Here is the post I intended to write, complete with illustrations. Actually, due to a fit of sheer laziness, enertia, and for-chrissake- it's- sunday, you are getting the unillustrated version.
First, a color photo of my hand on my wedding day wearing my wedding rings. They were a sapphire engagement ring that D bought for me and a gold band with invisible diamonds that we traipsed around Sacramento an entire day to find. The engagement ring was white gold, so to "match" (and what's a Jewish girl if her wedding rings don't match), we had to find something in white gold. Except white gold wedding bands look like plumbing pipe, and I was having none of that. The invisible diamonds on the gold band we found made it sorta kinda look like it had an air of white gold about it.
Second, a closeup of my hand sans rings. I took them off, wrenched them if you must know, in a fit of pique round about the second week of the current story of my life. I'll show him, motherfucker, I'll take my rings off--and then he'll be sorry. Don't know if he noticed or cared or what he actually felt. But there I was with my nude left hand, sort of dangling in the air, as it were. I thought it just needed some time to get adjusted to the light of day, but it turns out that the rings had some sort of permanent effect on my third finger, left hand. There is a line there, not of suntan, but of something within the actually flesh. Talk about a fucking metaphor.
Third, a closeup of my new, bought-by-me ring. I got it in Seattle. It is a sterling band, about tenth of an inch wide, brushed metal with the following stamped in cooly-wonky letters all along the ring: IT'S NOT THE DESTINATION, IT'S THE JOURNEY. Another metaphor, true, but this one at least is of my making.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Friday, August 10, 2007
The Weather Report: Sunny & Calm
Hey, I'm in an immeasurably improved mood today. 'Cause guess what: my garage walls are being torn apart while an electrician looks for "the worst kind of short you can have," the one that knows no name or place.
When I got home from my Travels With Molly on Wednesday, after I freaked out over some shit about D, I went to cool my parched throat with a Coke and found the garage refrigerator dead. Dead, dead, dead. As were all the lights and garage door. And there was zilch power is the laundry room next to the garage. You can imagine, particularly if you've experienced my creative way with bad words, how I cursed the missing man of the house. The one who knows what to do when bad stuff happens construction-wise. Because he spent 20 odd years in construction. And because he's a man, goddamit, and knowledge of such stuff comes along with the penis. So I called him, and I left a message along the lines of: "if you care anything about me at all, you'll call me back and tell me what to do..." He did and he did, but really fixing electrical problems when you're 700 miles away is a tad difficult.
So today, I looked up E for Electrician and a very nice man is now banging away. I'm not sure how much it will cost me, but at least I'll be able to wash my clothes. Which is a good thing, as Martha says, because I was running out of underwear (I have to use that word every once in a while because it makes my Google stats go up).
But that's not what I want to talk about today. You deserve something cheerful and light after my dirge yesterday, so I've got some Molly photos. She seems to make everyone smile; she's just that kind of a dog.
Lookin' out the window at a rest stop, somewhere near the California-Oregon border.
When I got home from my Travels With Molly on Wednesday, after I freaked out over some shit about D, I went to cool my parched throat with a Coke and found the garage refrigerator dead. Dead, dead, dead. As were all the lights and garage door. And there was zilch power is the laundry room next to the garage. You can imagine, particularly if you've experienced my creative way with bad words, how I cursed the missing man of the house. The one who knows what to do when bad stuff happens construction-wise. Because he spent 20 odd years in construction. And because he's a man, goddamit, and knowledge of such stuff comes along with the penis. So I called him, and I left a message along the lines of: "if you care anything about me at all, you'll call me back and tell me what to do..." He did and he did, but really fixing electrical problems when you're 700 miles away is a tad difficult.
So today, I looked up E for Electrician and a very nice man is now banging away. I'm not sure how much it will cost me, but at least I'll be able to wash my clothes. Which is a good thing, as Martha says, because I was running out of underwear (I have to use that word every once in a while because it makes my Google stats go up).
But that's not what I want to talk about today. You deserve something cheerful and light after my dirge yesterday, so I've got some Molly photos. She seems to make everyone smile; she's just that kind of a dog.
Lookin' out the window at a rest stop, somewhere near the California-Oregon border.
On the road again. She's in her carseat, which is fixed in the backseat, which offers not a lot of room because it's a little sporty VW convertible, but that's okay with her because she's a sporty dog. The carseat was bought originally for Pupi, our late, great Yorkshire terrier. Molly doesn't mind it being a hand-me-down. Nor does she mind that she is three times Pupi's size. She fits, somehow. Sometimes she leans on the front seat like this, and sometimes she looks out the window. I don't know what she's looking at, but I'm fascinated watching her because she seems to be taking in all the sights and scenery just like a human would. What can be out there that would merit such attention? If there's a dog in the mix, then she goes bananas, but otherwise, she's a Quiet Watcher. She's such a good traveller that I'm thinking of buying a camper and going on the road. Too bad I'm not a guy; she'd be a great chick magnet.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
The Astrologer Daily: Mercury trine Jupiter. | BlogHer
I started reading KT, BlogHer's Astrology Contributing Editor, just about when she first started posting on BlogHer. Which was just about the time that my errant husband decided he didn't want to be married anymore. KT's daily readings just seemed to speak to exactly my situation, and to give me hope, and whatever else I needed to get through the day.
Which just goes to show how the stars can fool you.
Today I woke sadder than sad. Then I had to cut short Molly's walk because I was crying in the middle of the street, forchrissakes (fortunately I was wearing sunglasses, so other than the tears streaking down my cheeks and the snot blubbering out of my nose, no one could tell--I don't think). And then I got all weepy over Barbara Morgan, the teacher-astronaut, finally making it into space. A dream not so much deferred, but long in coming.
Shall I tell you why? Aw, c'mon, you already know. Why flog a dead horse, as the Brits say. Or try to shore up one's faith in a lost-cause marriage.
"Optimistic and hopeful for the future" is exactly what I don't feel. Able to see the Big Picture? Nope. Just a bunch of days and days and days ahead. The Moon is in the Balsamic Phase. Would that be, as in vinegar? And since four of my moons are in Cancer, not to mention my natal sign, would I be one big old vat of the stuff?
Phooey, I say. Phooey. And a pox on all their houses.
Which just goes to show how the stars can fool you.
Today's reading is: "Today is one of those great times when we can see the trees as well as the forest. Mercury, the planet that rules thought, logic and communication, makes an easy trine to Jupiter, the Big-Picture Planet. Details and grand plans merge in a delightfully complete scenario. Both planets are in energizing Fire signs. We feel optimistic and hopeful for the future. At the moment, words have more impact than we can imagine, so choose yours carefully. Humor, jokes and games go well now.
Today's moon:
Today the Moon is in Cancer all day. It's in the Balsamic Phase, closing in on the New Moon in a few days. It's 11% of full today."
Today I woke sadder than sad. Then I had to cut short Molly's walk because I was crying in the middle of the street, forchrissakes (fortunately I was wearing sunglasses, so other than the tears streaking down my cheeks and the snot blubbering out of my nose, no one could tell--I don't think). And then I got all weepy over Barbara Morgan, the teacher-astronaut, finally making it into space. A dream not so much deferred, but long in coming.
Shall I tell you why? Aw, c'mon, you already know. Why flog a dead horse, as the Brits say. Or try to shore up one's faith in a lost-cause marriage.
"Optimistic and hopeful for the future" is exactly what I don't feel. Able to see the Big Picture? Nope. Just a bunch of days and days and days ahead. The Moon is in the Balsamic Phase. Would that be, as in vinegar? And since four of my moons are in Cancer, not to mention my natal sign, would I be one big old vat of the stuff?
Phooey, I say. Phooey. And a pox on all their houses.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Still Wandering...
...and not sure when I'll be back. I could go home tomorrow. Or I could take a sidetrip to the coast. Molly's up for whatever, and me--I think all these hours alone in the car are....probably good for me. Maybe.
I had great intentions to blog along the way, but tonight is the first time I've actually achieved an internet connection. Perhaps the drinks and wine at dinner on the nights I was in Seattle had something to do with it. Here we are last night:
Liz and I haven't seen each other in--oh, decades and decades and decades. Our last memory of being together was a week we spent at Lake Candadhota with two other friends, Ellen and Karen. It was the summer before our senior year in high school. Liz and I made our own bathing suits. Hers was a red and black plaid with white piping, a two piece. Mine was blue-green silky print, fully lined, in the most daring of styles, a "hiphugger". I was always the girl with the shortest skirts, even in those days. I left after that weekend and started my freshman year at Pitt; my mother, who was in a hurry for me to get going, shoehorned me into college at year early. I never had a senior year. I never saw Liz and Ellen and Karen again. Do I sound bitter? Well, regretful, no doubt.
Despite the decades and decades and decades intervening, Liz and I picked up as if it had only been days. We marveled at that, and I, ever one for deconstructing every happenstance and emotion even unto death, tried to figure out what it was about us that created such an unbreakable connection. We met in First Grade; our mothers fixed us up, in the days before Playdates were so common. And we just stuck, I guess. Liz is the reason why I'm such a good Catholic: whenever we had Saturday night sleepovers, we had to go to Mass the next morning. She taught me to genuflect, to cross myself, and to bob my head at "Jesus" when I sang Christmas carols.
We didn't go to Mass this weekend, but we spent hours talking and laughing and catching each other completely up to date on our four marriages and her three children, where we've been and where we still want to go. It was, in a word, amazing.
I had great intentions to blog along the way, but tonight is the first time I've actually achieved an internet connection. Perhaps the drinks and wine at dinner on the nights I was in Seattle had something to do with it. Here we are last night:
Liz and I haven't seen each other in--oh, decades and decades and decades. Our last memory of being together was a week we spent at Lake Candadhota with two other friends, Ellen and Karen. It was the summer before our senior year in high school. Liz and I made our own bathing suits. Hers was a red and black plaid with white piping, a two piece. Mine was blue-green silky print, fully lined, in the most daring of styles, a "hiphugger". I was always the girl with the shortest skirts, even in those days. I left after that weekend and started my freshman year at Pitt; my mother, who was in a hurry for me to get going, shoehorned me into college at year early. I never had a senior year. I never saw Liz and Ellen and Karen again. Do I sound bitter? Well, regretful, no doubt.
Despite the decades and decades and decades intervening, Liz and I picked up as if it had only been days. We marveled at that, and I, ever one for deconstructing every happenstance and emotion even unto death, tried to figure out what it was about us that created such an unbreakable connection. We met in First Grade; our mothers fixed us up, in the days before Playdates were so common. And we just stuck, I guess. Liz is the reason why I'm such a good Catholic: whenever we had Saturday night sleepovers, we had to go to Mass the next morning. She taught me to genuflect, to cross myself, and to bob my head at "Jesus" when I sang Christmas carols.
We didn't go to Mass this weekend, but we spent hours talking and laughing and catching each other completely up to date on our four marriages and her three children, where we've been and where we still want to go. It was, in a word, amazing.
Friday, August 03, 2007
Travels With Molly...
...and apologies to John Steinbeck, but I'm such a fan, and he did do Travels With Charley, and I am about to hit the road with dearest Molly.
We're driving up to Seattle to meet my BFF from the First Grade, henceforth known as BFF1. She's from the East and I'm in the West, but she's got a wedding or something in Washington, which is only about 750 miles north of Elk Grove, so what the hell, why not just load Molly in her carseat and GO!
We leave early tomorrow AM, and I am, of course, taking all electronics with me (I feel so ungrounded without them, doctor, do you think that's a problem?), so I expect to blog and Twitter along the way.
I'm excited. I'm also exhausted--from all the running around and cleaning of car and buying of snacks and washing of dog.
Here she is after a first towel off and then a mad shake and then a rubbing of oneself all over the quilted bedspread. The thing about dogs, or animals in general, is that they do make you laugh. And they do keep you warm in bed. And they are such willing travelling companions.
We're driving up to Seattle to meet my BFF from the First Grade, henceforth known as BFF1. She's from the East and I'm in the West, but she's got a wedding or something in Washington, which is only about 750 miles north of Elk Grove, so what the hell, why not just load Molly in her carseat and GO!
We leave early tomorrow AM, and I am, of course, taking all electronics with me (I feel so ungrounded without them, doctor, do you think that's a problem?), so I expect to blog and Twitter along the way.
I'm excited. I'm also exhausted--from all the running around and cleaning of car and buying of snacks and washing of dog.
Here she is after a first towel off and then a mad shake and then a rubbing of oneself all over the quilted bedspread. The thing about dogs, or animals in general, is that they do make you laugh. And they do keep you warm in bed. And they are such willing travelling companions.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
My DayThus Far: By Jane
Molly and I got up relatively early this morning and hit the road for Starbucks by 8:30. We do the Starbucks trip every other day. When D is in charge, they do it every day: Grande Drip with room for cream and a Maple Nut Scone. They share it. Me, I'm not so generous. I do the Grande Drip, but not the scone. And the reason I go every other day? I only drink half the coffee. You know, there is really nothing wrong with heated up Starbucks the next day. You can trust me on that.
First stop: gas station. No problem.
Second stop: Starbuck's drive through. Very, very crowded. I listened to a program on organ harvesting on NPR. Very, very interesting. Gave my order, and decided to treat Molly to a shared Maple Nut Scone (she is definitely missing D). Waited for my order. Took my order, put the cup in the Very Inadequate Cupholder that my VW offers. Drove away. Stuck my hand in the bag to break off a piece of Maple Nut Scone. Broke off a piece of Oat Nut Scone--gag! Dry, tasteless, not worth the calories.
Third stop: Drove back to Starbucks and exchanged the scone. Drove away, again. Heard a popping sound: the coffee cup had flipped out of the Very Inadequate Cupholder and all the coffee was now sloshing around on the floor. Said fuck.
