While packing for school, my son asked (without a hint of a joke) if he should use the Never Ending Bags. That was when I knew that the Never Ending Bags have truly established themselves as a legendary fixture in our lives.
The Never Ending Bags were a Costco purchase. There are many Costco products which are so generously packaged that they bring to my mind the opening of The Flintstones cartoon, where Wilma struggles to fry gigantic pterodactyl eggs and serve ribs the size of a washing machine. The Never Ending Bags are like that. I rued the fact that I didn’t personally own a forklift when I hauled them home back in 2003, but figured it was worth the struggle (and their own closet shelf) never to have to worry about having the correct wastebasket liner for the rest of my life.
Only it turned out they were not the correct wastebasket liners. They are way too big for a standard wastebasket and just a bit too small for a tall kitchen one—but the box was so gi-normous that I decided it would be better to make do rather than rent a dolly to haul them back to the store. What I didn’t realize was that it would take so very long to get rid of them. They’ve swallowed up our wastebaskets in a pool of plastic for so many years now that I don’t think my children have any idea what our wastebaskets really look like under there.
And it looks like we have many more years to go. Just as some religions have legends of endless manna or fuel oil, our home has the legend of the endless, odd-sized plastic bags. I figure at this rate, my great grandchildren will never see their wastebaskets, either.
We discussed giving them away as Halloween gifts one year, but we knew we would become the pariahs of the neighborhood, ranking somewhere in between the family who gives pennies and one who gives religious tracts. We would probably get teepeed for it.
Heyyyy…! If you know of any kids who are looking for a more durable alternative to toilet paper for their teepeeing needs, you know who to call.
This is the song that never ends/Yes it goes on and on my friend
Some people started singing it not knowing what it was/
Now they’ll continue singing it forever just because/
This is the song that never ends/Yes it goes on and on my friend…. ~ Song from Lamb Chops Play-Along
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Saturday, August 29, 2009
You Can't Be Cereus
The gardening season has entered its finale, where plants get in that last, desperate bloom.
I'm going to chronicle my Night Blooming Cereus bud. Even if you don't happen to be into gardening, I can't see how anyone could resist the allure of these fleshy alien space pods that dangle from a leaf. Though it's my understanding that "leaf," in this case, is really a misnomer; experts claim that the long, succulent leaves are actually modified stems.
“You are in exactly the time and place prepared for you. Believe in your own worth to the universe. Do not doubt. Do not be afraid. Do not act meanly. Take what comes--both the hard and easy—and learn from it. Advance ever. In the journey, you become yourself. . . Begin.”~ from "Secret of Spirit Lake" by Dan Skelton
Monday, August 24, 2009
The Dillos Are Coming
It was on my way back from the college, which is due south of St. Louis, when I saw them. A deluge of dead ‘dillos.
I was shocked because I always thought these were only a Southern creature. When we lived in Savannah, Georgia, someone from Louisiana asked me if I had ever seen an armadillo. I told her yes, thousands. And I had even seen a live one once.
I met the live one in my backyard. It seemed quite friendly from what I could tell, armadillo faces being not so expressive. It reared up on its back legs briefly, seemingly to get a better look at me. I guess it could have been a gesture intended to be a threat of some sort, but that strikes me as contradictory in a creature whose underside is so obviously its most vulnerable part. It had the effect of making it look like a bald and hideous little dog that was begging.
It interacted with me just enough to convince me that it had to be a mammal. I went and looked armadillos up. They are, turns out. Really weird looking mammals.
But other than that one in my backyard, the begging one, all the rest of the armadillos in the United States appear to be lying dead on the roadsides. Here is my theory. I think scientists must have hybridized the little mutants by breeding possums with PVC pipes, the intent being to launch them at cars as some sort of nighttime speed deterrents. Only it doesn’t work at all, clearly. In fact, it seems there must be a secret sport wherein the contenders drive around at night with the express purpose of seeing how many they can get.
And this does fit with what I’ve seen of Southern men. So what surprised me was seeing ‘dillos this far north. I saw the last one not 50 miles south of St. Louis.
Gentlemen, start your engines.
"Nature is a whore." ~Nirvana
I was shocked because I always thought these were only a Southern creature. When we lived in Savannah, Georgia, someone from Louisiana asked me if I had ever seen an armadillo. I told her yes, thousands. And I had even seen a live one once.
I met the live one in my backyard. It seemed quite friendly from what I could tell, armadillo faces being not so expressive. It reared up on its back legs briefly, seemingly to get a better look at me. I guess it could have been a gesture intended to be a threat of some sort, but that strikes me as contradictory in a creature whose underside is so obviously its most vulnerable part. It had the effect of making it look like a bald and hideous little dog that was begging.
It interacted with me just enough to convince me that it had to be a mammal. I went and looked armadillos up. They are, turns out. Really weird looking mammals.
But other than that one in my backyard, the begging one, all the rest of the armadillos in the United States appear to be lying dead on the roadsides. Here is my theory. I think scientists must have hybridized the little mutants by breeding possums with PVC pipes, the intent being to launch them at cars as some sort of nighttime speed deterrents. Only it doesn’t work at all, clearly. In fact, it seems there must be a secret sport wherein the contenders drive around at night with the express purpose of seeing how many they can get.
And this does fit with what I’ve seen of Southern men. So what surprised me was seeing ‘dillos this far north. I saw the last one not 50 miles south of St. Louis.
Gentlemen, start your engines.
"Nature is a whore." ~Nirvana
Friday, August 21, 2009
The Trip to College
Today is a beautiful day, and it smells like the beginning of a college year. The sky is almost heartbreakingly blue, and the breeze has just enough coolness in it to hint of football games, jerseys, and those big, hefty books. My oldest is a sophomore, and today is the day I drive him two and a half hours away to his second year of school.
I leave home as a responsible, secure, grown-up mother. But the farther from home we drive, the more we transform, my son and I. We both know, after all, that this is his road we’re following. By the time we're there, I feel as lost as a child. “Where is the exit?” I have to ask. “Where do I turn?”
And he tells me, guiding us expertly though this place that is his home for the second year now. When we get to the dorm, he holds my door. “Is this too much?” he asks, handing me a modest pile of bedding to haul up to his dorm room. I feel so small and helpless next to this big big boy who knows so much.
The first trek up four flights of stairs feels good after the long drive. The second is a workout. After that, my son has to stop occasionally to wait for me. He is gentle, gentlemanly, solicitous. He checks to make sure I am okay. “You can do it,” he encourages. And I do.
When we get there, I ask him where he wants me to put his things. Last year his roommate’s mother arranged things the way she wanted them. I can’t do that. This is his room, his world. I am only a brief visitor here.
When it’s all hauled up, my son walks me down to my car. He writes out careful instructions telling me how to get home. “Do you think you have it?” he asks.
I am about to go back out into that world alone. I nod, putting on a brave face, and we hug each other hard. “Thank you.” We both say it at the same time. And then we smile, and we each turn to go home.
“My children teach me everyday that I’m less in control than I thought I was.” ~Nina Miller
I leave home as a responsible, secure, grown-up mother. But the farther from home we drive, the more we transform, my son and I. We both know, after all, that this is his road we’re following. By the time we're there, I feel as lost as a child. “Where is the exit?” I have to ask. “Where do I turn?”
And he tells me, guiding us expertly though this place that is his home for the second year now. When we get to the dorm, he holds my door. “Is this too much?” he asks, handing me a modest pile of bedding to haul up to his dorm room. I feel so small and helpless next to this big big boy who knows so much.
The first trek up four flights of stairs feels good after the long drive. The second is a workout. After that, my son has to stop occasionally to wait for me. He is gentle, gentlemanly, solicitous. He checks to make sure I am okay. “You can do it,” he encourages. And I do.
When we get there, I ask him where he wants me to put his things. Last year his roommate’s mother arranged things the way she wanted them. I can’t do that. This is his room, his world. I am only a brief visitor here.
When it’s all hauled up, my son walks me down to my car. He writes out careful instructions telling me how to get home. “Do you think you have it?” he asks.
I am about to go back out into that world alone. I nod, putting on a brave face, and we hug each other hard. “Thank you.” We both say it at the same time. And then we smile, and we each turn to go home.
“My children teach me everyday that I’m less in control than I thought I was.” ~Nina Miller
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Those Magical Orange Orbs
My next (sachral) chakra is supposedly associated with sweetness, the little book tells me. It is important to savor food in order to unblock the orange chakra. This reminded me of my tomatoes.
It’s been a bad year for tomatoes here. I don’t know if it’s the cool spells we’ve had this season or what, but I just haven’t had any. Now that it’s almost fall, I finally have enough cherries that I could make a sling out of my t-shirt and pile them in.
There is something almost spiritual about eating tomatoes right off the vine while they’re still warm from the sun. They are sweeter, but it’s something else. It’s as if they hold a little magic. Star magic.
I once had a sparrow alight upon my shoulder for a moment, while I was hoeing in a village garden, and I felt that I was more distinguished by that circumstance that I should have been by any epaulet I could have worn. ~Thoreau
It’s been a bad year for tomatoes here. I don’t know if it’s the cool spells we’ve had this season or what, but I just haven’t had any. Now that it’s almost fall, I finally have enough cherries that I could make a sling out of my t-shirt and pile them in.
There is something almost spiritual about eating tomatoes right off the vine while they’re still warm from the sun. They are sweeter, but it’s something else. It’s as if they hold a little magic. Star magic.
I once had a sparrow alight upon my shoulder for a moment, while I was hoeing in a village garden, and I felt that I was more distinguished by that circumstance that I should have been by any epaulet I could have worn. ~Thoreau
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
I Can See You Shining in the Sun
I had inadvertently parked next to it at the grocery store: an older model, white Cadillac with a blue top.
For a moment I stood there and just reminisced. It looked conspicuous in the Wal-Mart parking lot, stretching absurdly long like a small yacht in a sea of rowboats. It even glinted in the sunlight, looking far cleaner and more perfect than the much newer cars around it. The hubcaps bore the Cadillac insignia, which has always reminded me of the crest on a country club blazer.
I knew this car. My soul knew this car. La voiture d’une grande dame. It was exactly the car my mother would have owned if she were still alive.
