Happy New Year!
I usually get really smart-alecky this time of year and say something like, "My New Year's Resolution is to gain ten pounds and take up smoking!" This year, though, I honestly just feel like, oh, if things just keep going like they've been, that's just fine with me. Maybe I'm content, or maybe it's this good beer I've been drinking. Who knows? Anywho, I resolve not to resolve much.
I'm normally a compulsive self-improver. I read in The Sun that, instead of making a "To Do" list, you should have a "Not To Do" list, and that way, at the end of the day, you'll feel much better about yourself. Well, I tried it. I couldn't think of anything not to do. It was too hard. It made me feel kind of bad about myself that I couldn't think of anything that I wouldn't do that day. So I decided not to make a "Not To Do" list. Then, I realized, that I could have put that on my "not to do" list, not to make the list itself, but that then that in itself would be making the list, and then... at this point I felt my head starting to spin around.
What not to do? Indeed, what not to do.
The gym is always crowded next week. My lesbian basketball club used to be way too full the week after New Year's, too. Suddenly, I wouldn't be the only married girl there. There would be ten extra ladies in sports bras. (The usual gals did not necessarily wear bras.) Then by February, all those straight little bitches would be gone, and it would just be me and my homies again. Attack! Attack! The only move I have in basketball is stealing the ball. Actually, though, that's a pretty good move, isn't it? Ah, the good old days. My new neighborhood doesn't have the dyke basketball league. Alas, I'm deprived. I always feel comfortable sporting around with gay people. Is that weird? Am I the only married lady who feels this way?
Is there a rule about drinking and blogging? Is that like drunk dialing, only worse, because it goes out to all the world?
Truly though, I'm not drunk at all, only making excuses for my penchant for foul language and gay sporting events.
Happy new year! I hope we save the world this time around.
Peace and Happiness This Christmas to You All
Like most cynics, I'm really sentimental at heart. But I think John Lennon said things better than I can, so here it is, my wish to you for this Christmas- and chords, because, hey, why not? Pretty much everyone who reads this is a musician:
John Lennon and Yoko Ono
Happy Christmas (War Is Over)
So this is Christmas
And what have you done
Another year over
And a new one just begun
And so this is Christmas
I hope you have fun
The near and the dear ones
The old and the young
/ D - / Em - / A7 - / D - / G - / Am - / D - / G - /
{Refrain}
A very merry Christmas
And a happy New Year
Let's hope it's a good one
Without any fear
/ C - / Dm - / Am C / G A7 /
And so this is Christmas War is over
For weak and for strong If you want it
For rich and the poor ones War is over
The road is so long Now
And so happy Christmas War is over
For black and for white If you want it
For yellow and red ones War is over
Let's stop all the fight Now
{Refrain}
And so this is Christmas War is over
And what have we done If you want it
Another year over War is over
And a new one just begun Now
And so happy Christmas War is over
I hope you have fun If you want it
The near and the dear one War is over
The old and the young Now
{Refrain}
War is over if you want it
War is over now
Counting Sheep
I couldn't sleep a few nights ago, so I started thinking up songs that give good parental advice. I had a good long list of them in my head by the time I fell asleep, but by the next morning, the only one I could remember was, "Don't Give That Girl a Gun," by the Indigo Girls.
Musical Therapy
They say that playing Mozart, Beethoven, and Bach for your baby will make her smarter. But has anyone ever studied the long term effects of Led Zeppelin, Billie Holiday, and John Coltrane?
The Arts Are Alive and Well
So, my friend, Julie, is trying to put her baby down for a nap in the middle of the afternoon, around 3 o'clock, on a snowy day last week, while the kids at the nearby middle school (where I briefly taught chorus) are getting out of school. She lives a few houses down from the school, so every day a slew of kids walks by about this time. It's snowing like crazy out, a near blizzard, and Julie hears some sort of noise coming from outside. Annoyed, (she's trying to get her kid to sleep) she looks out her window and (to her surprise) sees a middle school boy, standing in front of her house, playing a tuba in the snowstorm.
A tuba.
Julie considers this. She decides it's just too ludicrous to say anything.
A tuba.
Julie considers this. She decides it's just too ludicrous to say anything.
Finally! Someone who laughs at my jokes.
I made Zelma really laugh for the first time tonight. She has two laughs: a little snicker, which she does so often that, if she weren't so sweet and innocent, we might think she was just laughing at us all of the time; and then she has a real belly laugh, which I've only heard once or twice, and until tonight, it was only Brian who could make her do it.
Tonight, though, I got her to laugh really hard. All I did was lay on my back and hold her over me, parallel to me, to make her feel like she was flying. She thought it was hilarious. I have no idea why.
And in other news... Lake Minona is already frozen over and has snow landing on it. It snowed again today. There are ice fishermen out already. Ice fishermen are insane, the whole stinken' lot of them. Why in the world would you go out and sit on a frozen lake all day? Many of them don't catch a darn thing. They just drink beer. They bring a tobogan full of beer out with them and sit out there and drink. They sit in groups. It's quite the sport. I hear things get real sketchy when you run out of beer out there on the lake. Sitting out there just isn't the kind of thing you want to do sober. I call it "Ice Drinking," actually.
Tonight, though, I got her to laugh really hard. All I did was lay on my back and hold her over me, parallel to me, to make her feel like she was flying. She thought it was hilarious. I have no idea why.
And in other news... Lake Minona is already frozen over and has snow landing on it. It snowed again today. There are ice fishermen out already. Ice fishermen are insane, the whole stinken' lot of them. Why in the world would you go out and sit on a frozen lake all day? Many of them don't catch a darn thing. They just drink beer. They bring a tobogan full of beer out with them and sit out there and drink. They sit in groups. It's quite the sport. I hear things get real sketchy when you run out of beer out there on the lake. Sitting out there just isn't the kind of thing you want to do sober. I call it "Ice Drinking," actually.
It's Not Even Winter Yet
I like snow, but this is a lot for so early. What if, as sometimes happens, it doesn't melt until Spring?
