I am in the shower and my hair swirls across the walls like ink pen illustrations. I put the hair there after it comes out in my hands. I am a mother of four. I am a wife. I think about things like: clogged drains. I clearly see a beautiful nude, her arms raised, breasts curved, head turned backward to look for someone. Around the water sounds escape like baby coos- there is Lola's laughter, the dogs barking, Mr. Curry's bass trombone for Ever. I stare at the hair on the wall and wonder if I photographed it and put it on Tumblr I could make a famous site: Maggie's Hair Illustrations- The Art of The Mundane. Everyone would come and view the masterpieces of my hair, the brown and blonde and grey pieces delicately curving, making surprisingly poignant sketches that sometimes move in a surprise splash of water. A whole new art form. I also had the million dollar idea of ' Soapy Pussies! ' which is simply an entire website full of shots of ... you guessed it. This probably already exists and is making some other shameless housewife rich. I wish I didn't have so much shame. Guilt. Neurosis. Who would it hurt? We could buy health insurance. We could pay our rent without spending the entire 30 days beforehand in a horrible and gut wrenching countdown of budgeting, seeing if we will actually have enough money to pay for where we live. My life becoming like so many artists lives I have read. Without the drinking problem. Without the cigarettes, a habit I gave up at 30. Without drugs. With the kids, though. With Mr. Curry. Not alone on the boat. I also had the idea of Naked Movers, but that's already been done. We googled that last week. Mr. Curry assured me that must be gay men moving for gay men and apparently it is so. No woman wants a bunch of naked sweaty balls and buttcrack moving all her precious things, he pointed out. True. It's like when Charlotte's fiance sat down naked on her white couch. Ball sweat on a white couch? Not good. I guess I'll have to go back to brainstorming.
4 hours ago