The lawn was a big friggin deal to the previous owners. Not so to the engineer and the writer (yeah, today I'm a writer). The engineer and the writer would rather tinker and philosophize, drink wine and discuss the tribulations of ice-road truckers, fret over the fate of Formula 1, and basically worship Mike Rowe (well, one of us worships; one just thinks he's dirty a lot). My point, people, is that we inherited a garden and a lawn and we were not prequalified for, and not up to, the responsibility
We don't have time to discuss the "garden."
The lawn, however...
First, we have have a riding mower. It's a small and ancient thing, liberated from The Barn, which is where broken down, rusted out, ready-for-the-dump-but-someone-can't-let-go hunks of junk go to hang out. I am positive that both of the owners (my not-father-in-law and his charismatic friend, Ed) firmly believe that everything in there not only can, but will, be fixed. And that it's worth the time to do it. It won't. And it's not.
The Barn ins't all bad. After all, it minimizes the crap in my garage (and for that matter the garages of many of our friends and family). And, given how things get lost in there, it's possible to find forgotten things. And liberate them. That's how we got the mower. Ed's lawn mower.
And Ed didn't know until a rather embarrassing moment when Jamie was about to thank him for letting us use it and his father quickly intervened and said he had to actually TELL Ed first.... Ed was fine with it. Ed's wife was thrilled ("One less thing for my children to have to haul away..")
I mow the lawn. I mow the lawn because it's a riding mower, which can be fun, and because mowing a lawn seems like something that doesn't require much accuracy. And I've convinced myself it's "exercise," based on all of the ginormous butts I've seen bubbling over the seats of John Deeres.
After a summer and a half of mowing the lawn, I've recently been educated about a few things.
A lawn mower is not a chipper. Though there may be some mowers that have this capability, ours does not. Therefore, I should not be intentionally riding over twigs, sticks, or rocks thinking I'll create mulch.
Taking your foot off of the right pedal means you have disengaged the blade. The blade engagement is somewhat critical to actually mowing the lawn. Otherwise, you're just riding a four-wheeler. Slowly. Over dog poop.
It's probably expected that you might miscalculate the speed and angle of the mower once or twice and slightly hit the fence. However, it's probably an indication of brain damage if you crash the mower into the fence more than twice and get the wheel stuck under the fence/deck/shed more than once.
Driving at about 3 miles an hour, it really should be possible to avoid giant holes the dog has dug.
You are not supposed to mow the tree trunks.
At a 15% grade, I have been assured that I really will not roll the mower and probably do not need to massively lean in the opposite direction to ensure all four wheels stay on the ground.
I'm not supposed to mow the bushes which is apparently what happens if you mow too close.
I'm also not supposed to mow the dog toys.
Or the slate walkway.
That said and despite my clearly questionable mowing "ability," Jamie is still happy to let me do all of this rather than actually mow it himself. Though, soon The Barn might get its mower back...
Friday, July 31, 2009
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Her evil twin
by tess
In an attempt to rejuvenate Gretchen’s flagging interest in writing for you, I’m appealing to her Evil Twin, Wretchen.
See Gretchen is lots of wonderful things – she’s smart and creative and responsible. And that’s all fine and dandy if you select Vanilla when offered 857 flavors. It’s her evil twin Wretchen who rocks the party.
Gretchen whimpers quietly when she is told she’s collating incorrectly.
Wretchen boldly wipes her dirty hands on the office walls daring anyone to comment.
Gretchen wonders about lonely shoes on the highway.
Wretchen spurns common civility by leaving the salt on the table. Daily.
Gretchen frets about her hips then goes for a quick 3 hour run.
Wretchen eats ice cream cake for lunch then drinks 2 bottles of wine for dinner.
Gretchen wears high heels and a tiara when she vacuums.
Wretchen refuses to empty the dishwasher come hell or hot water.
Gretchen works hard to support and inspire her team in good times and bad.
Wretchen refers to my office as The Halfway House for the Mentally Challenged.
Gretchen silently disapproves of asking a waitress for an extra plate.
Wretchen lies unremittingly to her lover about how the cheese got on top of the VCR.
Gretchen may be a friend but Wretchen is my hero. My soulmate. The Laurel to my Hardy; the Lenny to my Squiggy. She is the veritable wind beneath my wings. She is music. And she writes the songs.
And just as the snake offered Eve the apple (Don’t ever get Gretchen started on Genesis!), I am offering Wretchen this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Use this blog for evil, not good. Use this blog to taunt those who abuse the English language. C’mon, you know you want to.
I’ll even start!