My mother died when I was thirty, but for at least as long as I was alive, her signature car was a blue and white Cadillac. The most memorable one was her ’54 Coupe Deville convertible that she kept over twenty years. It was white with a blue top, although she always claimed it was really an extremely light gray. And she would’ve known, since she always had a little jar of paint with which to do touch ups. She would go out to the garage and dab carefully with her sable artist’s brush at any imperfections. It was no joke to say that Mother was outside working on her car again. She was reputed to have been quite an artist at one time, but sadly, the only thing I ever saw her paint was her car.
When I think of that car, I can’t help but picture my mother’s brown arm rested carelessly on the window in summer, a Salem menthol balanced chop-stick-style in between pink, frosted nails. She rarely put the top down, but…oh...when she did, it was an ecstasy of wind and sunlight that swirled my hair into a face-whipping frenzy.
I remember those slick leather seats and the way we children used to catapult forward when she stopped too fast—because of course we were never buckled in. In fact, I remember often standing as she drove. If she even had seat belts, they were probably tucked neatly away so as not to detract from the light blue leather.
It may have been from a different era, but it was undeniably a more glamorous one. My mother kept her car shiny and spotless and elegant. Although the Mean Kid in grade school once referred to it as “that big old tin can,” he came across as merely jealous. Far more often, strangers at stoplights would look over and ask if it was for sale.
My smile lingered long after I went inside the grocery store. Later on, rounding the paper goods aisle, I heard her. “Oh, my goodness!” she laughed, wrestling with the direction of her cart, as if maneuvering a cart were an adventurous and slightly exotic thing, exactly as my mother would have done. She managed to right it just before I could get there to help her. She was slim, neatly dressed, and well-preserved enough that it was hard to say if she was in her seventies or eighties. Not too different from anyone else, yet she was somehow conspicuous in a Wal-Mart aisle. There was no question in my mind who she was.
I didn’t ask her, though, imagining that it might scare her momentarily; she might think that someone had scratched it. So I just kept going, but I knew. I smiled, but the lump in my throat knew.
A little voice inside my head said, ‘Don’t look back, you can never look back.’ I thought I knew what love was/What did I know? Those days are gone forever/I should just let them go ~Don Henley, “Boys of Summer”
For a moment I stood there and just reminisced. It looked conspicuous in the Wal-Mart parking lot, stretching absurdly long like a small yacht in a sea of rowboats. It even glinted in the sunlight, looking far cleaner and more perfect than the much newer cars around it. The hubcaps bore the Cadillac insignia, which has always reminded me of the crest on a country club blazer.
I knew this car. My soul knew this car. La voiture d’une grande dame. It was exactly the car my mother would have owned if she were still alive.
My mother died when I was thirty, but for at least as long as I was alive, her signature car was a blue and white Cadillac. The most memorable one was her ’54 Coupe Deville convertible that she kept over twenty years. It was white with a blue top, although she always claimed it was really an extremely light gray. And she would’ve known, since she always had a little jar of paint with which to do touch ups. She would go out to the garage and dab carefully with her sable artist’s brush at any imperfections. It was no joke to say that Mother was outside working on her car again. She was reputed to have been quite an artist at one time, but sadly, the only thing I ever saw her paint was her car.
When I think of that car, I can’t help but picture my mother’s brown arm rested carelessly on the window in summer, a Salem menthol balanced chop-stick-style in between pink, frosted nails. She rarely put the top down, but…oh...when she did, it was an ecstasy of wind and sunlight that swirled my hair into a face-whipping frenzy.
I remember those slick leather seats and the way we children used to catapult forward when she stopped too fast—because of course we were never buckled in. In fact, I remember often standing as she drove. If she even had seat belts, they were probably tucked neatly away so as not to detract from the light blue leather.
It may have been from a different era, but it was undeniably a more glamorous one. My mother kept her car shiny and spotless and elegant. Although the Mean Kid in grade school once referred to it as “that big old tin can,” he came across as merely jealous. Far more often, strangers at stoplights would look over and ask if it was for sale.
My smile lingered long after I went inside the grocery store. Later on, rounding the paper goods aisle, I heard her. “Oh, my goodness!” she laughed, wrestling with the direction of her cart, as if maneuvering a cart were an adventurous and slightly exotic thing, exactly as my mother would have done. She managed to right it just before I could get there to help her. She was slim, neatly dressed, and well-preserved enough that it was hard to say if she was in her seventies or eighties. Not too different from anyone else, yet she was somehow conspicuous in a Wal-Mart aisle. There was no question in my mind who she was.
I didn’t ask her, though, imagining that it might scare her momentarily; she might think that someone had scratched it. So I just kept going, but I knew. I smiled, but the lump in my throat knew.
A little voice inside my head said, ‘Don’t look back, you can never look back.’ I thought I knew what love was/What did I know? Those days are gone forever/I should just let them go ~Don Henley, “Boys of Summer”
Monday, August 10, 2009
Searching for My Root
I’ve attempted to begin the chakra opening process by starting with the root one. I’m having several problems with this.
One is that my instructions aren’t explicit enough. I’m a Westerner. I need to be told how to meditate and for how long. How long does it take? How do I know if my mission has been accomplished?
One thing they did tell me was to wear my little necklace over the body part that’s being repaired. But the root chakra is located in a place where I wouldn’t even know how to wear a necklace. And plus….eww. And...ow. So I’m wearing it around my neck and hoping it doesn’t jumble up my chakras.
The other problem is one of the yoga positions I’m supposed to do. The illustration shows the model bent at the waist so far that she’s actually folded in half like a wallet. Her stomach is squished against her thighs, and she has sort of locked herself in place by reaching behind and grasping the backs of her legs.
Um…right.
“Many men spend their lives fishing and never realize it isn’t fish they’re after.” ~H.D. Thoreau
One is that my instructions aren’t explicit enough. I’m a Westerner. I need to be told how to meditate and for how long. How long does it take? How do I know if my mission has been accomplished?
One thing they did tell me was to wear my little necklace over the body part that’s being repaired. But the root chakra is located in a place where I wouldn’t even know how to wear a necklace. And plus….eww. And...ow. So I’m wearing it around my neck and hoping it doesn’t jumble up my chakras.
The other problem is one of the yoga positions I’m supposed to do. The illustration shows the model bent at the waist so far that she’s actually folded in half like a wallet. Her stomach is squished against her thighs, and she has sort of locked herself in place by reaching behind and grasping the backs of her legs.
Um…right.
“Many men spend their lives fishing and never realize it isn’t fish they’re after.” ~H.D. Thoreau
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Merry Belated Chakra Unblocking
Blogs are supposed to have pictures, so I am trying one. It is a picture of my chakra stones, which are sitting in the sun in order to “neutralize the stones’ energy palette.” I hope it isn’t possible to over-neutralize, because although they were supposed to sunbathe for a couple of hours, they’ve been there...um...since Christmas.But first, here’s why they are there in the first place.
I've been on a self-improvement kick, and I had someone tell me that perhaps my chakras need to be unblocked. This was an older man, and he offered to unblock them for me. When I asked him about my chakras, he produced a picture of them. Only this picture looked like a smiley-faced Homer Simpson drawn by a little kid. Homer had a bunch of dots on him.
I didn't ask how the chakras were unblocked, but I couldn't help but notice there were naughty bits chakras.
Ordinarily I would think no one would want to unblock my naughty bits chakras, as those particular chakras are simply not what they used to be, and they never were that wonderful. But this guy was older than I am, and who knows, maybe he isn’t particular.
So I politely declined, but the whole thing made me laugh so hard that I felt wonderful. So I started to think chakras must have a great purpose, after all.
Fast-forward a few months to Christmas day. I was taking my garbage out when I looked in my mailbox out of habit. And there, in the mailbox, was a little present from a friend.
The weird thing is that I remember bringing in my mail on Christmas Eve. So all I can figure is that it originally went to a neighbor’s house, and they re-delivered it. Or my friend suggested that my mailman might have brought it out of niceness. She says hers does things like that. Mine’s nice and all, but that’s practically a saint in my book.
Anyway. It turned out that her gift was a tiny kit so that I can unblock my own chakras. It has these pretty stones, and she knows I love polished stones. The stones are mounted like a little necklace even though they are really supposed to be placed on the body part where the blocked chakra resides.
I'm still not entirely sure how that works, so that’s why the stones are overbaking. I mean over cleansing. But I've decided I am officially going to begin the unblocking process. Will let you know how it goes.
Tell me all your thoughts on God/'Cause I would really like to meet her/And ask her why we're who we are. ~ ”Counting Blue Cars” by Dishwalla
Saturday, July 25, 2009
And Now for Something Completely Different
I've been having the most fun lately messing with my blog. Which reminds me of something that happened to me last year. I fell in love with a guy through his blog. Yes.
It was fate, I could tell, because I kept hitting the same guy’s blog for different reasons. I love gardening, and he has this gorgeous garden. Then I hit the same blog looking for quotes. He had these pithy, philosophical things to say.
There was a picture of him on one page, and not only was he about my age…could it get any more amazing? He was good looking.
He also had cats, judging from one of his pictures. Although I don’t currently have cats, any cat-hating men are automatically relegated to the “NO WAY” pile. But then….
I looked at the cats more closely. There was something about the photo. Was it that the cats were entwined a little too sensually? No, that wasn’t it. And then I realized: it was the sheets of the bed on which they were lying.
Gorgeous sheets. High thread count. Tone on tone. Clean. The embodiment of elegant masculinity. They were even drawn back artistically.
Gay guy sheets.
I later found a picture of his partner, also quite handsome.
Damn.
Not that I’m going to be picking up guys from their blogs, but still.
Another one bites the dust. ~Queen
It was fate, I could tell, because I kept hitting the same guy’s blog for different reasons. I love gardening, and he has this gorgeous garden. Then I hit the same blog looking for quotes. He had these pithy, philosophical things to say.
There was a picture of him on one page, and not only was he about my age…could it get any more amazing? He was good looking.
He also had cats, judging from one of his pictures. Although I don’t currently have cats, any cat-hating men are automatically relegated to the “NO WAY” pile. But then….
I looked at the cats more closely. There was something about the photo. Was it that the cats were entwined a little too sensually? No, that wasn’t it. And then I realized: it was the sheets of the bed on which they were lying.
Gorgeous sheets. High thread count. Tone on tone. Clean. The embodiment of elegant masculinity. They were even drawn back artistically.
Gay guy sheets.
I later found a picture of his partner, also quite handsome.
Damn.
Not that I’m going to be picking up guys from their blogs, but still.
