Bodies: 2009

...stuck in the middle (yeah, yeah)/ and the pain is thunder (yeah, yeah)/ it's too high to get over (yeah, yeah)/ too low to get under...

I reacquaint myself with MJ, having nearly forgotten how much I loved him when I was in high school. There's no such thing as a 'B" side on a CD, but only the 'A' side of 'Thriller' was any good.

Drivers up here in DC are not as friendly to me as the ones in the South, which is a shame because traffic is a bitch. I look forward to being home, to maybe eating something. I haven't been able to eat.

rewind: Monday morning

Silvery mists tumble over Carolina hills and across Carolina fields. I've lost track of where I am. I'll just stay on this road until I'm home.

rewind: Monday wee hours

I wake suddenly: my cousin is touching me. "I hated to wake you in case you wanted to sleep in." She did right; I'd set my phone alarm, but my technical skills are haphazard at best.

rewind: Sunday night

She said I could wander around naked up here if I liked, the teen being two floors down, and she and her husband on the first floor. I look at the open blinds and wonder if I should bother closing them at this late point. I try to settle, in hopes of an early start in the morning, but end up writing instead, trying to recreate two days ago's nearly-perfect words. I think I'm close.

rewind: Sunday afternoon

We've been so long at the pool, mostly unbothered by the intermittent showers, drinking sangria and snacking on cheese and fruit, talking and talking and talking, that her husband has called. Twice. He wonders if we're ever coming back to the house. He wants dinner. He'll make it, but... we take pity on a hungry chef, and head back to her beautiful home. It doesn't take much for her to talk me into staying the night instead of pressing on, since I'd be driving in the dark on a bellyful of sangria.


rewind: Sunday morning

I used to go to church with her and her family when we were young. It seems circular to attend church with her family now. "This is the only church she liked," he tells me. "The doors were nice and wide." How long, I wonder, had that been the factor- not just A factor, but THE factor- in family decisions? "Three years." And he tells me the story.

He gives me directions out of town. Because I've spent so much of my time here being where I did not intend to be, he is very specific. "You're gonna drive awhile, now. You'll know the downtown by the tall buildings. After that, you'll drive awhile again, and there's a big farmer's market before the turnoff." I thank him for his specificity, and promise to make it back down soon, soon, like next year.

rewind: Sunday early morning

I am awake at 6. The younger niece stirs, uncomfortable. The chair and ottoman have separated during the night. I point to the empty spot on the mattress I just vacated, beside her still-sleeping sister. With a wordless sigh of gratitude, she slides under the comforter.

His parents are sweet, and invite me to come stay with them on my way home, since I'm heading north after church. I tell them about my cousin and her invitation to lie by the pool drinking sangria. His father, upon discovering that I've made coffee, asks, "Will you marry me?" I remind him that he asked me that yesterday, when I brought beer, and I already said Yes. "Gotta try some of this Democrat coffee," he murmurs. "Hey now," I retort, "that is good Republican coffee that I got from your son's refrigerator. It's only slightly tainted by my Democratic hands." His mother flutters and fusses, debating attending church with us. "You wanted to go home. We're going home," her husband tells her. She flutters some more. I hug them very much as we part.

I take the son and the younger of the nieces in the convertible. We drive and drive. I am finally getting used to Georgia distances. We arrive at a huge facility. The daughter tells me, in a voice that doesn't need to be lowered, since the rock band is so loud, that sometimes they have a holo-preacher. When he appears, she says, "Oh! He's real today," and sounds slightly disappointed.

rewind: Saturday night

He will not hear of my finding a room for the night, and though I briefly consider staying with another friend who has fewer folk to bed down, I feel as though I still have work to do here. I don't know what it is. I watch the end of a fairly stupid movie with the daughter and the nieces, and then everyone settles down. I find a blanket, and tuck it around him as he lies dozing on the sofa, eventually abandoning my computer in favor of a pillow sometime past one in the morning.

rewind: Saturday evening

"Are you the token person of color?" I ask him. He looks what my friend Liz calls 'halfrican', and he admits to a father who is half black. Ah, so not even half. There are a couple of latinos in the room...well, one. I am actively uncomfortable in a group this white. "Are black people even allowed in this county?" "Only in the last twenty years," Dad says, "and there's many as would say that was a mistake." "I guess I'm the token Democrat in the room, then" I say, mostly joking. All conversation halts. I mean, ALL. "You're a Democrat?" asks Dad, horrified. "I just found out something I don't like about you, " Scarecrow says. I frown. How could my political preferences possibly make any difference? It seems to me as silly as disliking someone because they favor pistachio ice cream. "I guess now's a bad time to mention that I'm also Jewish?" I reply. There is a pause, a collective inhale, and conversation resumes.

rewind: Saturday afternoon

We chat and move in and around the house; I move from group to group, opening bottles, brewing coffee. Two of the girls agree to brush my hair, and make a large production of it. The men try to look/ not look. Someone says that we are out of beer. "Come on," I say to him. "I think you need to get away from your family for awhile." He agrees, and we ride topless to the liquor store. His mother wants wine spritzers, which means white wine and 7-Up. His sister also likes wine, but she prefers red. "And what's that beer you like? Ringling?" Sure, Beer Of Clowns. Yeungling. We fill a cart with alcohol, return shortly. "Will you marry me?" his father asks when I walk in carrying beverages. Others relieve me of chore of putting away, and I watch the creation of a wine spritzer. Here is the gang again, looking the same, seeming the same, but not the same. They haven't hung tight in the twenty years since I've seen them? What's going on? Can this occasion be one that reunites them? Why is an occasion necessary? When I left, I thought that I was a lightweight, that I was leaving the party early. That they would go back to partying while I slept it off on the train. Turns out, I WAS the party. I got on the train, and THEY slept it off. And have been talking about it, and me, for two decades.