1. I won’t expose the website because they’re good people doing a good (albeit profitable) thing. But I found this sentence on their Home page today:
If you know anyone who you think might be interested in learning about XXXXX or may want to become a XXXXXX themself, click here to forward them this e-mail.
And as a follow up, I’d like to add three of my favorite colloquialisms.
2. Baforementioned.
When referring to the attributes of the baforementioned evil twin, our bloggiste quoted two iconic 70s BMs: Bette Midler and Barry Manilow.
3. Dickmatized.
Demi was so dickmatized by Ashton that she financed his inane projects and let him tweet an unflattering semi-nude picture of her.
4. A whole nother.
This phrase has become so ubiquitous in today’s society that people who eschew it must be from a whole nother dimension.
In an attempt to rejuvenate Gretchen’s flagging interest in writing for you, I’m appealing to her Evil Twin, Wretchen.
See Gretchen is lots of wonderful things – she’s smart and creative and responsible. And that’s all fine and dandy if you select Vanilla when offered 857 flavors. It’s her evil twin Wretchen who rocks the party.
Gretchen whimpers quietly when she is told she’s collating incorrectly.
Wretchen boldly wipes her dirty hands on the office walls daring anyone to comment.
Gretchen wonders about lonely shoes on the highway.
Wretchen spurns common civility by leaving the salt on the table. Daily.
Gretchen frets about her hips then goes for a quick 3 hour run.
Wretchen eats ice cream cake for lunch then drinks 2 bottles of wine for dinner.
Gretchen wears high heels and a tiara when she vacuums.
Wretchen refuses to empty the dishwasher come hell or hot water.
Gretchen works hard to support and inspire her team in good times and bad.
Wretchen refers to my office as The Halfway House for the Mentally Challenged.
Gretchen silently disapproves of asking a waitress for an extra plate.
Wretchen lies unremittingly to her lover about how the cheese got on top of the VCR.
Gretchen may be a friend but Wretchen is my hero. My soulmate. The Laurel to my Hardy; the Lenny to my Squiggy. She is the veritable wind beneath my wings. She is music. And she writes the songs.
And just as the snake offered Eve the apple (Don’t ever get Gretchen started on Genesis!), I am offering Wretchen this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Use this blog for evil, not good. Use this blog to taunt those who abuse the English language. C’mon, you know you want to.
I’ll even start!
1. I won’t expose the website because they’re good people doing a good (albeit profitable) thing. But I found this sentence on their Home page today:
If you know anyone who you think might be interested in learning about XXXXX or may want to become a XXXXXX themself, click here to forward them this e-mail.
And as a follow up, I’d like to add three of my favorite colloquialisms.
2. Baforementioned.
When referring to the attributes of the baforementioned evil twin, our bloggiste quoted two iconic 70s BMs: Bette Midler and Barry Manilow.
3. Dickmatized.
Demi was so dickmatized by Ashton that she financed his inane projects and let him tweet an unflattering semi-nude picture of her.
4. A whole nother.
This phrase has become so ubiquitous in today’s society that people who eschew it must be from a whole nother dimension.
Killers Unleashed
by tess
Apparently my invitation got lost in the mail. What invitation? Oh, you know, the invitation to the party thrown AT MY HOUSE.
In my own room.
While I was sleeping.
When I went to bed everything was normal. But as I staggered kitchenward this morning to feed The Hell Hounds, I stumbled over a terry cloth visor, walked across two bucket hats, stepped on a baseball cap, and kicked a Britney Spears cowboy hat. Then bent over to retrieve the gnawed remains of a tiny reptile.
We got us a crime scene! Quick! Get the yellow police barricade tape!
My CSI-honed investigative skills indicate that at some point between 11:16 PM and 4:24 AM, there was a Cat in the Hat party not three feet from my prone body. Early forensics evidence suggests that one of the guests (Peoples Exhibit A: the aforementioned lizard) arrived at the soiree not realizing that he was the intended entrée.
It is unknown in my preliminary investigation whether the cats wore their hats before, during, or after the arrival and subsequent dismemberment of their guest, one Gordy de’Gecko.
Questioning the hat-wearing suspects has proven challenging as they refuse to comment without their lawyer, a Ms. Julie Newmar, Esquire, of the firm Morris, Boots, Garfield, and Cheshire.
Further information will be provided as evidence is still being collected and examined.
Apparently my invitation got lost in the mail. What invitation? Oh, you know, the invitation to the party thrown AT MY HOUSE.
In my own room.
While I was sleeping.
