Stalling Again

...a thousand pages, give or take a few /I'll be writing more in a week or two/ I could make it longer if you like the style...

I'd say sorry for not posting more often, but I wonder, really, is anyone reading? Like, does anyone have the patience for it? It's all doomscrolling, echo chambers, clickbait and headlines.

TikTok has taken over where X, formerly known as Twitter, used to rule, and Twitter, though older, was higher profile than Instagram, all of which have supplanted Facebook, leaving it mostly to grandparently-aged folk, which is okay with me, since that age bracket describes most of my friends and much of my family. I'm guessing the longform of essay writing as a community activity is officially dead, which DanTobin DanTobin proclaimed years and years ago. Vines are also dead, but I'm not sure why they needed to die.

But at any rate, relevancy. Blogging as I understand it seems as if it might be returning, on a mysterious platform known as Substack, which may be different from Wordpress and Live Journal, but I'm not sure in what ways.  Among folk returning to the long form are  childhood pal Tim Kreider, my Blogger pal Dan Tobin, another Blogger pal formerly known as Totsie, and I get email notifications about Substacks I've... followed? I think followed, or maybe subscribed to? ...but not with a paid subscription like NYT or Patreon. I suppose I could ask a Substacker to explain to me what the benefits/ differences are of Substack to Blogger, but I hesitate to waste anyone's time with idle curiosity, because that's all it is. I certainly won't abandon my blog to start a new one; jeeze, this blog is almost as old as my grownass adult offsprings. 

I'm working on a "proper" blog entry, complete with links n stuff, as one does, and obviously I'm also working on (read: dodging completing) another review. The show has closed, but in my defense, I watched it on its final performance and immediately came down with Covid. 

I'm vaccinated, so it's uncomfortable and inconvenient and incapacitating, but not dangerous or likely to result in a hospital stay. I have, however, been knocked on my ass. I've slept on the couch since Monday, October 30th, and yesterday afternoon, had my 2nd shower since October 29th.

Today is the first day since the 30th that I've felt anything close to my normal self, and even so, maybe not, because I'm hoarding my methylphenidate. Our insurance, along with Gomez's job, ended in the middle of October, and I haven't sorted how to get new health coverage because, well, I've been sick. 

And I'm job hunting. Still. 

In other news, I'm worried about Mother, whom I've not seen in a month, as the care home in which she resides is about to be sold to an outfit which doesn't have a stellar reputation and has already notified residents of rate increases. Which won't affect us, because Mother was out of money ages ago, and has been a beneficiary of the Benevolent fund, which, along with Medicare/ Medicaid, pays for her residency. If that fund goes away, I don't know what we'll do. I'm sick at the stomach about it, but talking about it doesn't help. What are we to do with folk who outlive their money? 

But here we are. And here I am, not doing any of the things I'm usually doing, housework, yard work, showing up for any of my joblets... well, except for this one thing, stalling. 

Avoiding writing the thing I'm supposed to be writing, by writing something else entirely.

Seems like I'm ALWAYS doing THAT. 

The Beatles; "Paperback Writer;" Single, released May 1966

Filtering Artificiality

...I have no privacy (oh, oh)/ I always feel like somebody's watching me....

In an effort to foil Artificial Intelligence taking over the world IMMEDIATELY, the survey/ focus group/ product research company that I've become loosely affiliated with has begun to include an 'essay question' on their qualification surveys. This particular survey was about Narcolepsy, and whether I'm actually chosen or not is entirely immaterial to this post. 

One of the questions has a list of colors as responses, and the "question" is 'Select Orange as a response.' Maybe that's to see if you're a human who is paying attention, because I'm not sure how that would be a difficult one for AI to manage accurately. 

It is true, however, that I know little about AI. I've been deliberately avoiding fiddling with it on my computer, because I have no interest in helping it become smarter. I also refuse to talk to the spy device I carry in my purse or pocket. Google keeps asking me to speak aloud to its "Assistant" but I know if I do that even ONCE, the 'listening' function will wake and never go to sleep again, in order to be alert when I say "Hey, Google...." 

I also don't provide voice responses to the Automated Systems on the telephone. One particularly annoying one says "Oh, you don't have to press buttons. Just tell me how I can help you, by saying 'Customer Service' or 'Make A Payment.' I ignore that and keep touching my 'keypad' numbers. When I get a human being, (eventually), I tell them, "It's my policy to not speak to robots." They almost always say, "That's completely understandable." 