rewind: Saturday morning

I do not realize I am going to speak until my feet are taking me to the platform, to the podium. I open my mouth and suddenly my improv and my open mike experiences converge and something close to perfectly what I meant falls from it. Strangers- and most of them are- tell me afterwards how moved they were by what I said. What did I say? I hardly know. We drive to a park that would be lovely, but that it's marred with stones and false flowers. More praying and tears, and a rose to put on the casket. I wonder what all of this has cost. It is not mine to calculate, of course. Her procession, which was all of four or five blocks, has had two fire engines and two convertibles. I wonder which would've made her smile more. After returning for 'food and fellowship' provided by the church members who have arrived to represent, we go to the home of the newly widowed man. I ask if we should stop first for alcohol. "We have stuff at the house," he says. I've seen his home. I've seen his fridge. Unless the beer fairies showed up between last night and now... well, I do not argue.

rewind: Saturday early


After alternating between whirlpool and pool, partaking of as much breakfast as seems edible- coffee and half a muffin, two pieces of pale and lifeless fruit- I shower and hurry to meet Scarecrow's family at a waffle place. His children are impressed by my car. He and one child ride with me. Mrs. Scarecrow carries the other children in the mini-van. I'm so happy to have not caved to mini-vanity. We hurry away- it's 'not far', but that means nearly fifty minutes. I try to remember that Maryland would fit into Georgia fifteen times, and that I need to adjust my thinking. We slip in just as things are beginning. I slide up the side and slither into a row second from the front. I hope it's not reserved for family only, because I don't qualify, not quite.

rewind: Friday night


I arrive, much much later than I'd hoped, having received bad directions no fewer than four times. Her sister recognizes me immediately, and rushes in for an embrace. The last of the guests have just left. The friend who finally talked me in over the phone left more than an hour ago. I will see him later. The family tells me it's better I'm late, as there were lines. People stood in line to pay respects. We sit and hand tissues to one another. "She was my best friend," her mother mourns. This worries me in a way I can't identify. The staff starts to hover, to flutter. It's past time for them to close. We exit. I kiss her parents, her sister, shake hands with the sister's husband, and tell the widower I need to find a liquor store. "Of course you do," he says. He guides me in, tells me he must get fast food for his son (who needs no fast food, but Not My Business) and he'll meet me at the house. I walk into the house with two fully loaded six-packs. "Here I am. I brought the party." "Are you kidding? You ARE the party!" he tells me. I drink a bit, visit with the couple I remember, glad to know they're still a couple. His father introduces himself, convinced we've never met. I'm convinced otherwise, but never mind. I must leave soon, carry beer to my other friend, Scarecrow, who lives 'nearby.' I do not trust this designation, so am prepared for the fourty minute drive. Scarecrow is pleased to see me, knew I'd know his house by the child's plastic pail on the mailbox (though the house number was evident), and begins by telling me, "I used to think I was in love with you, but I'm not." This is not news to me. I look at him sideways and ask, "Oh? Why not?" which makes him laugh, which is why he thought he was. It was never about me, only about the way I made him feel. Which I always knew. "My wife even doesn't hate you anymore," he says. "I never thought I'd given her a reason to hate me, " I say. "No, it was me, the way I lit up when anyone mentioned your name," he says, which makes strange and awful sense to me. For the record, I'm convinced that it wasn't how I made him feel, but how I made him feel... about himself. 

We drink beer and visit far longer than anyone would credit as innocent, and yet anyone would be wrong. He offers the sofa; I've left items at the hotel. I return, decide against a shower, as I chose the hotel for the pool and whirlpool and breakfast. The bed could've been made of granite; I wouldn't've noticed.

rewind: Friday afternoon

I've missed 85, and not realized it. I am too-too far South to consider backtracking, and have no map to attempt a cross-road. I must press on to 95. I've probably added an hour to my journey by taking the Richmond bypass. Ah, well, live and learn. I'll arrive when I arrive. I've been topless since 9 this morning. It can't be a bad day altogether. A storm blows up suddenly, violent and furious. I pull up my top, drive through as much of it as I have courage to do at speeds that seem reasonable, then slow to a crawl, envying motorcyclists stopped under bridges. What a good excuse they have. I'm in a bit of a hurry, here. When the sun returns I consider pulling over to remove my top again, and decide against.

I've hit Atlanta during rush hour. I am too conditioned to the standstill pace of a packed DC beltway to even attempt the beltway of Atlanta. I drive slowly through areas I remember from years past, wonder where the stream was that we floated down as a caravan, with coolers of beer and rum strung between our floats. My top comes off while I wait at a light. It takes much longer than I wish to find the spot where I'd determined an appropriate hotel was to be found. This location appears chock-full of Hispanic people, black people and drug dealers, which makes me feel right at home. I book a room.

rewind: Friday morning

I leave while it's still damp from night, wondering if I've overpacked yet again, wondering what sort of person has as a goal to someday underpack for a journey, hoping my mother, when she learns I've undertaken this alone, will not freak the hell out too hard, hoping the weather will hold, because a topless road trip beats a regular road trip hands, arms, shoulders, neck down. I am flying low when I get a call from an old friend I've not seen or spoken with since before I had children. Life takes with one hand, returns with another.

rewind: Thursday night

My mother helps me crash clean the guest room; it is currently not guest-ready. E. had told me to not worry about it, but I am anyway. Her offer to stay with the children while I make a sudden short journey was most generous and unexpected. I throw things in an overnight bag, remembering charger cords, camera, photo calendar....if I don't have enough underwear, I'm sure I can buy some in Georgia. Or go without. That would be in keeping with the character the Georgia folk remember.

I phone the woman who made the very generous offer of staying with the children overnight; we won't need her after all, since Hawk will make it home on Friday afternoon, and can stay until YoungEv arrives. I speak to A., who planned to make the drive with me, on the phone. It turns out she's been having headaches and mustn't travel. I don't intend to tell my mother.

rewind: Thursday

I try to teach, but am distraught. People notice. These people, who love me in long-term ways, do not accept words from my mouth that argue with emotions on my face, so I tell my news and my wishes. Keeping your mouth closed is only a good idea when you're a lone Democrat in a roomful of Republicans. My friends are sympathetic, helpful, and make offers I can't, and won't, refuse.

rewind: Wednesday

"Aunt Belle? My mother's dying. I thought- my dad thought- you'd want to know."

