I’ve been keeping a word document with blog ideas since I started Mighty Girl in 2000. It’s strange to look at notes I’ve written for myself with ideas I don’t remember. (For example, “wig story” and “healthy penis 2002.”) Anyway, here are three bits of interest. It’s possible I’ve already posted the last one and forgotten to purge it from the doc. Do you remember?

1. Nomura’s jellyfish grow to almost seven feet in diameter and weigh over four hundred pounds. Every once in a while, the population spikes, and fishermen trap hundreds of them in a single fishing net. This slimes and poisons the fish caught with them and ruins the nets, as the gargantuan jellyfish have to be cut out.

2. Small children in Japan make dorodangos, or shiny balls made of dried mud. They kneel in the dirt for hours packing the mud and polishing it until it shines like a marble.

3. There’s a butterfly resting on the car windowsill, Bryan brushes it with his key and it takes flight. He opens the door for me, and as I slide in, a penny falls from my wallet. It lands head side up.

Prompt on page 49 of
No One Cares What You Had for Lunch: 100 Ideas for Your Blog.

My first decade:

Age 1: I do not cry when hungry or tired. The doctor says I’m probably slow.

Age 2: My mom and dad stare down at me. Dad says, “I think she’s lying.” Mom says, “I don’t think she knows how to lie.” I am lying.

Age 3: I would like to wear dresses and shiny shoes all the time, please.

Age 4: Dustin tries to “hump” my leg in the kindergarten recess line, and I shove him. Forever after, I will find the name Dustin slightly irritating.

Age 5: I carry a red purse with a long strap, and fill it with pennies. One day while Joey and I are chasing each other around the playground, I swing it excitedly and hit him in the back. His face is so surprised and pained that the memory of it still makes me cringe.

Age 6: Mrs. Bartlett sends my best friend home because she has a hole in her sweater. I cry because I know her family is poor, and I have to stand the corner as punishment for crying. I attend a new school for third grade.

Age 7: While swinging, I realize I have no impending doctor or dentist appointments, and experience a surge of pure joy.

Age 8: My father dies. At his body viewing, a young man who works at the funeral home takes me to the refrigerated florist shop to buy me a flower. I choose a carnation, a white one with red stripes.

Age 9: Mrs. Ross is my happy, curly-haired fourth grade teacher, and she assigns us poetry exercises. Her note on my first haiku says “Great imagery! You will be an excellent writer one day.”

Age 10: “Mom?” I say. “How do gay people have sex?” Mom takes a deep breath and pauses. She says, “I am very uncomfortable telling you this, but they say that if you’re old enough to ask, you’re old enough to know… Gay people have sex in the butt.”

A lifetime ago, we attended the Air Guitar Championships. There was exactly one girl who was a contender. She had it all: the snarl, the reckless abandon, a mean air technique. She was going into the final round, rocking it out, and bringing the house down. At the end of her performance, the crowd was going wild, she was strutting around the stage, grinning from ear to ear. And then, as if in slow motion, she raised both hands above her head and sort of twinkled her fingers. The crowd gasped and drew back. “Cheerleader,” one of them said. And just like that, everyone went silent and headed for the bar.

San Francisco was always picked last for kickball.

I’m three months pregnant, and my 9-year-old nephew and I discuss baby names:

Trevor: What will you name it if it’s a boy?
Me: Maybe Hank.
Trevor: Hank Aaron had more home runs than anyone else.
Me: Really?
Trevor: He was MVP in 1957.
Me: I didn’t know that.
Trevor: He was also black at the time.

My friend Leslie Harpold died a few days ago.

When she heard about the baby, Leslie sent us a care package because she thought an email wouldn’t be enough of a celebration. It contained:

-Punk Rock Baby and Hip Hop Baby, lullaby versions of punk rock and hip hop classics
-Two bibs, one that reads, “Notorious B.I.B.” and another that says, “Mutha Sucka”
-A onsie that says “Mama ain’t rasin’ no fool.”
-And mittens to keep the baby from scratching. One says “LOVE,” the other “HATE.”

Those mittens, especially, made me feel like a mom for the first time. They got me thinking about tough little baby hands.

Years ago, I wrote a quote on our hallway chalkboard that said, “What you are thinking about is what you are becoming.” Leslie read it and cringed. “That’s hideous,” she said.

I wish you’d known Leslie. And if you did know her, wasn’t she something?