When I went to bed everything was normal. But as I staggered kitchenward this morning to feed The Hell Hounds, I stumbled over a terry cloth visor, walked across two bucket hats, stepped on a baseball cap, and kicked a Britney Spears cowboy hat. Then bent over to retrieve the gnawed remains of a tiny reptile.
We got us a crime scene! Quick! Get the yellow police barricade tape!
My CSI-honed investigative skills indicate that at some point between 11:16 PM and 4:24 AM, there was a Cat in the Hat party not three feet from my prone body. Early forensics evidence suggests that one of the guests (Peoples Exhibit A: the aforementioned lizard) arrived at the soiree not realizing that he was the intended entrée.
It is unknown in my preliminary investigation whether the cats wore their hats before, during, or after the arrival and subsequent dismemberment of their guest, one Gordy de’Gecko.
Questioning the hat-wearing suspects has proven challenging as they refuse to comment without their lawyer, a Ms. Julie Newmar, Esquire, of the firm Morris, Boots, Garfield, and Cheshire.
Further information will be provided as evidence is still being collected and examined.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Cedar, sausage, cigs ... & blueberries
by tess
Memory is an imperfect thing. It’s a prism through which time is refracted imperfectly. But it’s all we have in the end to document our own flawed history. Often too harsh, occasionally too kind, but always imperfect.
When I was very young, my grandparents, Ruth and Haird (aka Howard), lived in a house in rural Ohio. We would arrive there in the pre-dawn hours after my Dad drove straight through from Baltimore to Dayton. It’s strange to think of him then – younger than I am now, not to mention more capable than I of capping off a twelve hour shift with an eight hour drive. Ruth and Haird would be waiting for us, half-asleep and ensconced in the unfamiliar aromas of coffee, cigarettes, Dial, and Listerine. Ripped from my roadtrip coma, there were bear hugs and the ultimate peace of safety among those who love you. The kind of serenity that not every child is fortunate enough to experience in her life.
I remember their house as being very large although I suspect it was not. My room had a cedar armoire with drawers, a hanging rod, and a mirror inside. It was the most magical piece of furniture I’d ever seen and can’t smell cedar to this day without remembering it. That may be why we have three armoires in our house. Sadly both the smell and sense of wonder are missing now. Aside from the single bed, the only remarkable feature of the room was the window that (as I remember it anyway) looked out over a small unpaved road and acres of open fields. Since our suburban townhouse did not overlook anything more noteworthy than a parking pad and alley, I’m guessing that even a tiny plot might have inspired images of Dorothy’s Kansas landscape come to life. Stashed safely in the middle of nowhere, I played on the little road. I don’t remember that there were other children but, as an only child, I’d have eschewed their company in any case, vastly preferring my own.
Along the wall to the right of their bed, Ruth and Haird had a pretty vanity. Dark wood drawers on either side with a large round mirror in the center. I must have seen one on TV and equated it with glamorous Hollywood mommies. I still consider them quite Old Hollywood – a self-indulgent paean to the process of feminine beauty.
There were two large framed photos in that house. One of Haird in his uniform, WWII, I guess. And a profile shot of JFK and RFK. When I look at my own ridiculously stuffed-to-the-gills home in which every wall is covered with mis-matched art, I find this spartan decoration both arresting and significant.
Most of my Ruth-and-Haird memories are kitchen-related. The early morning smell of sausage burning and sound of coffee brewing on the stove. The big table in the eat-in kitchen was where we’d all sit together for hours on end. After all, our schedules had been left behind in Baltimore. Mom’s job, Dad’s jobs, school, activities, the 1,001 meals that are always rushed through in a busy, modern lifestyle full of plans for a brighter tomorrow. So there was an uncharacteristically slow sitting, talking, and eating at that big table.
When I was born, Ruth offered to “help” my young mother by coming to stay at our house. From what I’ve been told, her assistance consisted primarily of sitting on the sofa holding me and telling my mother what she was doing wrong. The pictures of me in Ruth’s arms show a very happy baby (who is a dead wringer for Uncle Fester) lying peacefully in my grandmother’s copious bosom and fleshy arms.
Once when we were visiting Ruth and Haird, my parents went to see Rosemary’s Baby. I’m not sure if I was upset because they had the unmitigated gall to actually leave me for two hours or if I thought they were going to pay attention to a baby other than me – quelle horreur! In any case Ruth placated my temper with love and blueberries.
Through the years, Ruth would always have a stash of canned blueberries for me. She’d buy them on sale at the Kroger’s and hoard them for my visits.