Michael Jackson, Wanna Be Starting Something

(original draft dated 6/28/09)

Conversation Snippets

...Pay no mind to what they say/It doesn't matter anyway....

"Are you here for a funeral? His name is, or I guess was, Jeremy."

I'm only dressed like I'm here for a funeral. Mostly anywhere I am, I'm dressed like I'm going to a funeral. It's not, I think, that I'm particularly funereal, I just always wear black. It is a real challenge, for example, to go two weeks not wearing black AND trying to incorporate red in my wardrobe, for Chinese New Year, which I don't normally pay much attention to, but this year is "mine" and therefore, special. Theoretically. According to someone I love and trust. So, two weeks, mostly not wearing black. It is entertaining, and I am relieved when it is over.

At any rate, no, I'm not here for Jeremy's funeral. I don't know where it is supposed to be, either, despite being dressed in black. 

~   ~   ~

"As your sex therapist, I need to know WHY you're..."

So I knew you were a sex therapist. I didn't know you'd designated yourself as MINE. (No money changed hands, but also I got no insight or advice. Still: I have a sex therapist!)

~   ~   ~

"Do you got a man?"

He rolls up on me in the parking lot of Family Dollar. 

I know, classy, right? 

He drifts his car next to my parked one as I get in and repeats the question. 

(Does that tactic EVER work for you, friend?)

What do I need with a man?

"To take you out on a beautiful day like this, maybe see a show, something like that."

 (Sweetie, I may be the same age as your Mom. Or possibly your Grandma. I'm flattered and you're cute, but hard pass.) 

I have three and a half jobs. I do not have time for a man, but thanks for asking.

~   ~   ~

"You drink more than anybody I know."

I find that hard to believe, and say so.

"Not drinking, but drinking things. Look at you."

She has a point. I have a glass of water with ice, a glass of water without ice into which I'm stirring Emergen-C, a beer, a cup of tea and a cup of coffee. 

Huh. I DO drink a lot. Is that, do you think, a problem?

~   ~   ~

"My client may cancel, if it turns out that she has cherry pudding."

Please say that again. It sounded as if you said your client may have cherry pudding, but I think that's probably not what you said.

She stares, then tosses her head back in laughter.

"Oh!" she says, "Oh! that's funny! Jury duty."

And we both laugh and laugh and LAUGH.

~   ~   ~

"My first husband was gay. Don't tell anybody."

Who would I tell? And why? Also, who would care? 

The Go-Gos, Our Lips Are Sealed

Archaeological Unearthing

...learn to work the saxophone/ I play just what I feel/ drink Scotch whiskey all night long....

This from my Yes, It's True That I Never Get Rid Of Anything, Not Ever file, otherwise known as my email inbox. It's my third or fourth one so far. Third or fourth email inbox, not YITTINGROANE file, as that's simply theoretical, and if I'd thought about it longer, I'd've come up with a name for it that results in a better anagram. I haven't gotten rid of anything in the three previous email inboxes, either.

Probably. I think.

Cue low sultry saxophone music.

I was meditating on the veranda... I call it a veranda, but it was actually more of a fire escape. I call it meditating, but it was really more relaxing than meditating, though smoking a cigar can, I suppose, be said to be meditative. In fact, here goes: Smoking a cigar can be meditative. I said it. 

At any rate, I was on the fire escape, smoking a cigar, the New York Times crossword half-finished on the coffee table inside the window... I say half finished, though it was somewhat less than half finished; considerably less, in fact; the fact is, it was barely begun, which would have been fine had it been from today's New York Times, but it was last week's, which, if you care to know the actual facts of the matter, was by this time, in fact, last month. 

I was meditating on the veranda, the New York Times crossword unfinished on the table when She walked in. I say walked, but it was really more of a glide, if it can be said that a wiggle is glide-like. 

So there was nothing to be done but step in through the window to greet my unexpected guest- or perhaps client- and carefully stub my cigar in the ashtray- I call it an ashtray, though it was actually a china cup with no handle from my great-Aunt Florence's second-best china service. I looked at her. She looked at me. It was in that moment wherein something perhaps magical was about to begin, that I suddenly remembered I was not wearing pants.

Once I realized I wasn't wearing pants, it became imperative that I pretend I hadn't realized I wasn't wearing pants. I say 'imperative' when what I actually mean is 'preferable' or 'inconspicuous', though neither of these are synonymous with 'imperative', as any idiot who'd actually finished a crossword puzzle would know. 

Rather than shamefacedly admit to Her that I'd forgotten, omitted, left out or realized I had no clean laundry during an important step in dressing myself this morning, I behaved as though I were wearing pants, or as though no one went round anymore bothering with the silly, passe trousers of yore. And whether She was pretending to not notice that I was pretending to have not noticed that I was not wearing trousers, or whether she in fact did not notice that I was not wearing trousers is a mystery that puzzles me even today.

 

"You have to help me, Mr. Dresden," she said, in that high-pitched breathless baby Marilyn Monroe voice that gets all men like a sucker punch to the breadbasket. I say sucker punch to the breadbasket, when what I mean is aphrodisiac, or headrush, or mind erasure. I struggled for something clever to say. If only I'd finished the crossword, I might've been able to think of something.....

Fade mournful sax.

To Be Continued....


...or maybe better left alone.



Steely Dan; Deacon Blues

Skin Deep

...I don't believe them when they try to tell me / life is more than / skin skin skin skin deep...

"Are they actually more lovely, pound for pound, measurement for measurement... than any other women you've known? Or is it that they just... well, act beautiful?" –Dr. McCoy, Star Trek TOS

Which is the point of the episode, in case you don't remember.

"It wasn't until years later that I realised people weren't making a fuss over me because I was some incredible beauty or genius; they were making a fuss over me to compensate for my being slashed. I accepted all the attention at face value and proceeded through life as if I really were extraordinary." ---Tina Fey

Of course it's arguable that she actually IS extraordinary, or became so. Self-fulfillingness and all of that. Predetermination because she was smart and clever and funny, and that was never going to not be realized.