Another Incident
So, I was at the post office downtown yesterday and I met this guy who wanted to promote my music.
This was odd for several reasons, the most prominent reason being that I had no instrument with me, didn't mention playing any music, and well- isn't that enough? It was odd. It started as a conversation about the weather and progressed to an offer to promote my music, which I had never mentioned in any way. The guy was like, "You aren't by any chance some sort of artist, are you?" I declined his offer to promote me, saying, truthfully, that I needed a hell of a lot more practice. He then went on about how he wanted to "bring the music back to town" etc. etc., which is also quite odd because, you know, there's live music all over the place here.
So that was weird. And the whole way home I was thinking about explanations, finally deciding that I grew up around so many musicians that I must just seem like one, myself.
And then I tell the story to Brian and he's like, "That guy was hitting on you."
Oh, Duh.
The reason I didn't think he was hitting on me was because I'm a thirty-something white girl and he was a fifty-something black guy. (I'm a bit prejudiced-not against anything like that, but I just don't notice it as a possibility, I guess.) And also because I never think anyone is hitting me in any way, unless they are more blatant, like an actual "your place or mine" kind of thing, and then that's always very yucky and I get all upset about it.
But then I started to really think about it, obsessingly, really, and I realized, stupidly, that fifty-something black men ALWAYS hit on me! As a matter of fact, I have been flirting with nothing but fifty-something black men (and maybe one or two younger black men) since I moved here- totally inadvertently. I don't know what it is. Either other ethnicities are not interested in me, or they're all just too subtle for me to catch on.
My favorite pickup line is from a certain black-fifty-year-old-martial-arts-master-history-teacher who shall remain nameless. (ha ha.) He asked me, "How are you?" one day and I said,
"I'm fine." He very pointedly looked me up and down said,
"I can SEE that." And I blushed and ran away.
The reason that one is my favorite is because it affected me so. Every time, for months, when someone asked me how I was, I couldn't help but think of him. I couldn't say, "I'm fine" anymore. I opted for the grammatically incorrect, "I'm good." And I was an English major! Is that what he meant to have happen? It's too funny. What a colossally good joke.
This was odd for several reasons, the most prominent reason being that I had no instrument with me, didn't mention playing any music, and well- isn't that enough? It was odd. It started as a conversation about the weather and progressed to an offer to promote my music, which I had never mentioned in any way. The guy was like, "You aren't by any chance some sort of artist, are you?" I declined his offer to promote me, saying, truthfully, that I needed a hell of a lot more practice. He then went on about how he wanted to "bring the music back to town" etc. etc., which is also quite odd because, you know, there's live music all over the place here.
So that was weird. And the whole way home I was thinking about explanations, finally deciding that I grew up around so many musicians that I must just seem like one, myself.
And then I tell the story to Brian and he's like, "That guy was hitting on you."
Oh, Duh.
The reason I didn't think he was hitting on me was because I'm a thirty-something white girl and he was a fifty-something black guy. (I'm a bit prejudiced-not against anything like that, but I just don't notice it as a possibility, I guess.) And also because I never think anyone is hitting me in any way, unless they are more blatant, like an actual "your place or mine" kind of thing, and then that's always very yucky and I get all upset about it.
But then I started to really think about it, obsessingly, really, and I realized, stupidly, that fifty-something black men ALWAYS hit on me! As a matter of fact, I have been flirting with nothing but fifty-something black men (and maybe one or two younger black men) since I moved here- totally inadvertently. I don't know what it is. Either other ethnicities are not interested in me, or they're all just too subtle for me to catch on.
My favorite pickup line is from a certain black-fifty-year-old-martial-arts-master-history-teacher who shall remain nameless. (ha ha.) He asked me, "How are you?" one day and I said,
"I'm fine." He very pointedly looked me up and down said,
"I can SEE that." And I blushed and ran away.
The reason that one is my favorite is because it affected me so. Every time, for months, when someone asked me how I was, I couldn't help but think of him. I couldn't say, "I'm fine" anymore. I opted for the grammatically incorrect, "I'm good." And I was an English major! Is that what he meant to have happen? It's too funny. What a colossally good joke.
The Mother of the World's Smallest Led Zeppelin Fan Speaks
We were forced to play Led Zeppelin's "Physical Graffiti" tonight, as it was the only thing that would calm Zelma down. Sitting around listening to it made me think of all of the Led Zeppelin fans I'd known.
I had a boyfriend in college who was a huge Led Zeppelin fan. He used to dance waving his fists in the air to the beat, which sort of embarrassed me at the time. These days, I don't think I would be embarrassed by being with someone who was dancing funny. Maybe I would just back off a little, that's all, but I would still encourage it. Really, he didn't even dance funny. He danced like Bruce Springstein.
Then there was this bus driver in Durango. He played Led Zeppelin on the bus speakers, on the city bus. Only in Durango! I remember him saying once, "I've been part time, temporary, for six years!" I wonder if he still is.
"Physical Graffiti" is on two disks, and I was using my computer as a CD player. Taking out a disk and putting in a new one takes about half a minute. Zelma started crying the second the music stopped, and stopped crying as soon as she could here it again. I swear to god. Brian was holding her in front of him while the music was playing, and she put her fists up in the air and bounced a little... kind of like that ex-boyfriend of mine, actually.
It Happens
I was taking a bath in the bathtub with Zelma today (because that's how all the books recommend doing it) when something horrible happened. I bet you can guess what it was.
I was just getting ready to get out. I rinsed my face and rubbed my eyes and looked down and- yes, there it was- baby poop in the bath water. "AH!" I yelled, and spat, because I had just washed my face. I looked over and saw the familiar one-toothed grin from you-know-who (no, not Voldemort, Zelma). And that's when Zelma got her first shower with Mommy. Quickly. Immediately. She didn't mind it a bit. Nor the poop, for that matter.
Babies really give you a new perspective on bodily functions.