In any case, the "essay" I created has nothing to do with Narcolepsy, nothing to do with AI, and nothing to do with smart device who listen in order to target market to their users, and everything to do with me and my feelings of loss and regret. 

The prompt: If you could have dinner with any three people, past or present, who would you choose and why?

The response:

If I could have dinner with any 3 people, past or present, I'd choose my Mother before she had Alzheimer's disease, and also my Grandmother, before SHE had Alzheimer's disease, and my sister, whom I don't get to see very often. I'd have dinner with my Mom and Grand as they were in 1985, but my sister and I could be ourselves as we are now. I didn't know how much I needed to appreciate their wit and humor. I miss that about them. I miss it even more when I'm with Mother, who hasn't died, but she isn't who I think of as "My Mother" anymore. 

None of that is particularly surprising, I suppose, but the question poked me kind of sideways, and my response surprised me. Like, I was THERE with my sister and mother and Grandmother in 1985, but I wasn't yet who I AM, the person I think of as the "real" me. And "real" me didn't get a chance to enjoy Mother, or Grandmother, as much as I might have wished, because I didn't know. The last time she visited Maryland in 1998, to meet my newest baby, Grandmother was slipping into dementia.

We can create AI and Viagra, but we can't fix Alzheimer's Disease. Sigh.

Rockwell; Somebody's Watching Me (1984)

Cool Cats

...Indians send signals from the rocks above the pass...

I haven't stopped writing. I've just been writing elsewhere, sometimes even for money.

It became less fun when my friends stopped blogging sometime between 2010 and 2012, some of them sooner than that. I was screaming, whispering, sobbing into a void, mostly capturing my mother's descent into madness, or amusing myself with how clever I think I sometimes am. 

So here I am, and already complaining. What is it now, you may ask. (Let's pretend you did.)

Blogger refuses to tell me how to add new links to my sidebar, and it's been so long I can't remember how to do it from memory. Popular wisdom is to play around and figure it out, which I guess I will do, eventually. I thought, though, that I would do that with my new laptop (in July; it's still NEW, seriously) which came with no Owner's Manual or User Guide, and I went online, looking for a video or PDF or something, ANYthing, which would tell me how to use this nice new Pavilion 360, but all I got was unboxing videos and and advertising trailer. And I so far haven't. Played around and figured it out, that is. Only, just the other day, I noticed, right beneath my left wrist, a sticker with one of those QVR thingies and in tiny letters beneath that it says "Scan for reviews, videos, features, specs, support**" which clearly I haven't done yet, (I refuse to count that as a failing on my part, as my phone doesn't have the QVR scanny function; I need to download A Dreaded App), because I'm complaining about this shiny new gadget that I'm underusing, I suspect, fairly significantly. 

And that's not particularly cute anymore. Even though I still think of myself as Primarily Decorative, the mirror tells me that really, I'm NOT. Which forces me to become, I suppose, a Woman Of Substance. Which, you know, I've always been, but that wasn't what people saw first. Remind me to write a post about people confusing beauty with talent, which happens to me pretty regularly, but it's a whole separate thing than this here. 

The point being that at least some of my cool blog friends (Dan Tobin, Totcetera) from the peak of blogginess have returned to blogging- though not on Blogger, on another platform, substack, which someone will need to explain to me why I should be there instead of here- and I'd love to link to their new sites and stop getting the 404 Not Found on my screen.  

All this to say, now I have a bit more impetus to write regularly, which is good for me, and also now I've just uncovered the secret of why it takes me a coon's age (what is that, exactly?) to write my reviews. I've been approaching them like a blog post, with research and links, except no links, so I need to explain everything. 

Anyway, if you've made it this far, and I don't blame you if you haven't, thank you for reading. It's more fun for me to do if I think it amuses someone else as well. 

You can pretend to be amused. Humor me.

Squeeze; Cool For Cats

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

Interrupting Blue

...I have a blue house with a blue window....


We interrupt the miseries of the moment for an expedition into poetry.

I can't tell if it's any good. Honestly, I feel that way about everything right now, as if I'm incapable of judging things with any degree of objectivity, since my filter has wrapped around me so many times that I'm swathed in... whatever it is. Rusty barbed wire, mesh made of rotted meat and maggots, synthetic peach-flavored fishing line, candyfloss blue fiberglass, I don't know anymore.

