. It was squishy and smooth when it should have been diaper-crunchy! Shit!

In my hungover, out-of-it state I forgot to put a diaper back on her. However, she was bone dry. It was a small freebie, and even though I was hung over I was happy for the rest of the day. I’m sure bigger freebies will come later.