I don’t remember much about Haird except that he seemed to love me in a quiet and distracted sort of way – like he didn’t quite know what to make of me or what to do with me. Perhaps that was due to the cultural gulf that separated a spoiled, suburban female child of the 60s from a hard-working man born deep in the hills at the end of WWI. When he wasn’t smoking and coughing, then he was coughing and smoking. This man had nothing, but he sent me money every single week — sometimes a dollar, sometimes five -- from early childhood through college until his death some twenty years ago.
Haird and Ruth moved to a dismal, one-bedroom, basement apartment. I slept on the folding couch next to the kitchen. She’d tuck me in with a biting bed bug rhyme that’s a far more terrifying admonishment now that I know they exist. I awoke to the same scents of coffee and sausage, brewed in the same pot and burned on the same cast iron skillet as the old house. And of course there were the cans of blueberries. Haird would smoke and cough and read the paper sitting on his end of the couch while I’d watch reruns of Bewitched, Jeannie, Lucy, and F-Troop.
Then I got too old, too involved in my own life to bother with them — these people who loved me with open hearts and to the very best of their ability. And now they’re both gone. To a better place? As a higher life form? Into the great dark unknown. They were flawed people who lived hard lives. And they accepted me unconditionally. I’m grateful to have known them.
Memory is an imperfect thing. It’s a prism through which time is refracted imperfectly. But it’s all we have in the end to document our own flawed history. Often too harsh, occasionally too kind, but always imperfect.
When I was very young, my grandparents, Ruth and Haird (aka Howard), lived in a house in rural Ohio. We would arrive there in the pre-dawn hours after my Dad drove straight through from Baltimore to Dayton. It’s strange to think of him then – younger than I am now, not to mention more capable than I of capping off a twelve hour shift with an eight hour drive. Ruth and Haird would be waiting for us, half-asleep and ensconced in the unfamiliar aromas of coffee, cigarettes, Dial, and Listerine. Ripped from my roadtrip coma, there were bear hugs and the ultimate peace of safety among those who love you. The kind of serenity that not every child is fortunate enough to experience in her life.
I remember their house as being very large although I suspect it was not. My room had a cedar armoire with drawers, a hanging rod, and a mirror inside. It was the most magical piece of furniture I’d ever seen and can’t smell cedar to this day without remembering it. That may be why we have three armoires in our house. Sadly both the smell and sense of wonder are missing now. Aside from the single bed, the only remarkable feature of the room was the window that (as I remember it anyway) looked out over a small unpaved road and acres of open fields. Since our suburban townhouse did not overlook anything more noteworthy than a parking pad and alley, I’m guessing that even a tiny plot might have inspired images of Dorothy’s Kansas landscape come to life. Stashed safely in the middle of nowhere, I played on the little road. I don’t remember that there were other children but, as an only child, I’d have eschewed their company in any case, vastly preferring my own.
Along the wall to the right of their bed, Ruth and Haird had a pretty vanity. Dark wood drawers on either side with a large round mirror in the center. I must have seen one on TV and equated it with glamorous Hollywood mommies. I still consider them quite Old Hollywood – a self-indulgent paean to the process of feminine beauty.
There were two large framed photos in that house. One of Haird in his uniform, WWII, I guess. And a profile shot of JFK and RFK. When I look at my own ridiculously stuffed-to-the-gills home in which every wall is covered with mis-matched art, I find this spartan decoration both arresting and significant.
Most of my Ruth-and-Haird memories are kitchen-related. The early morning smell of sausage burning and sound of coffee brewing on the stove. The big table in the eat-in kitchen was where we’d all sit together for hours on end. After all, our schedules had been left behind in Baltimore. Mom’s job, Dad’s jobs, school, activities, the 1,001 meals that are always rushed through in a busy, modern lifestyle full of plans for a brighter tomorrow. So there was an uncharacteristically slow sitting, talking, and eating at that big table.
When I was born, Ruth offered to “help” my young mother by coming to stay at our house. From what I’ve been told, her assistance consisted primarily of sitting on the sofa holding me and telling my mother what she was doing wrong. The pictures of me in Ruth’s arms show a very happy baby (who is a dead wringer for Uncle Fester) lying peacefully in my grandmother’s copious bosom and fleshy arms.
Once when we were visiting Ruth and Haird, my parents went to see Rosemary’s Baby. I’m not sure if I was upset because they had the unmitigated gall to actually leave me for two hours or if I thought they were going to pay attention to a baby other than me – quelle horreur! In any case Ruth placated my temper with love and blueberries.
Through the years, Ruth would always have a stash of canned blueberries for me. She’d buy them on sale at the Kroger’s and hoard them for my visits.