Fourth stop: Another Starbucks, closer to home. No drivethrough. Went in and ordered another Grande, etc. Mentioned in passing that it was my second of the morning and the barista handed me back my card. "It's on me," she said.
Drove home thinking warm and fuzzy thoughts about Starbucks. Pulled into garage. Exited car, carefully placing second Grande, etc. on a safe surface. Picked up clot of coffee-soaked napkins and keys in hand, went to throw them in the garbage.
Threw something in the garbage. Something that made a metallic sound when it dropped. Clot of coffee-soaked napkins still in my hand. Peered into the garbage can. Saw my keys lying in the garbage soup at the bottom.
Garbage can very, very big, i.e., deep. Not to mention very, very stinky. Can't reach keys. Curse D for not being there with his long arms to fish them out for me. Go into garage to see what is there that I can use to get the keys.
Passing by car on right side, see that I never refastened the gas cap. Have done all this motoring with it dangling outside the car. Flash on what might have been if I still smoked. Yeah, right....flash, indeed.
Get a wire hanger, open it up and, breathing through my mouth, lean into garbage can far enough to fish out the keys. Pretend I am doing it on Survivor. Get the keys. They are coated in something white. Don't look. Dump them in sink and run hot water. Will disinfect and think about them later, at Tara.
---some time later--
Clean off desk. Find bill for health insurance--due July 1. Wonder if I'll have to beg, or if I'll be forced to endure Kaiser. Blue Cross, bless their heart, is amazingly understanding and cancels my cancellation. I love Blue Cross. I tell them so.
It is now 3:06 and my day is only half over. What next, I ask you, what next?!
First stop: gas station. No problem.
Second stop: Starbuck's drive through. Very, very crowded. I listened to a program on organ harvesting on NPR. Very, very interesting. Gave my order, and decided to treat Molly to a shared Maple Nut Scone (she is definitely missing D). Waited for my order. Took my order, put the cup in the Very Inadequate Cupholder that my VW offers. Drove away. Stuck my hand in the bag to break off a piece of Maple Nut Scone. Broke off a piece of Oat Nut Scone--gag! Dry, tasteless, not worth the calories.
Third stop: Drove back to Starbucks and exchanged the scone. Drove away, again. Heard a popping sound: the coffee cup had flipped out of the Very Inadequate Cupholder and all the coffee was now sloshing around on the floor. Said fuck.
Fourth stop: Another Starbucks, closer to home. No drivethrough. Went in and ordered another Grande, etc. Mentioned in passing that it was my second of the morning and the barista handed me back my card. "It's on me," she said.
Drove home thinking warm and fuzzy thoughts about Starbucks. Pulled into garage. Exited car, carefully placing second Grande, etc. on a safe surface. Picked up clot of coffee-soaked napkins and keys in hand, went to throw them in the garbage.
Threw something in the garbage. Something that made a metallic sound when it dropped. Clot of coffee-soaked napkins still in my hand. Peered into the garbage can. Saw my keys lying in the garbage soup at the bottom.
Garbage can very, very big, i.e., deep. Not to mention very, very stinky. Can't reach keys. Curse D for not being there with his long arms to fish them out for me. Go into garage to see what is there that I can use to get the keys.
Passing by car on right side, see that I never refastened the gas cap. Have done all this motoring with it dangling outside the car. Flash on what might have been if I still smoked. Yeah, right....flash, indeed.
Get a wire hanger, open it up and, breathing through my mouth, lean into garbage can far enough to fish out the keys. Pretend I am doing it on Survivor. Get the keys. They are coated in something white. Don't look. Dump them in sink and run hot water. Will disinfect and think about them later, at Tara.
---some time later--
Clean off desk. Find bill for health insurance--due July 1. Wonder if I'll have to beg, or if I'll be forced to endure Kaiser. Blue Cross, bless their heart, is amazingly understanding and cancels my cancellation. I love Blue Cross. I tell them so.
It is now 3:06 and my day is only half over. What next, I ask you, what next?!
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Randomness from BlogHer'07
I should have live-blogged myself throughout the entire conference, because I was so full of wit and pith, little of which I can now remember.
If you read my post from the airport, you can imagine what a woeful camper I was on arriving in Chicago. There were two beautiful beds in my room at The W and just one beautiful me to sleep in them. But I hooked up for dinner with my old friends, Sueb0b of RedStapler, Karl of SecondhandKarl and Celeste of AverageJane. Drinks were had and food was eaten, and soon I started to feel a whole lot better about life in general and me in particular.
Still, when Elisa, Lisa, and Jory welcomed us at the General Session after breakfast, I got all teary. And at different times during the sessions. And then at the conclusion of the conference, when Cooper & Emily made their pitch for the power of us in BlogHer's community activism initiative. Here's why (aside from my admittedly 'iffy' state of mind): I felt bathed in a huge tub of support, caring, hey-I-like-you, what-do-you-think, all from hundreds of women who valued the things I think are important and who "get" what I do, immediately, organically, thoroughly. That kind of support for each other, particularly from such a wide range of women, is not merely feminism as usual. In fact, I'm from the Second Wave, so I go back to the early days of the women's movement, and I can tell you we have not always played so well together in the sandbox. Even last year, there was a pervasive feeling that many of us left with; Leahpeah calls it oogy. There was no oogy at BlogHer07. I don't know why. I don't think it much matters. I do think that Elisa, Lisa, and Jory have managed to created a huge (11,000 plus) grand group of women who are now a force to be reckoned with, both on the micro and the macro level. This is what we wanted back in the 60s and 70s. It took this long, and these particular women, and this communication tool for it to happen.
The sessions I went to gave me exactly what I wanted, generally speaking. I came. I saw. I laughed. I learned a bunch of technical stuff. Even the session on branding when I was told in no uncertain terms that I could not blog about politics and knitting did not dim my lights.
I met tons and tons of women. And got tons and tons of cards. And I'm not going to even start now naming them or linking them. I'm going to save that for tomorrow.
To Be Continued....
If you read my post from the airport, you can imagine what a woeful camper I was on arriving in Chicago. There were two beautiful beds in my room at The W and just one beautiful me to sleep in them. But I hooked up for dinner with my old friends, Sueb0b of RedStapler, Karl of SecondhandKarl and Celeste of AverageJane. Drinks were had and food was eaten, and soon I started to feel a whole lot better about life in general and me in particular.
Still, when Elisa, Lisa, and Jory welcomed us at the General Session after breakfast, I got all teary. And at different times during the sessions. And then at the conclusion of the conference, when Cooper & Emily made their pitch for the power of us in BlogHer's community activism initiative. Here's why (aside from my admittedly 'iffy' state of mind): I felt bathed in a huge tub of support, caring, hey-I-like-you, what-do-you-think, all from hundreds of women who valued the things I think are important and who "get" what I do, immediately, organically, thoroughly. That kind of support for each other, particularly from such a wide range of women, is not merely feminism as usual. In fact, I'm from the Second Wave, so I go back to the early days of the women's movement, and I can tell you we have not always played so well together in the sandbox. Even last year, there was a pervasive feeling that many of us left with; Leahpeah calls it oogy. There was no oogy at BlogHer07. I don't know why. I don't think it much matters. I do think that Elisa, Lisa, and Jory have managed to created a huge (11,000 plus) grand group of women who are now a force to be reckoned with, both on the micro and the macro level. This is what we wanted back in the 60s and 70s. It took this long, and these particular women, and this communication tool for it to happen.
The sessions I went to gave me exactly what I wanted, generally speaking. I came. I saw. I laughed. I learned a bunch of technical stuff. Even the session on branding when I was told in no uncertain terms that I could not blog about politics and knitting did not dim my lights.
I met tons and tons of women. And got tons and tons of cards. And I'm not going to even start now naming them or linking them. I'm going to save that for tomorrow.
To Be Continued....
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
BlogHer Report, Part One - The Photos
I didn't take that many. I never do. Some photo ops I don't think about the camera until it's too late; other times I'm sorta shy about flashing it in stranger's faces. And those I took--well, they're pretty awful. Remember the line in my banner where I promised you mediocre photography? This goes beneath mediocre. But it's not my fault that I forgot to check the flash switch on my camera and it was on OFF for every pic, all of which were indoors. Still, in the interest of veracity or something or other, the set is over at Flickr.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
On My Way, I think...
I'm sitting in the airport in Sacramento, waiting for my flight to Chicago, to BlogHer, to all things good and joyous.
D came over yesterday to stay with Molly. This is, I suppose, part of our sharing custody. Is it weird? Yes, it is. But mostly, I think, because he's something or other that doesn't feel natural to me. I can't put my finger on it, and I'm not sure what the source of it is. If I were to list (which, can't you just tell, I'm about to), I would say it's either:
a. He's wary of being sucked back in by our coupleness. I feel at times as if he's brandishing the sterling cross before me. I told him that. He didn't respond.
Whatever....not much I can do about it. Not anything, actually. Except breathe.
D came over yesterday to stay with Molly. This is, I suppose, part of our sharing custody. Is it weird? Yes, it is. But mostly, I think, because he's something or other that doesn't feel natural to me. I can't put my finger on it, and I'm not sure what the source of it is. If I were to list (which, can't you just tell, I'm about to), I would say it's either:
a. He's wary of being sucked back in by our coupleness. I feel at times as if he's brandishing the sterling cross before me. I told him that. He didn't respond.
OR
b. He's just not "into me" and finds it somewhat aggravating to be in my presence. But how can that be, wonderful, witty person that I am?!OR
c. He's still in a bad mood, permanently maybe.Whatever....not much I can do about it. Not anything, actually. Except breathe.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Heigh Ho, Heigh Ho....
...'tis off to BlogHer I go. And if that little ditty doesn't stick in your brain, here's another one. "Leavin' on a jet plane/don't know when I'll be back again...." Except I do, Sunday night.
Of course this trip has been in the works since the winter. But yesterday I decided that I absolutely had to get my hair cut. I went to Chris, at Something or other Spa and Salon. I picked him because he was incredibly freaky, and freaky is familiar to me, coming from West Hollywood. Chris would have fit in very well at one of the leather bars there. How he manages in Elk Grove, I'm not sure. I told him I wanted something 'edgy.' He wanted me to define edgy. "You know, edgy. How do you define it." We discussed etymology and I guess we were each satisfied, because he picked up his scissors and began.
I don't have a photo of what I looked like at the end. I have, as well, managed to repress the few glimpses I got in the mirror. Suffice to say, I had a bundle of hair in the back, some awkward tendrils at the nape, and a long curving payess jutting out from the front of each ear. The whole mass was such a gooey glop of product, product and then more product that I had to get in the shower when I got home.
D arrived today to stay with Molly and said, "oh, you decided to cut your hair." He was trying his best to be diplomatic, and really he was, but one of his strong suits as far as I'm concerned is that I trust his judgment about how I look. So I asked him, and he answered: "Well, it's kind of wild." I was thinking I could get away with a mop-of-curls, je ne sais quoi look, but maybe I was a bit overly optimistic. "Do I need to get it cut again?" "Yes," he said, and D isn't a man who is affirmative that often (mostly he likes to hedge). So I hied myself to SuperCuts, where Verushka applied her magic scissors to my head.
Is it better? That's debatable. But it is what it is, isn't it. And that, ladies and gentlemen, girls and boys, is my Zen for the day.
I'm taking my laptop, of course, but last year the wireless connection at the hotel died from time to time, due to hundreds of women tap-tap-tapping away. This hotel in Chicago is much fancier, not to mention expensive, but what that will mean connection-wise, I'm not sure. So you may get full-blown posts or I may be updating on my Treo.
Of course this trip has been in the works since the winter. But yesterday I decided that I absolutely had to get my hair cut. I went to Chris, at Something or other Spa and Salon. I picked him because he was incredibly freaky, and freaky is familiar to me, coming from West Hollywood. Chris would have fit in very well at one of the leather bars there. How he manages in Elk Grove, I'm not sure. I told him I wanted something 'edgy.' He wanted me to define edgy. "You know, edgy. How do you define it." We discussed etymology and I guess we were each satisfied, because he picked up his scissors and began.
I don't have a photo of what I looked like at the end. I have, as well, managed to repress the few glimpses I got in the mirror. Suffice to say, I had a bundle of hair in the back, some awkward tendrils at the nape, and a long curving payess jutting out from the front of each ear. The whole mass was such a gooey glop of product, product and then more product that I had to get in the shower when I got home.
D arrived today to stay with Molly and said, "oh, you decided to cut your hair." He was trying his best to be diplomatic, and really he was, but one of his strong suits as far as I'm concerned is that I trust his judgment about how I look. So I asked him, and he answered: "Well, it's kind of wild." I was thinking I could get away with a mop-of-curls, je ne sais quoi look, but maybe I was a bit overly optimistic. "Do I need to get it cut again?" "Yes," he said, and D isn't a man who is affirmative that often (mostly he likes to hedge). So I hied myself to SuperCuts, where Verushka applied her magic scissors to my head.
Is it better? That's debatable. But it is what it is, isn't it. And that, ladies and gentlemen, girls and boys, is my Zen for the day.
I'm taking my laptop, of course, but last year the wireless connection at the hotel died from time to time, due to hundreds of women tap-tap-tapping away. This hotel in Chicago is much fancier, not to mention expensive, but what that will mean connection-wise, I'm not sure. So you may get full-blown posts or I may be updating on my Treo.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Blogging From My Bed....
Last night I couldn't fall asleep, I was so wired. My mind was a Tilt-a-Wheel, with Debate, Blog, BlogHer, and D, all careening madly around, crashing into each other. I finally gave up and came into my office. Maybe I could purge myself on line, I thought. It sort of worked, but really, I'm thinking I should get a cow. That way when I get up in the wee small hours, I can go milk her.