Another one bites the dust. ~Queen
Saturday, July 18, 2009
"Gone to the Dogs" is a Very Good Thing
The coolest thing happened to me not too long ago. I was reading this wonderful book called While the Daffodils Danced by Cathi La Marche, and I forced myself to take a break and check email. And there was an email from the very author of the book I was reading.
Cathi is a local author with whom I had today’s book signing. Besides having a story about her three-legged dog, Dexter, in A Cup of Comfort for Dog Lovers II, she also has a book out. So I bought the book ahead of time to read it before I met her. And I must say, I enjoyed both the author and her work.
So had a great time at the book signing. Was also happy to have been visited by long-time writer and new friend, Teri (who brought me the cutest stuffed dog holding a rose), as well as long-time friend and new writer, Rebecca J. Am also grateful to Becky, who couldn’t be there due to her trip…so instead, she gave her help, support, good wishes, dog stickers, “Autographed Copy” author stickers, and adorable dog house pencil holder.
The nice thing about getting to be friends with local authors is that you get to know them from the inside out. It’s a unique perspective, a cherished one.
I am lucky indeed.
“Dogs...are
the role model for being alive.”
~Gilda Radner
Cathi is a local author with whom I had today’s book signing. Besides having a story about her three-legged dog, Dexter, in A Cup of Comfort for Dog Lovers II, she also has a book out. So I bought the book ahead of time to read it before I met her. And I must say, I enjoyed both the author and her work.
So had a great time at the book signing. Was also happy to have been visited by long-time writer and new friend, Teri (who brought me the cutest stuffed dog holding a rose), as well as long-time friend and new writer, Rebecca J. Am also grateful to Becky, who couldn’t be there due to her trip…so instead, she gave her help, support, good wishes, dog stickers, “Autographed Copy” author stickers, and adorable dog house pencil holder.
The nice thing about getting to be friends with local authors is that you get to know them from the inside out. It’s a unique perspective, a cherished one.
I am lucky indeed.
“Dogs...are
the role model for being alive.”
~Gilda Radner
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow
Just got my hair cut the other day, and she managed to make it do cool things.
Of course it slowly undid itself as I was driving home despite the many products designed to subdue it. The hair eventually won. The hair always wins.
Except once. I lived in Savannah, Georgia for two years, and I once had a hair stylist there make my hair bouffant. I didn’t think my hair could ever do bouffant—I have hair that doesn’t want to do anything completely other than hang in strings. It doesn’t want to have a good wave, doesn’t want to hang straight…and definitely doesn’t want to be bouffant. That giant, bouffy hair was an amazing phenomenon to behold.
I had a hard time driving home because I wanted to look at The Hair in my rearview mirror—which wasn’t hard to do since it took up the entire thing. It was so big, I seem to remember that it hit the roof of my car. When I got The Hair home, I had to examine it carefully to see how she had done it.
All I can tell you is this: It’s still a mystery. It defied gravity. She hadn’t teased it at all. Powerful styling products were involved, but they always are. As I’ve said, my hair laughs at powerful styling products. After much examination, I finally decided it’s another Southern woman mystery. If you’ve ever known Southern women, real ones, I mean—I’m talking the kind who not only know what grits are, but how to pronounce the word with two syllables (“gree-its”)—you know that all Southern women seem complacently aware that they have charms that the rest of the country—or world, for that matter—doesn’t possess.
Now my hair, which was cut and styled by a non-Southerner, is hanging in its customary strings again.
Sigh.
When reporters started to ask at about 50 if I would have a facelift…the truth is I'm afraid I'd become like the guy with a bad toupee; when you're talking to him, you can't think of anything else. ~Gloria Steinem
Of course it slowly undid itself as I was driving home despite the many products designed to subdue it. The hair eventually won. The hair always wins.
Except once. I lived in Savannah, Georgia for two years, and I once had a hair stylist there make my hair bouffant. I didn’t think my hair could ever do bouffant—I have hair that doesn’t want to do anything completely other than hang in strings. It doesn’t want to have a good wave, doesn’t want to hang straight…and definitely doesn’t want to be bouffant. That giant, bouffy hair was an amazing phenomenon to behold.
I had a hard time driving home because I wanted to look at The Hair in my rearview mirror—which wasn’t hard to do since it took up the entire thing. It was so big, I seem to remember that it hit the roof of my car. When I got The Hair home, I had to examine it carefully to see how she had done it.
All I can tell you is this: It’s still a mystery. It defied gravity. She hadn’t teased it at all. Powerful styling products were involved, but they always are. As I’ve said, my hair laughs at powerful styling products. After much examination, I finally decided it’s another Southern woman mystery. If you’ve ever known Southern women, real ones, I mean—I’m talking the kind who not only know what grits are, but how to pronounce the word with two syllables (“gree-its”)—you know that all Southern women seem complacently aware that they have charms that the rest of the country—or world, for that matter—doesn’t possess.
Now my hair, which was cut and styled by a non-Southerner, is hanging in its customary strings again.
Sigh.
When reporters started to ask at about 50 if I would have a facelift…the truth is I'm afraid I'd become like the guy with a bad toupee; when you're talking to him, you can't think of anything else. ~Gloria Steinem
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
A Little Fish Story
My wonderful writer friend Becky has tagged me for a game. Here are the rules:
1) Go to your photo files. Select the 6th folder or album.
2) Select the 6th photo in that folder/album.
3) Post that photo along with the story behind it.
4) Then challenge some blog friends to do the same!
1) Go to your photo files. Select the 6th folder or album.
2) Select the 6th photo in that folder/album.
3) Post that photo along with the story behind it.
4) Then challenge some blog friends to do the same!
I have a little 4' x 2' pond out back that I just love. It's a surprising amount of work for such a little thing, but the waterlilies and fish have become a summertime joy for me. Because my pond is too shallow to house the fish over winter without freezing, their winter home is my friend Fran's giant pond, aka The Fransion or the Sea of Franquility. (No kidding, this thing is huge.) I added some new fish this year, so I have seven total, all fantails. They are Leopard, Moby Ick, Beauzeau, Diva, Little Richard Hatch, La Loge, and Bob.
This is La Loge. She's the newest. In Fish World, "she" might just be a honkin', studly, testosterone-filled, raging bull of a man-fish for all I know, but to me she looks like a cute little girlie fish. She even has a little bend in her tail fin that makes her look sort of...perky. It reminds me of a pony tail.
Initially I named her Renoir, but even that was too manly for her. So I changed it to the painting that she's named for. I would post it here, but I don't know the first thing about copyright laws. If you do "google-images," you should come up with the painting.
I think La Loge actually means "The Theatre Box," but I don't care. Besides being all fluffy and striped and black-and-white-and-pink-all-over, this fish is also sort of box-shaped.
So there you have it. My fish story. Just be glad the 6th picture wasn't Moby Ick.
"Enjoy the simple things." ~George Carlin
Friday, June 26, 2009
Not Too Much Independence, Please
Both of my children are going out of town for the 4th of July this year. This will be the first holiday I’ve spent completely without them since they were born.
Independence Day has special meaning to me because it was my mother’s birthday. She’s been gone almost 18 years now, but it still never ceases to feel like a family holiday to me. So I’m planning now so that I don’t get stuck with nothing to do.
Last year my friend Pam called, and neither of us was going to see fireworks. So we thought up these
Things for Losers to Do on 4th of July:
1. Stalk people with fireworks. Spray them with hoses and yell, “Some of us is tryin’ to sleep, dammit!”
2. Take your dog’s tranquilizers.
3. Go into your bathroom and sing, “We’re an American Band” into your hairbrush. Throw your hair a lot, a la ‘80s bands.
4. Paint yourself red, white and blue, then take a picture of yourself taking a picture of yourself in the mirror. Don’t forget the teeth!
5. Light a sparkler and sing Happy Birthday to You, only substitute United States of America for the “Dear________” part. For extra excitement, do that indoors, and then clap when the smoke detector goes off.
6. Light old birthday candles, matches, and votives. Turn out the lights, set them around you and make fireworks noises.
7. Make a “Miss America” style sash out of toilet paper and drape it around yourself. Sing the “Here She Comes” song while practicing the Princess Wave and weeping.
8. Tape Brendan Fraser’s face over an Uncle Sam poster. Practice winking while you whisper seductively, “I want you, too, Darlin’.”
9. Buy a family-sized order of curly fries and put them on a blue plate. Squirt on ketchup. Eat them all. (Pam’s)
10. Have a picnic in your living room. Tie a chair to one leg and have a three legged race all by yourself. Then win a game of Spider Solitaire on your computer, turn out the lights, and exclaim, “Oooh!” and “Ahhh!” when the little fireworks come on.
“Sell a country! Why not sell the air, the great sea, as well as the earth. Did not the Great Spirit make them all for the use of his children?” ~Tecumseh, Chief of the Shawnee
Independence Day has special meaning to me because it was my mother’s birthday. She’s been gone almost 18 years now, but it still never ceases to feel like a family holiday to me. So I’m planning now so that I don’t get stuck with nothing to do.
Last year my friend Pam called, and neither of us was going to see fireworks. So we thought up these
Things for Losers to Do on 4th of July:
1. Stalk people with fireworks. Spray them with hoses and yell, “Some of us is tryin’ to sleep, dammit!”
2. Take your dog’s tranquilizers.
3. Go into your bathroom and sing, “We’re an American Band” into your hairbrush. Throw your hair a lot, a la ‘80s bands.
4. Paint yourself red, white and blue, then take a picture of yourself taking a picture of yourself in the mirror. Don’t forget the teeth!
5. Light a sparkler and sing Happy Birthday to You, only substitute United States of America for the “Dear________” part. For extra excitement, do that indoors, and then clap when the smoke detector goes off.
6. Light old birthday candles, matches, and votives. Turn out the lights, set them around you and make fireworks noises.
7. Make a “Miss America” style sash out of toilet paper and drape it around yourself. Sing the “Here She Comes” song while practicing the Princess Wave and weeping.
8. Tape Brendan Fraser’s face over an Uncle Sam poster. Practice winking while you whisper seductively, “I want you, too, Darlin’.”
9. Buy a family-sized order of curly fries and put them on a blue plate. Squirt on ketchup. Eat them all. (Pam’s)
10. Have a picnic in your living room. Tie a chair to one leg and have a three legged race all by yourself. Then win a game of Spider Solitaire on your computer, turn out the lights, and exclaim, “Oooh!” and “Ahhh!” when the little fireworks come on.