Why one should never say "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder," from The Book Of Life blog:

It’s a phrase with the power to silence. Once it’s been uttered, trying to keep up a dialogue about the merits or drawbacks of certain visual things can come across as shrill, anti-social or just plain rude.

This tendency to surrender to relativism is a paradoxical symptom of a scientific age. Science, the most prestigious force in modern society, deals in objective truths. The things it passes judgement on are obviously simply not in the eye of beholders. One can’t fairly say: ‘Well I don’t really feel that way about the boiling point of water or the nature of gravity.’ We have to be subservient to the facts science hands down to us.

Although lately, even science has been subjected to subjectivism. Everything is. Bad behavior "on all sides," a legitimate investigation termed "witch hunt," any sort of criticism becomes "bullying," and calling someone out on actual bullying is "reverse bullying." Beauty seems simpler, because it is superficial and everyone knows it, or should.

I'm a big fan of The Bombshell Manual Of Style, as is xoJane who is very obviously much MUCH younger than I as evidenced by her remark about Britney Spears in 2001.

At any rate, the Bombshell Manual, in addition to being rather foundational for my own Principles of Princessness, casually remarked that women who are beautiful treat themselves as if they are beautiful. The inverse is also true. Women who treat themselves as if they are beautiful (and, as Dr. McCoy suggests, "act beautiful") ARE.

I adopted that awhile ago, in hopes that treating myself like a bombshell would help me feel like one (it does) and that would reflect in my approach to most everything (it has) and encourage self-care while staving any temptation to 'let myself go' and not in the Frozen way.

Someone hoped I wouldn't be offended that he shared a remark about a co-worker who just loves my rear end.

Yeah, I get that a lot. It's been following me around almost my whole life. 

Mind you, this is YESTERDAY, not a decade ago.  I've recently been feeling a great deal of angst about my own age-related irrelevancy and fading attractiveness. The world is harsh for women such as me, who haven't yet achieved the goddesshood of Emma Thompson, Meryl Streep, Helen Mirren, Glen Close, Jane Fonda or Betty Davis. Although, last week, a young intoxicated man who was celebrating his birthday, the same number Pugsley celebrated in February, was about to get separated from his friends, and I said he should hurry to catch them or risk spending his birthday with me.

"I dunno, you seem pretty cool," he replies. I insist he should party with people his own age.
"Oh, come on," says he, "What are you, like, 32?"

Wondering how many beers exactly he's already consumed, I reveal my actual age, at which he goggles.

I'm really good with makeup.

In any case (and I may have mentioned this) I don't take remarks about my own looks particularly seriously. I don't get to keep them (though I'll fake them as long as I can) and the Legendary Ass will eventually degrade into myth. I've tried to cultivate Cute And Fluffy, along with Charming and Witty, because I maybe CAN keep those, and no one is ever going to notice my large and beautiful brain.

Which, if my mother and grandmother are any yardstick, I also won't get to keep.

Vanity and fear, my defining qualities. Nice.

Crack The Sky; Skin Deep

Virtual Conversation

...leapfrog the dog/ and brush me, Daddy-O....

I could apologize for recycling, but who does that? I've neglected my blog long enough that old posts I considered unworthy to upgrade from 'draft' seem a little bit fun. And "a little bit fun" is recommendation enough, since my main topic of conversation nowadays is My Mother The Horse, whom I love to distraction, quite literally.

I consider starting a cottage industry of creations made from the abundant dog hair in my home, and say so in a semi-public arena.

(I say 'arena' as opposed to 'place', because there is no 'here' here. It is all virtual. Where IS the internet? Zackly.)

Musicweaver and Autumn "like" this.

I feel as if I'm quoting when I say "There is no 'here' here", and I know it isn't Gertrude Stein, because she wrote that there was "no there there" in reference to her childhood home. But if someone said "There is no 'here' here" before me, and I'm quoting, and you know it, let me know; otherwise, I'm taking credit for it.

RoYo: Knit a doggy sweater! Full circle!

Kimby: oh, I got lots of dog hair to add to your project.

Lovi: - sends a link -

(Pretty cool- also there are people who will spin your pet hair into yarn for you. )

Mich: I got this little Swiffer thingie that sucks it up; it's made life so much better. I'd be happy to drop off the buckets of hair I have here!

Primarily Decorative: Oh, sure, but you gotta spin it first...and the staple length even of Golden Retriever hair makes that prohibitively time-consuming. You don't think anyone would like Dust Funnies? With little pipe-cleaner ears and noses?
Becca: I can teach you how to spin it. :)
(I learned to spindle spin at the Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival this past year.)

(Instructions on how to spin pet hair yerowndamnself. Warning: abundance of vocabulary words; eg: whorl, short-staple, carder, flyer, bobbin, take-up speed, tension, draft, and rolag.)

RoYo Stuffed animals! Little doggies, stuffed with doggie!

CelioGrin We have an abundance of black dog hair if you need another color. ·
KJunk: @Mich, I have that Swiffer thing too, and you know how you are supposed to throw it away and buy a new one when it's full? I used an Exacto knife to slice through the clear section, cutting three sides of the rectangle, so now it opens and I can 'empty' it and reuse it over and over. Now, for Cybele's issue with the length of GR hair...can't help that...
(Good on ya for using it to its fullest, KJunk. Even better-greener- are reusable Swiffer cloths, which don't address the plastic-ness of the Swiffer itself, but it's a step in the right direction.)

Peach: I have an abundance of cat hair if you need any help...

AmLaughing: I see a line in feline fashion. A pink poodle sweater for a prissy Persian who has everything. Or possibly pussycat toupees. You can see from my profile photo that my Pennycat loves her platinum extensions. An Afghan hound had to die for those. Do you think my cat cares?

(Fiber artist Nancy Paap creates PETA-friendly fur coats by warping her loom with cotton and using spun pet fur as weft. Your pet cuddles you!)