The clashes from the crashing Tilt-a-Wheel yielded the following sparks (with apologies to the late Marlene Marks, who used to keep my metaphors in line. But Marlene's gone so now there is no one to squelch my urge to, as she once put it, "put the bow on the box.")
1. The Debate: I Twittered it, and you can read my comments, such as they were, there. I've avoided reading any commentary today; isn't my own opinion enough, for god's sake! Which is:
3. BlogHer ought to put me on as a Contributing Editor to write about life at the far end of the baby boom. They have superb coverage of most other aspects of any woman's life, but there's no one talking about those of us who are war babies. We're not Elders and we're not, even if we are, Mommy's. Our issues are unique, and I don't see anyone covering them. So Jory, Elisa and Lisa--how about it?
The clashes from the crashing Tilt-a-Wheel yielded the following sparks (with apologies to the late Marlene Marks, who used to keep my metaphors in line. But Marlene's gone so now there is no one to squelch my urge to, as she once put it, "put the bow on the box.")
1. The Debate: I Twittered it, and you can read my comments, such as they were, there. I've avoided reading any commentary today; isn't my own opinion enough, for god's sake! Which is:
- Hillary--looks good. She's witty, warm, strong, smart and there's no doubt she could conquer the world.
- Obama--eh! He is long on slogans and short on substance. I don't get what the fever about him is.
- Edwards-- I like him too, and he's got passion in the right places, but I think he's stronger on domestic, than foreign policy--and god knows we need a savior out there in the world.
- Biden--can't keep his foot out of his mouth. I'm sure the NRA guy appreciated being called nuts, which maybe he is, but still, Joe, not nice, not nice.
- Dodd--he comes across as mad, rather than impassioned, which I found somewhat threatening.
- Richardson--another one who comes across as mad
- Gravel--really furious, really scary
- Kucinich--I just want to bat this guy. He's like Howdy Doody--yap yap yap.
- Cooper, Youtube & the debate: loved it. Not just for the clever videos, but for the ones that put the metal to the pedal (is that right? or is it the other way around? and what does it mean, really?). I thought it really gave the candidates a chance to do more than sloganeer and some of them took it. Not Obama, though, Or Kucinich. I have loved (in the most filial way) Anderson Cooper since he was hosting The Mole. He is my kinda journalist: a human being reporting what he sees and feels and thinks.
3. BlogHer ought to put me on as a Contributing Editor to write about life at the far end of the baby boom. They have superb coverage of most other aspects of any woman's life, but there's no one talking about those of us who are war babies. We're not Elders and we're not, even if we are, Mommy's. Our issues are unique, and I don't see anyone covering them. So Jory, Elisa and Lisa--how about it?
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Me, The Meme....
Me in 10 seconds? Holy shit. Would that be the witty me or the wise one? The goofy me? Or the shy one? The academic? The shrink? The political junky? The newly-single woman? Too many choices; too little time. I'm a writer, and my blog is my magazine. Kinda like Life, except my byline's ByJane.
Ever a Newbie? Never a Prof?
I wonder how long it will be before I get this Blogger thing right. The other day, after I posted my tantalizing breakfast menu, a comment appeared. It was from SomeGirl'sName (Taffy, Candy--take your pick)53241 and she was sending me the link about making extra money this summer. Obviously, some bot or other picked up the checking out underwear sentence and popped me into the porn lineup. I did not take the bait. I, mature and wise adult (who should know better than writing about her underwear), deleted the comment. I had never done that before. It was exciting. Then I saw the little Moderate Comments tab and thought--hmmm, wonder what that means. So I hit it and said yes and then--nothing.
No comments at all on that post. Had I really been that offensive? What was I doing writing a whole essay on my breakfast when I hate to read other people's posts about what they ate? Oh, Jane, you are swiftly slithering down the pole to b-o-r-i-n-g.
I tried not to take it personally, which is the way I take everything these days, and I tried to be mature, as befits one of my age. So I logged on this morning to try again, this time a post on yard sales (another fantastic topic, doncha think?). Suddenly a screen I'd never seen before popped up, and what to my wondering eyes did appearing but a Comment, waiting for my approval before posting. So that's what Moderating Comments means.
I've turn that option off, by the way, so please do feel free to comment. Please, please, puhleaze--it's awful quiet over here.
No comments at all on that post. Had I really been that offensive? What was I doing writing a whole essay on my breakfast when I hate to read other people's posts about what they ate? Oh, Jane, you are swiftly slithering down the pole to b-o-r-i-n-g.
I tried not to take it personally, which is the way I take everything these days, and I tried to be mature, as befits one of my age. So I logged on this morning to try again, this time a post on yard sales (another fantastic topic, doncha think?). Suddenly a screen I'd never seen before popped up, and what to my wondering eyes did appearing but a Comment, waiting for my approval before posting. So that's what Moderating Comments means.
I've turn that option off, by the way, so please do feel free to comment. Please, please, puhleaze--it's awful quiet over here.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Written from a fog somewhere....
I am groggier than hell, so forgive me if I babble. Sleep, as the commercials kindly put is, is eluding me. I fall off okay, but then I wake up about 3:30 or 4 a.m. and I AM AWAKE. Eyes open, brain twirling--I feel like I'm back in college and just pulled an all night on uppers. I'm having conversations with everyone, with D and my cousin and my nephew and my friend. They're good conversations and bad, about sweet things and sour. I'm superbly articulate, of course, and say exactly what I need to to convince said person to see the rightness of my ways. And they do, or at least they fade from the stage, and then the next person appears to lure me into my nighttime dialogue. Or blog posts--I'm writing entire blog posts in my mind. Incisive, deeply moving, wittier-than-shit blog posts. And you're not reading them? How can that be?
Last night I finally got up and had some toast and a glass of milk. And read Time. (nb: Time is a much better magazine than Newsweek; have you noticed that too?) And did not fall asleep upon my return to bed, so that's the old drink-a-glass-of-milk theory down the tubes.
Last night I finally got up and had some toast and a glass of milk. And read Time. (nb: Time is a much better magazine than Newsweek; have you noticed that too?) And did not fall asleep upon my return to bed, so that's the old drink-a-glass-of-milk theory down the tubes.
This morning when I finally dragged my sorry ass out of bed (thanks, Sondra Jean, for the colloquialism), I was shakey and--hmmmm, hungry. Like when I was in college and would wake up with a hangover (and though I sound it, I wasn't one of the biggest stoners around) and had to shovel bacon and eggs into me toute suite.
I pulled the bacon and eggs from the fridge, lucky me to have stocked up last week. And put the bacon in the microwave for 10 seconds--what, you thought I was making it fresh? Puhleeze, don't you know there is pre-cooked bacon on your grocer's shelves. I pulled open a drawer to get the little yellow plastic ball in which I nuke my eggs only to realize it was in the dishwasher. Dirty. So of course I hauled its sorry ass out of there and peered into it (kinda like I would peer at the crotch of dirty underwear to see if they would stand a second wearing when I was in college--are you sensing a motif here?) and saw, much to my regret, too much schmutz to be able to ignore.
So I returned to the freezer where I pulled out another tasty treat: a frozen gluten-freeze organic buckwheat waffle with some sort of allegedly wild, allegedly berries. I fried that in the toaster, since the microwave was occupied reheating the almost full Grande Drip that I got yesterday morning at Starbucks but didn't finish. Finally, as the chefs on the cooking shows say, I plated my food, pouring Real Maple Syrup on my waffle, and sat down to eat, with a napkin no less.
In all fairness, I must finish this culinary expedition exposition by telling you that the absolute best of all the dishes before me was the day-old coffee. Hey, wanna come over for breakfast tomorrow?????? I'll wash the yellow egg ball.....
I pulled the bacon and eggs from the fridge, lucky me to have stocked up last week. And put the bacon in the microwave for 10 seconds--what, you thought I was making it fresh? Puhleeze, don't you know there is pre-cooked bacon on your grocer's shelves. I pulled open a drawer to get the little yellow plastic ball in which I nuke my eggs only to realize it was in the dishwasher. Dirty. So of course I hauled its sorry ass out of there and peered into it (kinda like I would peer at the crotch of dirty underwear to see if they would stand a second wearing when I was in college--are you sensing a motif here?) and saw, much to my regret, too much schmutz to be able to ignore.
So I returned to the freezer where I pulled out another tasty treat: a frozen gluten-freeze organic buckwheat waffle with some sort of allegedly wild, allegedly berries. I fried that in the toaster, since the microwave was occupied reheating the almost full Grande Drip that I got yesterday morning at Starbucks but didn't finish. Finally, as the chefs on the cooking shows say, I plated my food, pouring Real Maple Syrup on my waffle, and sat down to eat, with a napkin no less.
In all fairness, I must finish this culinary expedition exposition by telling you that the absolute best of all the dishes before me was the day-old coffee. Hey, wanna come over for breakfast tomorrow?????? I'll wash the yellow egg ball.....
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
My 200th Post....must be pithy!
But I am so not in a pithy state of mind. (Can we please set that to music and have Jamie Foxx do Ray Charles singing it?)
My mood is [puts-spit on finger to the air] pissy, I would say. When one has so completely fucked up one's life, how else should one feel. One would ask. And one would have no answer.
I am down and out sad. Okay, there; I've said it. And now what? I don't know. That's the problem: I don't know.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
On Being A Mother - Why I'm Not:: Part Two
I promised you this post way back here when I wrote Part One. I didn't intend to get into this today. No, I had a far more intellectual post I want to write for BlogRhet, but epiphanies being what they will, this is what you're getting.
I just watched Leahpeah's interview, now on Alpha Mom, with Amy Storch of amalah.com--and I had an Aha Moment. Amy was telling Leah about the day when she first started working at home full-time and she got so furious with her infant son that she wanted to shake him. She didn't, but the depth of her feeling so scared her that she realized she needed to put him down and leave the room for a minute to calm down. Then she realized that whatever other mom's could or could not do regarding the number of children they could effortlessly handle while still chopping wood and pumping gas, she had met her limit. The solution for her was to get childcare. Amy wrote about it on her blog and the response from women who had felt the same and what they did was overwhelming, she says.
So, here's another response from a woman who felt the same.
The backstory: Miss B, my niece, had the wisdom to be born right in the middle of December, just in time for Christmas vacation. Thus, entire village--namely, my mother, my father, and me--was there in situ during the early weeks of her life. Holding her, feeding her, diapering her; you know, all that stuff. When it was my turn to do the middle of the night feedings, they wheeled her bassinet into the den where I was sleeping on the sofa bed. Now, I am the baby of the family, of all the cousins, in fact, so I had never really spent a lot of time with a newborn in the middle of the night. Certainly I was a dab hand at babysitting, and I prided myself on how I could calm my crying charges. But this middle of the night thing--well, really, how hard could it be.
Let me tell you, short and sharp. Hard.
Miss B was a pacifier baby, which was all to the good as long as she was sucking away. But when she'd fall asleep, those little cheeks would go slack, and, plop, the pacifier would fall out of her mouth. Which would wake her up and cause her to wah wah wah, where's my paci in that relentless way that only a newborn can do. This interfered, as you might imagine, with my sleep. And by dawn of the morning, I was ready to kill her. I tried to think of a way of attaching the pacifier to her mouth. When I was a kid, I had a doll whose hair bow was stuck into her polyvinyl head with a straightpin. I couldn't pin the pacifier to Miss B's cheek. I couldn't do anything. Everytime I'd lie down and start to fall asleep again, she'd be all wah, wah, where's my paci. I remember getting up for the umpteenth time, and standing over her cradle, filled with such, such--a strong desire to shut her up any way possible. I remember the feeling in my arms as I held them by my side with my fists balled. I was shaking with the repressed urge to pick her up and--what? shake her? swing her against the wall? hit her?
In that instant I knew, viscerally knew, how moms end up hurting their kids. I had walked half a block in their shoes, and I was wise enough to know that it was the fact that I had choices, that enabled my repressing that urge. I did not have a house full of other kids. I was not the only one responsible for the baby. I was not post-partum. I did not have a husband nagging and bills waiting. I could, and did, say to my sister and my mom, "nope, not for me. The middle of the nights are yours."
I also did not think, specifically, directly, consciously--ooooh, better not have one of my own that I can't hand off to someone else. I don't even know that I suspected how that night might have played a part in why I just never got around to having kids. Until today. Until I heard Amy tell a similar story about her baby. Until I heard her say that this was a common experience. Then, I realized that I had not known it was common. My mother never expressed such frustration; nor had my sister. I thought I alone was the uncommon woman. I thought, I guess, that I was unnatural, deeply flawed, not Mother Material. So I protected my unborn children in the only way I knew: by not having them.
I just watched Leahpeah's interview, now on Alpha Mom, with Amy Storch of amalah.com--and I had an Aha Moment. Amy was telling Leah about the day when she first started working at home full-time and she got so furious with her infant son that she wanted to shake him. She didn't, but the depth of her feeling so scared her that she realized she needed to put him down and leave the room for a minute to calm down. Then she realized that whatever other mom's could or could not do regarding the number of children they could effortlessly handle while still chopping wood and pumping gas, she had met her limit. The solution for her was to get childcare. Amy wrote about it on her blog and the response from women who had felt the same and what they did was overwhelming, she says.
So, here's another response from a woman who felt the same.
The backstory: Miss B, my niece, had the wisdom to be born right in the middle of December, just in time for Christmas vacation. Thus, entire village--namely, my mother, my father, and me--was there in situ during the early weeks of her life. Holding her, feeding her, diapering her; you know, all that stuff. When it was my turn to do the middle of the night feedings, they wheeled her bassinet into the den where I was sleeping on the sofa bed. Now, I am the baby of the family, of all the cousins, in fact, so I had never really spent a lot of time with a newborn in the middle of the night. Certainly I was a dab hand at babysitting, and I prided myself on how I could calm my crying charges. But this middle of the night thing--well, really, how hard could it be.