I was just getting ready to get out. I rinsed my face and rubbed my eyes and looked down and- yes, there it was- baby poop in the bath water. "AH!" I yelled, and spat, because I had just washed my face. I looked over and saw the familiar one-toothed grin from you-know-who (no, not Voldemort, Zelma). And that's when Zelma got her first shower with Mommy. Quickly. Immediately. She didn't mind it a bit. Nor the poop, for that matter.
Babies really give you a new perspective on bodily functions.
Trapped!
Oh, my. The weather outside was frightful! We've been trapped at home all weekend. It's funny how it doesn't matter whether you stay home all day until you truly can't do anything else. Then you feel bad about it.
What happened was, it snowed yesterday, and then it rained a freezing rain, and then it did some sort of precipitation which I will now christen, "SOMETHING AWFUL," and then it froze. Bad, bad, bad. The streets were completely impassable by midday yesterday. At breakfast this morning, we speculated about when our street would be cleared. Tomorrow by 3 PM? Tonight by 9 PM? By 11:00 AM we were snapping at each other as though, I don't know, we didn't like each other or something. Even Zelma, who usually only cries these days for some sort of good reason, was just in a general funk, randomly crying at the slightest provocation, or really at nothing at all.
Then I baked oatmeal cookies, which helped a lot. At least I know it helped me. Miraculously, the snow plow came today at 1 PM. We would have gone out and cheered by the side of the road at the snow plow (which was a monster truck rally sized tractor) except that I was cutting Brian's hair and he was in his underwear. Immediately after the tractor plowed, we went out to shovel, and it was like the world had been given a coating of slurpy, with an inch or two of solid ice underneath it. It was a horrible muck.
There was still no place to go and nothing to do, however, so Brian started playing Christmas songs on the banjo. Zelma took a turn for the better, kicking her feet and smiling. Things were looking up. And then it came to me, the most brilliant idea of the week (or at least the weekend): What if we made a Christmas album and played actual Christmas songs on it? Wouldn't that be something?
The world outside is still frozen. But we have a plan.
What happened was, it snowed yesterday, and then it rained a freezing rain, and then it did some sort of precipitation which I will now christen, "SOMETHING AWFUL," and then it froze. Bad, bad, bad. The streets were completely impassable by midday yesterday. At breakfast this morning, we speculated about when our street would be cleared. Tomorrow by 3 PM? Tonight by 9 PM? By 11:00 AM we were snapping at each other as though, I don't know, we didn't like each other or something. Even Zelma, who usually only cries these days for some sort of good reason, was just in a general funk, randomly crying at the slightest provocation, or really at nothing at all.
Then I baked oatmeal cookies, which helped a lot. At least I know it helped me. Miraculously, the snow plow came today at 1 PM. We would have gone out and cheered by the side of the road at the snow plow (which was a monster truck rally sized tractor) except that I was cutting Brian's hair and he was in his underwear. Immediately after the tractor plowed, we went out to shovel, and it was like the world had been given a coating of slurpy, with an inch or two of solid ice underneath it. It was a horrible muck.
There was still no place to go and nothing to do, however, so Brian started playing Christmas songs on the banjo. Zelma took a turn for the better, kicking her feet and smiling. Things were looking up. And then it came to me, the most brilliant idea of the week (or at least the weekend): What if we made a Christmas album and played actual Christmas songs on it? Wouldn't that be something?
The world outside is still frozen. But we have a plan.
Turkeys Love Vegetarians
Our Thanksgiving Dinner: Falafel, mashed potatoes, stuffing, cranberries, candied yams, baked apples, wine, pumpkin cake, soy ice cream. Gobble gobble gobble. Yum.
What Are Those Brits Thinking?
We went to Britain a few years back and I noticed this thing they do there with weights. They measure their weight in stone. One stone equals 14 pounds, so if you weighed 140 lbs, you would say, "I weigh ten stone." If you weighed 143 pounds, you would say, "I weigh ten stone three." (I think.) I've gotten slightly obsessed with this lately.
Why? Why would you have a base 14 measurement for weight, when your whole number system is a base ten? Isn't that difficult? I mean, it's only straightforward if you weigh 140 pounds. I don't think I know anyone who weighs 140 pounds. Any other weight seems a bit too complicated. Wouldn't it be much easier to say a stone was ten pounds? But it's not. It's fourteen.
The Swedes are pretty logical. A Swedish mile is ten kilometers, for instance. Much more practical.
British people don't seem to always know how many pounds or kilograms they weigh, just stone. So now I wonder if they have scales over there that tell you your weight in stone. They must, right? Has anyone ever seen one?
Why? Why would you have a base 14 measurement for weight, when your whole number system is a base ten? Isn't that difficult? I mean, it's only straightforward if you weigh 140 pounds. I don't think I know anyone who weighs 140 pounds. Any other weight seems a bit too complicated. Wouldn't it be much easier to say a stone was ten pounds? But it's not. It's fourteen.
The Swedes are pretty logical. A Swedish mile is ten kilometers, for instance. Much more practical.
British people don't seem to always know how many pounds or kilograms they weigh, just stone. So now I wonder if they have scales over there that tell you your weight in stone. They must, right? Has anyone ever seen one?
Let's Solve One of the World's Problems
There's all of this talk about alternative fuel for our vehicles to cure the greenhouse problem, blah blah blah. Everyone ignores the elephant in the room. The real problem is cars themselves. We need an alternative to driving cars.
The most obvious solution for around town is the bicycle. If it were really that easy, though, we'd all just be riding bicycles already. There are a few problems with the bicycle, though, the first one being that we're all freakin' lazy, but let's just ignore that problem. Let's just visualize a world where in we are not all lazy jerks. (Even though you are- and so am I- let's just all admit it! We're all lazy as all get out! But pretend we're not. I'm living in a dream world, but trust me here, for a moment.)
Okay, I shouldn't ignore that problem. We are lazy. And some of us are truly handicapped. I saw this bicycle once at a silly electronics store that had an electric motor on it for getting you up the hills. I guess you could get one of those and plug it in at night, and be okay.