Beltway Driving

In front of my face
lines float upon a page
in front of my eyes
mist crawls across my brain
and with a buzzing blue
a blue trot
a blue gallop
a blue horse
is loose on the beltway

hurry, shouts a jogger
as he blazes past me, dressed for the
running of the horses
drive all the blue ones off at the next exit ramp,
explains another runner
a blue flash
a blue canter
a blue horse

among many horse-colored horses
and many sprinting humans
it is Barcelona and Chincoteague
amid the runners
on the beltway
with the horses that are blue
and not blue

driven steadily
blue ones grouped together towards the right
now, calls a driver rushing fleet-footed from behind

I stay with the
horse-colored horses
as the blue ones peel out, away,
up a curving blue exit ramp
against a blue sky
inside a blue thunder
into a blue neighborhood

I wonder what the residents will think

ahead of me
a blue horse
to the left of me
a blue horse
beyond my sightline
a blue horse
alongside many blue horses
we'll get them at the next exit

the prize is a garland
of blue roses

so we drive
until words float upon a page.

8 September 2017

Eiffel 65; I'm Blue

Six Things

...just me and you/and then we can na-na, na-na/just like before/and you will say na-na, na-na/lease give me more/and you will think na-na, na-na/hey, that's what I'm livin' for....


We have almost a routine.

I go in the morning, give breakfast and vitamins, visit a little, chat, make iced coffee for her, do chores. Smuggle more of the fudgicles I've made for her into the freezer. We go to her yoga class or seated shiatsu. I make a sandwich or some other lunch thing, usually with a pickle.

Then I go away and do something else.

Between 5 and 6, I go back, make dinner, sit down, eat a little something with her, give her medications, then either walk the dogs with her or just go away.

By seven, she's grouchy and ready for me to leave. I think it's bedtime.

When Leela, our part-time caregiver comes, I don't rush over to make breakfast. For this first week of Leela being with us, I've been going, just to interact with Mother and Leela, so that Mother feels safe and comfortable, and so that Leela can see how it's done, adopt my tactics, put the packaged hospital juice in a real glass with ice, tease Mother, tell her what we're doing instead of ask what Mother wants to do. Mother doesn't know what she wants to do. She changed her mind four times in half a block about whether she'd go all the way around the block or just to the corner and back.

So, when Leela's going to be there, I can work from when I wake until suppertime, unless Extremely Athletic Sister intends to be there (Once in the last ten days, briefly, because I had a funeral to attend in New Jersey. Mother remembered that someone had delivered dinner to her, but not that EAS had shown up in person. "I wasn't there long, so I'm not surprised," she said.), in which case I have a 'day off'.

Yesterday was Saturday. Pugsley leaves to look after Neighbor Cat, which he is doing twice daily while Neighbor is away. A package comes for Wednesday. I have an excuse to wake her. I do. I hand her a box cutter and stand in the doorway.

So do you need privacy or something to open this package? Are you waiting for me to leave?

"I need pants."

To open a package?

"I was going to review the contents, either with video or photographs, so, yeah."

I leave. Pugsley returns.

Would you like me to cook some eggs for you?

"I wouldn't say No to that."

Look, let's hurry your sister, we'll go to the bank and to Muzzy's house, I'll feed ALL of you, then we'll go to Costco and Aldi.

"Uh, okay. Is she awake?"

We scramble out of the house. Mother has ingredients on the counter. Evidently, she did want pancakes and eggs, and either was distracted from cooking them for herself, or this is her 'helping'. I heat frozen pancakes, cook six fried eggs, hand Mother the coffee I find warm in the microwave. Then I scurry to the bank.

Everyone is playing some sort of game when I return. Mother has her crosswords and both Pugsley and Wednesday are playing Solitaire. As I wash dishes, I hear Wednesday berate her brother for 'ruining her game.' I open a WordFind book, discover a few Stevie Wonder -themed phrases then realize we're not going anywhere until I signal readiness by standing with my bag on my shoulder. After Wednesday wins one round (Pugsley has stalked off to the living room), I do.

You ready, Mother? Did you want a different dress today?

"No, I'm fine."

She had a shower- there was a trace of talcum powder on the floor and her towel was wet. She just put on the same dress as yesterday. She's right, it's fine. I hand her a pair of shoes.