Let me tell you, short and sharp. Hard.
Miss B was a pacifier baby, which was all to the good as long as she was sucking away. But when she'd fall asleep, those little cheeks would go slack, and, plop, the pacifier would fall out of her mouth. Which would wake her up and cause her to wah wah wah, where's my paci in that relentless way that only a newborn can do. This interfered, as you might imagine, with my sleep. And by dawn of the morning, I was ready to kill her. I tried to think of a way of attaching the pacifier to her mouth. When I was a kid, I had a doll whose hair bow was stuck into her polyvinyl head with a straightpin. I couldn't pin the pacifier to Miss B's cheek. I couldn't do anything. Everytime I'd lie down and start to fall asleep again, she'd be all wah, wah, where's my paci. I remember getting up for the umpteenth time, and standing over her cradle, filled with such, such--a strong desire to shut her up any way possible. I remember the feeling in my arms as I held them by my side with my fists balled. I was shaking with the repressed urge to pick her up and--what? shake her? swing her against the wall? hit her?
In that instant I knew, viscerally knew, how moms end up hurting their kids. I had walked half a block in their shoes, and I was wise enough to know that it was the fact that I had choices, that enabled my repressing that urge. I did not have a house full of other kids. I was not the only one responsible for the baby. I was not post-partum. I did not have a husband nagging and bills waiting. I could, and did, say to my sister and my mom, "nope, not for me. The middle of the nights are yours."
I also did not think, specifically, directly, consciously--ooooh, better not have one of my own that I can't hand off to someone else. I don't even know that I suspected how that night might have played a part in why I just never got around to having kids. Until today. Until I heard Amy tell a similar story about her baby. Until I heard her say that this was a common experience. Then, I realized that I had not known it was common. My mother never expressed such frustration; nor had my sister. I thought I alone was the uncommon woman. I thought, I guess, that I was unnatural, deeply flawed, not Mother Material. So I protected my unborn children in the only way I knew: by not having them.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Things To Be Thankful For....
1. In the last several days, since I first added it to my blog, I have earned $.07 from Adsense. I am thrilled. Really. I'm actually making money off my writing again which means that once more, when I fill in the blank at the passport office, I can put "Writer."
2. When I'm feeling out of sorts, no one else has to suffer. Although when I'm feeling out of sorts, it's maybe because no one else here.
3. I'm old enough to eat candy for dinner if I want to.
4. I'm smart enough not to.
5. I have a whoopy-de-do kitchen that faces my mega mega screen TV, so when I'm feeling out-of-sorts, I start cooking and watching moronic TV. A & E reality shows about dwarfs. And small female entertainers. (Does A & E have size issues?) It's a good thing that there are a seemingly endless supply of these shows as I'm just not in the mood for anything that may provoke, even in the slightest, an unwelcome thought or feeling. Nah, that's not true. I'm just incredibly shallow. But then I'm also incredibly over-educated. Are the two related??? Go read HerBadMother; she expressed it perfectly (as is her wont).
6. My mother modeled the cook-when-you're-feeling-punky activity. I just realized that when I wondered why the hell I am spending so much time in the kitchen. Cooking. For myself. When I rarely did so when D was around. And I'm making incredibly fresh, nutritious dishes, that I concoct myself, out of just the two or three things I happen to have in the fridge. Today it was golden beets, two kinds of zucchini, fresh garlic heads that I roasted, peeled, sliced and diced and mixed with some great northern beans (or should that be, Great Northern Beans), olive oil and white balsamic. I'll let you know how it is....
7. My hair will not look very good for BlogHer '07, so no one will have to worry about my tresses out-tressing them.
8. I made it onto Second Life today. For a second or two. I have a deep fear that once in, I won't emerge. But today I got in and out. And for that I am thankful.
Love,
Jane
2. When I'm feeling out of sorts, no one else has to suffer. Although when I'm feeling out of sorts, it's maybe because no one else here.
3. I'm old enough to eat candy for dinner if I want to.
4. I'm smart enough not to.
5. I have a whoopy-de-do kitchen that faces my mega mega screen TV, so when I'm feeling out-of-sorts, I start cooking and watching moronic TV. A & E reality shows about dwarfs. And small female entertainers. (Does A & E have size issues?) It's a good thing that there are a seemingly endless supply of these shows as I'm just not in the mood for anything that may provoke, even in the slightest, an unwelcome thought or feeling. Nah, that's not true. I'm just incredibly shallow. But then I'm also incredibly over-educated. Are the two related??? Go read HerBadMother; she expressed it perfectly (as is her wont).
6. My mother modeled the cook-when-you're-feeling-punky activity. I just realized that when I wondered why the hell I am spending so much time in the kitchen. Cooking. For myself. When I rarely did so when D was around. And I'm making incredibly fresh, nutritious dishes, that I concoct myself, out of just the two or three things I happen to have in the fridge. Today it was golden beets, two kinds of zucchini, fresh garlic heads that I roasted, peeled, sliced and diced and mixed with some great northern beans (or should that be, Great Northern Beans), olive oil and white balsamic. I'll let you know how it is....
7. My hair will not look very good for BlogHer '07, so no one will have to worry about my tresses out-tressing them.
8. I made it onto Second Life today. For a second or two. I have a deep fear that once in, I won't emerge. But today I got in and out. And for that I am thankful.
Love,
Jane
Saturday, July 14, 2007
There is a way of moving through life in which what happens becomes a foreground so overwhelming that nothing else is noticed. One moves from moment to moment, reading one’s life as narrative only. The background, all those elements that belong to the senses, are blotted out.
Yesterday was the funeral. I can tell about it, narrate the events. I can point to the oddities. That the setup for a traditional funeral, the folding chairs, the dais, the lectern, were all ignored, or perhaps rejected by the mourners. That her eldest son stood throughout on nearby gravestones. That the eulogy began, “she was a tough old broad,” and devolved to a retelling of old hurts and angers.
But all that is sterile, intellectual. It has neither color nor feeling. The sky is neither blue nor overcast (it was in fact blue). There are no sounds, no smells, no understanding or awareness. I don’t believe this is a case of life lived in the moment. I think it is a problem of life lived as a narrative.
This happened and then that happened. She said, he said. It is the equivalent of a genre novel, say a mystery, in which all of the elements of fiction that create a full-bodied literary experience are sacrificed to plot. It may be a darn good read, but there is no life to the thing once The End is reached.
On the other hand, there is that state of heightened awareness. It wasn’t that things suddenly had great significance, but that time stretched enough for me to see and hear and think and take note. It seems to me that this is the truth of living in the moment.
To live life as a narrative requires two things: the ability to observe, to remain intellectually alert no matter how provocative or evocative the situation. I stand in the midst of this family who have come to bury their mother, a woman with whom I have had a relationship as mother-in-law for over fifteen years, a woman who’s life has touched me in a way I cannot even articulate, but which has resulted in the only strong, organic, consistent writing I’ve done in years. Not seven months ago, I buried my own mother, the woman who was the linchpin of my life.
Yet here that day is what I observe: the oldest son has chosen, unconsciously I’m sure, to stand on the gravestones of someone else’s father. I know this because the Mason’s emblem is prominent in my mind, while I could kick myself for not registering the dead man’s name, birth and death dates. What telling details they would make for my narrative. (Here I must stop and ask myself what narrative I was creating that day: funerals of the rural non-Jew? Repressed sons? Disappointed women?) There is a solitary pot of flowers, baby calla lilies, sent to the funeral home by whom no one is sure or seems to care. One stem has been broken, and the bloom flops like a broken wing. (This detail now makes me want to cry, and I see that my narrative has much to do with the thing in my mother-in-law that has always touched me: what I read, when I create her narrative, as the supremely disappointing life of a woman at the hands of the four men she lived with, three her sons, two of whom are standing now at her graveside).
The sons are awkward in this situation. They have chosen not to have clergy (“Ma wasn’t much for ceremony”) and so it is all up to them to create whatever eulogy they intend their mother to have. “She was a tough old broad,” says the eldest.
“Yeah, she sure was,” says the youngest.
“But she had a hard life to contend with,” says the daughter-in-law.
There are few others at the graveside. Two grandchildren, out of five. A second daughter-in law who is already burnt yellow from the liver cancer that will kill her in two months. A former daughter-in-law whose attendance was not required, or even perhaps desired. She injects the single note of religion into the affair, some talk about Jesus and about the hereafter. She seems to go on forever, although it was probably only a minute or two. The eldest son scuffs his heel on the edge of the gravestone he stood on. The younger looks blank, and his left nostril flicks up ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly. The grandchildren merely look embarrassed. This was not a family of religious note, and even the short sermon was, it seems, inappropriate. When it was over, there was a palpable feeling of relief, and a chorus of muttered “amen…yes, indeed…amen.”
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Breaking Up Is Hard To Do....
This post has nothing to do with D. It's the other two guys in my life that I'm breaking up with. Hugo, the (erstwhile) gardener, and James, the (so-called)hair stylist. I have such a tale of woe, tales of woes, plural that is, so sit a spell and listen while I spill it.
Once upon a time, Hugo was the light of my life, or at the very least, of my yard. Hugo is the fellow who guided us through the landscaping of our front and back yards.
He was patient and funny and understanding of our horticultural quirks (D is an oak tree fanatic; I'm a lilac girl myself) and our quarrels over which plant, when and where (there is, I now regret, little that we couldn't find to argue about). But Hugo was loyal and noble, through it all, a proud emigrant from somewhere in Mexico and yes I believe he had a green card, although his Guys, as he called them, I believe do not. He was also cute, which doesn't hurt a bit, as far as I'm concerned. Even if he did wear a crucifix that would trip a nun. But still, Hugo is what the American dream is about, and he has built a thriving business doing landscaping and lawns all over the area. Perhaps that was the problem.
Hugo and his Guys would come every Friday to mow and weed and do whatever it is they had to do to make the back and front look good. I left it up to Hugo, since I really considered it His Garden. Since I think he considered it His Garden as well. Fertilizing? Let me do it, Senora. Just leave me the plants you want put in and my Guys will dig and plant what you want. You don't have to do nothing; I will do the garden. Don't worry. Just tell me what you want. So I didn't worry, and the first year or so, I left it all to Hugo, who was faithfully here every Friday with his Guys. He did whatever I asked, and then some.
Then, oh maybe seven or so months ago, Hugo started showing up only on the occasional Friday. His Guys still came, but there was no way for me to tell them what I wanted because I speak no Spanish (okay, I can ask for rolls and butter, which is another story entirely) and they spoke no English. None. Nada. We would try to communicate, but perhaps my gesticulations are confusing. We would approach each other with smiles and openness, lots of nods and buenos. But I could tell by the blank look on the Guy's face, his slack mouth and vacant eyes, that nothing, nada, had gotten through. Even though he was nodding and saying Yes, Missus (to show he knew we were speaking English after all).
So I would have to call Hugo at home, and he would have to come over after church on Sunday, tromp round my yard, noting the weeding the Guys had not done. Or the trimming and pruning. Not to mention, where was the fertilizer? And the grass seed he promised? And what happened to the grapes that D has asked him to tie up? Or the poles for the overburdened fruit trees? And what about the lights that didn't work on the $700 lighting system he had installed for us. When would these things happen? Yes, Missus, I'll get my Guys to do it. It's not good enough, Hugo, I told him. You've got to have someone on site who speaks English. I understand if you can't be here every time, but I have to be able to talk to your Guys. Yes, Missus.
He Yes, Missus-ed me for another six months or so. Meanwhile, more and more I took over the gardening chores. I bought tools and implements, and dug a bit and planted tomatoes. I figured out the electronic watering gizmo when the grass in the front started to look really, really, brown. And I bought fertilizer stakes and pounded them into the ground around the fruit trees. I deadheaded the roses, tied them up when the wind blew them over, and got down on my hands and knees and pulled out every weed that was encroaching on my property. Of which there were many, since where we live was once, in the not too distant past, farmland and cow pasture. The things that grow in such places are still in the earth here, waiting the slightest opportunity to return. Mother Nature will win out, you know.
Finally, about a month ago, I called Hugo. Your Guys are doing a terrible job, I told him. They are here for 5 minutes to cut the grass and nothing more. This can't go on. I'm going to have to find someone else. He was contrite. He apologized. He thanked me for telling him and he said mine was the third such phone call he had had recently. I will come out tomorrow and we will fix this as you want it. Please, senora.
Tomorrow never came. That is, a month or more of Fridays have come and gone since that phone call, but Hugo has never appeared. Instead, his Guys have come every Friday and ripped through the lawn mowing. They did do some weeding. And pulled up flowers I had planted. And deadheaded the roses when I wasn't looking. When I first looked at the bush, I thought the thing was dying, it was so sparse and spindly. That's when I saw what they had done. Chomp, chomp, chomp--cut the branches back wherever there had been flowers. Deadheading roses isn't exactly brain surgery, but any fool knows that you cut the stem just before the first five-leaf growth. No, the Guys hacked the roses, and it will be a long time before they recover their fullness and beauty.
Obviously I had to break up with Hugo. Despite my liking him, despite him being so cute (despite the crucifix), and despite all he had done to make my landscaping look so good. Two weeks before the end of the month, I told one of the Guys. This one claimed to speak English. Sort of. So I said. "Two more weeks, then no more. Tell Hugo." The Guy nodded mournfully.
The last Friday, I was sure Hugo would show up. I had his check for him, after all. But, no, he had foresaken me. This is the end, I told the Guy. What shall I do with Hugo's check? The Guy said I could give it to him, and he would give it to Hugo. Not in as many words, but that was the gist.