“Sell a country! Why not sell the air, the great sea, as well as the earth. Did not the Great Spirit make them all for the use of his children?” ~Tecumseh, Chief of the Shawnee
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Write On, Dude
A Cup of Comfort for Dog Lovers II is out today. I have several reasons to be jubilant about this.
My husband used to put me down. He made nasty little threats. Took my graduate school money. Wouldn’t let me take one day off. Wouldn’t let me take a vacation. Got mad when I had friends. Got mad when I painted or drew. Got mad when I distinguished myself in any way. Oddly, I never really thought of it as abusive because I laughed at him and did most of what I wanted, anyway. But I got what I always called “the punishments.”
And then one day I volunteered to write my subdivision’s newsletter. My husband was mad. Again.
It was only when he tried to punish me for writing that I really began to see him for what he was. I was living life with a human being who seemed only to know how to take--a parasite. Suddenly, I wanted to fling him off and feel free again. And the way I did that was by writing. It felt like I wrote myself back into existence. I felt paradoxically whole again.
He got mad when I used his computer...I used it anyway. Wouldn’t baby-sit the children so that I could take a computer class...I took it while the youngest was in preschool. He wouldn’t keep an eye on the children so I could write the newsletter...I locked myself in the bathroom and scribbled on scraps of paper while they lay on the floor outside and put their little fingers under the door.
When I tried to write creatively, the computer “crashed.” Twice. When people dropped off items for the newsletter, he literally pushed himself into the conversation. He had jealous fits when men brought articles for me to print. He tried distracting me every way he knew how. He even tried pretending to people that he’d been secretly doing the writing for me.
But I wrote and wrote and wrote. And I found myself again in those words. And finally, much, much later than I should have, I left him.
I left in spite of poverty, attacks, and struggles. I left in spite of the fact that most of my extended family is dead. I left in spite of a future that’s worse than uncertain; more poverty, attacks and struggles are certain. And I’m not a bit sorry.
Then last week, he shorted child support even though last I knew, he made 16 times what I do (although I do 100% of the parenting and pay 20% of college and medical expenses). So when I emailed him to ask where it was, I got this telling little email: “I would think that by now with all of your writing deals and book signings that you really wouldn't have time to mess with trying to extort yet more money from me.”
So right now, I am laughing….And I am writing. And those snarky little words are music to my ears.
Is it tacky of me to be telling this? Probably. But the truth is, if I had read this a few years ago, it would have helped me…so I will write. And it helps me now…so I will write. As long as this controlling person attacks me, I will write. As long as any controlling people attack anyone, I will write and write and write. And if they don’t attack, I will still write…about something else.
It's not bragging when I announce I have a story coming out. That’s not it at all. It's not about being a great writer. It's not even really about writing. It's not about being special or successful or making money. It's about refusing to give up or give in to a person who—for reasons I will probably never understand—thought love meant destroying me. It’s about celebrating. It’s about saying, you can take everything away from me, but you can’t take me. I am still here. And in spite of it all, I am happy.
The truth is that monetary poverty is nothing—nothing—compared to the starvation of the creative spirit.
“I dedicate this book to that part of myself that inched forward when a thousand winds blew and she had but one small pink birthday candle to hold up her wish….” ~Tama J. Kieves, This Time I Dance! Trusting the Journey of Creating the Work You Love
My husband used to put me down. He made nasty little threats. Took my graduate school money. Wouldn’t let me take one day off. Wouldn’t let me take a vacation. Got mad when I had friends. Got mad when I painted or drew. Got mad when I distinguished myself in any way. Oddly, I never really thought of it as abusive because I laughed at him and did most of what I wanted, anyway. But I got what I always called “the punishments.”
And then one day I volunteered to write my subdivision’s newsletter. My husband was mad. Again.
It was only when he tried to punish me for writing that I really began to see him for what he was. I was living life with a human being who seemed only to know how to take--a parasite. Suddenly, I wanted to fling him off and feel free again. And the way I did that was by writing. It felt like I wrote myself back into existence. I felt paradoxically whole again.
He got mad when I used his computer...I used it anyway. Wouldn’t baby-sit the children so that I could take a computer class...I took it while the youngest was in preschool. He wouldn’t keep an eye on the children so I could write the newsletter...I locked myself in the bathroom and scribbled on scraps of paper while they lay on the floor outside and put their little fingers under the door.
When I tried to write creatively, the computer “crashed.” Twice. When people dropped off items for the newsletter, he literally pushed himself into the conversation. He had jealous fits when men brought articles for me to print. He tried distracting me every way he knew how. He even tried pretending to people that he’d been secretly doing the writing for me.
But I wrote and wrote and wrote. And I found myself again in those words. And finally, much, much later than I should have, I left him.
I left in spite of poverty, attacks, and struggles. I left in spite of the fact that most of my extended family is dead. I left in spite of a future that’s worse than uncertain; more poverty, attacks and struggles are certain. And I’m not a bit sorry.
Then last week, he shorted child support even though last I knew, he made 16 times what I do (although I do 100% of the parenting and pay 20% of college and medical expenses). So when I emailed him to ask where it was, I got this telling little email: “I would think that by now with all of your writing deals and book signings that you really wouldn't have time to mess with trying to extort yet more money from me.”
So right now, I am laughing….And I am writing. And those snarky little words are music to my ears.
Is it tacky of me to be telling this? Probably. But the truth is, if I had read this a few years ago, it would have helped me…so I will write. And it helps me now…so I will write. As long as this controlling person attacks me, I will write. As long as any controlling people attack anyone, I will write and write and write. And if they don’t attack, I will still write…about something else.
It's not bragging when I announce I have a story coming out. That’s not it at all. It's not about being a great writer. It's not even really about writing. It's not about being special or successful or making money. It's about refusing to give up or give in to a person who—for reasons I will probably never understand—thought love meant destroying me. It’s about celebrating. It’s about saying, you can take everything away from me, but you can’t take me. I am still here. And in spite of it all, I am happy.
The truth is that monetary poverty is nothing—nothing—compared to the starvation of the creative spirit.
“I dedicate this book to that part of myself that inched forward when a thousand winds blew and she had but one small pink birthday candle to hold up her wish….” ~Tama J. Kieves, This Time I Dance! Trusting the Journey of Creating the Work You Love
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Good Book
I just finished reading a good book called Controlling People: How to recognize, Understand, and Deal with People Who Try to Control You by Patricia Evans (©2002 by Adams Media Corporation). There are parts that so closely nail controlling personalities, it occasionally made me gasp aloud and require a break just to let it sink in.
A book is a garden, an orchard, a storehouse, a party, a company by the way, a counselor, a multitude of counselors. ~Charles Baudelaire
A book is a garden, an orchard, a storehouse, a party, a company by the way, a counselor, a multitude of counselors. ~Charles Baudelaire
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
...Way Worse Inferno, Part II
So I actually survived the classes all the way until the afternoon—5th hour, with my plan period coming up 6th hour, meaning a blessed break for one whole class period with no kids.
And then the lights went off.
At first, the kids freaked. You would’ve thought they were being thrust into total darkness instead of the pleasant daylight of a hot, sunny day. Some kids thought we were under attack. And when you think about it, lack of electricity really is a reason to panic for these kids. Everything they know and love is operated with it.
Plus a lot of that is exactly what makes eighth grade so awful. It’s the age where the cluelessness of childhood mixes with the instability of hormones. The resultant mixture is so volatile, it’s a veritable Twilight Zone of tween-dom where spontaneous emotional combustion is commonplace.
I managed to get them calmed down in much the way the Dog Whisperer does—by distraction. But those battery operated clocks confirmed it: the bells didn’t work. I waited with Pavlovian pleading in my head. Bells! Where were my bells?!
Then a walkie-talkie carrying vice principal came around to deliver the sentence: Do not release classes until the electricity comes back on!
I watched in agony as my whole break ticked away. The room grew more stifling with the air conditioning off. I opened the windows; the kids threw things out. They hollered to their friends who were lucky enough to be outside for P.E. They were loud. The noise throbbed. My feet throbbed. My head throbbed. The heat throbbed.
They began to complain. They wanted something different to do. They wanted to go to the bathroom...all at the same time, because they were afraid the bathrooms would be dark and scary. They wanted funner friends and better games (yes, I played games with them; I was desperate).
A couple of the most tiresome girls sat near the door and whined. At me. I’ve heard some children with their parents, and it’s clear where they get it. “Let us ouuuut! We’re so hot!” Like I was personally keeping them in there on purpose because the whole thing was just so danged much fun for me. Like I was torturing them by making them play games with their friends. All that went through my sweat-soaked head was that these little girls had no freaking idea what torture was.
Hell is hot, yes. But here’s what they don’t tell you: it is also filled with eighth graders.
At that moment, as a middle aged woman at the opposite end of the hormonal spectrum and trapped in the stifling heat with 25 restless adolescents, I was possibly far more dangerous than any little old cyber-threat.
If I admit that here, is that considered another cyber-threat?
The lights came back on…just in time for 7th hour, the last hour of the day. No break, but I survived. Some people climb Mount Everest as tests of their mettle. Mine was a descent of sorts, and much hotter, but no less an achievement of a lifetime.
Let the summer vacation begin.
However mean your life is, meet it and live it: do not shun it and call it hard names. Cultivate poverty like a garden herb, like sage. Do not trouble yourself much to get new things, whether clothes or friends. Things do not change, we change. Sell your clothes and keep your thoughts. God will see that you do want society. ~Henry David Thoreau
And then the lights went off.
At first, the kids freaked. You would’ve thought they were being thrust into total darkness instead of the pleasant daylight of a hot, sunny day. Some kids thought we were under attack. And when you think about it, lack of electricity really is a reason to panic for these kids. Everything they know and love is operated with it.
Plus a lot of that is exactly what makes eighth grade so awful. It’s the age where the cluelessness of childhood mixes with the instability of hormones. The resultant mixture is so volatile, it’s a veritable Twilight Zone of tween-dom where spontaneous emotional combustion is commonplace.
I managed to get them calmed down in much the way the Dog Whisperer does—by distraction. But those battery operated clocks confirmed it: the bells didn’t work. I waited with Pavlovian pleading in my head. Bells! Where were my bells?!
Then a walkie-talkie carrying vice principal came around to deliver the sentence: Do not release classes until the electricity comes back on!