But the real problem with a bicycle is best illustrated on a day like today. NOT because it's Tofurkey Eve, no. It's just that it's snowing outside. What to do about that, then?
Clearly we need bicycles with heaters and windshields. We need to put them inside of some sort of a weatherproof bubble.
And then there's the problem of balancing on the ice, of course. And also the problem of transporting lots of groceries or babies, etc. We could solve those two issues by riding not bicycles, but tricycles. The tricycles could have some sort of trunk and/or back seat on them, where one could put a baby car seat or a stack of groceries, all carefully packaged in your cloth grocery bags, of course.
I don't know why no one has thought of this sooner!
For longer distances, we need a train system.
So, there you have it. I have now solved the climate crisis. Every man, woman, and child in this country needs a tricycle with a weather proof bubble, heater, and optional rechargeable electric engine.
The most obvious solution for around town is the bicycle. If it were really that easy, though, we'd all just be riding bicycles already. There are a few problems with the bicycle, though, the first one being that we're all freakin' lazy, but let's just ignore that problem. Let's just visualize a world where in we are not all lazy jerks. (Even though you are- and so am I- let's just all admit it! We're all lazy as all get out! But pretend we're not. I'm living in a dream world, but trust me here, for a moment.)
Okay, I shouldn't ignore that problem. We are lazy. And some of us are truly handicapped. I saw this bicycle once at a silly electronics store that had an electric motor on it for getting you up the hills. I guess you could get one of those and plug it in at night, and be okay.
But the real problem with a bicycle is best illustrated on a day like today. NOT because it's Tofurkey Eve, no. It's just that it's snowing outside. What to do about that, then?
Clearly we need bicycles with heaters and windshields. We need to put them inside of some sort of a weatherproof bubble.
And then there's the problem of balancing on the ice, of course. And also the problem of transporting lots of groceries or babies, etc. We could solve those two issues by riding not bicycles, but tricycles. The tricycles could have some sort of trunk and/or back seat on them, where one could put a baby car seat or a stack of groceries, all carefully packaged in your cloth grocery bags, of course.
I don't know why no one has thought of this sooner!
For longer distances, we need a train system.
So, there you have it. I have now solved the climate crisis. Every man, woman, and child in this country needs a tricycle with a weather proof bubble, heater, and optional rechargeable electric engine.
Far Gone
I was walking down the street yesterday, with the baby stroller and just minding my own business, when this guy driving by stared at me so intently that he completely ran a stop sign. He didn't even slow down. And then, right afterwards, he had this look on his face like, "My god! I just completely ran that stop sign!" Then he glanced at me again, briefly, as though this were my fault, slowing down for a moment, and then drove away.
When things like this happen to me, I like to think that it was because I am just so outlandishly beautiful that men cannot take their eyes off of me, and then they do things like run stop signs while gazing intently at me. However, I think it's much more likely that I was doing something so outlandishly weird that men cannot take their eyes off of me, and I'm so far gone that I don't even know what it was. Or perhaps my baby is just that beautiful. (Actually, she was too bundled up to see clearly.)
When things like this happen to me, I like to think that it was because I am just so outlandishly beautiful that men cannot take their eyes off of me, and then they do things like run stop signs while gazing intently at me. However, I think it's much more likely that I was doing something so outlandishly weird that men cannot take their eyes off of me, and I'm so far gone that I don't even know what it was. Or perhaps my baby is just that beautiful. (Actually, she was too bundled up to see clearly.)
A Slave Am I!
Now I am truly a slave to the baby! She was in a bad mood tonight, so I brought out the fiddle and played a tune. She listened. I stopped playing for a minute, and she started crying again. "Play another song!" cried Das Husband. So, I played, like a marionette on a string, I played... until I said, "to heck with this! That kid needs to go to bed!"
And now she sleeps.
And now she sleeps.
Small Wonder
I found out today that the baby really likes my fiddle playing. Which is really nice. I haven't played much since she was born, and what I have done has been mostly when she was asleep. Today I played for her, though, and she smiled and stomped her feet like she was really excited, and listened for over a half hour. I finally got tired of playing. It never occurred to me to play for her before. I guess she probably heard it in the womb, though, so it's familiar to her.
Old Friends
I got out the old winter clothes a few nights ago. Winter clothes are like old friends. You don't see them for a while, and then, hey, there you are! Winter clothes are the best because they are the opposite of your fare weather friends: they only show up when you need them. If you are like me, and enjoy adventure and cold weather, they may have even saved your life a few times. As we went for a little walk around the neighborhood (baby ridiculously bundled) I realized that everything I was wearing had a story with it that I remembered fondly.
COAT:
The jacket, a big suede coat with a fur lined hood, is the oldest thing, and was given to me by the Rotary Club of Malung, Sweden at about this time of year in 1991. (The weather there is remarkably similar to the weather here.) I think the owner of the factory must have been giving it to me, really, because Jan-Eric took me to the factory to pick one out. I wanted a green suede one, but Jan-Eric talked me out of it. "Green coats are a passing fad," he said. "A good, brown coat will last you forever."
I guess he was right that it would last me- I'm still wearing it- but I have to say, I still like green coats. I think I would still be wearing a green coat, too.
GLOVES:
The gloves were acquired slightly illicitly. They're ultra soft lambs wool gloves that are wearing out fairly quickly. I stole them "accidentally" a year and a half ago. It was a very cold winter night, and I went to a play downtown, which requires some walking through the cold, as they don't have parking just anywhere downtown. The gloves I was wearing were those cheap shrink gloves that you get at Walgreens for a buck or two. I think the play was, "Walmartopia". It was packed. When I got up to leave the theater, I dropped my gloves on the ground. Everyone was leaving, and I was almost being pushed along by the crowd, and when I bent over and picked up the gloves, it wasn't my cheap gloves at all that I picked up, but this beautiful pair of lambs wool gloves. Yet it seemed to be the spot where I had dropped my cheap gloves. It was as thought they were transformed. "Hey! These aren't my gloves!" I said, but the crowd was shuffling me along, and I had a choice to make: I could put these beautiful gloves back down (do the right thing) and go without gloves in the subfreezing walk back to the car, or I could keep them. In any case, I could no longer go back and retrieve my own gloves- it was dark and people were pushing me on. For one desperate moment, I hesitated- and then- I kept them, and they were Lovely. And so warm! At least I left my gloves, so that if the owner came back to retrieve her lambs wool, she wouldn't completely freeze on the way home.