And then, the next Friday, I heard a familiar sound. The roar of the lawn mower; the whine of the gas (outlawed in LA) leaf blower. I look outside and there were the Guys. Doing their five minute number on the lawn. I was befuddled, not to mention pissed. Had I not made myself clear? I rushed outside, which took me just as long as it took them to finish mowing, and waved my hands, saying, "No, no more. I told you. No more. The end. Finito." Was the Guy's English that awful? Or, was it selective? Was Hugo involved any more in the whole thing, or had he given the Guys our account? I'm beginning to think that's what he did. Maybe he lost us in low stakes poker game. Or sold us to the highest bidder down at the gas station on Florin where all the Guys hang out every day. I'll never know. And I'll always wonder.
For now, I figure I have a couple of weeks to find someone to mow the lawn. When I walk Molly in the morning and I see a gardener, I yell, "Do you speak English?" If he can answer reasonably, I take his name and number. The rest of the gardening--I've been doing it myself for months, so I'll keep on. I like it, actually. I always have.
Part II--The breakup with James tomorrow soon.
Once upon a time, Hugo was the light of my life, or at the very least, of my yard. Hugo is the fellow who guided us through the landscaping of our front and back yards.
He was patient and funny and understanding of our horticultural quirks (D is an oak tree fanatic; I'm a lilac girl myself) and our quarrels over which plant, when and where (there is, I now regret, little that we couldn't find to argue about). But Hugo was loyal and noble, through it all, a proud emigrant from somewhere in Mexico and yes I believe he had a green card, although his Guys, as he called them, I believe do not. He was also cute, which doesn't hurt a bit, as far as I'm concerned. Even if he did wear a crucifix that would trip a nun. But still, Hugo is what the American dream is about, and he has built a thriving business doing landscaping and lawns all over the area. Perhaps that was the problem.
Hugo and his Guys would come every Friday to mow and weed and do whatever it is they had to do to make the back and front look good. I left it up to Hugo, since I really considered it His Garden. Since I think he considered it His Garden as well. Fertilizing? Let me do it, Senora. Just leave me the plants you want put in and my Guys will dig and plant what you want. You don't have to do nothing; I will do the garden. Don't worry. Just tell me what you want. So I didn't worry, and the first year or so, I left it all to Hugo, who was faithfully here every Friday with his Guys. He did whatever I asked, and then some.
Then, oh maybe seven or so months ago, Hugo started showing up only on the occasional Friday. His Guys still came, but there was no way for me to tell them what I wanted because I speak no Spanish (okay, I can ask for rolls and butter, which is another story entirely) and they spoke no English. None. Nada. We would try to communicate, but perhaps my gesticulations are confusing. We would approach each other with smiles and openness, lots of nods and buenos. But I could tell by the blank look on the Guy's face, his slack mouth and vacant eyes, that nothing, nada, had gotten through. Even though he was nodding and saying Yes, Missus (to show he knew we were speaking English after all).
So I would have to call Hugo at home, and he would have to come over after church on Sunday, tromp round my yard, noting the weeding the Guys had not done. Or the trimming and pruning. Not to mention, where was the fertilizer? And the grass seed he promised? And what happened to the grapes that D has asked him to tie up? Or the poles for the overburdened fruit trees? And what about the lights that didn't work on the $700 lighting system he had installed for us. When would these things happen? Yes, Missus, I'll get my Guys to do it. It's not good enough, Hugo, I told him. You've got to have someone on site who speaks English. I understand if you can't be here every time, but I have to be able to talk to your Guys. Yes, Missus.
He Yes, Missus-ed me for another six months or so. Meanwhile, more and more I took over the gardening chores. I bought tools and implements, and dug a bit and planted tomatoes. I figured out the electronic watering gizmo when the grass in the front started to look really, really, brown. And I bought fertilizer stakes and pounded them into the ground around the fruit trees. I deadheaded the roses, tied them up when the wind blew them over, and got down on my hands and knees and pulled out every weed that was encroaching on my property. Of which there were many, since where we live was once, in the not too distant past, farmland and cow pasture. The things that grow in such places are still in the earth here, waiting the slightest opportunity to return. Mother Nature will win out, you know.
Finally, about a month ago, I called Hugo. Your Guys are doing a terrible job, I told him. They are here for 5 minutes to cut the grass and nothing more. This can't go on. I'm going to have to find someone else. He was contrite. He apologized. He thanked me for telling him and he said mine was the third such phone call he had had recently. I will come out tomorrow and we will fix this as you want it. Please, senora.
Tomorrow never came. That is, a month or more of Fridays have come and gone since that phone call, but Hugo has never appeared. Instead, his Guys have come every Friday and ripped through the lawn mowing. They did do some weeding. And pulled up flowers I had planted. And deadheaded the roses when I wasn't looking. When I first looked at the bush, I thought the thing was dying, it was so sparse and spindly. That's when I saw what they had done. Chomp, chomp, chomp--cut the branches back wherever there had been flowers. Deadheading roses isn't exactly brain surgery, but any fool knows that you cut the stem just before the first five-leaf growth. No, the Guys hacked the roses, and it will be a long time before they recover their fullness and beauty.
Obviously I had to break up with Hugo. Despite my liking him, despite him being so cute (despite the crucifix), and despite all he had done to make my landscaping look so good. Two weeks before the end of the month, I told one of the Guys. This one claimed to speak English. Sort of. So I said. "Two more weeks, then no more. Tell Hugo." The Guy nodded mournfully.
The last Friday, I was sure Hugo would show up. I had his check for him, after all. But, no, he had foresaken me. This is the end, I told the Guy. What shall I do with Hugo's check? The Guy said I could give it to him, and he would give it to Hugo. Not in as many words, but that was the gist.
And then, the next Friday, I heard a familiar sound. The roar of the lawn mower; the whine of the gas (outlawed in LA) leaf blower. I look outside and there were the Guys. Doing their five minute number on the lawn. I was befuddled, not to mention pissed. Had I not made myself clear? I rushed outside, which took me just as long as it took them to finish mowing, and waved my hands, saying, "No, no more. I told you. No more. The end. Finito." Was the Guy's English that awful? Or, was it selective? Was Hugo involved any more in the whole thing, or had he given the Guys our account? I'm beginning to think that's what he did. Maybe he lost us in low stakes poker game. Or sold us to the highest bidder down at the gas station on Florin where all the Guys hang out every day. I'll never know. And I'll always wonder.
For now, I figure I have a couple of weeks to find someone to mow the lawn. When I walk Molly in the morning and I see a gardener, I yell, "Do you speak English?" If he can answer reasonably, I take his name and number. The rest of the gardening--I've been doing it myself for months, so I'll keep on. I like it, actually. I always have.
Part II--The breakup with James tomorrow soon.
Sunday, July 08, 2007
Mea Culpa...
The drive to LA takes 6-7 hours, depending on all the variables that time and distance offer. I go on 5, the IntraState, the big, wonking highway that all the truck drivers use as well. It goes, for me, from Elk Grove to Stockton, down through the Central Valley, the home of America's Big-time Agribusiness. No sweet little farms here. Just acres and acres, miles and miles of arable dirt in various stages of production: tilled, sowed, growing, harvested. The total effect is brown. Dirty brown. It's as boring as pig shit*. Speaking of which, scenic route 5 also is home to--okay, not pigs, but cows. So let's revise that to, it's as boring as cow shit. Of which there is an amazing amount. There are feed lots along the highway where they bring in cattle to fatten 'em up for the--well, you know what. The cows, thousands of them, just stand seemingly by the road, for miles inland, chewing and shitting, shitting and chewing. The smell is beyond belief. It's enough to gag a maggot.*
(*I'd like to thank my college roommate, Harriet, for both of these metaphors. If they seem somewhat dated--well, you know how long ago I went to college)
I tell you all this so you have some idea of what I endured during those 6-7 hours down to LA. And the 6-7 hours back home. Alone. By myself, that is. The radio--oh, the radio gets for most of the trip a choice of Spanish-speaking stations, Country & Western or Save-Me-Jesus stations. I don't speak Spanish. I like C & W, but it's all a bit too tragic for me these days, so I spent some considerable time listening to Pastor Whatchamacallit trying to convince me to give up my life for the Lord. Or, at the least, send him, Pastor W, a donation so he could pray to the Almighty that my sinning soul would be saved. I was unmoved, beyond noting that these guys are all heavily into the Old Testament,and they are also overly-partial to Paul, who as best I can tell had lots to say about women and hair. But then I'm Jewish, so I may have misunderstood.
All of this--yes, I have a point and I am getting to it--is to say that I spent some 13-14 hours by myself in the car, and something odd happened. My point of view began to change. On this whole thing, this marriage stuff, with D. After a couple of hours of regurgitating my plaints, poor me, bad him, oh woe, I suddenly had what might be called a chiropractic adjustment of the psyche. I started, maybe just out of sheer boredom, to think through the whole thing again but to see it through his eyes. Oh wow.
Suddenly, all the stuff that he was saying and doing made complete sense. I got It. Really got It. And I saw how much of all we have and have not become has been because of what I wasn't, rather than what he wasn't. Basically, I saw that I have been over the years so focused on ME ME ME and what I should have or want or need that I stopped seeing him. Stopped hearing him. Stopped being with him.
This is huge. D has said from time to time that I can be an obnoxious asshole. He's right. I can, and I have. There is something incredibly liberating about realizing this. Maybe because realizing my culpability also realizes my self-determination.
(*I'd like to thank my college roommate, Harriet, for both of these metaphors. If they seem somewhat dated--well, you know how long ago I went to college)
I tell you all this so you have some idea of what I endured during those 6-7 hours down to LA. And the 6-7 hours back home. Alone. By myself, that is. The radio--oh, the radio gets for most of the trip a choice of Spanish-speaking stations, Country & Western or Save-Me-Jesus stations. I don't speak Spanish. I like C & W, but it's all a bit too tragic for me these days, so I spent some considerable time listening to Pastor Whatchamacallit trying to convince me to give up my life for the Lord. Or, at the least, send him, Pastor W, a donation so he could pray to the Almighty that my sinning soul would be saved. I was unmoved, beyond noting that these guys are all heavily into the Old Testament,and they are also overly-partial to Paul, who as best I can tell had lots to say about women and hair. But then I'm Jewish, so I may have misunderstood.
All of this--yes, I have a point and I am getting to it--is to say that I spent some 13-14 hours by myself in the car, and something odd happened. My point of view began to change. On this whole thing, this marriage stuff, with D. After a couple of hours of regurgitating my plaints, poor me, bad him, oh woe, I suddenly had what might be called a chiropractic adjustment of the psyche. I started, maybe just out of sheer boredom, to think through the whole thing again but to see it through his eyes. Oh wow.
Suddenly, all the stuff that he was saying and doing made complete sense. I got It. Really got It. And I saw how much of all we have and have not become has been because of what I wasn't, rather than what he wasn't. Basically, I saw that I have been over the years so focused on ME ME ME and what I should have or want or need that I stopped seeing him. Stopped hearing him. Stopped being with him.
This is huge. D has said from time to time that I can be an obnoxious asshole. He's right. I can, and I have. There is something incredibly liberating about realizing this. Maybe because realizing my culpability also realizes my self-determination.
Friday, July 06, 2007
Birthday Report...
Here's what happened:
My birthday presents were:
I have much to report from my trip. I will save that for tomorrow....
I am catching up on blogs that I missed while away, but definitely wanted to wish a happy happy happy birthday to all of you who are fellow Cancers. Did you know we're in for a rocky six months relationship-wise? And I wondered why all this was befalling me. It's in the stars, kids!
- Taken to lunch by my sister, BIL, and Kayla. Thought we were getting sushi. Sushi restaurant closed for American holiday. Ended up eating Mexican. And this was fine, since I have been in California long enough to get a palate, however small, for Mexican food. It's only taken about 25 years! And I still don't get the heat factor. After two mouthsful (or should that be mouthfuls?) of something hot, my taste buds spasm and nothing I put in my mouth after that has any flavor. So what's the point, I ask? None, I answer--and try to avoid any but the mildest dishes. Don't be giving me none of that salsa stuff; I take my chips plain, like my men.
- Taken to dinner by my sister, BIL, First Niece and family. Lobster. Yes. And oysters. And chocolate cake.
My birthday presents were:
- gold bracelet from sister and BIL
- paisley wool shawl from sister and BIL
- little enamel box in shape of a popcorn wagon from First Niece and family
- sweater from FN, etc.
- Pokeman coloring book from Kayla
- Pokeman cutouts from Sam
I have much to report from my trip. I will save that for tomorrow....
I am catching up on blogs that I missed while away, but definitely wanted to wish a happy happy happy birthday to all of you who are fellow Cancers. Did you know we're in for a rocky six months relationship-wise? And I wondered why all this was befalling me. It's in the stars, kids!
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
So quick quick quick...
...I have about thirtyfive seconds before I get called to dinner, and I just wanna say--
hey, I've missed you all. My computer doesn't work at my sister's house and my BIL is doing major geneology (or whatever retired people do) on his, so I haven't been able to post. I'm at Oldest Niece's now, waiting for the July 4th spread. Tomorrow AM I go back home, so look for sincere and rigorous posting after that.
Till then....smack a yankee doodle for me....!
hey, I've missed you all. My computer doesn't work at my sister's house and my BIL is doing major geneology (or whatever retired people do) on his, so I haven't been able to post. I'm at Oldest Niece's now, waiting for the July 4th spread. Tomorrow AM I go back home, so look for sincere and rigorous posting after that.
Till then....smack a yankee doodle for me....!
Sunday, July 01, 2007
Words...