We go to Costco.

What were we doing at Costco today, my son?

"Eating samples."

Really? We didn't plan to buy anything? Or eat pizza? Or, no. You guys just had breakfast.

"It's always Pizza Time if you're under thirty, Mom."

Ooookay.

"But we did want those Udon noodle bowls."

We eat samples, look at Halloween costumes, try to not get into a collision with other Costco shoppers. Mother spies someone with a very large behind, says, "As my mother used to say, I'll never eat another piece of bread." Yes, her mother did used to say that. It was embarrassing then, too. Neither Mother nor Grandmother was very good at 'quiet asides.' Oh, the aside part, sure, but quiet? Not so much. I fumble in my brain for things to say to Mother, gentle admonishment, consideration for people's feelings, public appropriateness, decide there's no point, and besides in the 45 seconds it's taken me to consider, she's forgotten all about it and I'd need to explain. Sigh.

We collect lettuce, noodle bowls and a large jar of pickles. The line is long. I hand Pugsley a $20 and tell him to get a coffee slushie for his Muzzy and whatever he and Wednesday want. They go to the food court. A cashier suddenly opens a register, and I'm finished with purchasing before the kids have gotten food. I sit with Mother.

Before we go to the grocery, we'll go to the dollar store. We need three things.

Mother digs in her purse, finds a pencil and a scrap of paper.

Trash can.

"I don't need a trash can."

Wednesday needs one for her dorm room.

She writes 'trash can.'

Carbine clips, for me. And a butter dish for you.

She writes things down. "I don't need a butter dish. I have a butter dish."

This morning, while I was cooking, your refrigerator spat the butter dish out at me. The glass base didn't break, but the plastic lid did. I wanted to look for a new lid. 

When the kids have finished their pizza and Mother and I have finished coffee slushies, we drive one mile to Aldi and the dollar store. I pull into a parking place and turn to Mother.

Now, we need three things at the dollar store.

"Good sense, money and chocolate?"

Okay, six things. 



Mouth & MacNeal; How Do You Do

Do-gooders, Attend:

...If you need me, let me know, gonna be around/ if you've got no place to go, if you're feeling down....

AN OPEN LETTER FROM A DEPRESSIVE TO ALL “WHAT-CAN-I-DO-ERS” EVERYWHERE

Look, I’m probably not going to call you. I’m not up to saying “fine” when you ask how I am. I’m certainly not up to explaining to you how I ACTUALLY am. I’m not up to listening to you tell me to cheer up, to tell me I have so much great stuff in my life, or how bad YOUR life is in some weird attempt to point out how comparatively well off I am.

Honestly, I’m not even up to searching you in my phone or pressing Call.

I know you love me. I know if I called and asked you to take me out to lunch, you would. I know if I called and asked you to pick up a carton of ice cream and drop it off, you would. I know if I called and asked you to come watch a whole season of Angel with me, you’d wait until you hung up to sigh and roll your eyes. But you’d come.

I can’t. I can’t call you first. I can’t even make myself get in the shower.

I know some of you non-Depressive types are all, Oh, I don’t shower every day all the time. Like, once a month I have a No Shower weekend. Or I go to bed still in my clothes all sweaty from the gym. Or, yeah, I’ve skipped it a couple of times myself. This is not that. Not at all. I am in the clothes I wore, that I slept in, from three days ago. Every day, I INTENDED to get in the shower. And then didn’t. It seemed like too much trouble.

Do NOT ask when the last time was that I brushed my hair.

I can’t ask you to come over. There’s nowhere on the couch for you to sit. Some of the laundry is clean, but at this point, I’m not sure which pile it is. I’m sure some of these papers are important, but I can’t sort them to find which ones. I certainly don’t know what to DO with them. And some of them are probably VERY important.

There are a lot of them I haven’t even opened. I can’t make myself do it.

I can, however, develop a shorthand with you.

If you were to call me, for example, and ask how are things, I might say, “Not great.”

You might understand that by Not Great, I mean that I am creating an ass-shaped hole in my sofa, wearing unmatched pajama separates and haven’t done any grocery shopping in two or three weeks.

If you were to call and invite me to lunch, I probably would say No. If you asked would I go with you to a new place you wanted to try, you might understand that “Okay, sure,” is as close as I can get to “That would be nice.” If you were to call and ask me to help you choose a new comforter, I might say Yes, especially if you told me you’d pick me up in an hour. I probably would even shower.