I don’t remember much about Haird except that he seemed to love me in a quiet and distracted sort of way – like he didn’t quite know what to make of me or what to do with me. Perhaps that was due to the cultural gulf that separated a spoiled, suburban female child of the 60s from a hard-working man born deep in the hills at the end of WWI. When he wasn’t smoking and coughing, then he was coughing and smoking. This man had nothing, but he sent me money every single week — sometimes a dollar, sometimes five -- from early childhood through college until his death some twenty years ago.
Haird and Ruth moved to a dismal, one-bedroom, basement apartment. I slept on the folding couch next to the kitchen. She’d tuck me in with a biting bed bug rhyme that’s a far more terrifying admonishment now that I know they exist. I awoke to the same scents of coffee and sausage, brewed in the same pot and burned on the same cast iron skillet as the old house. And of course there were the cans of blueberries. Haird would smoke and cough and read the paper sitting on his end of the couch while I’d watch reruns of Bewitched, Jeannie, Lucy, and F-Troop.
Then I got too old, too involved in my own life to bother with them — these people who loved me with open hearts and to the very best of their ability. And now they’re both gone. To a better place? As a higher life form? Into the great dark unknown. They were flawed people who lived hard lives. And they accepted me unconditionally. I’m grateful to have known them.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Crushed
by tess
I’ve read that Crush is the New Black. Specifically, the social networking crush (i.e., “my old MySpace crush” or “that’s from her Twitter crush”). It’s a secure way to experience the short-lived intensity of a crush without exposing yourself, without making yourself vulnerable. So I’ve been thinking of the role various crushes have played in my life.
Because I can’t begin to name the countless hundreds of boys I crushed on throughout The Angsty Years (and because it makes me throw up in my mouth a little to think about any of them), I’ll dispense with the mundane infatuations and proceed to those that are less obvious and ultimately more meaningful.
Given the internet it must be far easier to become consumed by a crush on a celebrity. Now you can catalogue every fact about their lives and essentially stalk their every move. In the olden days, it was a little more esoteric. My first was Bobby Sherman. I had no interest in David Cassidy or Donny Osmond, the standard Tiger Beat crushes of the day. At 7-going-on-13, I kissed the picture on his album every night before bed, knowing he was thinking of me when he sang “Come into my world and leave your world behind” and I was packed and ready to go. Inexplicably my next crush was Michael Lee Aday. Yes, Meat Loaf. If you can’t figure out why then I can’t explain it to you; you either get it or you don’t. To round out this idiosyncratic triumvirate, my current celebri-crush is Richard Schiff. More accurately, I think the crush is on his character, Toby Ziegler, since I don’t actually know Mr. Schiff beyond his 146 brilliantly dark, brooding, intelligent, and occasionally petulant performances on The West Wing.
I’ve luxuriated in a number of author crushes. In college I fell in love with D.H. Lawrence and ardently defended every word, sentence, and paragraph of Women in Love to within an inch of my life. Anne Rice provided me with countless hours of entertainment and a succession of new loves via the early Chronicles, the Rampling fantasies, and her Roquelaure romps. Laurell K. Hamilton is inevitably compared to Rice because she has written for 16 years about vampires and sex. And sex with vampires. I’ll agree with the haters that the first ten Anita Blake books are her best; I gave up after Danse Macabre but reviews seem to indicate that she’s back on track. My new great love is Dani Shapiro. Her writing is sharp and insightful, specific yet subtle, spare but somehow full. Her heart bleeds on the page but from such a distance that her readers aren’t mired in sentimentality. She’s the must-read of the crew.
Unembarrassed, I’ll admit to three girl crushes. In 8th grade it was McKenna Grace. I told her once that I loved her. I didn’t mean I want you, I think I meant I want to be just like you and can we be best friends forever. I don’t know if it’s still true, but in the 70s the most derisive slur for a junior high school girl was “lezzie.” Especially at an all-girls school. Telling one of the most popular jocks in your class that you love her is a good way to earn that sobriquet and to become the class pariah. In college I fell hard for a beautiful actress named Sarah. Neither one of us was eloquent enough to effectively communicate our affection. Immature and embarrassed, we hid from one another until we both transferred. Sarah remains one of the great regrets of my life. Glamorous Wynn Balboa had semi-naturally blonde hair that she could sit on and looked great in leather pants. I didn’t lust after her but I envied her laissez faire attitude toward the men who groveled at her ankles. Sure, they all wanted her but they respected the hell out of her, too. She’d swan around the room secretly rotating vodka tonics with water until she drank the guys under the table. The first time she subdued The Dentist (who would later break her heart just as The Architect had) she tore his shirt off shooting buttons throughout his office, then couriered an expensive replacement the next day. At the time, I was dazzled by her sophistication. She owned herself as a woman in a way that I had never witnessed and I was deeply in awe of her.