Tomorrow I am going to LA for my birthday, so posting will be scant for the next couple of days. However I leave you with the word for the day, and give you permission to imagine why....
ob·du·rate
[ob-doo-rit, -dyoo-] Pronunciation Key - Show IPA Pronunciation
—Related forms
ob·du·rate
[ob-doo-rit, -dyoo-] Pronunciation Key - Show IPA Pronunciation –adjective
| 1. | unmoved by persuasion, pity, or tender feelings; stubborn; unyielding. |
| 2. | stubbornly resistant to moral influence; persistently impenitent: an obdurate sinner. |
[Origin: 1400–50; late ME obdurat <>obdūrātus (ptp. of obdūrāre to harden), equiv. to ob- ob- + dūr(us) hard + -ātus -ate1]
] —Related forms
ob·du·rate·ly, adverb
ob·du·rate·ness, noun
—Synonyms 1. hard, obstinate, callous, unbending, inflexible. 2. unregenerate, reprobate, shameless.
—Antonyms 1. soft, tractable. 2. humble, repentant.
Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.1)
Based on the Random House Unabridged Dictionary, © Random House, Inc. 200
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Why I Write
I am quite sad today. It has been a week since any contact with D. I’m having those moments of abject amazement that after decades living in each other’s pockets, we have come to this. I don’t know how he feels about it, obviously, but I’m assuming he’s okay with it. Doin’ all right. Makin’ out. Whatever.
How do guys do that, turn their backs so completely on a relationship? It happened to me once before, in college. One minute I had a boyfriend and the next he was telling me that he had succeeding in putting me out of his mind. An act of will, to what end I’m not sure. Maybe that summer vacation was beginning. Maybe that I wouldn’t put out. I still remember sitting in the park, at night, on a bench and listening to him say that he’d just made up his mind not to care for me anymore. My mouth is still hanging open at that one.
The meme on BlogRhet asked: Can you point to a stage where you began to feel that your blog might be part of a conversation? Where you might be part of a community of interacting writers? When did that happen for me? In stages, incrementally, often microscopically. First, there were the people I actually had relationships with before blogging, and then came the people I met through blogging. And then people who I've never seen and maybe never will. But they're in my heart and--
--I just realized--they're in my head. They are the people in my head for whom I am "articulat[ing] something reasonable and truthful." And the act of doing so to my blogging community is vital to me. Non-bloggers often assume that what we do is just an on-line journal, and for some that may be. But for me, it goes beyond the bounds of a journal. My journals over the years are so full of woe and pathos, even I can't bear to read some of them. I just spill it all out there, guts on the page, inarticulate, pure emotion.
Because I am part of a community of bloggers, I know I'm being heard. And that makes me not alone.
Blogito ergo sum....indeed.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
The Newly-Single Woman Goes Food Shopping
...and what she buys--well, just have a look.
I spent just about what I always spend at the supermarket, give or take a dollar or two (or ten)(or twenty). But there was a noticeable difference in what I bought. I haven't exactly reached the cat food and powdered milk stage, but I think the perceptive reader can tell there's a change in my larder.
For example, Coke Diet 6-8 oz. Have you seen these 8 oz. cans? They're kinda compressed, sort of midget versions of the real thing. I bought them because I never finish my Cokes, and before I was newly-single they would hang around the refrigerator going flat. And annoying D. Who could drink a 12-pack of Diet Coke in 36 hours.
If you scan both photos, you'll see that there is no meat. NO MEAT! Where's the beef? It's not a meal if there's no meat. Gotta have meat. This was the mantra I lived by before I was newly-single. But now--ha! I get to eat what I want, when I want. Maybe I will eat meat and maybe I won't. My call--tra la la!
There are, of course, the obligatory diet frozen dinners for those evenings when I just don't feel like cooking. Before I was newly-single, those were the nights we ate fast food. My cousin wrote Fast Food Nation, so I know how awful that stuff is for you. Now stocked up as I am with Lean Gourmet Meals, I can get my engineered food and multi-syllabic chemical additives without leaving the comfort of my own home.
Then there's the Nature's Path Organic Optimum Zen cereal. This was an impulse buy, I must confess; I went originally for Cheerio's. But how, in my current situation, could I resist a breakfast food that promised me "a 'Zen' moment, where health, mental balance, spiritual fulfillment come together and you can 'be' the best that you are." I'm really liking that whole mindfulness thing, so why shouldn't my stomach benefit as well.
You can see I bought lots of produce. Grapes and cherries. For me. All for me! And salad stuff and single serving cans of tuna and beans and cantaloupe and my own mini watermelon, which is listed as Org Personal H2O (which the wicked might think was a strange device for pleasuring onesself, but it's merely the supermarket's way of cataloging Very, Very, Very Small Watermelon).
And finally, you'll notice the last two items are digestive-related. A bit close to the cat food model, perhaps, but don't you think that a newly-single woman has earned the right to her heartburn.
I spent just about what I always spend at the supermarket, give or take a dollar or two (or ten)(or twenty). But there was a noticeable difference in what I bought. I haven't exactly reached the cat food and powdered milk stage, but I think the perceptive reader can tell there's a change in my larder.
For example, Coke Diet 6-8 oz. Have you seen these 8 oz. cans? They're kinda compressed, sort of midget versions of the real thing. I bought them because I never finish my Cokes, and before I was newly-single they would hang around the refrigerator going flat. And annoying D. Who could drink a 12-pack of Diet Coke in 36 hours.
If you scan both photos, you'll see that there is no meat. NO MEAT! Where's the beef? It's not a meal if there's no meat. Gotta have meat. This was the mantra I lived by before I was newly-single. But now--ha! I get to eat what I want, when I want. Maybe I will eat meat and maybe I won't. My call--tra la la!
There are, of course, the obligatory diet frozen dinners for those evenings when I just don't feel like cooking. Before I was newly-single, those were the nights we ate fast food. My cousin wrote Fast Food Nation, so I know how awful that stuff is for you. Now stocked up as I am with Lean Gourmet Meals, I can get my engineered food and multi-syllabic chemical additives without leaving the comfort of my own home.
Then there's the Nature's Path Organic Optimum Zen cereal. This was an impulse buy, I must confess; I went originally for Cheerio's. But how, in my current situation, could I resist a breakfast food that promised me "a 'Zen' moment, where health, mental balance, spiritual fulfillment come together and you can 'be' the best that you are." I'm really liking that whole mindfulness thing, so why shouldn't my stomach benefit as well.
You can see I bought lots of produce. Grapes and cherries. For me. All for me! And salad stuff and single serving cans of tuna and beans and cantaloupe and my own mini watermelon, which is listed as Org Personal H2O (which the wicked might think was a strange device for pleasuring onesself, but it's merely the supermarket's way of cataloging Very, Very, Very Small Watermelon).
And finally, you'll notice the last two items are digestive-related. A bit close to the cat food model, perhaps, but don't you think that a newly-single woman has earned the right to her heartburn.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Why I Have Not Posted Since Last Week...
...no good reason. Or maybe that should be, no good reason to post. You'll forgive me if my head is somewhere over my left elbow these days, and my scintillating self has gone into retrograde (like Saturn, or is it Jupiter?).
My last post notwithstanding (and what the fuck does that actually mean?), I spent all of Saturday cleaning my house. There is a certain kind of cleaning that I really do enjoy: it's the once in a blue moon, only when I feel like it deep cleaning. Saturday I turned on the TV and Got At The Floors.
First I swept and then I Swiffered and then I Swiffered with wet stuff. I have tile floors that look like something from the Getty Museum (at least, I think so), and they do, as the Brits would say, come up all nice when they're clean. I also Swiffer Carpet Flicked the area rug. Several times, since Molly likes to chomp on her crunchies while lying on the rug, and she will get crumbs, you know.
You might be asking why I didn't just vacuum the whole thing, and that is, of course and indeed, a legitimate question. Particularly since there are several vacuums in the house. But they are Electroluxes, the cannister kind with a long hose and attachments. It isn't that they belong to the former man-of-the-house--which they do and he is a cannister vacuum junkie. It is that I have found in my vast experience with floors that I cannot bear dragging the cannister along like a recalcitrant dog whining at the end of a leash.
Along with my Swiffer activities, I did some redecorating. I had the Home & Garden channel on, so I was inspired I suppose. I rearranged tschokes and pictures, made little arrangements, as they tell you to do, of bullshitty whatnot stuff that I've had lying around for ages. I actually went shopping in my own house for knicknacks. It was fun. I had a good time. I went to bed happy.
But really, when all is said and done, what I was really doing is no more than a cat does when he marks his territory. I was claiming the house as mine and mine alone. Or almost. Maybe.
My last post notwithstanding (and what the fuck does that actually mean?), I spent all of Saturday cleaning my house. There is a certain kind of cleaning that I really do enjoy: it's the once in a blue moon, only when I feel like it deep cleaning. Saturday I turned on the TV and Got At The Floors.
First I swept and then I Swiffered and then I Swiffered with wet stuff. I have tile floors that look like something from the Getty Museum (at least, I think so), and they do, as the Brits would say, come up all nice when they're clean. I also Swiffer Carpet Flicked the area rug. Several times, since Molly likes to chomp on her crunchies while lying on the rug, and she will get crumbs, you know.
You might be asking why I didn't just vacuum the whole thing, and that is, of course and indeed, a legitimate question. Particularly since there are several vacuums in the house. But they are Electroluxes, the cannister kind with a long hose and attachments. It isn't that they belong to the former man-of-the-house--which they do and he is a cannister vacuum junkie. It is that I have found in my vast experience with floors that I cannot bear dragging the cannister along like a recalcitrant dog whining at the end of a leash.
Along with my Swiffer activities, I did some redecorating. I had the Home & Garden channel on, so I was inspired I suppose. I rearranged tschokes and pictures, made little arrangements, as they tell you to do, of bullshitty whatnot stuff that I've had lying around for ages. I actually went shopping in my own house for knicknacks. It was fun. I had a good time. I went to bed happy.
But really, when all is said and done, what I was really doing is no more than a cat does when he marks his territory. I was claiming the house as mine and mine alone. Or almost. Maybe.
Friday, June 22, 2007
To Tell The Truth...
...about the bold-faced lies.
5. My athleticism is such that I could be a professional swimmer if only it didn't require my getting wet.
This is my problem with all swimming, be it pool or ocean, mighty flail or dip of toe: it's the wetness factor. I don't like it. Because it's--wet. What can I say? Maybe my mother bathed me too often as a baby. Maybe I was a harpooned whale in another life. Whatever, I avoid it at all costs when it takes place outside the boundaries of my toilette. Even as a child, I wasn't partial to the water. I didn't avoid it then as I do now, but once in, I was never quite sure what to do. Was there any pleasure in mindlessly churning up and down and aisle? Noooooooooooo. So what else was there to do? Once in high school and college, there were some other interesting things to do, provided a person with a penis was present. But beyond that, and now past that, what's the point?
The real lie, however, is in the first clause, the one about my athleticism. Ha! And double ha!
8. I am a neat-freak who would rather clean than do anything else.
Let's put it this way: I feel about cleaning as I do about getting wet. What's the point? The endless, endless monotony of it. O, whine whine mighty whine. Thus, I have cherished several adages told to me by women in the know. My first mother-in-law once said, "Tidy little people have tidy little minds." And my own mother insisted, "I didn't bring my daughters up to be maids." I didn't know what she meant until I realized that most mothers had their daughters doing Saturday morning KP as a regular stint, to teach them how to clean, for chrissakes, to instruct them in the humble but worthy arts of housewifery. Mine didn't.
9. I have been pregnant three times.
With laughter, as my mother would say. But not with baby, fetus, or even a lowly zygote. I've written about this before. It wasn't intentional and I do keep my eye on those oldest mom in the world stories. I've still got some time to go, I figure, if the upper limit is 6o-something. But to date, no: never had a bun in the oven.
So there you have it, the truth about my bold-faced lies. Ten tales, only four are false. That leaves 1, 2, 3, 6, 7, and 11 as the truth. The facts, m'am (and you sirs as well), just the facts.....
5. My athleticism is such that I could be a professional swimmer if only it didn't require my getting wet.
This is my problem with all swimming, be it pool or ocean, mighty flail or dip of toe: it's the wetness factor. I don't like it. Because it's--wet. What can I say? Maybe my mother bathed me too often as a baby. Maybe I was a harpooned whale in another life. Whatever, I avoid it at all costs when it takes place outside the boundaries of my toilette. Even as a child, I wasn't partial to the water. I didn't avoid it then as I do now, but once in, I was never quite sure what to do. Was there any pleasure in mindlessly churning up and down and aisle? Noooooooooooo. So what else was there to do? Once in high school and college, there were some other interesting things to do, provided a person with a penis was present. But beyond that, and now past that, what's the point?
The real lie, however, is in the first clause, the one about my athleticism. Ha! And double ha!
8. I am a neat-freak who would rather clean than do anything else.
Let's put it this way: I feel about cleaning as I do about getting wet. What's the point? The endless, endless monotony of it. O, whine whine mighty whine. Thus, I have cherished several adages told to me by women in the know. My first mother-in-law once said, "Tidy little people have tidy little minds." And my own mother insisted, "I didn't bring my daughters up to be maids." I didn't know what she meant until I realized that most mothers had their daughters doing Saturday morning KP as a regular stint, to teach them how to clean, for chrissakes, to instruct them in the humble but worthy arts of housewifery. Mine didn't.
9. I have been pregnant three times.
With laughter, as my mother would say. But not with baby, fetus, or even a lowly zygote. I've written about this before. It wasn't intentional and I do keep my eye on those oldest mom in the world stories. I've still got some time to go, I figure, if the upper limit is 6o-something. But to date, no: never had a bun in the oven.
So there you have it, the truth about my bold-faced lies. Ten tales, only four are false. That leaves 1, 2, 3, 6, 7, and 11 as the truth. The facts, m'am (and you sirs as well), just the facts.....
