Before I get into WR’s breakfast preferences, I’m trying something new. Apparently audio poetry is what the kids are doing these days, and I wanted to give it a go. 

Anyway, I hope you enjoy my reading of a poem I previously posted here, “All In.” I was battling the heat, birds, a determined bee, and shyness so please be kind. 

Also, Word Raccoon showed up and I said NO WAY, this wasn’t hers to monkey with. She was pouting in the corner while I recorded. I’m pretty sure she drank the rest of my Coke Zero, and I’m not even mad because it kept her away from my iPhone long enough for me to record.

(Which is my way of saying this recording is low-fi.)

LMK if you like it and I might try it again sometime. See, John Green isn’t the only one who can read poetry. And he’s not even reading his own poetry. (Does he write poetry? No clue.) 

Now on with WR’s latest antics. 

Word Raccoon is being forced to car shop.

WR would rather chew on a flip-flop.

We’re officially hunting for a second vehicle, and WR hates everything about it.

The haggling.

The mysterious fees.

The dealerships where time stops and all beverages come in those little cans.

You’re supposed to help yourself, but the fridge dings when you select something and you’re like,

What if I want four more ounces of Coke Zero from that Barbie-sized can WR despises?

Are they going to add that onto the sale price?

They ought to be taking us out for a steak dinner, with what even modest vehicles cost nowadays. But if we’re lucky, we’ll get a car wash card which will be useful on the days the car wash is in service. 

Sure, my brother gave us all the best insider tips.

He used to sell cars, which in this economy basically makes him an oracle with a clipboard.

But still. The whole thing feels like an endurance challenge designed by a mildly sadistic suburban game show host.

We’re test-driving one later today. WR already has opinions.

I’d rather DH just handle it all.

Drive it, nod gravely, sign papers, hand me a Coke Zero and the keys.

Instead, I’ll probably be there like I always am, playing “Spot the Deal” while trying not to fall for the convertible with a secret Bluetooth personality disorder.

That’d be just my luck.

I was just reminded that I’ve found our last five cars. This one might be number six.

Apparently, I have a nose for moderately priced transportation. Who knew?

We’ve always been in the “drive the modest car, take the extravagant trip” camp.

Our travel budget wears the pants in this relationship.

Our car just wears tires.

Flashback: One time we were trapped at a dealership until after 9 p.m. because of some excuse involving a computer that wouldn’t compute.

WR suspects this was a trick. A loyalty test.

We should have bolted. But we were tired and hungry and afraid to lose our paperwork place in line.

We bought the car. WR still has nightmares.

Meanwhile, this heat?

It’s like God left the oven door open and he didn’t even leave half-baked cookies in it.

I’m sticky, snappish, and beginning to resent everything.

I prefer this to winter, but only in theory.

WR cracked open the famous podcast book club’s pick.

Gave it a good 16% read.

Realized halfway through a sentence that we’d rather be folding laundry.

It’s not you, book. It’s us.

Or maybe it is you. Just not my speed.

This morning we listened to the podcast episode we had been avoiding and decided yes, we can skip this book. But also we wish we hadn’t bought it because WE FORGOT TAYLOR JENKINS REID HAS A NEW ONE OUT, DANG IT, AND WE COULD’VE BOUGHT THAT INSTEAD.

Breathe, WR, we have Kindle Reward Points that are about to expire, and probably a digital credit or two when we’ve been kind and let Amazon deliver our non-emergency packages at a later date. (I mean…aren’t they all more or less non-emergency items unless they are Word Raccoon’s latest earrings? Oh, I should show you those. Next time.) 

Is it possible for the weather to be even too hot for me to want to read?

I’m cranky.

And how is it Wednesday?

My eyes are empty.

I’m on the porch watching a squirrel and wondering if he’s too hot. 

And if he is (she?), what do they do to stay cool?

As if I couldn’t go inside at any point and watch stupid videos about spooky Zillow listings and forget the world.

Why am I on the porch attempting to write

as if I don’t have air conditioning indoors waiting for me?

It’s too hot.

And this is now Wednesday.

Which: Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.

And all I’ve written today is this silly blog post. (Do we get a t-shirt with that?) 

Yesterday, I edited and posted. (And traveled home.)

Wrote one really, really stupid line of poetry.

A few other horrible lines, now lost.

Would I even share them if I found them?

I just found them.

And if these were on paper, I’d burn them.

Do you know what it’s like to go to your happy place,

and it’s not happy,

it’s just the devil’s mouth with sand?

That was the dunes earlier this week.

I had no walks by the water in the morning when the beach is still empty.

Zero time in the water.

I only saw one seagull.

I brought no items back for the porch.

No shells, no rocks, no driftwood, no pinecones, no sand.

Too surreally hot. Then too wet with rain coming.

I think my dreams dreamed when I napped on the beach. Maybe hallucinated. 

I saw exactly one adorable puppy with adorable puppy energy,

but he was on the wrong beach,

and his owner was quickly told to move him. 

I just realized how important energy is to me. 

I saw…

I saw…

No. Not yet.

Thank goodness I had Richard Hugo to poem-wrestle on the beach.

The grief whispers now instead of howling, at least there’s that. It sorts through every memory of my mother, sifting gently, asking:

What can be made of this? 

No new memories are coming, love. 

This is the supply.
Every pop of color my mother wore, 

every flower she planted,
a poem.

Anyway. WR is hot.

WR is cranky.

WR is about to test-drive something with too many miles on it and a suspicious rattle.

(Not really. At least we hope not.)

Wish us luck. And A/C.

P.S. My gray-haired neighbors down the block walked by last night at almost dark, and when they came back a few minutes later, I could barely make out their hands full of peaches with the leaves still attached. Did they…did they sneak out and plunder fruit from a tree??? They probably asked first, but I hope they didn’t. 

And I hope they’re making peach ice cream. They seem like the type. 

No one tell me differently if I’m wrong about any of this, K?