I’ve read that Crush is the New Black. Specifically, the social networking crush (i.e., “my old MySpace crush” or “that’s from her Twitter crush”). It’s a secure way to experience the short-lived intensity of a crush without exposing yourself, without making yourself vulnerable. So I’ve been thinking of the role various crushes have played in my life.
Because I can’t begin to name the countless hundreds of boys I crushed on throughout The Angsty Years (and because it makes me throw up in my mouth a little to think about any of them), I’ll dispense with the mundane infatuations and proceed to those that are less obvious and ultimately more meaningful.
Given the internet it must be far easier to become consumed by a crush on a celebrity. Now you can catalogue every fact about their lives and essentially stalk their every move. In the olden days, it was a little more esoteric. My first was Bobby Sherman. I had no interest in David Cassidy or Donny Osmond, the standard Tiger Beat crushes of the day. At 7-going-on-13, I kissed the picture on his album every night before bed, knowing he was thinking of me when he sang “Come into my world and leave your world behind” and I was packed and ready to go. Inexplicably my next crush was Michael Lee Aday. Yes, Meat Loaf. If you can’t figure out why then I can’t explain it to you; you either get it or you don’t. To round out this idiosyncratic triumvirate, my current celebri-crush is Richard Schiff. More accurately, I think the crush is on his character, Toby Ziegler, since I don’t actually know Mr. Schiff beyond his 146 brilliantly dark, brooding, intelligent, and occasionally petulant performances on The West Wing.
I’ve luxuriated in a number of author crushes. In college I fell in love with D.H. Lawrence and ardently defended every word, sentence, and paragraph of Women in Love to within an inch of my life. Anne Rice provided me with countless hours of entertainment and a succession of new loves via the early Chronicles, the Rampling fantasies, and her Roquelaure romps. Laurell K. Hamilton is inevitably compared to Rice because she has written for 16 years about vampires and sex. And sex with vampires. I’ll agree with the haters that the first ten Anita Blake books are her best; I gave up after Danse Macabre but reviews seem to indicate that she’s back on track. My new great love is Dani Shapiro. Her writing is sharp and insightful, specific yet subtle, spare but somehow full. Her heart bleeds on the page but from such a distance that her readers aren’t mired in sentimentality. She’s the must-read of the crew.
Unembarrassed, I’ll admit to three girl crushes. In 8th grade it was McKenna Grace. I told her once that I loved her. I didn’t mean I want you, I think I meant I want to be just like you and can we be best friends forever. I don’t know if it’s still true, but in the 70s the most derisive slur for a junior high school girl was “lezzie.” Especially at an all-girls school. Telling one of the most popular jocks in your class that you love her is a good way to earn that sobriquet and to become the class pariah. In college I fell hard for a beautiful actress named Sarah. Neither one of us was eloquent enough to effectively communicate our affection. Immature and embarrassed, we hid from one another until we both transferred. Sarah remains one of the great regrets of my life. Glamorous Wynn Balboa had semi-naturally blonde hair that she could sit on and looked great in leather pants. I didn’t lust after her but I envied her laissez faire attitude toward the men who groveled at her ankles. Sure, they all wanted her but they respected the hell out of her, too. She’d swan around the room secretly rotating vodka tonics with water until she drank the guys under the table. The first time she subdued The Dentist (who would later break her heart just as The Architect had) she tore his shirt off shooting buttons throughout his office, then couriered an expensive replacement the next day. At the time, I was dazzled by her sophistication. She owned herself as a woman in a way that I had never witnessed and I was deeply in awe of her.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Weepies
by tess
Normal people arrange their Netflix queues in the chronological order in which they elect to watch the videos. And that makes sense. For them.
I’ve divided our queue into MINE (183 classic dramas) and, at the bottom, HIS (12 Japanese read-while-you-watch five-hour epics which make no damn sense whatsoever to those of us who didn’t major in The Golden Age of Japanese Cinema: Kurosawa thru Kobayashi). Since I’m not too proud to cop to my deep and abiding love of sob-inducing movies and books, I appreciate the value of selecting a video that fits my specific, albeit fickle, emotional needs. Therefore, MINE are subdivided by their potential weep factor.
A “light day” (haha!) would only require a level one weepie, or The Tear Jerker, which is obviously a movie that delivers sniffles during the good parts no matter how many times I’ve seen it: Armageddon, Gone with the Wind, Steel Magnolias, Regarding Henry.