I did not regret my decision to keep the gloves at all.
HAT:
The hat is a black knitted hat with flowers. When I rode the bus everywhere, I had a habit of taking my hat off on the warm bus and putting it on the seat next to me. A few times, I left it behind when I got off the bus, but always another bus rider came running after me, once as the door was closing and the bus was pulling off. I remember the urgency in the woman's voice and her hand stuck through the closing doors, "Your hat!!!" She was a black woman (black women often help me in public before all others), and I remember gratefully pulling the hat from between her brown, manicured fingers, uttering my thanks, and she looking at me, scoldingly, with the urgency of someone who perhaps has been without a hat in the cold. And thus she restored my faith in humanity, if for just a little while.
COAT:
The jacket, a big suede coat with a fur lined hood, is the oldest thing, and was given to me by the Rotary Club of Malung, Sweden at about this time of year in 1991. (The weather there is remarkably similar to the weather here.) I think the owner of the factory must have been giving it to me, really, because Jan-Eric took me to the factory to pick one out. I wanted a green suede one, but Jan-Eric talked me out of it. "Green coats are a passing fad," he said. "A good, brown coat will last you forever."
I guess he was right that it would last me- I'm still wearing it- but I have to say, I still like green coats. I think I would still be wearing a green coat, too.
GLOVES:
The gloves were acquired slightly illicitly. They're ultra soft lambs wool gloves that are wearing out fairly quickly. I stole them "accidentally" a year and a half ago. It was a very cold winter night, and I went to a play downtown, which requires some walking through the cold, as they don't have parking just anywhere downtown. The gloves I was wearing were those cheap shrink gloves that you get at Walgreens for a buck or two. I think the play was, "Walmartopia". It was packed. When I got up to leave the theater, I dropped my gloves on the ground. Everyone was leaving, and I was almost being pushed along by the crowd, and when I bent over and picked up the gloves, it wasn't my cheap gloves at all that I picked up, but this beautiful pair of lambs wool gloves. Yet it seemed to be the spot where I had dropped my cheap gloves. It was as thought they were transformed. "Hey! These aren't my gloves!" I said, but the crowd was shuffling me along, and I had a choice to make: I could put these beautiful gloves back down (do the right thing) and go without gloves in the subfreezing walk back to the car, or I could keep them. In any case, I could no longer go back and retrieve my own gloves- it was dark and people were pushing me on. For one desperate moment, I hesitated- and then- I kept them, and they were Lovely. And so warm! At least I left my gloves, so that if the owner came back to retrieve her lambs wool, she wouldn't completely freeze on the way home.
I did not regret my decision to keep the gloves at all.
HAT:
The hat is a black knitted hat with flowers. When I rode the bus everywhere, I had a habit of taking my hat off on the warm bus and putting it on the seat next to me. A few times, I left it behind when I got off the bus, but always another bus rider came running after me, once as the door was closing and the bus was pulling off. I remember the urgency in the woman's voice and her hand stuck through the closing doors, "Your hat!!!" She was a black woman (black women often help me in public before all others), and I remember gratefully pulling the hat from between her brown, manicured fingers, uttering my thanks, and she looking at me, scoldingly, with the urgency of someone who perhaps has been without a hat in the cold. And thus she restored my faith in humanity, if for just a little while.
What To Be When I Grow Up
When I was a little girl, I wanted to be an old lady with bright red hair (dyed, of course) and live in a giant old house in San Francisco, with a swimming pool in the basement and a garden on the roof. I would be a wise person. Everyone would come to me for advice. I would have lots of bookshelves everywhere full of books. Maybe I would be a writer- maybe not. Maybe I would be the kind of person of whom people write about.
Everyone would be fascinated by me, of course. They would come to me for advice, especially the young people. I would have a masseuse and a gardener on staff. I would basically not have to lift a finger. Sometimes I might take lavish vacations to Europe, and my entourage of artists and musicians and gardeners would follow me, unable to cope without my presence for more than a week.
I would get really, really, old, until legends would abound about me. "What was she like when she was young?" people would ask each other, "Can you imagine?"
And it would be my secret that when I was young I was really, really boring.
Everyone would be fascinated by me, of course. They would come to me for advice, especially the young people. I would have a masseuse and a gardener on staff. I would basically not have to lift a finger. Sometimes I might take lavish vacations to Europe, and my entourage of artists and musicians and gardeners would follow me, unable to cope without my presence for more than a week.
I would get really, really, old, until legends would abound about me. "What was she like when she was young?" people would ask each other, "Can you imagine?"
And it would be my secret that when I was young I was really, really boring.
Reaching Branches
I love the way that tree branches reach for each other over your head as you make your way down forested roads. (I didn't take this picture, I just found it at freefoto.com, but isn't it nice?)
"Musicians Who Like to Eat Nuts Are Just the Same as Terrorists"
I had a dream last night that I was supposed to host a radio show on WORT (our local community station). I was a little panicked, because they wanted me to host it from a laundromat, and I didn't have any records with me to play. Suddenly, Chris Wagoner (local musician and my fiddle teacher) came to help me out. I was so glad to see him! He agreed to man the mic while I went to fetch some records.
While I was gone, I could hear him playing a public service announcement which stated, "Musicians who like to eat nuts are just the same as terrorists." When I came back from getting the records, Chris was sitting there, eating nuts and reading a joke book into the microphone. It was one of those knock knock joke books that only little kids like, but Chris was laughing the whole time he was reading, almost choking on his nuts. He was having a grand old time, it looked like.
Then I woke up.