If I had any clothes clean.

If I could ask, I might ask you to come over and just BE with me, without talking about My Problem, or really anything. If I could ask, I might ask you to make me some soup, tea, cinnamon toast. Do not ask me if I am hungry. I can’t remember the last time I cooked an actual meal, which you can probably tell by all the cereal bowls I haven’t washed and the pizza boxes I haven’t thrown away. You could tidy up, or help me. I won’t ask.

If you were here, you might find me a set of fresh clothes and a mostly-clean towel and send me to get washed.

I don’t advise drawing me a bath.

You might pack up my booze and hide it in the trunk of my car, or the trunk of your car, if you think I’m likely to abuse it. You’re probably right. If I say something horrible, forgive me. Let it pass. I’m not my best self.

If you were here, you might clear off the sofa a bit, find the remote, dig something from the freezer to put in the oven and queue up some old movie or television show I like. Watch it with me. Don’t make snarky comments, unless that’s something we usually do together. I’m not up to snark, but it might be reassuring to hear you. Don’t expect conversation from me, but if I do feel like talking, don’t try to ‘solve’ things.

You may understand when I say “Been better” that my meds aren’t working. You may ask if I’ve been taking my meds. You may ask when my next doctor’s visit is scheduled. You may offer to drive me to the appointment. You may offer to call and schedule my next visit. You may offer to pick up my ‘scrip.

I probably won’t believe you’ll do those things, but it’s nice of you to think of them.

It would make me cry if you actually did them, but in a good way.

If you’ve gotten me to agree to go out somewhere with you, don’t ask me where I’d like to go. Ask me if I have a preference. If I say “coffee shop”, please don’t ask which one. If you ask “is Starbucks okay?” I will probably make a face and tell you they burn their beans, but whatever, and will drink a Starbucks something or other. You choose the size. I can’t keep up with the stupid names they have for Small, Medium and Large. Don’t make me make any decisions. If I say “Whatever, “ know that it means “You choose. I can’t.” People-watch with me. You’ll need to start. Notice someone’s flashy jacket, excellent haircut or silly walk.

If I have kids, offer to take them out, to that new movie, or Trick-or-Treat, or someone’s birthday party. If I’ve agreed to a manicure or pedicure, bring them along and walk around the mall or park with them while I’m in the chair. Offer to have them over for dinner, or a sleepover. They’re not having a good time here with me, and I feel just dreadful about it, but I can’t let myself think about it too much or I cry and that scares them.

If I have a hobby, ask me to show you how to do something. I’d like to show you, and it might kick me back into doing it for myself. I probably know where the stuff for it is, and could tell you. You may have to move a few piles of crap to get at it, though.

You really must not mention the condition of my house. I KNOW.

If it’s a nice day, suggest we walk together. Bring the dog along, if either of us has one.

Give me a hug. Don’t worry if I don’t return it. If I do return it, wait for me to let go first. Give me another hug. Lean against me, or let me lean on you while we share popcorn and a movie… nothing too deep or challenging, though. A ‘60s monster movie, anything from the ‘40s, especially the Marx Brothers, almost anything with Adam Sandler in it. Pour more hot water in my teacup. Ask if you could make more popcorn.

If I cry, hand me a fresh tissue and bring the wastebasket in here with us. Keep handing me fresh tissues. Pat me and be soothing. Don’t tell me to stop crying. I will, eventually. Don’t look at me, though. I’m embarrassed.

Remind me that I didn’t always feel this badly. Remind me of something fun we did together. Suggest we do something fun together soon. Schedule that. Schedule it now. Show up for it.  Dinner, a show, beers. A haircut might be nice. A massage is too much commitment.

I’d have to shower.     

                                                                                                             -Cybele Pomeroy, 13 August 2014

ABBA, Take A Chance On Me

Sticky Situation

...just enough of that sticky stuff/ to hold the seams of your fine blue jeans/ I said yeah, yeah....

"No, Mom, we have to go RIGHT NOW. Wednesday says she's glued to the cat."

It was kind of a non-sequitur for me, too. Just so you know.

She's glued...?

"To the cat, yeah."

Pugsley and I had been discussing taking my mother out for ice cream after having traumatized her with a newer computer tower, importing her bookmarks and a few other changes, none of which greeted with happy acceptance.