I watched in agony as my whole break ticked away. The room grew more stifling with the air conditioning off. I opened the windows; the kids threw things out. They hollered to their friends who were lucky enough to be outside for P.E. They were loud. The noise throbbed. My feet throbbed. My head throbbed. The heat throbbed.
They began to complain. They wanted something different to do. They wanted to go to the bathroom...all at the same time, because they were afraid the bathrooms would be dark and scary. They wanted funner friends and better games (yes, I played games with them; I was desperate).
A couple of the most tiresome girls sat near the door and whined. At me. I’ve heard some children with their parents, and it’s clear where they get it. “Let us ouuuut! We’re so hot!” Like I was personally keeping them in there on purpose because the whole thing was just so danged much fun for me. Like I was torturing them by making them play games with their friends. All that went through my sweat-soaked head was that these little girls had no freaking idea what torture was.
Hell is hot, yes. But here’s what they don’t tell you: it is also filled with eighth graders.
At that moment, as a middle aged woman at the opposite end of the hormonal spectrum and trapped in the stifling heat with 25 restless adolescents, I was possibly far more dangerous than any little old cyber-threat.
If I admit that here, is that considered another cyber-threat?
The lights came back on…just in time for 7th hour, the last hour of the day. No break, but I survived. Some people climb Mount Everest as tests of their mettle. Mine was a descent of sorts, and much hotter, but no less an achievement of a lifetime.
Let the summer vacation begin.
However mean your life is, meet it and live it: do not shun it and call it hard names. Cultivate poverty like a garden herb, like sage. Do not trouble yourself much to get new things, whether clothes or friends. Things do not change, we change. Sell your clothes and keep your thoughts. God will see that you do want society. ~Henry David Thoreau
Monday, May 25, 2009
Dante's Way Worse Inferno, Part I
Anybody who teaches can tell you that the last few weeks of school are h-e-double pencils for teachers. For substitute teachers, those last weeks are worse still. Make it eighth grade—that pubescent purgatory, the most dreaded of all ages experienced by humanity—and you have a recipe for sheer teaching torture.
Last week I descended into such madness. It was at my favorite middle school, even, but I realized something was up when I saw extra security guards posted at the entrances. Apparently there had been a “cyber-threat.”
For those of you who are unfamiliar with public school terminology, “cyber-threat” usually means somebody started a rumor on Facebook about how somebody else threatened to blow the dumb school to kingdom come…and parental panic ensued.
In MY day (yes, I know) when somebody threatened to blow up school, we all got a fire drill while somebody—my guess would be the custodian—looked around to see if there was a giant package marked “bomb” sitting around anywhere. We got to go out just long enough to see how nice it was outside (and to give the teachers and some of the naughtier kids--and maybe the cutstodian himself--an extra cig break), and then we had to go back in again. But in MY day, no one had yet freaked out in a school and committed mass murder.
So these days, after the police and fire department and bomb sniffing dogs and school board and administrators have all gone in and checked things out, we go in with extra security.
I actually worked extra security once. I was basically a not-so-glorified hall monitor who also had to patrol all the girls’ bathrooms to check for threatening graffiti. No kidding. But this time, they had hired real security guards with uniforms and everything. They were old guys who looked like they’d retired from meter reading, but the uniforms were a nice touch.
(To Be Continued)....
“I like saw your phone? And I was like, ‘that’s a really small phone.’” ~Overheard from 12 year old girl
Last week I descended into such madness. It was at my favorite middle school, even, but I realized something was up when I saw extra security guards posted at the entrances. Apparently there had been a “cyber-threat.”
For those of you who are unfamiliar with public school terminology, “cyber-threat” usually means somebody started a rumor on Facebook about how somebody else threatened to blow the dumb school to kingdom come…and parental panic ensued.
In MY day (yes, I know) when somebody threatened to blow up school, we all got a fire drill while somebody—my guess would be the custodian—looked around to see if there was a giant package marked “bomb” sitting around anywhere. We got to go out just long enough to see how nice it was outside (and to give the teachers and some of the naughtier kids--and maybe the cutstodian himself--an extra cig break), and then we had to go back in again. But in MY day, no one had yet freaked out in a school and committed mass murder.
So these days, after the police and fire department and bomb sniffing dogs and school board and administrators have all gone in and checked things out, we go in with extra security.
I actually worked extra security once. I was basically a not-so-glorified hall monitor who also had to patrol all the girls’ bathrooms to check for threatening graffiti. No kidding. But this time, they had hired real security guards with uniforms and everything. They were old guys who looked like they’d retired from meter reading, but the uniforms were a nice touch.
(To Be Continued)....
“I like saw your phone? And I was like, ‘that’s a really small phone.’” ~Overheard from 12 year old girl
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Thanks, Snigglefarts Bustapants
My dear friend Becky and I were emailing about being bummed out lately. Some of the things she said reminded me of what I do to feel better. Have had a lot of chances to think of these throughout my divorce, so here are a few (besides the obvious “call a friend”):
1. Make yourself smile even if you don’t feel like it. It sends a good feeling down your spine.
2. Rent a funny movie (or in my case, “The Office” seasons on cd). Whatever makes you laugh uncontrollably. Laugh out loud.
3. Force yourself to sing a happy song out loud.
4. Turn up the radio and dance.
5. Sit in the sun. If none available, do a Mr. Rogers and use your imagination.
6. Smell the roses—literally. Or buy a hyacinth at the grocery store, or put fragrant potpourri around.
7. Find something silly about your situation—for instance, I remind myself of the old Droopy the Dog cartoon when I cry and my nose swells up. Or think about how you’ll laugh about this later.
8. Exercise (Hey, do as I say, not as I do).
9. Write about how you feel.
10. Find one miracle and/or one lesson in your day, every single day. Write it down.
11. Force yourself to learn something new.
12. Look up art that appeals to you on the internet under “Google Images.” Use it as your computer wallpaper. Study the piece and look up the artist.
13. Look up photos of parts of the world. Ditto about the wallpaper. Take a pretend vacation every day.
14. Take care of a pet.
15. Light a candle, get out the pretty tablecloth, use the good china…whatever it takes to create a pretty setting or mood.
16. Make up silly names (thanks, Becky).
18. Not to be all religious, but pray. Honestly.
17. Make up a list of things to do to make yourself feel better.
“Reject a woman, and she will never let it go. It’s one of the many defects of their kind. Also, weak arms.” Dwight Shroot, “The Office”
1. Make yourself smile even if you don’t feel like it. It sends a good feeling down your spine.
2. Rent a funny movie (or in my case, “The Office” seasons on cd). Whatever makes you laugh uncontrollably. Laugh out loud.
3. Force yourself to sing a happy song out loud.
4. Turn up the radio and dance.
5. Sit in the sun. If none available, do a Mr. Rogers and use your imagination.
6. Smell the roses—literally. Or buy a hyacinth at the grocery store, or put fragrant potpourri around.
7. Find something silly about your situation—for instance, I remind myself of the old Droopy the Dog cartoon when I cry and my nose swells up. Or think about how you’ll laugh about this later.
8. Exercise (Hey, do as I say, not as I do).
9. Write about how you feel.
10. Find one miracle and/or one lesson in your day, every single day. Write it down.
11. Force yourself to learn something new.
12. Look up art that appeals to you on the internet under “Google Images.” Use it as your computer wallpaper. Study the piece and look up the artist.
13. Look up photos of parts of the world. Ditto about the wallpaper. Take a pretend vacation every day.
14. Take care of a pet.
15. Light a candle, get out the pretty tablecloth, use the good china…whatever it takes to create a pretty setting or mood.
16. Make up silly names (thanks, Becky).
18. Not to be all religious, but pray. Honestly.
17. Make up a list of things to do to make yourself feel better.
“Reject a woman, and she will never let it go. It’s one of the many defects of their kind. Also, weak arms.” Dwight Shroot, “The Office”
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
An Omenous Cookie?
Fortune cookie I got the other day: “You will make many changes before settling satisfactorily.”
I am the masterpiece at the end of the journey so it is worth the climb. ~Anonymous
I am the masterpiece at the end of the journey so it is worth the climb. ~Anonymous
Sunday, April 5, 2009
When Words Don't Quite Fail
Right after I filed, I actually had someone ask me point blank why I was getting a divorce. He prefaced this with, “As you know, I’m a good friend of the family.”
One of the last times I saw this particular “good friend,” an older, alcoholic former boss of my ex husband’s, he was soused and grabbing my knee under the table at a dinner party my husband and I were throwing. I hadn’t talked to my good friend in close to 10 years and wasn’t at all unhappy about that. So my first response was stunned silence, which I think is one of those times in life that guileless honesty has given me the perfect retort.
Then I got to use the comeback I’d fortunately filed away for just this occasion. It is: “I simply don’t deserve him.”
The response was perfect. "Oh, why yes, yes, of course. That is, ahh, oh. Oh, yes, of course. Oh, uh huh, I see. I—Yes. Uh huh. Oh."
Well-timed silence hath more eloquence than speech. ~Martin Farquhar Tupper
One of the last times I saw this particular “good friend,” an older, alcoholic former boss of my ex husband’s, he was soused and grabbing my knee under the table at a dinner party my husband and I were throwing. I hadn’t talked to my good friend in close to 10 years and wasn’t at all unhappy about that. So my first response was stunned silence, which I think is one of those times in life that guileless honesty has given me the perfect retort.
Then I got to use the comeback I’d fortunately filed away for just this occasion. It is: “I simply don’t deserve him.”
The response was perfect. "Oh, why yes, yes, of course. That is, ahh, oh. Oh, yes, of course. Oh, uh huh, I see. I—Yes. Uh huh. Oh."
Well-timed silence hath more eloquence than speech. ~Martin Farquhar Tupper
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Friday, April 3, 2009
Pardon My Porn
A friend sent me one of those email jokes. It’s the one about the old lady who buys a frog and it turns into a hunk. The punch line is what did she turn into? (A motel.)
I didn’t really intend to post the joke, but I wanted to see how easy it was to cut and paste something like that to post on my blog. I’ve been wanting to mess with the photo feature a little more since a friend told me how to position pictures the way I want.
So I experimented. It wasn’t easy. For one thing, the pictures didn’t transfer, and there were quite a few of them. There was not only the hunky guy, but there were also frog pictures as the joke unfolded. So I had to cut and paste the pictures separately.
I got The Guy to post properly, but once I had him all set up and published, I was taken aback. Without the visual effect of scrolling down, and without the goofy little animated frogs along the way, he looked like a cheap Man-Pinup. It was only a naked torso, I promise, but he looked sleazy.