I reserve a special sliver of my withered, gray heart for those movies that tear me from all sense of reality, effectively trapping me within the suspense of a fictional world from which there is no escape. These are level two weepies, The Cathartic Purge. Ancient Greeks believed that the visceral response of catharsis represented an emotional purification. I relish the afterglow of stumbling to the bathroom, collecting tissues, weeping copiously, sighing noisily, and finally releasing the characters, re-inhabiting my own world. Ahhh, the poignant release of Requiem for a Dream, Always, Leaving Las Vegas (despite Cage), High Art, Ordinary People, or Basquiat.
And finally there are the movies that bear the emotional impact of a medieval spiked battle flail to your knee-pits. Level three weepies, Soul Scorchers, have foregone their redemptive qualities in lieu of a Herculean sucker punch of agony. The Passion of the Christ, Seven, United 93, Frances, City of Angels (despite Cage), The Pianist, and Rush are nearly unwatchable as they suffocate the viewer with despair rendering him incapacitated and abandoned in his own wretchedness. Inasmuch as I adore a really good cry fest, I cannot bring myself to watch any of these movies a second time. I keep them on the list and am tempted occasionally to “go there” but it’s simply too much … the emotional equivalent of running back-to-back marathons. To those of you who can watch any of these movies without drowning in misery — congrats, you’re braver and stronger (and likely saner) than me.
Normal people arrange their Netflix queues in the chronological order in which they elect to watch the videos. And that makes sense. For them.
I’ve divided our queue into MINE (183 classic dramas) and, at the bottom, HIS (12 Japanese read-while-you-watch five-hour epics which make no damn sense whatsoever to those of us who didn’t major in The Golden Age of Japanese Cinema: Kurosawa thru Kobayashi). Since I’m not too proud to cop to my deep and abiding love of sob-inducing movies and books, I appreciate the value of selecting a video that fits my specific, albeit fickle, emotional needs. Therefore, MINE are subdivided by their potential weep factor.
A “light day” (haha!) would only require a level one weepie, or The Tear Jerker, which is obviously a movie that delivers sniffles during the good parts no matter how many times I’ve seen it: Armageddon, Gone with the Wind, Steel Magnolias, Regarding Henry.
I reserve a special sliver of my withered, gray heart for those movies that tear me from all sense of reality, effectively trapping me within the suspense of a fictional world from which there is no escape. These are level two weepies, The Cathartic Purge. Ancient Greeks believed that the visceral response of catharsis represented an emotional purification. I relish the afterglow of stumbling to the bathroom, collecting tissues, weeping copiously, sighing noisily, and finally releasing the characters, re-inhabiting my own world. Ahhh, the poignant release of Requiem for a Dream, Always, Leaving Las Vegas (despite Cage), High Art, Ordinary People, or Basquiat.
And finally there are the movies that bear the emotional impact of a medieval spiked battle flail to your knee-pits. Level three weepies, Soul Scorchers, have foregone their redemptive qualities in lieu of a Herculean sucker punch of agony. The Passion of the Christ, Seven, United 93, Frances, City of Angels (despite Cage), The Pianist, and Rush are nearly unwatchable as they suffocate the viewer with despair rendering him incapacitated and abandoned in his own wretchedness. Inasmuch as I adore a really good cry fest, I cannot bring myself to watch any of these movies a second time. I keep them on the list and am tempted occasionally to “go there” but it’s simply too much … the emotional equivalent of running back-to-back marathons. To those of you who can watch any of these movies without drowning in misery — congrats, you’re braver and stronger (and likely saner) than me.
Summertime
by tess
Certain maxims prove inevitably true. April showers bring May flowers. June brides deliver Christmas babies. Summer holidays beget fireworks.
Each Memorial Day our neighbors throw an informal block party. Last year we thought about going and I even made key lime cookies to take with us. But then the actual getting-off-of-the-couch-and-facing-people-we-don’t-really-want-to-know came into play. So we stayed home and ate the cookies. This year we blew off pretending we might go and hid, safe from the strangers within the air conditioned confines of our little house.
Floridians tend to share a deep and abiding affection for fireworks which always strikes me as odd. Admittedly I grew up in a house where one’s safety was of paramount (bordering on paranoid) concern, but isn’t it a generally well-known fact that fireworks can be dangerous? Particularly when handled by children or mixed with copious amounts of alcohol? I haven’t a clue why it’s legal to sell them here. Me? I’d decriminalize pot and clog the penal system with all the idiots who jones for firecrackers. But that’s just me.