Primarily Decorative: You guys mock me now, but when I am a bazillionaire, creating hand-spun retrieverino yarn, and selling it, or scarves knit from it, you will wish to come out on my gigantic boat and attend my fawncey parties. I will instruct my butler to sniff at each of you, because I will be far too wealthy and important to do it myself.

Mom: and your butler will, naturally, be a golden retriever... what with all that sniffing, eh?

(I'm not sure how I'd keep my Golden Retriever's black tuxedo hair-free... maybe my butler should be a Black Lab, and I'll just sew a shirt and cuffs for him. Using an old sheet that my Golden Retrievers have chewed.)

Kate: But it has to be dry clean only, or we'll smell like wet dog. :P

(Why, then, doesn't your wool sweater smell like wet sheep? Or your acrylic sweater smell like wet acryl?)

KrackyWhoorzl: i'm in!!

(One woman's pet-to-product stories.)


AnneF: I used to say that I could knit a companion animal out of what Merlin sheds...

(I sweep up a small Cocker Spaniel every_single_day.)


RoYo: Cybele, does the scarf come with a flea collar?

I'm thinking if I "treat" the yarn, the scarf could BE a flea collar. Maybe I'll send one to the lead singer of the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

Flea Collar indeed.

(Dog Eat Dog; Adam and the Ants)

Good Ass

...everybody will stare and they’ll gawk astounded/we’ll give you an ass so big, you gotta walk around it/you can have knowledge, self-esteem, and class/but who needs all that when you gotta nice ass?....

Too long to haiku, too good to let go.

I'm at the sink. Wednesday says, "Whoa, Mom. Those pants make your ass look great."

Really? Is it the pants or the wedges I'm wearing? I slip one foot out, descend to flat-footed posture.

"No. Actually, it's even better flat. You should wear flats more often. Especially with THOSE PANTS."

Seriously? I believe her, because when we shop, trousers are deemed "good ass" or "not good ass" pants. Badass pants are something else entirely.

"Yes. Like, if you weren't my mom, and were a little bit younger, I'd maybe be a lesbian. At least a little."

Pugsley protests. "A LITTLE?" I wonder, too.

"What?"

"A LITTLE bit younger?"

"Yes, like 30 or something."

"That's ....creepy."

"Only for women, though. If I were dating a guy, it would be creepy."

I don't think I can participate in this conversation anymore. It's too weird for me. I leave the kitchen. They continue discussing.

"Yes, a guy should be twenty, twenty-two, like that. But if I was going for a woman, thirty is okay."

"That's... no, you're just nuts."

Of her having an opinion of his mother's hindquarters, he has no comment. But his sixteen-year-old sister mentions that she doesn't consider a 30-year-old woman out of the question and earns his censure.

(I recognize the difference between Wednesday saying something and Wednesday thinking something. They're frequently different. I'm not sure my forthright Pugsley remembers that always.)

You can't date anybody who's twenty or older. Nineteen's the limit.

"Wait, did you forget who've you got me engaged to?"

Well, yes, J's in his mid-twenties. But you're engaged. It's not like you're DATING him.

"Seriously, I wouldn't date a 30-year-old woman."

"That's your problem, isn't it?"

Bent as bonsai, yes, they are. Boring? Newp.




Your Favorite Martian; Booty Store

Writing Notwriting

..a traffic jam when you're already late/a no-smoking sign on your cigarette break/it's like ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife...

Oh, not much really; why do you ask? Seriously? You noticed I hadn't been posting? That is SO ODD. According to Dan Tobin, blogging is dead. And I'd never argue with Dan Tobin. I can't find his blog.

Short attention spans get ever shorter these days. Recently, a girl was killed moments after posting on Facebook that she was listening to the song Happy... while she was driving her car.

Yes, ironic, in a way that Alanis Morissette couldn't possibly understand.

Anyway, it's not that I haven't been writing. I HAVE. REALLY.

Okay, it's been mostly Facebooku, but for reals, I seriously have.

No.

I haven't.

But I have been reviewing theater. I mean, it's sort of like writing, but with a topic I didn't choose.


(Alanis Morissette; Ironic)

300 Words

...it's a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in bacon...mmmmmmm....

I'm embarrassed to even post this as an entry, but I've been delinquent in posting at all. Go on, give me a D+ for it, if you like.

A website asks for a 'writing sample', one that 'demonstrates ability to write concisely on a topic', which, as a matter of fact, I CAN. I just usually don't. Unlike some other writers of my acquaintance, I actively enjoy the process of writing, the language, the mechanics and the unfolding progression of thought as I write. On occasion, I need to write about a thing before I am able to understand how I feel about it.

However, the assignment is 300 words that demonstrate...yadda, yadda. So I must choose a topic, first of all. "Write what you know" is a great idea, unless you're writing science fiction, which by definition is something the author doesn't know. But at this point in my life, I know so much stuff. And a lot of it is purely boring. Also, I am obviously stalling. I'd like to write about something other than cooking or child-rearing or knitting, something that will capture the attention of the site's editors. What do I know that other folk don't know?

whiteface makeup application
stilt walking for beginners
how to build a fire-eating torch
I-Ching readings at parties
preparing for a gig
how to write a murder mystery
sewing a pair of stilt pants

Make sure your hands and face are very clean. Oils left on the skin will interfere with the application of the greasepaint. Place a small amount of the greasepaint in the palm of your non-dominant hand, and rub it gently until it is very soft and pliable. With fingertips or a makeup sponge, apply greasepaint evenly to your face, working symmetrically so as to avoid streaking. Crusted blemishes on your face will be a problem at this point, so simply dab a little glob of makeup on them, and leave them until later. Be sure to work the makeup well into your eyebrows and the 'corners' of your nose- the crease where the sides of your nose meet the lower edge of your cheek. Cover to your hairline, ears and chin, or some predetermined edge. Scrunch your chin up to ensure that you're all covered even when grimacing.

When your face is evenly coated, with your ring and middle fingers covered in white, gently pat all over your face. This works the makeup into your skin and hides your pores. Your makeup should feel tacky, but not thick or goopy. If you've left any blobs of makeup on your blemishes, now is the time to gently and carefully cover them, blending the edges of the makeup blob without disturbing any scabbing you may have. Check the mirror. Do you look good? If so, it's time for powder.