Glued to the cat?

"He got into something sticky, and she tried to clean him and now she's stuck to him."

We're out the door and into the car now, with the lighter fluid my mother pressed into my hands as a solvent. I thanked her without mentioning any of the ideas that sprang like pop-up ads into my brain associated with putting lighter fluid on a cat.

Sticky enough that SHE is glued to the cat?

"I guess; she said something about a box. I told her to try using water to get unstuck."

The cat got stuck on a sticky box and now Wednesday is glued to the cat.

"Mom. Just drive."

Wednesday was no longer stuck to the cat when we arrived.  She and the cat were both agitated, but not nuclear. They were closeted in the downstairs bathroom, him in the window and her in front of the sink, trying to remove sticky from herself. She's almost a grown-ass woman, so I investigate the cat.

You got yourself unglued.

"Yes, but he's still got globs of it all in his fur. It's not as bad as I first thought- mostly his arm and a little on his belly. And my hands are all sticky."

Pugsley has found, as requested, with almost NO searching, the bottle of Skin So Soft I keep handy for many reasons. One of them is sticky stuff. The cat, with a minimum of squirming and complaining, allows me to settle him on my lap and apply SSS with tissue to his fur, then wipe off the glue. Wednesday is still scrubbing at her gluey hands with water. I suggest she use the SSS also, and continue to squash the cat against me while I de-glue him.

Wednesday tells me "It's in the trash can," when I ask about the box. Pugsley finds it- turns out. the sticky box was one of those insect traps, which had been on the counter to rid us of ants. The cat had evidently laid upon it. There were no ants in the trap, just cat fur.

We've finished the ungluing. Everyone is safe. I phone my mother to say we'll have ice cream after dinner.

So, he's just greasy now. If we have any clean laundry, don't let him lie on it.

"Can we not have those ant traps now? They're not doing what we hoped."

Yes, Pugsley. We can get rid of them. 

A day or so later, Gomez comes home. We do the dinner thing, the television thing, the late-night snacking thing and turn in for the night. He's almost asleep when I remember the misadventure.

Remind me in the morning to tell you about Wednesday getting glued to the cat.

"Mkay. Which one?"

Because that, naturally, is the logical question one asks when hearing that one's daughter has been glued to a cat. Which one, indeed.



 ZZ Top, Velcro Fly

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)

Almost Random

...and he fills it only halfway/ and before I even argue/ he is looking out the window at somebody coming in....



12 sheets of copy paper
1/2 apple
2 rolls duct tape, partially used
1 blood-caked golf club
5 pencils, unsharpened
1 wood-handled push broom
15 candy wrappers
3 bungee cords
1 elf suit, minus shoes
7 hairpins
1 informational flyer, homeopathic cold remedies
1 mascara, black
3 tote bags, filled, various items
1 ball of fake mistletoe with red velveteen hang cord
26 index cards, neon
4 hang tags from purchased clothing
1 large Celtic brooch, brass
31¢ in change, 30¢ American, 1¢ Canadian
1 squishy latex cone, purpose unknown
6 ball point pens
1 yarn ball band, Lily Sugar N Cream
3/4 of an envelope with approximately 1/3 of a scribbled poem, unfinished
1 single-serve packet cream cheese
2 plastic bags
1 pair white gloves, kid leather
2 hot pink chenille stems, twisted together
1 bag for folding camp chair, no chair

(Suzanne Vega, Tom's Diner)

Going Guerilla?

...when their eloquence escapes me/ their logic ties me up and rapes me....

My Tonguebiting Inner Editor has been escaping more frequently and biting her tongue very little. She may become a permanent fixture or a super-hero or both. Red Penny: Apostrophe Avenger, Comma Co-ordinator, Semicolon Semanticist, Interrobang Interpreter...

It's enough that I'm faced with purchasing "cami's" or "DVD's" at my local shops, forced to suffer the comma-splicings of Subaru: "It's what makes a Subaru, a Subaru", assaulted by a drug company's (I've blocked which) catchy jingle of "O-N-E-L-E-S-S, I wanna be one less, one less", infuriated by my local police force's billboard announcement, "I save lives everyday, what do YOU do?" (I catch your errors, assholes. Hire a writer. 'Every day' is TWO words, and you need different punctuation between your two independent clauses- tell ya what: you draw guns and drive squad cars; I will write and edit) but to now face, on a daily basis, the social (mis)stylings of my 'friends', some of whom have been students- writing students!- of mine, has pushed me right to the edge.