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
I Feel Sleepy, Very Sleepy, So Slee--
I'm fine as long as I'm upright, but the moment I sit at the computer, I begin to sink into the chair and drone into some slllllloooooooooowwww alpha state. I'm trying to do stuff, to get things done, to achieve and make much of my life, but I feel sleepy, so sleepy--!
This morning on my long walk with Molly, I saw a huge white rabbit, complete with big, perky ears. I did a double take. To see a hare on my walk, or ducks, geese, edible birds of all sort is not unusual. But a white rabbit? The Easter Bunny? And it was --did I mention this--huge. I know I saw it, but my life is such that maybe I didn't. Or maybe it was my father come down to beat the shit out of D for abandoning his little girl. You can see where my mind is these days.
Speaking of my father (yes, the emparadised one), did I ever tell you that I carry a picture of him in the console of my car? Sort of like a photographic St. Christopher. Yesterday I took it out--because I was stuffing yet another gas receipt in the console--and put it in my Date Book, which I was carrying to my appointment with the lawyer. What do you think of them apples, Harold Darling, I asked him. He didn't answer, but I can tell he isn't pleased.
The response to my Meme in Quarter Time was so fantastic that I've had to forego the prizes, since there were so many I couldn't possibly choose. I will now, however, begin the backstories. Don't know how far I'll get today, because remember that I feel sooooo sleeeeeepy. So maybe I'll just get the Bold-faced Lies out of the way to begin with:
4. I love Progressive Jazz.
Wrong. I hate Progressive Jazz. It is the only kind of music I have absolutely no tolerance for. Rap, yes. Country/western, certainly. Rock, pop, folk, and classical--yep, yep, yep, and yep. Progressive Jazz--nope. It's just noise to me. I get that there are improvisations and trills and drills and recurring whatevers, but that's all intellectual as far as I'm concerned. Maybe I'm not smart enough. That has occurred to me, since my sense is that Progressive Jazz is the province
of intellectuals. If so, call me dumb; or call me someone who needs more melody, more heart, more emotion in her music.
This morning on my long walk with Molly, I saw a huge white rabbit, complete with big, perky ears. I did a double take. To see a hare on my walk, or ducks, geese, edible birds of all sort is not unusual. But a white rabbit? The Easter Bunny? And it was --did I mention this--huge. I know I saw it, but my life is such that maybe I didn't. Or maybe it was my father come down to beat the shit out of D for abandoning his little girl. You can see where my mind is these days.
Speaking of my father (yes, the emparadised one), did I ever tell you that I carry a picture of him in the console of my car? Sort of like a photographic St. Christopher. Yesterday I took it out--because I was stuffing yet another gas receipt in the console--and put it in my Date Book, which I was carrying to my appointment with the lawyer. What do you think of them apples, Harold Darling, I asked him. He didn't answer, but I can tell he isn't pleased.
The response to my Meme in Quarter Time was so fantastic that I've had to forego the prizes, since there were so many I couldn't possibly choose. I will now, however, begin the backstories. Don't know how far I'll get today, because remember that I feel sooooo sleeeeeepy. So maybe I'll just get the Bold-faced Lies out of the way to begin with:
4. I love Progressive Jazz.
Wrong. I hate Progressive Jazz. It is the only kind of music I have absolutely no tolerance for. Rap, yes. Country/western, certainly. Rock, pop, folk, and classical--yep, yep, yep, and yep. Progressive Jazz--nope. It's just noise to me. I get that there are improvisations and trills and drills and recurring whatevers, but that's all intellectual as far as I'm concerned. Maybe I'm not smart enough. That has occurred to me, since my sense is that Progressive Jazz is the province
of intellectuals. If so, call me dumb; or call me someone who needs more melody, more heart, more emotion in her music.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Two Weddings, Two Divorces
The first time I got married, I wasn't exactly blushing, but I certainly marched down the aisle in full regalia. I was married at Heinz Chapel, which is an 18th century reproduction of a 16th century church in Europe, somewhere. It's got gorgeous stained windows, six feet high, depicting what I can't quite remember, but it seems to me that blue, deep dark blue is the prominent color. You'll forgive me for my sketchiness of details: it was a long time ago and I was really just a girl then, full of hope and dreams and fantasies about what my marriage would be. That it wasn't could have been predicted at the moment, but how was I to know that.
The second time I got married, it was in my parents living room. My sister played me in to Here Comes The Bride on my dad's electric organ, and the only people present were those family members who were my nearest and dearest. I wore an elegant silk suit in a champagne color, size 7 if you please. We drove to Oregon to honeymoon, and perhaps the result of that marriage might have been predicted by the sight that greeted me the first morning: dead moose heads in various stages of decomposition jammed on fence posts.
I thought of the difference between my two weddings this morning when I sat in the lawyer's office and listened to her tell me the drill. It didn't sound familiar, even though I must have gone through it once before. I couldn't figure out why and then I thought of how Marriage Number One came to an end: not with a bang, but a whimper. I left the marriage but didn't divorce until some, oh, say, about ten years later when a friend who was a lawyer could not stand it anymore and prepared all the papers for me. All I had to do was show up in the court room and respond to the judge's "is-it-true-that-irreconcilable-differences" spiel in the affirmative.
This time promises to be somewhat different. I really will have to be engaged in the process, which is ironic considering that in #1, I engineered the breakup, and now in #2, I haven't. Another irony: big fancy wedding>puny little divorce; puny little wedding>big fancy divorce. I'm not sure what, if anything, to make of that.
The second time I got married, it was in my parents living room. My sister played me in to Here Comes The Bride on my dad's electric organ, and the only people present were those family members who were my nearest and dearest. I wore an elegant silk suit in a champagne color, size 7 if you please. We drove to Oregon to honeymoon, and perhaps the result of that marriage might have been predicted by the sight that greeted me the first morning: dead moose heads in various stages of decomposition jammed on fence posts.
I thought of the difference between my two weddings this morning when I sat in the lawyer's office and listened to her tell me the drill. It didn't sound familiar, even though I must have gone through it once before. I couldn't figure out why and then I thought of how Marriage Number One came to an end: not with a bang, but a whimper. I left the marriage but didn't divorce until some, oh, say, about ten years later when a friend who was a lawyer could not stand it anymore and prepared all the papers for me. All I had to do was show up in the court room and respond to the judge's "is-it-true-that-irreconcilable-differences" spiel in the affirmative.
This time promises to be somewhat different. I really will have to be engaged in the process, which is ironic considering that in #1, I engineered the breakup, and now in #2, I haven't. Another irony: big fancy wedding>puny little divorce; puny little wedding>big fancy divorce. I'm not sure what, if anything, to make of that.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Ten Bold-Faced Lies, a meme in quarter time
Karen, formerly of Troll Baby now renamed Vodkarella, has a meme going that appeals to me, for various reasons. She's created a list of ten personal statements, some of which are true and some of which are bold-faced lies, i.e., patently untrue, that is, without verisimilitude. She's asking people to guess which are the true and which are the false. Every couple of days, she writes the backstory of one of the truths. And she seems to be awarding some sort of prizes, which seem to be some sort of YouTube hit, but I could be wrong about that. Whatever. I came in the middle of the contest, just enough time to steal it for my own (in the writing biz, this may be called collaboration). I like the idea because it is (a) interactive (which they say is just a down home bonus for all blogs), and (b) it gives me something to write about other than the sorry state of my affairs.
So--here are my ten statements, some true, some not. Which are which? You can answer in comments, or email me (my email is somewhere on this site, isn't it?????). I will find something suitable with which to award the winners. And I will be posting the back-stories as the contest progresses (and even if it doesn't--so there!)
1. I won a date with a famous pop star when I was in high school.
2. I have never been a blonde.
3. After three years of high school I went to college, and after three years there, I was asked to leave
4. I love Progressive Jazz.
5. My athleticism is such that I could be a professional swimmer if only it didn't require my getting wet.
6. I once peed in my pants in the street in New Barnet, Herts.
7. The name I go by now is not the name I used to go by, but it is the name I went by once.
8. I am a neat-freak who would rather clean than do almost anything else.
9. I have been pregnant three times.
10. In sixth grade, I was named Miss Irresponsibility and held the record for being paddled more than any other student, female or male.
So--here are my ten statements, some true, some not. Which are which? You can answer in comments, or email me (my email is somewhere on this site, isn't it?????). I will find something suitable with which to award the winners. And I will be posting the back-stories as the contest progresses (and even if it doesn't--so there!)
1. I won a date with a famous pop star when I was in high school.
2. I have never been a blonde.
3. After three years of high school I went to college, and after three years there, I was asked to leave
4. I love Progressive Jazz.
5. My athleticism is such that I could be a professional swimmer if only it didn't require my getting wet.
6. I once peed in my pants in the street in New Barnet, Herts.
7. The name I go by now is not the name I used to go by, but it is the name I went by once.
8. I am a neat-freak who would rather clean than do almost anything else.
9. I have been pregnant three times.
10. In sixth grade, I was named Miss Irresponsibility and held the record for being paddled more than any other student, female or male.
Friday, June 15, 2007
If You're Lucky, You May Get This For Christmas...
...or even if you're not. It's my latest foray into felting, this time Dry-Felting, nay, Needle-Felting. Bet you didn't know there are so many different kinds of felting. Bet some of you don't even know what felting is...poor schmucks.
When I was a kid, my older cousin Ernest (who fit his name quite well) was given a kit for making enameled jewelry. There were various pieces of copper onto which Ernie placed--I don't know, what would it be, glass shards? powdered glass? He then fired it up in his little kiln. And toute suite, out came a piece of jewelry. Which he gave as gifts to everyone in the family, cousins, aunts, uncles, you name it. The first time, it was quite a treat. Ooooh Ernie, so beautiful, thank you so much. By the third and fourth and fifth and sixth holiday season, we were groaning when we saw him lumbering up the front walk, hauling a bulky bag of oddly-wrapped gifts, like some moon-faced, Jewish Santa visiting the shetl. Oooo Ernie, you shouldn't have.....
I will try not to be an Ernie with my felting, but I am sooooooo in love with the process. And you know how few are my pleasures these days....
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Don't Slam The Door....
So here I am in my newly-emptied house. It's not really empty. Just the clothes and the books and the paintings and the man are gone.
For the past few days, he has been filling the SUV, newly registered in his name, with stuff. The garage, which we had specially fitted-out so it could be his studio, took the longest time. And made the smallest dent in my perception. But then, sometime yesterday or maybe the night before, I started to notice. A favorite painting that I sort of considered 'mine' was gone. And his clothes--there are few things sadder, it seems to me, than a closetfull of empty hangers. Of course, the good news is that I will probably never have to buy plastic hangers again, so many do I now have as spares.
Paintings off the walls and some transportable furniture left bare places that I couldn't leave alone. So I went trolling through my side of the garage and found a painting that I had done when I was about sixteen to hang where one of his had been. I quite like the painting; it's an abstract that I did in my aunt's studio one night while the grownups were talking 'round the table. It doesn't really fill the space, but it's better than blank wall, until I decide what I really do want there. And one of the Mission rockers that I bought at an auction in PA, that I put where his huge upholstered Bishop's chair had been. It's too small as well, but it will do the job. That all went out yesterday, and truth to tell, I felt quite sad all evening.
Today, he packed up his computer. But not before I undertook the Herculean task of deleting all of my files and programs. We shared that computer for a number of years and unwrapping my life on the hard drive from his was probably harder than the legal separation of property will be.
This is all so new and mostly, I don't know what to make of it. When I think of the reality of what's happening, I'm astonished, aghast, appalled. How can this be? How is it that in the space of what, six weeks, life as I knew it and expected it to be has been erased?
Still, I can't say I'm suffering mightily. I'm shocked and hurt and disappointed and mad--hey, I'm a candidate for the stages of mourning, aren't I! Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, writ large. But I'm sleeping well, and my appetite isn't off. And I'm exercising--yes, yes, yes--on my new Pilates Reformer, so tomorrow is another day, etc. etc. etc.
Actually, Molly is the one that I feel the most for. So much of her life was spent with him. They had routines that she won't have with me. I won't be taking her to Starbucks every morning and sharing my scone with her. Nor will she accompany me on trips hither and yon, although I do have her carseat (yes, Molly has a car seat, of course) in my car. But they used to spend some good portion of the day driving. And if he was in the garage painting, she was there with him. She doesn't understand what's going on. All she knows is, something's wrong with my people. Today I sat on the sofa with her after he had driven off and she scrunched herself up small, shoved her head under my hip and jammed the rest of her body as close to mine as she could get. I think she would have gotten inside me if she could. And then she'd be sure that I too wouldn't leave her.
For the past few days, he has been filling the SUV, newly registered in his name, with stuff. The garage, which we had specially fitted-out so it could be his studio, took the longest time. And made the smallest dent in my perception. But then, sometime yesterday or maybe the night before, I started to notice. A favorite painting that I sort of considered 'mine' was gone. And his clothes--there are few things sadder, it seems to me, than a closetfull of empty hangers. Of course, the good news is that I will probably never have to buy plastic hangers again, so many do I now have as spares.
Paintings off the walls and some transportable furniture left bare places that I couldn't leave alone. So I went trolling through my side of the garage and found a painting that I had done when I was about sixteen to hang where one of his had been. I quite like the painting; it's an abstract that I did in my aunt's studio one night while the grownups were talking 'round the table. It doesn't really fill the space, but it's better than blank wall, until I decide what I really do want there. And one of the Mission rockers that I bought at an auction in PA, that I put where his huge upholstered Bishop's chair had been. It's too small as well, but it will do the job. That all went out yesterday, and truth to tell, I felt quite sad all evening.