Classically trained clowns like a powder sock, which is a deceptive term. An old gym sock isn't the thing at all. A trouser sock, made of pantyhose material is better, but what you need for a good powder sock is a densely woven material that permits the powder to seep out, without leaving textural marks on your makeup. A child's dress sock is often a good choice, but be sure to only use white socks, as sock dye can bleed onto your powder. Some clowns avoid the sock entirely and simply shake powder onto a puff and pat their faces with the powder-coated puff, or dip large fluffy brushes into a powder box and brush the powder onto the face. These are more wasteful and messy than the sock method, but a novice will wish to try each method to determine personal preference.

Once your face is completely powdered, (tap or stroke your face all over with your fingertips- any stick spots require more powder), you will use a large soft brush to remove the excess. When you make faces in the mirror, you shouldn't have powder flaking off- if you do, brush again.

Check your face again, turning side to side, up and down, and brush your eyebrows back into place. Now you are ready to paint on your details.

Okay. My word processing program says this is 458 words. But it's a start.

Tiara Tuesday

...have you seen her all in gold/ like a queen in days of old/ she shoots colors all around/ like a sunset going down/ have you seen a lady fairer?..


1: Tiara Tuesday (TM)
is today; now, everyone

be regal and posh.

2: Tea-filled china cups

sail beneath powdered noses:

pinkies aloft, all!

Tiara Tuesday activities:
Bubble baths. 
Manicures. 
Facials.
Luncheon shall be on china plates, even if luncheon is a taco from Taco Bell. Inappropriate, impractical or downright silly shoes are acceptable and shall be worn on Tiara Tuesdays. Beverages, even non-adult beverages such as milk, apple juice or plain water shall be served in champagne flutes, wine glasses or cut crystal highball tumblers.
Furry jackets or stoles are Tiara Tuesday-approved outerwear. Fluffy boas are optional, but recommended.
Participants are encouraged to bestow something upon another, perhaps un-tiaraed, person. You may bestow a new package of paper upon the copy machine, a regal pat upon your dog, or a lovely smile upon the person in the toll-booth. Identifying an act of bestowance at the time is not necessary (though permissible), but the word should be in your mind as you do it.

It is permissible on Tiara Tuesday to enter every room as if you expect applause.

Things that are glittery or sparkly must be given at least cursory attention on Tiara Tuesdays. Bedazzled belts, besequined berets, metallic threaded camisoles, sparkly eyeshadow, crushed glass in the streets of your city shall be noticed and smiled upon regally, so pay attention.
In conversation, use of superlatives and exotic or obscure words is encouraged.
All hand movements must be accompanied by a lifted pinkie, including but not limited to jar opening, hair brushing, makeup application, nose blowing, door opening, filing, phone answering, tea drinking, tiara adjusting, specatacle wiping, driving and of course, crocheting or knitting.
A Princess Hat (satin cone with organdy scarf attached) is an acceptable substitute for a tiara, though less glittery.

The Princess Principle of Intention:
For those of you whose tiara-deficit state causes you to believe that you mayn’t participate until NEXT Tuesday, please be advised that you are permitted to wear your future tiara Right Now.
That is to say, if you are planning to purchase a tiara, you may behave as though you already have it on your head.
Please contain your gasps of astonishment when you catch glimpses of yourself in mirrors and recall that your tiara is invisible to everyone but you. Astonished gasps are so un-Princess-like.


The Rolling Stones; She's A Rainbow

Layered Relationships

...I think you're nice, but I saw something else that I like/ and I think I gotta make you my next ex....

Speaking to the new husband of my ex's second ex, thinking about the new husband of his first ex, and how I met him without knowing he was married to her. Later, her comment was, "Does she have to be friends with ALL of my husbands?"

Ex #2's new husband is quite charming and humorous, and we discussed Schrodinger.

We spoke of the famous imaginary cat, and the popular notion that he is either in the box, or not in the box. This is incorrect, as the cat being in the box is taken as a non-variable. Whether the cat is alive or not is at issue.

However, my friend applied the 'observation changes reality' premise to this theoretical cat, and said that the cat is either looking up or not looking up, and when we open the box to see if the cat is looking up, of course the cat is looking up, because we opened the box.

This is not Shrodinger, nor Quantum Physics. It's more like a foam marshmallow s'more snowman on a sled Christmas ornament, or a shirtless Korean Canadian in a kilt playing electric sitar. (Hi, Andrew!)

I spoke of the stepson of my cousin, trying to find a word. I decided on 'nephew', which describes the emotional connection, though on a literal level is less than accurate.

Though in conversation I refer to multiple brothers-in-law, I in fact only have one. The husbands of my two sisters-in-law have no designation in English, and calling them out-laws confuses people.

Long ago, I met the little girl who was about to become my niece by marriage. I helped her gather some food on a paper plate and we sat down together. She looked at me with her serious little face and asked, "So, are you.... in law?"

I puzzled over this, because people, even four-year-olds, rarely mistake me for a lawyer.

Then I laughed when I realized she was trying to 'place' me in the family.

Yes, I told her. I'm married to your almost step-mommie's brother. I'm an in-law.


(Beyonce; Kick Him Out)

Aborted Visit

...travel the world and the seven seas/ everybody's looking for something....

Before I woke this morning, I was in your apartment- not the house I've visited, nor the other dwelling you've described to me, but a first-floor condo unit in a large complex. I knew it was yours because it was the same apartment I'd dreamed before, which I entered, barely knocking, and walked straight into your arms as you stepped from the shower. This time, as I came in, I tripped over a red cloth shopping bag- Target, I think- which contained a pair of shoes and a sweater I'd left behind the last time.

In my dreams, you don't seem partial to locked doors.

You are not here. I can feel your absence.