While I was gone, I could hear him playing a public service announcement which stated, "Musicians who like to eat nuts are just the same as terrorists." When I came back from getting the records, Chris was sitting there, eating nuts and reading a joke book into the microphone. It was one of those knock knock joke books that only little kids like, but Chris was laughing the whole time he was reading, almost choking on his nuts. He was having a grand old time, it looked like.
Then I woke up.
Eccentricities, Continued... Apparently A Parent Lee
My father has a tendency toward excessive wordplay. (See the last entry's comments for examples of this.) This is something he has in common with his wife.
I'll never forget a drive I went on with them one night. I don't remember where we were going, but it was the journey, not the destination, which sticks in my mind. For this particular car trip, which happened at night, "The Parents" (as my stepsister always affectionately calls them) chose to don hats with blinking, battery-powered colored lights on them. They entered the vehicle giggling hysterically, both of them with their heads lit up like Christmas trees. I, a teenager of about fifteen at the time, was completely appalled, and begged them not the wear the blinking hats, but they only laughed harder. Once in the vehicle, the puns began,
"You look bright in that hat!"
"I have a colorful personality."
"Don't be a dim watt."
My groans went unheeded... for 45 minutes. They kept up an unbroken train of puns and wordplay for FORTY-FIVE MINUTES!!!!! And they were wearing blinking hats. Driving in the dark. Somewhere in Northern California. With me in the back seat. I felt that night that God had forsaken me.
I'll never forget a drive I went on with them one night. I don't remember where we were going, but it was the journey, not the destination, which sticks in my mind. For this particular car trip, which happened at night, "The Parents" (as my stepsister always affectionately calls them) chose to don hats with blinking, battery-powered colored lights on them. They entered the vehicle giggling hysterically, both of them with their heads lit up like Christmas trees. I, a teenager of about fifteen at the time, was completely appalled, and begged them not the wear the blinking hats, but they only laughed harder. Once in the vehicle, the puns began,
"You look bright in that hat!"
"I have a colorful personality."
"Don't be a dim watt."
My groans went unheeded... for 45 minutes. They kept up an unbroken train of puns and wordplay for FORTY-FIVE MINUTES!!!!! And they were wearing blinking hats. Driving in the dark. Somewhere in Northern California. With me in the back seat. I felt that night that God had forsaken me.
Rolandarama
I had a dream last night that I accidentally got pregnant and had a little boy. We named him "Roland," even though Brian initially wanted to name him "Donald." I started a blog to post pictures of Roland on. The blog was called "ROLANDARAMA!"
Another Random Story About a Supermarket in California
I heard Ginsberg's poem, "A Supermarket in California" a few days ago, and suddenly remembered a certain junior college class I took.
Because I never graduated high school, I went to junior college for a semester, with the intention of transferring to a four year college- which I eventually did. My first class at junior college was U.S. Government, taught by perhaps the worst teacher ever. I think it's safe to say that he never once mentioned U.S. Government in any way, but rather used the class as a podium to tell stories about his bizarre life. Let's call him "Jim." I can't remember his name.
The best and most bizarre story Jim told begins at a supermarket in California:
Jim was shopping one night at 1 AM at a Safeway in San Francisco, and came across a homeless man chanting in front of a pile of canned goods. The man was chanting over and over again for a place to live and food to eat. The man eventually got kicked out of the Safeway for loitering.
Some days later, Jim went to a pagan ceremony, where a chalice was passed around. Each person in a circle of people would take a small sip, and pass it on to the next person. Well, Jim wasn’t paying very good attention to what was going on, and instead of taking a sip, he drank the whole cup. This posed a problem for Jim’s mental well-being, because the chalice turned out to be full of some sort of LSD punch. He basically took ten or so hits of LSD at once, which is WAY WAY WAY TOO MUCH.
So, what followed for Jim was a month of hell, from which he never fully recovered. Jim remembers a lot of that month, most of which he spent discovering that the Universe is governed by interlocking numbers. Of course. He was very into numerology.
At some point, Jim believed that he could escape this horrible trip by going on an actual trip, so he drove a car to Oregon. While he was in Oregon, he bought a giant, plastic baseball bat at a Walmart there, for reasons he no longer remembers. Then he threw the bat in the back of the car and forgot about it.
Driving back home, crossing back into California, he was stopped by the police. Looking for any reason to arrest this freak (my interpretation of the story here) they confiscated the giant plastic baseball bat, claiming that it was illegal in the state of California. Jim said,
“How can it be illegal? I bought it at Walmart!”
Nevertheless, they arrested him and put him in jail.
Upon entering the jail cell, he recognized his cell mate as the same homeless guy he had met in front of the stack of cans at a supermarket in San Francisco. His chanting had apparently worked: He now had a place to live and food to eat.
And that's the story.
What eventually happened in the U.S. Government class was that Jim completely disappeared halfway through the semester, and we all got A's in the class.
And here is the poem by Allen Ginsberg, which triggered my memory of this lovely story and has nothing whatever to do with it but still is a fantastically good poem:
A Supermarket in California
Allen Ginsberg
What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for
I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache
self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went
into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families
shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the
avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what
were you doing down by the watermelons?
I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber,
poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery
boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the
pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans
following you, and followed in my imagination by the store
detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our
solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen
delicacy, and never passing the cashier.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in
an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the
supermarket and feel absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The
trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be
lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love
past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher,
what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and
you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat
disappear on the black waters of Lethe?
Berkeley, 1955
Because I never graduated high school, I went to junior college for a semester, with the intention of transferring to a four year college- which I eventually did. My first class at junior college was U.S. Government, taught by perhaps the worst teacher ever. I think it's safe to say that he never once mentioned U.S. Government in any way, but rather used the class as a podium to tell stories about his bizarre life. Let's call him "Jim." I can't remember his name.
The best and most bizarre story Jim told begins at a supermarket in California:
Jim was shopping one night at 1 AM at a Safeway in San Francisco, and came across a homeless man chanting in front of a pile of canned goods. The man was chanting over and over again for a place to live and food to eat. The man eventually got kicked out of the Safeway for loitering.