Today, he packed up his computer. But not before I undertook the Herculean task of deleting all of my files and programs. We shared that computer for a number of years and unwrapping my life on the hard drive from his was probably harder than the legal separation of property will be.
This is all so new and mostly, I don't know what to make of it. When I think of the reality of what's happening, I'm astonished, aghast, appalled. How can this be? How is it that in the space of what, six weeks, life as I knew it and expected it to be has been erased?
Still, I can't say I'm suffering mightily. I'm shocked and hurt and disappointed and mad--hey, I'm a candidate for the stages of mourning, aren't I! Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, writ large. But I'm sleeping well, and my appetite isn't off. And I'm exercising--yes, yes, yes--on my new Pilates Reformer, so tomorrow is another day, etc. etc. etc.
Actually, Molly is the one that I feel the most for. So much of her life was spent with him. They had routines that she won't have with me. I won't be taking her to Starbucks every morning and sharing my scone with her. Nor will she accompany me on trips hither and yon, although I do have her carseat (yes, Molly has a car seat, of course) in my car. But they used to spend some good portion of the day driving. And if he was in the garage painting, she was there with him. She doesn't understand what's going on. All she knows is, something's wrong with my people. Today I sat on the sofa with her after he had driven off and she scrunched herself up small, shoved her head under my hip and jammed the rest of her body as close to mine as she could get. I think she would have gotten inside me if she could. And then she'd be sure that I too wouldn't leave her.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
I'm in Exalted Company, Lucky Me
Last week when I was at my dentist's in LA (yes, darling, of course I go to B.Hills for my dental work), I told him about the demise of my marriage. He was appalled. Chagrined. And sympathetic. And then he muttered something about it happening all over. I didn't question him--because his hands were in my mouth, for god's sake--but I wondered. And now I'm wondering no more. All is clear as headline after headline hits the tabs about famous couples breaking up.
Larry and Laurie David, 20+ years. Anthony and Corina Villaraigosa, 20+ years. Dermot Mulroney and Katherine Keener, 17 years.
Is there something in the air? It's a pretty big deal, it seems to me, when couples split after such a long time together. Your lives are so intertwined. You get the same jokes. You know where to tread lightly and where not to go at all. You live overlapping lives, which is sometimes good and sometimes bad and sometimes just plain blah. But just how irreconcilable must differences be in order to warrant creating the cataclysm of divorce after decades together?
Still, my second or third thought after hearing about these splits was--hey, these guys are now available. Not that I find the notion of dating at all, AT ALL, appealing. When D and I first married, I said, this is it. If this doesn't work, I'm done with the whole man thing. But still, I quite fancy the idea of having dinner with Larry David.
And then there's Paul McCartney, he's on the block as well. I always was a big Paul fan.....
Larry and Laurie David, 20+ years. Anthony and Corina Villaraigosa, 20+ years. Dermot Mulroney and Katherine Keener, 17 years.
Is there something in the air? It's a pretty big deal, it seems to me, when couples split after such a long time together. Your lives are so intertwined. You get the same jokes. You know where to tread lightly and where not to go at all. You live overlapping lives, which is sometimes good and sometimes bad and sometimes just plain blah. But just how irreconcilable must differences be in order to warrant creating the cataclysm of divorce after decades together?
Still, my second or third thought after hearing about these splits was--hey, these guys are now available. Not that I find the notion of dating at all, AT ALL, appealing. When D and I first married, I said, this is it. If this doesn't work, I'm done with the whole man thing. But still, I quite fancy the idea of having dinner with Larry David.
And then there's Paul McCartney, he's on the block as well. I always was a big Paul fan.....
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Camp Knitque for Girl Crafters....
This is what I did on my summer vacation. Well, on Saturday, actually. Under the pine trees in Elk Grove, I learned to dry felt (or was it wet felt?), which sounds like something I might have done in junior high, but certainly not now that I'm a lady all growed up.
It's a scarf, in case you can't tell. It's roving on silk chiffon with strands of a novelty yarn sandwiched in. I'm not sure whether I'd wear it, but I sure loved making it.
Monday, June 11, 2007
So Where Have I Been...?
You know where I've been, nowhere, that's where. Or rather, right here--but more specifically, on Twitter. If you want to know where I've been and what I'm doing, follow me at Twitter.
Twitter is my new best friend, my sole companion, my TV-watching and newspaper-reading buddy. Last night I saw the Tonys, by myself of course. But my bon mots were not lost on the world because I was able to Twitter them. If I had had to keep my opinions to myself, I would have been so sad. But I didn't, and I didn't. I commented on Marsha Mason's girnormous weight gain and the puerility of the Mary Poppins revival, among other things. That this satisfied me is testimony to the fact that what we human beings (and maybe dogs as well) need the most is to feel that we're being heard. And Twitter allows, nay enables that.
Here's another thing that Twitter does: it connects me to specific people in the world. Some I know; some I've only met through Twitter. But I know what they're doing. And how they're feeling. It's a connection that is meaningless, but incredibly valuable to me. And if that's an oxymoron, so be it.
Twitter is my new best friend, my sole companion, my TV-watching and newspaper-reading buddy. Last night I saw the Tonys, by myself of course. But my bon mots were not lost on the world because I was able to Twitter them. If I had had to keep my opinions to myself, I would have been so sad. But I didn't, and I didn't. I commented on Marsha Mason's girnormous weight gain and the puerility of the Mary Poppins revival, among other things. That this satisfied me is testimony to the fact that what we human beings (and maybe dogs as well) need the most is to feel that we're being heard. And Twitter allows, nay enables that.
Here's another thing that Twitter does: it connects me to specific people in the world. Some I know; some I've only met through Twitter. But I know what they're doing. And how they're feeling. It's a connection that is meaningless, but incredibly valuable to me. And if that's an oxymoron, so be it.
Friday, June 08, 2007
The Wandering Minstrel Boy Returns....
...and not to a hero's welcome, obviously. I've got my ears plugged up with my Ipod buds (thank you, Steve Jobs) and I'm doing my best to maintain the illusion that I'm alone. This was the resulting dialogue:
D: So, that's the way it's going to be from now on? You're doing vengence.
J: No, I'm doing self-protection.
And it's true. I am not into the vengence trip. It is exhausting and so non-productive. I just don't care enough, I guess. But it does interest me that he would assume the starring role in this little play.
D: So, that's the way it's going to be from now on? You're doing vengence.
J: No, I'm doing self-protection.
And it's true. I am not into the vengence trip. It is exhausting and so non-productive. I just don't care enough, I guess. But it does interest me that he would assume the starring role in this little play.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
So What's New?
I've spent the better part of the day mewling and puking on the nets, checking my email, reading blogs, rechecking my email, reading more blogs, rechecking my email--. You get the point, don't you.
That was the portion of the day when I was not telling D that I wanted him out, out, out.
I can hear a collective gasp. But really, those of you who are careful readers must have know this was coming.
I want him out because he (1) doesn't want to be married any more, and (2) wants to move to Oregon. I'm not sure how those things are related, but this is a guy that has never really been alone, so I'm willing to bet he's got some close personal friend waiting for him up there. Whatever.
He announced this, apropos of nothing, about a month ago. I've been sitting on it and with it since then. The whole thing is a mystery to me, and it's not like I'm an ostrich when it comes to things psychodynamic. He seems incapable of or unwilling to offer any rational explanation. He can't even come up with a dramatic one that I could make some money off in Nashville.
So here I am, "ahem"-years old, married for almost two decades and, hey world, welcome me back.
That was the portion of the day when I was not telling D that I wanted him out, out, out.
I can hear a collective gasp. But really, those of you who are careful readers must have know this was coming.
I want him out because he (1) doesn't want to be married any more, and (2) wants to move to Oregon. I'm not sure how those things are related, but this is a guy that has never really been alone, so I'm willing to bet he's got some close personal friend waiting for him up there. Whatever.
He announced this, apropos of nothing, about a month ago. I've been sitting on it and with it since then. The whole thing is a mystery to me, and it's not like I'm an ostrich when it comes to things psychodynamic. He seems incapable of or unwilling to offer any rational explanation. He can't even come up with a dramatic one that I could make some money off in Nashville.
So here I am, "ahem"-years old, married for almost two decades and, hey world, welcome me back.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
A Dollar Late and A Day Short--or is it the other way around?
And what the fuck does it mean anyway?
Ne'er mind: tis only my cute way of explaining why this post about How I Spent Saturday Night in LA is not being written until the following Wednesday. And, no, it is not because it took me that long to recover. Smart Ass. Kevin, I'm looking at you.
I went to a party. In the Hollywood Hills. Whoohoo! It was at the end of Woodrow Wilson Drive. Does anyone know how long and windy WW Drive is? And how the houses are set back and up. Up, as in 180 degrees (is that possible, I'm a little weak on numbers) with a switchback or two included for good measure. When I saw the walk up, I took off my party shoes and flipflopped my way up the hill. Stopping only once or twice to gasp, loaded down as I was with wine bottles. Having left the chips and dip in the car because, well, because I was on my own, having neither mate nor sherpa to carry the goods.
It was the first annual LA Bloggers party. There is a nifty badge but I've decided that this is to be an unillustrated post. Since I didn't take my camera (what--I should carry that too????) and it didn't occur to me to whip out my Treo. But if you want to see the full monty and beyond, go to LA Daddy, who organized the do. Or Sueb0b, who was there adding to the Red Stapler archives.
I have whined on this site about how lonely the lot of the blogger is. It's a hard, cruel world where your friends and family not only don't understand you--"you blog? what does that mean exactly? But they shun you as well--I don't want to communicate with you along with the masses. Thus, you can imagine the joy of being at a party where almost every single solitary person (and those not so solitary) had blogs. Some even had several (I did notice that there was a tendency among male bloggers to go for size assessments, as in I have five blogs....well, I have ten).
Sueb0b and I fell on each other, having met at BlogHer last year. But other than her/she (and I claim to be an English person?), I knew no one. But the bloggers, we are a friendly group and I felt a member of the crowd in no time. Even if I was only tangentially from LA...in my heart...at least for a while. I highfived with Sinking into the Pacific and Down With Pants. Exchanged tales of being a daughter with Tara Met Blog. Envied, envied, envied the incredibly flat abs of Baby on Bored. And the bump of LA Mommy. And not House of Prince who had to head for the head to pump.
And then the everglorious LeahPeah arrived, with the trusty Joe by her side, bearing my BonPron, which I promptly put on, causing all sorts of people to say, after talking to me for a while, "is that an apron you're wearing?" Yes, and a bonnet, as well. I traded her my Two Sticks Cammie Bag for it at her Trade a Craft site.
Sueb0b and I crawled down the hill together, leaving Sweatpants Mom and company to crouch by the fire and lollygag in the hot tub without us. If you want to get a really creative version of the evening, go to the above-mentioned Kevin Charnas, whose partner Will's nametag said it all: Blog Widow.
I know I've left people out, but my fingers are getting cramped and I'm getting a bit bored with this list. So if you're not here, and I met you and love you--I'll be visiting your site soon to comment.
S'all, folks...
Ne'er mind: tis only my cute way of explaining why this post about How I Spent Saturday Night in LA is not being written until the following Wednesday. And, no, it is not because it took me that long to recover. Smart Ass. Kevin, I'm looking at you.
I went to a party. In the Hollywood Hills. Whoohoo! It was at the end of Woodrow Wilson Drive. Does anyone know how long and windy WW Drive is? And how the houses are set back and up. Up, as in 180 degrees (is that possible, I'm a little weak on numbers) with a switchback or two included for good measure. When I saw the walk up, I took off my party shoes and flipflopped my way up the hill. Stopping only once or twice to gasp, loaded down as I was with wine bottles. Having left the chips and dip in the car because, well, because I was on my own, having neither mate nor sherpa to carry the goods.
It was the first annual LA Bloggers party. There is a nifty badge but I've decided that this is to be an unillustrated post. Since I didn't take my camera (what--I should carry that too????) and it didn't occur to me to whip out my Treo. But if you want to see the full monty and beyond, go to LA Daddy, who organized the do. Or Sueb0b, who was there adding to the Red Stapler archives.
I have whined on this site about how lonely the lot of the blogger is. It's a hard, cruel world where your friends and family not only don't understand you--"you blog? what does that mean exactly? But they shun you as well--I don't want to communicate with you along with the masses. Thus, you can imagine the joy of being at a party where almost every single solitary person (and those not so solitary) had blogs. Some even had several (I did notice that there was a tendency among male bloggers to go for size assessments, as in I have five blogs....well, I have ten).
Sueb0b and I fell on each other, having met at BlogHer last year. But other than her/she (and I claim to be an English person?), I knew no one. But the bloggers, we are a friendly group and I felt a member of the crowd in no time. Even if I was only tangentially from LA...in my heart...at least for a while. I highfived with Sinking into the Pacific and Down With Pants. Exchanged tales of being a daughter with Tara Met Blog. Envied, envied, envied the incredibly flat abs of Baby on Bored. And the bump of LA Mommy. And not House of Prince who had to head for the head to pump.
And then the everglorious LeahPeah arrived, with the trusty Joe by her side, bearing my BonPron, which I promptly put on, causing all sorts of people to say, after talking to me for a while, "is that an apron you're wearing?" Yes, and a bonnet, as well. I traded her my Two Sticks Cammie Bag for it at her Trade a Craft site.
Sueb0b and I crawled down the hill together, leaving Sweatpants Mom and company to crouch by the fire and lollygag in the hot tub without us. If you want to get a really creative version of the evening, go to the above-mentioned Kevin Charnas, whose partner Will's nametag said it all: Blog Widow.
I know I've left people out, but my fingers are getting cramped and I'm getting a bit bored with this list. So if you're not here, and I met you and love you--I'll be visiting your site soon to comment.
S'all, folks...
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