Horrified, I deleted it all. I bet the whole process took maybe five minutes—which is a surprisingly long time when you’re cutting and pasting.
Apparently it’s also a long time when you’re browsing blogs. A friend chose just that moment to look at mine, and up popped Naked Torso Guy. Confused, she clicked on him…and she says he took her places no family oriented woman wants to go. Bad, bad Formerly Frog Man! She says she didn’t stick around long enough to see if it was—urk—a true pornographic web site.
I don’t understand that, but then, I don’t know the first thing about computers. I just want people to know that I am not, in fact, a porn peddler.
“People in the library shouldn’t conjugate near the doors!” ~Teacher making an announcement in a high school library
I didn’t really intend to post the joke, but I wanted to see how easy it was to cut and paste something like that to post on my blog. I’ve been wanting to mess with the photo feature a little more since a friend told me how to position pictures the way I want.
So I experimented. It wasn’t easy. For one thing, the pictures didn’t transfer, and there were quite a few of them. There was not only the hunky guy, but there were also frog pictures as the joke unfolded. So I had to cut and paste the pictures separately.
I got The Guy to post properly, but once I had him all set up and published, I was taken aback. Without the visual effect of scrolling down, and without the goofy little animated frogs along the way, he looked like a cheap Man-Pinup. It was only a naked torso, I promise, but he looked sleazy.
Horrified, I deleted it all. I bet the whole process took maybe five minutes—which is a surprisingly long time when you’re cutting and pasting.
Apparently it’s also a long time when you’re browsing blogs. A friend chose just that moment to look at mine, and up popped Naked Torso Guy. Confused, she clicked on him…and she says he took her places no family oriented woman wants to go. Bad, bad Formerly Frog Man! She says she didn’t stick around long enough to see if it was—urk—a true pornographic web site.
I don’t understand that, but then, I don’t know the first thing about computers. I just want people to know that I am not, in fact, a porn peddler.
“People in the library shouldn’t conjugate near the doors!” ~Teacher making an announcement in a high school library
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Today I realized the chief difference between my view of the marriage and my ex husband’s. When I look back on all those years of marriage, I see all the times I should have left--and can’t forgive myself for staying. He sees all the times I stayed and can’t forgive me for finally leaving.
“The greatest of teachers won’t hesitate/to leave you there by yourself, chained to fate….” ~Live, "I Alone"
Monday, February 16, 2009
A Peggy Hill Moment
I got stuck.
I got stuck because I’m trying to recall how far I’ve come from the anger, but in order to do that, I have to recall the anger itself. And I don’t want to do that.
So I won’t for now.
For now, I’ll stick to the day I had last week. I subbed in middle school P.E., which I almost never do. The P.E. part, that is. I’m not sure why I took the job in the first place other than the fact that it was in a school near a store where I’ve been wanting to shop. Plus it meant I got to wear my beloved Reeboks to work. Ahhh.
I like gym because you get to just sit back and observe the kids…sort of like an anthropologist of adolescence. I often think, as I’m sitting there playing gym teacher and supposedly monitoring the game, that gym class is such a microcosm of our competitive selves.
I was horrible at gym in middle school. Horrible. I still think of my middle school gym years as a nightmarishly literal sweat-and-blood struggle mixed with ill-fitting polyester and pubescent agony.
Ironic, then, that I’ve grown up to play gym teacher sometimes. I do it because I feel like it slightly smudges the helplessness I used to feel. That, and all I have to do is stand with my arms on my hips and yell a lot. I yell, “LISTEN UP!” and “LET’S GO!” like I know what I’m doing. Here is a confession: I sometimes don’t even know the rules of the game.
The horror is that I wasn’t one of the pale gawky girls who look like they should be bad at gym. In my experience, they are usually just annoyed with sports, but they’re really not that bad at playing them. I was truly bad at gym. The kid who came closest to who I was at that age was a mostly unattractive girl with pretty hair. She continuously shrieked and cried, “Don’t hurt me!” while darting delicately away from the ball every time. When it would land near her, she’d slap that icky ball limply away. I was in much greater denial of my sports-helplessness and therefore much less demonstrative of it, but I had about that much interest, grace, and talent.
Turned out the kids were playing Dodge Ball. With today’s no-risk mindset, that sort of surprised me, although the balls were partially deflated so that they made a horribly explosive noise when they struck the right way but didn’t really hurt. I know they didn’t hurt because I accidentally got hit once. The kids all giggled and watched me to see what I'd do (I laughed and told them I was now going to cheer for the other team.) I asked if the deflating of the balls was intentional, and the other P.E. teacher said it was just a byproduct of being too lazy to blow them up.
At one point a male gym teacher told me I had to go in the girls’ locker room to “…make sure they don’t fight or anything.” I had to laugh at that. Middle school girls don’t tend to have fist fights; when they get mad, they make each others’ lives miserable in every possible way. It’s far more prolonged than a straight-forward fist fight and causes far deeper and more permanent scars.
Something happens to boys in middle school gym—they wrestle and tumble and fight. But girls just sit there and talk. Even the truly athletic girls don’t play aggressively, and they’re all considerably more athletic than they used to be. Even the best of them lob the ball—not with that anger that the boys seem to have—but with a calm competitiveness. One little pony-tailed girl moved like a dancer and hit the ball so hard it whistled, all with a benign smile on her face. The other gym teacher confided that the boys were afraid of her, and it was clear he was right.
It struck me that I was observing a civil war of sorts, the way each side just faced each other and picked off the other side like that. Interesting who was left standing, too. In each class, there seemed to be a little girl who fared well simply by virtue of being too thin to hit easily. In each case, the girl stood with her hands stick-straight at her sides or twiddled her hair or picked at her cuticles while the balls screeched past her head. Occasionally she stepped out of the way, looking slightly bored.
In one class, the kid who was left standing every time was a boy I had in In-House Suspension last week. I think he was left because he’s the kind of kid people just don’t notice, and he stood in one corner looking out of place in gym shorts. In eighth grade, this angry looking red-headed child looks like he should be wearing camouflage. Somehow even his normal clothes look like camouflage.
Last week in in-house suspension he spent half of a class period playing with his eraser, and at the end of the day he picked lint off the carpet and put it in his pocket to take home. He told me that dead people always talked to him, and—I know it’s horrible of me—I asked him if they told him to get back to work.
He’s one of those kids you can’t help but worry about, both for his own sake and for others’. When he’d end up left standing in Dodge Ball and all the other kids suddenly noticed him and started throwing balls at him, you could tell he was taking it personally. He’d suddenly come alive and start throwing back with such anger that it made my throat ache. I noticed he hit the same girl several times after she was out, too.
I really did want to ask him what the dead people said to him, by the way, but I would have been encouraging him to be “off task.” Talking dead people are against the rules in middle school.
“Everyone gets hurt. Meaning’s got nothing to do with it.” Aryn Kyle, God of Animals
I got stuck because I’m trying to recall how far I’ve come from the anger, but in order to do that, I have to recall the anger itself. And I don’t want to do that.
So I won’t for now.
For now, I’ll stick to the day I had last week. I subbed in middle school P.E., which I almost never do. The P.E. part, that is. I’m not sure why I took the job in the first place other than the fact that it was in a school near a store where I’ve been wanting to shop. Plus it meant I got to wear my beloved Reeboks to work. Ahhh.
I like gym because you get to just sit back and observe the kids…sort of like an anthropologist of adolescence. I often think, as I’m sitting there playing gym teacher and supposedly monitoring the game, that gym class is such a microcosm of our competitive selves.
I was horrible at gym in middle school. Horrible. I still think of my middle school gym years as a nightmarishly literal sweat-and-blood struggle mixed with ill-fitting polyester and pubescent agony.
Ironic, then, that I’ve grown up to play gym teacher sometimes. I do it because I feel like it slightly smudges the helplessness I used to feel. That, and all I have to do is stand with my arms on my hips and yell a lot. I yell, “LISTEN UP!” and “LET’S GO!” like I know what I’m doing. Here is a confession: I sometimes don’t even know the rules of the game.
The horror is that I wasn’t one of the pale gawky girls who look like they should be bad at gym. In my experience, they are usually just annoyed with sports, but they’re really not that bad at playing them. I was truly bad at gym. The kid who came closest to who I was at that age was a mostly unattractive girl with pretty hair. She continuously shrieked and cried, “Don’t hurt me!” while darting delicately away from the ball every time. When it would land near her, she’d slap that icky ball limply away. I was in much greater denial of my sports-helplessness and therefore much less demonstrative of it, but I had about that much interest, grace, and talent.
Turned out the kids were playing Dodge Ball. With today’s no-risk mindset, that sort of surprised me, although the balls were partially deflated so that they made a horribly explosive noise when they struck the right way but didn’t really hurt. I know they didn’t hurt because I accidentally got hit once. The kids all giggled and watched me to see what I'd do (I laughed and told them I was now going to cheer for the other team.) I asked if the deflating of the balls was intentional, and the other P.E. teacher said it was just a byproduct of being too lazy to blow them up.
At one point a male gym teacher told me I had to go in the girls’ locker room to “…make sure they don’t fight or anything.” I had to laugh at that. Middle school girls don’t tend to have fist fights; when they get mad, they make each others’ lives miserable in every possible way. It’s far more prolonged than a straight-forward fist fight and causes far deeper and more permanent scars.
Something happens to boys in middle school gym—they wrestle and tumble and fight. But girls just sit there and talk. Even the truly athletic girls don’t play aggressively, and they’re all considerably more athletic than they used to be. Even the best of them lob the ball—not with that anger that the boys seem to have—but with a calm competitiveness. One little pony-tailed girl moved like a dancer and hit the ball so hard it whistled, all with a benign smile on her face. The other gym teacher confided that the boys were afraid of her, and it was clear he was right.
It struck me that I was observing a civil war of sorts, the way each side just faced each other and picked off the other side like that. Interesting who was left standing, too. In each class, there seemed to be a little girl who fared well simply by virtue of being too thin to hit easily. In each case, the girl stood with her hands stick-straight at her sides or twiddled her hair or picked at her cuticles while the balls screeched past her head. Occasionally she stepped out of the way, looking slightly bored.
In one class, the kid who was left standing every time was a boy I had in In-House Suspension last week. I think he was left because he’s the kind of kid people just don’t notice, and he stood in one corner looking out of place in gym shorts. In eighth grade, this angry looking red-headed child looks like he should be wearing camouflage. Somehow even his normal clothes look like camouflage.