Some days later, Jim went to a pagan ceremony, where a chalice was passed around. Each person in a circle of people would take a small sip, and pass it on to the next person. Well, Jim wasn’t paying very good attention to what was going on, and instead of taking a sip, he drank the whole cup. This posed a problem for Jim’s mental well-being, because the chalice turned out to be full of some sort of LSD punch. He basically took ten or so hits of LSD at once, which is WAY WAY WAY TOO MUCH.
So, what followed for Jim was a month of hell, from which he never fully recovered. Jim remembers a lot of that month, most of which he spent discovering that the Universe is governed by interlocking numbers. Of course. He was very into numerology.
At some point, Jim believed that he could escape this horrible trip by going on an actual trip, so he drove a car to Oregon. While he was in Oregon, he bought a giant, plastic baseball bat at a Walmart there, for reasons he no longer remembers. Then he threw the bat in the back of the car and forgot about it.
Driving back home, crossing back into California, he was stopped by the police. Looking for any reason to arrest this freak (my interpretation of the story here) they confiscated the giant plastic baseball bat, claiming that it was illegal in the state of California. Jim said,
“How can it be illegal? I bought it at Walmart!”
Nevertheless, they arrested him and put him in jail.
Upon entering the jail cell, he recognized his cell mate as the same homeless guy he had met in front of the stack of cans at a supermarket in San Francisco. His chanting had apparently worked: He now had a place to live and food to eat.
And that's the story.
What eventually happened in the U.S. Government class was that Jim completely disappeared halfway through the semester, and we all got A's in the class.
And here is the poem by Allen Ginsberg, which triggered my memory of this lovely story and has nothing whatever to do with it but still is a fantastically good poem:
A Supermarket in California
Allen Ginsberg
What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for
I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache
self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went
into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families
shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the
avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what
were you doing down by the watermelons?
I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber,
poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery
boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the
pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans
following you, and followed in my imagination by the store
detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our
solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen
delicacy, and never passing the cashier.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in
an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the
supermarket and feel absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The
trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be
lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love
past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher,
what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and
you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat
disappear on the black waters of Lethe?
Berkeley, 1955
Grocery Store Follow-Up
I went to the grocery store today and got hit in the back with an apple that a little boy threw at me in the produce section. Ouch.
How I Didn't Kill the Baby Today
Today, Zelma was really cranky, and I finally decided to just put her in her swing (my friend Nataliya loaned us a swing and it is swanky!) and I decided I would just let her swing a little and I would bake a cake. Or, rather, I would make a no-bake vegan cheesecake, because I can’t eat dairy anymore.
I took this giant jar of honey down from the shelf, and it slipped from my hand and crashed into this beer glass full of water that I had sitting on the counter, breaking the glass into a million pieces. Just then, Zelma screamed a scream to wake the dead! I thought for sure a shard of glass had entered her somewhere. I ran over to the swing, and she had screamed so loud that she ran out of breath and was gasping- but, of course, I thought for sure there was glass in her lungs and that was why she couldn’t breathe. I didn’t dare pick her up for fear I would shove some glass directly into her heart or something.
She finally caught her breath. I checked her over for glass. I looked for blood. No blood. She was fine.
I guess she just screamed from the noise.
The funny thing is, if you look at where she was and where I broke the glass, there was no way anything would have gotten to her. There was too much in between us.
Now I’m having a margarita. No worries. Phew.
I took this giant jar of honey down from the shelf, and it slipped from my hand and crashed into this beer glass full of water that I had sitting on the counter, breaking the glass into a million pieces. Just then, Zelma screamed a scream to wake the dead! I thought for sure a shard of glass had entered her somewhere. I ran over to the swing, and she had screamed so loud that she ran out of breath and was gasping- but, of course, I thought for sure there was glass in her lungs and that was why she couldn’t breathe. I didn’t dare pick her up for fear I would shove some glass directly into her heart or something.
She finally caught her breath. I checked her over for glass. I looked for blood. No blood. She was fine.
I guess she just screamed from the noise.
The funny thing is, if you look at where she was and where I broke the glass, there was no way anything would have gotten to her. There was too much in between us.
Now I’m having a margarita. No worries. Phew.
I just cause trouble wherever I go.
I bring my own tote bags to the grocery store, which shouldn't be that big of a deal, but it seems to be. The baggers are usually put off by it. It's like I ruin their flow. But what's the big deal? I like my tote bags. They're really easy to carry, and of course, then I don't waste all of those bags all of the time.
I'm used to the dirty looks or awkwardness, but Sunday took the cake. There didn't appear to be a bagger present, so I started bagging the groceries myself. Then, the bagger showed up, gave me a dirty look (for doing her job for her?) and took all of my stuff out of the tote bags and rebagged it! And not only that, she rebagged it so that one bag weighed about forty pounds, and she left another huge tote bag empty. So, that was some bad service.
I would switch, but the other grocery store is just as weird.
I was there one time, and they had some promotion going where they gave you a coupon for some money off of gasoline. Well, I don't use gasoline, so I didn't want the coupons. The first few weeks this was going on, when I tried to not take the coupons, everyone looked at me like I was giving money away. The cashiers looked at me like, "What are you? An idiot?" So then, I just took the coupons one week. I gave them to Brian, but he couldn't use them because his scooter gets something like 80 miles per gallon and his work is only three miles away. Finally, the last time I shopped there, I told the cashier I didn't want the coupons. (It's a real big handful of paper. It sucks.) But then, the lady behind me said, "Hey, I'll take them!" So I said,
"Oh, good! Yeah, you can have them! I don't use them." But the cashier pursed her lips and ripped up the coupons in front of us, and said,
"If you don't leave the store with these coupons, no one does."
I swear to God that's what she said! She ripped the coupons into little bits and threw them in the trash, while the two of us (the lady behind me in line and I) looked on in amazed horror. I left the store in a daze.