A young college-aged woman moves from one room to another in the back of the apartment. The front rooms are dark. She is speaking on the phone, but eventually notices me, and asks, "May I help you?" in a slightly hostile tone. I stammer that I've accidentallly entered the wrong apartment. Her face relaxes and she agrees that the units look all alike, and, smiling at me, resumes her phone conversation as I back away towards the door. I grab my bag of clothes and exit, wondering.

Eurythmics; Sweet Dreams (Are Made Of This)

Get One.

...look me in my eyes with the blank stare/ why don't you know/ why don't you know what to do....

"Shit!"

What's wrong, honey?

"I have no fucking clue what's wrong! It just won't work!"

He's trying to fix the sink in the bathroom. I'm in the kitchen. I dig around in a drawer, find a chopstick.

I carry it to the bathroom, hold it out to him.

"What's this?" He takes it.

It's a clue stick.

Fluffy, helping, chimes in: "That's not- that's a chopst-"

Shut UP. Work with me, here.


(Rob Allen; Clueless)

Scratch, kiss.

...carries a postcard/ won't the big city be nice/ that's the place with the action/ she's gonna have her a slice....


Between the storm and dawn, I dream of you.

In the morning, I open windows to admit the sound of rattling rain.

Last night, knowing I'd been with another, he ignored me and refused to speak.

This morning, he is huggy kissy again; despite his polydactlism, he is unable to open the food container for himself.

Evidently, he has forgiven me for scratching someone's itch and having a little pussy on the side.

Still, he gives me a filthy look over his shoulder, and twitches his tail as he walks away.


(Adam Ant; Puss'N Boots)

Monday List

...try to kiss me, and laugh /in four or five paragraphs /All your compliments and your cutting remarks /Are captured here in my quotation marks....

1. It will never leach toxic chemicals into a landfill
2. I have one that belonged to my grandfather
3. It will survive a dip in the tub or pool if I fall asleep
4. I can lend it, give it away, donate it or display it
5. Its cost is reflective of something other than its age
6. I will happily hand one to a baby
7. If it's old, it can be cheap, free, or very expensive
8. It carries an aroma which is personal and exquisite
9. If I drop it, I can pick it up in one piece
10. It needs no instructions for use
11. It can be signed by the author
12. This is one of the stupidest things I've ever seen
13. Two words: gilt flashing


(Elvis Costello; Everyday I Write The Book)

Longish Title

...I got this, you got this/Now you know it....

This is almost literally the only thing I've done today. Fucking rain.

Arugala April Poetry Tribute To Bebecka Lack


Seven AM I get up in the morning
Gotta cook fresh food in the kitchen downstairs
No clean bowls, can't have cereal
Seeing everything in the pantry
With expired 'best by' dates, gotta rush and
Gotta chow down on some quick slop
Carton from the fridge, I grab a pan

Salt is on my right side
Pepper's on my left side
Gotta make my mind up
Which spice can I shake?

It's fried egg, fried egg
Gotta chow down on fried egg
Wheat bread for my toast is just the butt end, butt end
Fried egg, fried egg
Scarfin down a fried egg
Every day I eat one and I worry about my rear end

You know what it is
I got eggs, you got eggs
They're not even green, say
I got ham, you got ham
Now you know it

Salt is on my right side
Pepper's on my left side
Gotta make my mind up
Which spice can I shake?

It's fried egg, fried egg
Gotta chow down on fried egg
Wheat bread for my toast is just the butt end, butt end
Fried egg, fried egg
Scarfin down a fried egg
Every day I eat one and I worry about my rear end

Dieting Dieting (yeah)
Tired of dieting (yeah)
Fun, fun, it's no fun
But I worry about my rear end

Last night I was thirsty, thirsty
Today I eat a fried egg
Me, me, me, I'm delighted
Burner ignited
Gonna eat up all my fried egg

Tomorrow is gym day
And I'll be sore afterwards
I won't eat this old piece of bread

It's fried egg, fried egg
Gotta chow down on fried egg
Wheat bread for my toast is just the butt end, butt end
Fried egg, fried egg
Scarfin down a fried egg
Every day I eat one and I worry about my rear end

I figure if I have to have that stupid song stuck in my head, it may as well have better lyrics.


I'll be in a murder mystery tonight; Drop Dead, Gorgeous. But it's a private gig, so even if you wear a red carnation, I won't see you there.

(Rebecca Black; Friday)

Black Youtube

THAT SHIT AINT RIGHT MAN!!! IT UNHUMANTRY TO LISTEN TO THAT SHIT- MrSmalldude22, commenting on Rebecca Black's Friday

Okay, I find the Rebecca Black Friday song very funny for reasons I probably don't need to explain. I do not, however, advise listening to it. Instead, I recommend this cute parody by a couple of (it looks like) highschoolers. Or this version: Steven Colbert on Jimmy Fallon.

If this is the worst song ever, it's in good company. Seriously, doesn't anybody remember Leonard Nimoy's 'Proud Mary'? That one is SO bad that the painful Ballad of Bilbo Baggins seems, at least, mercifully short.

Let's not forget classic rock band Styx, and the absurd Mr. Roboto. Now THAT was bad, even for the eighties.

Oh, if we want to consider something a bit less ancient, how aboutWe Like The Moon? Granted that Joel Vietch of Rathergood is the genius behind Happy Spacemen, and Love Me Like You Used To, We Like The Moon, well, that song was just BAD.

Perhaps deliberately so.

And "unhumantry" is my new favorite made-up word.

Cat Tales

...pusscat's read all the papers/ seen the movie and knows/ all the streets lead to somewhere/ and the pavement's gold....

Cat stories, to balance the knitting. Or maybe not.

We have the reverse of 'stuff on my cat' at our house. Clear surfaces? Check. Sunny windowsills? Check. Cozy comforter-covered beds? Check. Empty laps? Check.

Where's the cat?

On our stuff.

Given the choice between counter and computer, table and a pile of papers, chair to himself or one with a stack of magazines, bet you can guess which he'll choose.

We've finally learned to leave the copy/scan/fax machine in the OFF position, because of the CopyCat in our house. We had way, way too many furbutt photocopies. Who am I kidding? One is too many.

***

It's just before Easter, 2009. Hawk pulls into the Dana lot, where he leaves the BigTruck.