Last week in in-house suspension he spent half of a class period playing with his eraser, and at the end of the day he picked lint off the carpet and put it in his pocket to take home. He told me that dead people always talked to him, and—I know it’s horrible of me—I asked him if they told him to get back to work.
He’s one of those kids you can’t help but worry about, both for his own sake and for others’. When he’d end up left standing in Dodge Ball and all the other kids suddenly noticed him and started throwing balls at him, you could tell he was taking it personally. He’d suddenly come alive and start throwing back with such anger that it made my throat ache. I noticed he hit the same girl several times after she was out, too.
I really did want to ask him what the dead people said to him, by the way, but I would have been encouraging him to be “off task.” Talking dead people are against the rules in middle school.
“Everyone gets hurt. Meaning’s got nothing to do with it.” Aryn Kyle, God of Animals
Monday, January 19, 2009
Ode to the Imperfections
In this era in which I’m seeing more and more people with faces frozen in perpetual surprise, I’m sort of liking some of my imperfections. Is that weird of me?
Maybe. And I don’t mean all of my imperfections, either. The truth is, I have jowls that could use a support garment. But there’s some other stuff on my body that I’ve grown sort of fond of, in a way. Battle scars, I guess you could call them.
For example, I have a scar that I'm sorry to say is fading because it makes me laugh. You know the sit com joke about the shirt with the iron print burned on? I have an iron print—the tip of one—burned on my arm. I tried to iron while watching a movie with a cute guy in it and got distracted.
Then there’s the extra rib. After an x-ray, I was told by a solemn-faced doctor that I have an extra rib on one side. He carefully explained that it shouldn’t make me feel…you know…freakish. He said it as though he clearly thought it should. In my mid-thirties, I was just old enough that it made me laugh and exclaim that, to be honest, I am a bit freakish.
When I was a kid, I knew a Girl-with-No-Bone in her pinkie toe. Only cartilage. I always admired the fact that she had sense enough not to be bothered by it, and if you asked her, she would take off her shoe and bend it every which way like a fake rubber toe. It was so cool. Funny how we don’t always get smarter when we age, isn’t it?
I had another friend with an extra nipple. She was a teeny bit embarrassed by it, but she did show certain people if you asked her right. Frankly, I was unimpressed. It was on her stomach and didn’t have an areola or anything. Really it just looked like a flesh colored mole.
So anyway, today I noticed another one of my mutations is back. I think generally my eyebrows are pretty normal, but if you look closely, they are very long and sparse. Occasionally I get this freakishly long one. I blame the Scottish side of my family. Have you ever noticed some of those Scottish guys have eyebrows that look like somebody took a golf club and lobbed a couple of small animals at their foreheads? I must have the female version. Anyway, I tweeze this thing out, but then it slowly grows back until it’s so long that it really needs its own hairstylist.
One of my new year’s resolutions is to add photographs, so here goes. Below, for your viewing pleasure, is my Mutant Eyebrow Hair. I had to add it to its own post because otherwise it wanted to go to the top of the post, and that just ruined the suspense.
I haven’t talked to my old friend in years by the way. Maybe I will write her and ask her if she still bends her toe for people in that cool way. I hope she does.
Maybe. And I don’t mean all of my imperfections, either. The truth is, I have jowls that could use a support garment. But there’s some other stuff on my body that I’ve grown sort of fond of, in a way. Battle scars, I guess you could call them.
For example, I have a scar that I'm sorry to say is fading because it makes me laugh. You know the sit com joke about the shirt with the iron print burned on? I have an iron print—the tip of one—burned on my arm. I tried to iron while watching a movie with a cute guy in it and got distracted.
Then there’s the extra rib. After an x-ray, I was told by a solemn-faced doctor that I have an extra rib on one side. He carefully explained that it shouldn’t make me feel…you know…freakish. He said it as though he clearly thought it should. In my mid-thirties, I was just old enough that it made me laugh and exclaim that, to be honest, I am a bit freakish.
When I was a kid, I knew a Girl-with-No-Bone in her pinkie toe. Only cartilage. I always admired the fact that she had sense enough not to be bothered by it, and if you asked her, she would take off her shoe and bend it every which way like a fake rubber toe. It was so cool. Funny how we don’t always get smarter when we age, isn’t it?
I had another friend with an extra nipple. She was a teeny bit embarrassed by it, but she did show certain people if you asked her right. Frankly, I was unimpressed. It was on her stomach and didn’t have an areola or anything. Really it just looked like a flesh colored mole.
So anyway, today I noticed another one of my mutations is back. I think generally my eyebrows are pretty normal, but if you look closely, they are very long and sparse. Occasionally I get this freakishly long one. I blame the Scottish side of my family. Have you ever noticed some of those Scottish guys have eyebrows that look like somebody took a golf club and lobbed a couple of small animals at their foreheads? I must have the female version. Anyway, I tweeze this thing out, but then it slowly grows back until it’s so long that it really needs its own hairstylist.
One of my new year’s resolutions is to add photographs, so here goes. Below, for your viewing pleasure, is my Mutant Eyebrow Hair. I had to add it to its own post because otherwise it wanted to go to the top of the post, and that just ruined the suspense.
I haven’t talked to my old friend in years by the way. Maybe I will write her and ask her if she still bends her toe for people in that cool way. I hope she does.
"…I was merely reading the Muggle magazines. I do love knitting patterns." ~ Albus Dumbledore
Sunday, January 11, 2009
The Coat for When Hell Freezes Over
It’s supposed to get cold here this week, so I took my daughter out for a winter coat. She is a teenager, and she hates coats.
When she was a child, she hated shoes. Hated them. Shoe shopping was such a nightmare that I used to threaten to put duct tape on her feet to get her into school. She had one pair in the world she would wear, and I drove all over town trying to find that brand and style in every possible color.
The coat was like that.
I think we really did see every coat at the mall. It was not allowed to be: too long, too short, or a weird color. It couldn’t have shoulder pads, even small ones. One had “funny pleaty things that stick out.”
It couldn’t make her look like an FBI agent. Or on the way to a board meeting. Or a safari. Or look like one that her childhood Madeline doll wore (she was right about that one). Woe to the coat that made her look pregnant, fat, or like she was "wearing a dead weasel" around the shoulders.
It couldn’t have weird sleeves, oddly sized or colored buttons, or any other outstanding embellishments. The collar could be neither too big nor too small. It couldn’t be tweed. It couldn’t be leather. No plaid. No hound’s-tooth.
I asked her what she would wear. She said, “One like that girl’s.” But when I asked where this girl was, my daughter clammed up—wisely sensing that I was to the point where I would have tackled the girl and ripped the coat right off of her. Then my daughter said she wanted a coat that looked like she’d just come from skiing in the Alps. Lederhosen? No lederhosen. A ski jacket, then. But no, ski jackets are too puffy. They’d make her look fat.
As we were leaving—hot, tired, crabby, and sans coat, she took one more look at the very first ones we had seen. She tried on the one I had secretly dubbed “The British Rock Star.” It had been overlooked because the buttons were too shiny, even though I’d assured her I would personally rip the buttons off with my teeth and sew on whatever buttons she wanted.
In the end, she forgave the shiny buttons, even. It is perfect on her. My daughter, the British Rock Star.
I had it wrapped in plastic, but she took it out and wore it home.
Maybe it’ll be like the sparkly purple snow boots she got when she was nine. She loved them so much, she wore them to bed for days.
“Beauty is not in the face; beauty is a light in the heart.” ~ Kahlil Gibran
When she was a child, she hated shoes. Hated them. Shoe shopping was such a nightmare that I used to threaten to put duct tape on her feet to get her into school. She had one pair in the world she would wear, and I drove all over town trying to find that brand and style in every possible color.
The coat was like that.
I think we really did see every coat at the mall. It was not allowed to be: too long, too short, or a weird color. It couldn’t have shoulder pads, even small ones. One had “funny pleaty things that stick out.”
It couldn’t make her look like an FBI agent. Or on the way to a board meeting. Or a safari. Or look like one that her childhood Madeline doll wore (she was right about that one). Woe to the coat that made her look pregnant, fat, or like she was "wearing a dead weasel" around the shoulders.
It couldn’t have weird sleeves, oddly sized or colored buttons, or any other outstanding embellishments. The collar could be neither too big nor too small. It couldn’t be tweed. It couldn’t be leather. No plaid. No hound’s-tooth.
I asked her what she would wear. She said, “One like that girl’s.” But when I asked where this girl was, my daughter clammed up—wisely sensing that I was to the point where I would have tackled the girl and ripped the coat right off of her. Then my daughter said she wanted a coat that looked like she’d just come from skiing in the Alps. Lederhosen? No lederhosen. A ski jacket, then. But no, ski jackets are too puffy. They’d make her look fat.
As we were leaving—hot, tired, crabby, and sans coat, she took one more look at the very first ones we had seen. She tried on the one I had secretly dubbed “The British Rock Star.” It had been overlooked because the buttons were too shiny, even though I’d assured her I would personally rip the buttons off with my teeth and sew on whatever buttons she wanted.
In the end, she forgave the shiny buttons, even. It is perfect on her. My daughter, the British Rock Star.
I had it wrapped in plastic, but she took it out and wore it home.
Maybe it’ll be like the sparkly purple snow boots she got when she was nine. She loved them so much, she wore them to bed for days.
“Beauty is not in the face; beauty is a light in the heart.” ~ Kahlil Gibran
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
New and Improved! Farewell, Pepto Pink!
I thought this was a little easier on the eyes...and stomach. Tell me what you think.
In the meantime, I promise I can blog about something other than vomitus, but I just have to get this one last thing out of my system as it were:
Practically Scientific Chocolate Study
I was curious to see if I could eat chocolate again.
I long ago decided that it would not be a bad thing if I developed an aversion to chocolate. So every time I was exposed to stomach flu or thought I might have a chance of throwing up later, I’d be sure to eat some. I once ate expired baking chocolate rooted out from the back of my pantry. But wait…that might have just been an ordinary day, come to think of it. But I know for sure on at least one occasion, I rushed out and bought some with the specific intent of later blowing chocolate chunks.
This went on for years. The only thing I determined was that chocolate is apparently a very reliable puke-preventative.
Except with the aforementioned barfing episode. Amazingly enough, I ate chocolate on New Year’s Eve. In fact, if color is an indication, and I find it usually is with puke, chocolate came up in the very first round.