And there you have it.
I'm used to the dirty looks or awkwardness, but Sunday took the cake. There didn't appear to be a bagger present, so I started bagging the groceries myself. Then, the bagger showed up, gave me a dirty look (for doing her job for her?) and took all of my stuff out of the tote bags and rebagged it! And not only that, she rebagged it so that one bag weighed about forty pounds, and she left another huge tote bag empty. So, that was some bad service.
I would switch, but the other grocery store is just as weird.
I was there one time, and they had some promotion going where they gave you a coupon for some money off of gasoline. Well, I don't use gasoline, so I didn't want the coupons. The first few weeks this was going on, when I tried to not take the coupons, everyone looked at me like I was giving money away. The cashiers looked at me like, "What are you? An idiot?" So then, I just took the coupons one week. I gave them to Brian, but he couldn't use them because his scooter gets something like 80 miles per gallon and his work is only three miles away. Finally, the last time I shopped there, I told the cashier I didn't want the coupons. (It's a real big handful of paper. It sucks.) But then, the lady behind me said, "Hey, I'll take them!" So I said,
"Oh, good! Yeah, you can have them! I don't use them." But the cashier pursed her lips and ripped up the coupons in front of us, and said,
"If you don't leave the store with these coupons, no one does."
I swear to God that's what she said! She ripped the coupons into little bits and threw them in the trash, while the two of us (the lady behind me in line and I) looked on in amazed horror. I left the store in a daze.
And there you have it.
Wowsas
I've already lost the "baby weight". My friend Julie says, "That's very Hollywood of you." Yes, well, what can I say...
To you, and to you, and to you, and again to you...
Yesterday, I got my second National Geographic in the mail. For the month. The exact same one. I also received two of the exact same letter from the guy who sells us firewood each year, and that's not even automated. And then I got six of the exact same e-mail from a friend of mine. Six.
When I was in college, I took a composition course entitled, "The Goddess Within Us All." The teacher of the course was a believer in what she called "Goddess Intervention," which basically meant that whatever was happening, it was because the Goddess intended it that way. Say, for example, your radio was on the frits every morning at 8 AM, while you were driving to school. "That's Goddess Intervention," she would say. "The Goddess is telling you to spend that time in quiet reflection, and not listen to the radio." (I'm pretty sure the person in question just drove through a particularly tricky set of mountains at the same time every morning, and the radio waves couldn't get through, but that wasn't my professor's take on it at all.) Eventually, I began to think she was a real nut case, but her whole idea of every thing having a meaning was somehow comforting. She influenced me, even so. It stuck with me. So that now, when strange coincidences happen, I look for a meaning behind them, even more so than I did before that time.
So, with that in mind, what is the meaning behind all of this repetition in my life? what is the meaning behind all of this repetition in my life? what is the meaning behind all of this repetition in my life? what is the meaning behind all of this repetition in my life? what is the meaning behind all of this repetition in my life?
When I was in college, I took a composition course entitled, "The Goddess Within Us All." The teacher of the course was a believer in what she called "Goddess Intervention," which basically meant that whatever was happening, it was because the Goddess intended it that way. Say, for example, your radio was on the frits every morning at 8 AM, while you were driving to school. "That's Goddess Intervention," she would say. "The Goddess is telling you to spend that time in quiet reflection, and not listen to the radio." (I'm pretty sure the person in question just drove through a particularly tricky set of mountains at the same time every morning, and the radio waves couldn't get through, but that wasn't my professor's take on it at all.) Eventually, I began to think she was a real nut case, but her whole idea of every thing having a meaning was somehow comforting. She influenced me, even so. It stuck with me. So that now, when strange coincidences happen, I look for a meaning behind them, even more so than I did before that time.
So, with that in mind, what is the meaning behind all of this repetition in my life? what is the meaning behind all of this repetition in my life? what is the meaning behind all of this repetition in my life? what is the meaning behind all of this repetition in my life? what is the meaning behind all of this repetition in my life?
Swedish Dance Music at Its Best!
This is Swedish dance music like you've never wanted to see it! http://www.omodern.com/
Don't Try This At Home
According to my handy pediatrician's guide to child rearing, babies are born with a reflex that enables them to dodge objects being thrown at them. Page 147 of "Caring for Your Baby and Young Child":
"Although you may think of your baby as utterly defenseless, he actually has several protective reflexes... if an object comes straight toward him, he'll turn his head and try to squirm out of its way. (Amazingly, if the object is on a path that would make it a near miss instead of a collision, he will calmly watch it approach without flinching.)"
This brings to mind an image of several doctors throwing things at babies and seeing if they duck.
"Did you see him watch that beer bottle just pass on by, an inch from his face?! Amazing!"
"Good throw, Dr. Johnson!"
"Little Jany dodged that ice pick really well- too bad it bounced back off the wall and got her from behind..."
"Although you may think of your baby as utterly defenseless, he actually has several protective reflexes... if an object comes straight toward him, he'll turn his head and try to squirm out of its way. (Amazingly, if the object is on a path that would make it a near miss instead of a collision, he will calmly watch it approach without flinching.)"
This brings to mind an image of several doctors throwing things at babies and seeing if they duck.
"Did you see him watch that beer bottle just pass on by, an inch from his face?! Amazing!"
"Good throw, Dr. Johnson!"
"Little Jany dodged that ice pick really well- too bad it bounced back off the wall and got her from behind..."
You Made It!
You made it! You're in the right place! Welcome! Come on in, make yourself at home. Watch that first step- it's a little shaky.
What's your favorite word? Apparently, "Cellar Door" was Tolkien's favorite. I'm partial to "Subterranean," not for the sound so much as the interesting construct and the associations with the Kerouac book, and the song, "Subterranean Homesick Blues."
What's your favorite word? Apparently, "Cellar Door" was Tolkien's favorite. I'm partial to "Subterranean," not for the sound so much as the interesting construct and the associations with the Kerouac book, and the song, "Subterranean Homesick Blues."
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