Evidently, I'm not the only one.

You've been warned.


(The Police; De Doo Doo Doo, De Da Da Da)

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.

Recent Haiku

...though I respect that a lot/ I'd be fired if that were my job/ after killing Jason off and countless screaming Argonauts....


Whole couch here, but cat
keeps scootching to lie upon
my cashmere sweater.
(Jan. 19)

Feral clowder in
backyard. Tender heart child is
Feeding Goddess. Mrow!
(Jan. 17)

distill my life in-
to two pages; will I fit?
vicious resume.
(Jan. 8)

Toothpaste cap beneath
our Christmas tree- wonder,
but then: Pounce! the cat.
(Dec. 28)

Solstice eclipse of
the moon, wow! Clear, cold; the dogs
have called it a night.
(Dec. 21)

Tires hum, ponder
weather, traffic, bowling ball
on the highway. What?
(Dec. 14)

(They Might Be Giants; Birdhouse In Your Soul)

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)

Recycled Content

...what are words for/when no one listens/ there's no use talking at all....

I'm part of an association of writers, and we've a monthly challenge to use 10 of 15 randomly selected words to generate a short piece. Since my actual blogging time has been sacrificed to Reality, here's something from January 2010:

Ugh, moonlight, thought the hyena, trying not to choke on the dry sugar cookie he'd stolen from the warm-box inside the fence. When he'd crossed the lot, there had been clouds covering the brightness, and though there was no snack box full of chickens in this fence, the door to the warm-box was open, and he'd gulped down half a plate of hot things, tipping the plate to the floor with a fur-raising crash, before slinking away with a final one in his mouth. But now the clouds had gone. Running parallel to the shadow of the fence, quartz-coloured light sliding along his back and flanks, he thought of the gopher he'd had yesterday, and the one he almost had today, and the one he'd like to have tomorrow. Hot things on a plate from a warm-box were all well and good, but you couldn't really live on them. Gophers and chickens were what made the world go round.

Hyenas know nothing of monotheism, monotheism having been invented by a patriarchal society trying to wrest deity from women. A pack of hyenas is matriarchal, with each member of the pack having to put in a figurative oar for the common good. Kills are co-operative, and the young, elderly, and weak of the pack are encouraged to eat first, rather than be left with beak, neck or knuckle after the strongest have finished feeding.

Can we draw a parallel between a capitalistic and socialistic economy? Here we are in our urban tundra, fussing that our market is out of our favorite brand of Dijon ketchup while in a location not far from here, there is someone living without electricity or indoor plumbing. Darwinistic capitalism is all well and good, but I'm not certain it makes for civilized society.

Apologies for lack of actual content. I've so much material, but no time for transcription. I need more hours. Will someone send me some time? Mine gets used for things that aren't important, like meals and laundry and plumbing, rather than good stuff like writing.


(Words; Missing Persons)

Other Word

...Lincoln, Lincoln bo Bincoln Bonana fanna fo Fincoln/ Fee fy mo Mincoln, Lincoln!....

Musical Names That Are Okay To Name Your Kid:

Dylan
Avalon
Donovan
Bette
Gabriel
Z. Z.
Moby
Alice
Propellerhead
Queen
Duran
Lena
Coltrane
Asia
Santana
Kenny
Deon
Zydeco
Ringo
Yaz

Musical Names To NOT Name Your Kid:

Bon Jovi
Mellencamp
BowWowWow
VanGellis
Van Halen
Hammer
Dolly
Yardbird
U2
Pretender
LadyGaga
Devo
OingoBoingo
Temptation
Godsmack
Bowser
ChumbaWumba
Poison
GoogooDoll
KISS
Chubby
Ice
Squirrel Nut
Domino
Manilli
Englebert
Offspring

I was notified that the "NOT" list was a great compilation of names for cats. Because who DOESN'T want cats named Yardbird, Poison and Squirrel Nut?

In all honesty, I wasn't sure which list Propellerhead belonged. But then sanity won, and now I'm gleefully imagining an adorable sweetcheeked baby named Propellerhead Winchester.

I hope it's a girl.

(The Name Game; Shirley Ellis)