A sweet birthday letter I got from my little sister Murray: Hello My Dear Sister,

Thirty-friggin-five years the damn hell old. I cahn buh leef ett. Dees is incredible. You sure have shaped yourself into a fine young lady, missy! And I ain't just speaking of your tailfeather neither. You have accomplished more in your days on this dot in space than most douchebag ass clowns will do their whole life, and I hope, on this day of your berf, you take just a minute to think about that, because you deserve to do that.Then you look into those overgrown blueberries of that magnificent creature you've created and just know that no one will ever love you like she loves you. Except me. And maaam. And Michael. And dad. And so many others whose lives you've touched, and affected by your glowing presence. You are and amazing, amazing lady, and I'm not just saying that because we shared the same uterine space - you are one-of-a-kind and I'm so proud to have a seester like your fuckin ass, yolanda jeans. Happy birthday hermana. I hope it's a goodun. Don't take no damn shit from no assholes. I love you!

Murray

mom

I needed to take a little hiatus from updating this blog of mine over the last couple of weeks. August tends to be a whirlwind of a month and all the extra bits of time I do have tend to go towards the outside world (amongst trees, coast line, and beaver damns) rather than the inside world (fucking off in front of a computer).

My mom has been in town over the last five weeks and unfortunately (insert poopy frown face here) she leaves tomorrow. She's been a massive help taking care of Miss Beckett, cooking dinners, sewing Miss Beckett sweet little clothes, doing laundry, cleaning, and packing picnic lunches so we can all spend my lunch hour together. I have no idea how I'm going to function without her, which is why I'm going to try to convince her to come back soon. Pretty please.

The short list of funtimes spent with mammasita Cindy:

A night spent in a little cabin perched at the base of Mount Hood owned by a man with one hundred and twelve pairs of purple pants.

A trip to a house located in Wheeler on the Oregon coast owned by a man who paints portraits of bears wearing baseball caps.

A weekend at a run-down farm close to Westport, Washington, where one sad chicken and four feral cats attempt to survive on canned beans and watermelon rind.

A hike or two up the gorge where people go to watch waterfalls fall.

Garden plucked dinners in the sultry backyard under bamboo.

Her birthday dinner in the sky.

Sundays at the farmer's market in Portland where it's all about the fiddler, the juggler, white people and their elaborate food baskets, and baby slings.

Ice cream sodas with whipped cream.

The consumption of one giant pile of fiction.

I love you mamma!