"Boy am I glad to see you!" says one of the truck-industry-support-folk. "You're an animal lover, right? C'mere, I wanna show you something."

Hawk is wary, but co-operative.

"We call him Trouble, but he's a loverboy, really. You gotta meet him."

He puts a skinny black kitten into my husband's arms. Hawk holds the cat face-up, and rubs his chest and tummy.

The kitten blinks yellow lamplight eyes and begins to purr.

A girl in the office had noticed an abandoned cat hanging around her home, and had put out food for it. Her mother had a fit, declaring that they already had one cat to feed, and that was enough. The girl captured the cat and brought it to the truckyard where, presumably, it survived on scraps leftover from lunches. But the Easter holiday was coming, and no one would be at the yard. And then there were the large actual feral cats. The truckyard folk feared for Trouble's life.

Hawk listens, and glances down at the cat in question. It has fallen asleep.

The first notice I have of an addition to our household is my husband's voice telling the kids (outside in the yard, playing on an unseasonably sunny day) that he has a friend he wants them to meet.

"But you have to be careful- he gets scared by loud noises."

Oh, great. He's brought home some drunk homeless guy.

"And he needs a bath. But I think you'll like him."

Okay, so now I'm prepared for a near-starving black dog. But it's this tiny tuxedoed cat wrapped in a dirty towel. Hawk engages in the aforementioned bathing activity.

Cat emerges clean, notably calm, and after an energetic rub with a towel, purring. And he has one more surprise for us.

This cat has extra toes.

Extra toes!



(Adam Ant; Puss 'N Boots)

Monday List

...one, two, three, four/ can I have a little more?/ five six seven-eight-nine-ten I love you....

1. Walk
2. Laugh
3. Compare hairstyles
4. Sweep
5. Complain about gas
6. Pour water
7. Wait patiently
8. Wonder what's causing the big fuss
9. Mimic expressions
10. Relax
11. Keep doing something well past the time you're tired of doing it
12. Employ a lint brush
13. Accept unconditional adoration


(Beatles; All Together Now)

Vertical Stripes

...Duke, Duke, Duke, Duke of Earl, Duke, Duke, Duke of Earl, Duke, Duke, Duke of Earl....

Hijacking my own blog for knitting-related purposes. Crocheters, needle-felters and non-crafters, move along. Nothing to see here.

Vertical Texture Stripes Cloth


Materials:

Size 5, 6, or 7 knitting needle
1 ball cotton yarn
crochet hook or tapestry needle for weaving in ends.

Cast on 33 stitches.

Hint for new-ish knitters: if you have been wondering what to do with those pretty dangly things that people call "stitch markers", this is a good piece for that! You will place a stitch marker (the abbreviation for that instruction: "PM") after each different section. You will have 5 sections: the right hand border, the right garter stripe, the center seed stitch stripe, the left garter stripe, and the left hand border. For this, you'll use 4 stitch markers. Place one after your right hand border, one after the right garter stripe, one after the center seed stripe, and one between the left garter stripe and the left border. Your knitting will be all fancified with jewelry. The stitch markers help you remember to switch stitch patterns instead of continuing in whatever stitch you're knitting.

Seed stitch bottom border:
Row 1: * knit 1, purl 1 *, repeat to last stitch, K 1.
Row 2: Repeat Row 1
Rows 3 – 10: Repeat Row 1
{Work in Seed Stitch for 10 rows total.}

Pattern:
Row 11: (K1, P1 * 3x) K1 {right hand border} [7 stitches], Place Marker ; K 6 {right garter stripe} [6 st], PM; (P1, K1) 3x, P1; {center seed stitch stripe} [7 st], PM ; K 6 {left garter stripe} [6 st], PM; (K1, P1 3x) K1 {left hand border} [7 st]

Row 12: Repeat Row 11

Rows 13- whatever: Repeat Row 11 until cloth is nearly square, or until you're sick of it, for a towel instead of a washcloth, or an afghan panel, or a scarf- really, it could be almost anything you want except an ashtray or an orangutan.

Seed stitch 10 rows for top border; cast off; weave in ends to finish.


Seed stitch: Knit one, purl one, knit one, purl one.
On reverse side, knit all purled stitches, and
purl all knit ones. This creates a dense bumpy fabric that lies flat and doesn't curl.

Garter stitch: Knit every stitch. On the other side, knit every stitch.

In other news.... there is no other news. It's January, in Baltimore, which equals flat-out misery, with February to endure yet. I'm lucky to still be alive.

(Gene Chandler, Duke of Earl)

Egg Pie?

...Has anybody seen a dog dyed dark green/ about two inches tall, with a strawberry blonde fall/ sunglasses and a bonnet
and designer jeans with appliques on it?....

Okay, it isn't writing. It's just a recipe. Shaddap. Nobody's reading the blog anymore anyway, except my mom. Hi, Mom!

Anyway. I made a lovely quiche that surprised me by being delicious.

I used:
store-bought crust, pre-baked 10 or 12 minutes (didn’t pay close attention); Belmont brand- may be an ‘off’ brand
2/3 cup heavy cream
1/3 cup half and half
1/4 cup whole milk
3 large eggs
parsley, salt, pepper- about 1/2 to 1 teaspoon each
sprinkle of fresh-ground nutmeg
3 slices of already-cooked crisp bacon, crumbled small
1 1/2 cup grated Swiss cheese.

After baking the crust, let it cool while shredding the cheese and combining liquid ingredients with spices. Whisk egg and cream together well, so that there are no streaks of eggwhite visible. Toss cheese and bacon crumbles together, dump evenly into piecrust. Pour egg mixture into crust and gently stir cheese with fork to distribute ingredients evenly, if needed.

Bake at 375F for 35-40 minutes, or until knife inserted in center comes out clean. Cool 10 minutes before cutting.

This is borrowed heavily from Joy of Cooking. We only let the quiche cool 5 minutes (we were hungry!) and the slices stood up, but had ragged edges.

The End. Yum.

(The B-52's; Quiche Lorraine)