So, what did my almost scientific chocolate-hurling experiment prove? Drum roll…………...............................................Are you kidding? This is chocolate we’re talking about. Chocolate!
Nevertheless, here’s what I’m telling myself. It just didn’t “take” this time because the chocolate had been consumed too early on. I’m convinced that it needs to be freshly swallowed chocolate. Which means, of course, that next time I will have to have chocolate ready to go at a moment’s notice.
“The turning point in the process of growing up is when you discover the core of strength within you that survives the hurt.” ~ Max Lerner
In the meantime, I promise I can blog about something other than vomitus, but I just have to get this one last thing out of my system as it were:
Practically Scientific Chocolate Study
I was curious to see if I could eat chocolate again.
I long ago decided that it would not be a bad thing if I developed an aversion to chocolate. So every time I was exposed to stomach flu or thought I might have a chance of throwing up later, I’d be sure to eat some. I once ate expired baking chocolate rooted out from the back of my pantry. But wait…that might have just been an ordinary day, come to think of it. But I know for sure on at least one occasion, I rushed out and bought some with the specific intent of later blowing chocolate chunks.
This went on for years. The only thing I determined was that chocolate is apparently a very reliable puke-preventative.
Except with the aforementioned barfing episode. Amazingly enough, I ate chocolate on New Year’s Eve. In fact, if color is an indication, and I find it usually is with puke, chocolate came up in the very first round.
So, what did my almost scientific chocolate-hurling experiment prove? Drum roll…………...............................................Are you kidding? This is chocolate we’re talking about. Chocolate!
Nevertheless, here’s what I’m telling myself. It just didn’t “take” this time because the chocolate had been consumed too early on. I’m convinced that it needs to be freshly swallowed chocolate. Which means, of course, that next time I will have to have chocolate ready to go at a moment’s notice.
“The turning point in the process of growing up is when you discover the core of strength within you that survives the hurt.” ~ Max Lerner
Sunday, January 4, 2009
It is now three days post-puking, and I have a flat stomach.
I had to announce that, because it’s not going to last long. Not such a bad thing, I’ve decided, to start the year cleansed and purified. I can now call it a "cleansing" since my face is no longer thrust into a receptacle that was never made for the end of a human being which contains items such as a nose and mouth.
I haven’t had coffee for three whole days (which would explain the headache), or chocolate, or any of my other addictions.
The book signing was wonderful, by the way. I don’t know when I’ve ever laughed so hard or met so many nice people.
P.S. I couldn't find a feature that asks me for my favorite quotations, so I am going to add a quote of the day.
Today's: “The fire of anger burns only the angry.” ~Confucius
I had to announce that, because it’s not going to last long. Not such a bad thing, I’ve decided, to start the year cleansed and purified. I can now call it a "cleansing" since my face is no longer thrust into a receptacle that was never made for the end of a human being which contains items such as a nose and mouth.
I haven’t had coffee for three whole days (which would explain the headache), or chocolate, or any of my other addictions.
The book signing was wonderful, by the way. I don’t know when I’ve ever laughed so hard or met so many nice people.
P.S. I couldn't find a feature that asks me for my favorite quotations, so I am going to add a quote of the day.
Today's: “The fire of anger burns only the angry.” ~Confucius
Friday, January 2, 2009
Not-So-Fun Thing for Losers to Do on New Year's Day:
Barf repeatedly.
I spent the first day of the new year curled in a fetal position in a nest of sorts made out of bathroom rugs piled under my toilet, with my head smashed against the tub, in between bouts of sickness spewing from various orifices. What I kept thinking is how you can really see new kinds of dirt from that perspective. Specifically, I was wondering how on earth black dog hair gets piled so thickly along my baseboards when my dog won’t go in a bathroom.
He was a rescue dog who had clearly been locked in bathrooms a lot as a puppy in his first home. Almost 13 years later, he still won’t go into a bathroom. But clearly, his hair will.
Anyway. It was a gastro-intestinal virus and not a hangover, I swear. I feel sort of ripped off. I’m really not a drinker these days. At first I’d thought it was my shrimp contribution to the dinner, but everyone ate some and no one else got sick. Plus the friend who hosted the get-together assured me that “stomach flu” is going around and her son had it not long ago. Bleah.
My dog was much more concerned about me than my daughter was. He even stopped by the bed several times to check my breathing by sniffing my nose and mouth with a worried look on his face. Big shock to open your eyes to a cold dog nose. Then he came and squeaked toys in my general direction. I couldn’t tell if this was a celebration of some sort or an assumption that I should play with him as long as I was breathing and all.
Today I can cross my house to put in a load of laundry without having to stop and lie down on the floor to rest several times on the way.
Here is what the Magic Eight Ball said, by the way. I did not drop it from a step ladder, but it still managed to be too bubbly to read the first time. I am for some reason compelled to shake it like it’s a can of V-8, even though as a 3rd grader my daughter instructed me in proper Magic Eight Ball consultation. “You have to wave your arms,” she said, “like this,” and she demonstrated a grand flourish. While doing this, she told me to say (with equal grandeur), “OH, Great Eight Ball! Please answer this question…!”
I consider it a good thing I couldn’t read it the first time, because I’m pretty sure the first word was “Don’t,” and that just doesn’t sound good.
So I tried again without shaking it up so much. This time it said, “Ask again later.” Wimp.
So I did. The third time was indeed a charm, especially since I’d recalled the proper procedure by then. I drew the words out and gave them lots of feeling, just as she’d taught me. “OOOHHH Great Eight Ball! Will 2009 be a good year for me?!”
So, it’s definitely official. 2009: “Outlook good.”
I spent the first day of the new year curled in a fetal position in a nest of sorts made out of bathroom rugs piled under my toilet, with my head smashed against the tub, in between bouts of sickness spewing from various orifices. What I kept thinking is how you can really see new kinds of dirt from that perspective. Specifically, I was wondering how on earth black dog hair gets piled so thickly along my baseboards when my dog won’t go in a bathroom.
He was a rescue dog who had clearly been locked in bathrooms a lot as a puppy in his first home. Almost 13 years later, he still won’t go into a bathroom. But clearly, his hair will.
Anyway. It was a gastro-intestinal virus and not a hangover, I swear. I feel sort of ripped off. I’m really not a drinker these days. At first I’d thought it was my shrimp contribution to the dinner, but everyone ate some and no one else got sick. Plus the friend who hosted the get-together assured me that “stomach flu” is going around and her son had it not long ago. Bleah.
My dog was much more concerned about me than my daughter was. He even stopped by the bed several times to check my breathing by sniffing my nose and mouth with a worried look on his face. Big shock to open your eyes to a cold dog nose. Then he came and squeaked toys in my general direction. I couldn’t tell if this was a celebration of some sort or an assumption that I should play with him as long as I was breathing and all.
Today I can cross my house to put in a load of laundry without having to stop and lie down on the floor to rest several times on the way.
Here is what the Magic Eight Ball said, by the way. I did not drop it from a step ladder, but it still managed to be too bubbly to read the first time. I am for some reason compelled to shake it like it’s a can of V-8, even though as a 3rd grader my daughter instructed me in proper Magic Eight Ball consultation. “You have to wave your arms,” she said, “like this,” and she demonstrated a grand flourish. While doing this, she told me to say (with equal grandeur), “OH, Great Eight Ball! Please answer this question…!”
I consider it a good thing I couldn’t read it the first time, because I’m pretty sure the first word was “Don’t,” and that just doesn’t sound good.
So I tried again without shaking it up so much. This time it said, “Ask again later.” Wimp.
So I did. The third time was indeed a charm, especially since I’d recalled the proper procedure by then. I drew the words out and gave them lots of feeling, just as she’d taught me. “OOOHHH Great Eight Ball! Will 2009 be a good year for me?!”
So, it’s definitely official. 2009: “Outlook good.”
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Hello Out There!
Welcome to my very first post, created on December 31, 2008. I would like to announce that I do, in fact, have plans this evening...I am crashing the private party of a couple of very nice neighbors of mine. But before I got the pity invitation, I thought these up. So here for your viewing pleasure are
1. Climb onto a step ladder at midnight and drop an Eight Ball. While you’re up there, ask it if it will be a good year. If it isn’t broken, read the little window for your answer.
2. See if you can fit 2009 pieces of gum into your mouth.
3. Make a dragon face out of a paper bag. Glue curling ribbon streamers to the back and put it over your head, then skip through your house shouting, “Happy Chinese New year!”
4. At midnight, put Brendan Fraser wallpaper on your computer and neck with your computer screen.
5. Open a can of olives and arrange them on oyster crackers. Call them hors d’oeuvres and eat them wearing a little black dress and white gloves while sipping ever so delicately on orange juice poured into a plastic champagne glass.
6. Make up your own words to the tune of “Auld Lang Syne,” because who the hell knows what that means, anyway.
7. Make a list of things you will resolve NOT to do over the new year, such as “I will NOT sing ‘I Wanna Be Sedated’ and mosh with my Christmas tree.”
8. Shake a can of Mountain Dew real hard and pop the tab at midnight.
9. Make a list of things for losers to do on New Year’s Eve.
10 Things for Losers to Do on New Year's Eve:
1. Climb onto a step ladder at midnight and drop an Eight Ball. While you’re up there, ask it if it will be a good year. If it isn’t broken, read the little window for your answer.
2. See if you can fit 2009 pieces of gum into your mouth.
3. Make a dragon face out of a paper bag. Glue curling ribbon streamers to the back and put it over your head, then skip through your house shouting, “Happy Chinese New year!”
4. At midnight, put Brendan Fraser wallpaper on your computer and neck with your computer screen.
5. Open a can of olives and arrange them on oyster crackers. Call them hors d’oeuvres and eat them wearing a little black dress and white gloves while sipping ever so delicately on orange juice poured into a plastic champagne glass.
6. Make up your own words to the tune of “Auld Lang Syne,” because who the hell knows what that means, anyway.
7. Make a list of things you will resolve NOT to do over the new year, such as “I will NOT sing ‘I Wanna Be Sedated’ and mosh with my Christmas tree.”
8. Shake a can of Mountain Dew real hard and pop the tab at midnight.
9. Make a list of things for losers to do on New Year’s Eve.
10. Bang pots and pans at midnight. Ewww, no, I didn’t mean it that way, Scumbag.
Please feel free to add any suggestions of your own!
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