The annual block party provides a fiery venue for the Official Kickoff of Fireworks Season. The evening starts with “child-friendly” sparklers, spinners and jacks just as the sun is setting. Clearly one must pass one’s sacrosanct passion for fireworks on to one’s children. By what other means might they become future fireworks aficionados? Then the heavy hitters start exploding: the smoke bombs and snakes, fountains, cones, repeaters. Finally the evening ends with a bang: military and roman candles, Molotov cocktails, raptors, mortar and shell kits.
Of course the season reaches its crescendo on the 4th of July, but leftovers are parceled out for the inevitable Labor Day block party. Good old Floridians even rock their Thanksgiving and Christmas celebrations with a bang.
I was worried about Independence Day fireworks because my kitten doesn’t generally enjoy noise of any kind. Boisterous people, loud televisions, and booming thunder send him scurrying for cover. But my concern was for naught; he could not be coaxed away from the sound and the fury. The sizzling, popping, bursting explosions of light and color hypnotized the little guy who finally gave up an hour after the final pop-pop-snap-BOOM. He climbed into bed, exhausted after the excitement of the block party. Come to think of it, he’s the only one of our cats to have been born in Florida. I guess his love of block parties and fireworks comes naturally to him.
Certain maxims prove inevitably true. April showers bring May flowers. June brides deliver Christmas babies. Summer holidays beget fireworks.
Each Memorial Day our neighbors throw an informal block party. Last year we thought about going and I even made key lime cookies to take with us. But then the actual getting-off-of-the-couch-and-facing-people-we-don’t-really-want-to-know came into play. So we stayed home and ate the cookies. This year we blew off pretending we might go and hid, safe from the strangers within the air conditioned confines of our little house.
Floridians tend to share a deep and abiding affection for fireworks which always strikes me as odd. Admittedly I grew up in a house where one’s safety was of paramount (bordering on paranoid) concern, but isn’t it a generally well-known fact that fireworks can be dangerous? Particularly when handled by children or mixed with copious amounts of alcohol? I haven’t a clue why it’s legal to sell them here. Me? I’d decriminalize pot and clog the penal system with all the idiots who jones for firecrackers. But that’s just me.
The annual block party provides a fiery venue for the Official Kickoff of Fireworks Season. The evening starts with “child-friendly” sparklers, spinners and jacks just as the sun is setting. Clearly one must pass one’s sacrosanct passion for fireworks on to one’s children. By what other means might they become future fireworks aficionados? Then the heavy hitters start exploding: the smoke bombs and snakes, fountains, cones, repeaters. Finally the evening ends with a bang: military and roman candles, Molotov cocktails, raptors, mortar and shell kits.
Of course the season reaches its crescendo on the 4th of July, but leftovers are parceled out for the inevitable Labor Day block party. Good old Floridians even rock their Thanksgiving and Christmas celebrations with a bang.
I was worried about Independence Day fireworks because my kitten doesn’t generally enjoy noise of any kind. Boisterous people, loud televisions, and booming thunder send him scurrying for cover. But my concern was for naught; he could not be coaxed away from the sound and the fury. The sizzling, popping, bursting explosions of light and color hypnotized the little guy who finally gave up an hour after the final pop-pop-snap-BOOM. He climbed into bed, exhausted after the excitement of the block party. Come to think of it, he’s the only one of our cats to have been born in Florida. I guess his love of block parties and fireworks comes naturally to him.
Friday, July 10, 2009
The tormentors and the tormented
by tess
It has recently been brought to my attention that some people find my blogs less than child-friendly. I have a word for you: Harrumph. Proving yet again how open-minded I am, I will hypothesize that when children are locked along with their wardens in their homes away from my ears and eyes, they may be (all evidence to the contrary notwithstanding) relatively smell-free, vaguely cogent human beings rather than vampiric hellspawn.
In South Florida we have zero lot lines and are stuffed into our communities like proverbial tinned sardines. Therefore, we share front, side, and rear yard lot lines with a number of homes, some of which include children. Apparently weekend mornings from nine until noon have been universally declared Special Mommy Daddy Time while the children are vigorously thrust and effectively locked outside. Seconds become hours and hours become centuries as the ceaseless, soul-sucking shrieks continue unchecked. Alas, a bone-weary adult voice ends my torment. The cacophony shifts to another zone. Tranquility is restored and my lungs expand with the serenity so long denied me.
The only time I actually see the caterwauling banshees is during my commute home. From 4:00 to 7:00 PM, approximately eight thousand unsupervised four- to six-year olds effectively close down the single route that filters traffic from the main thoroughfare into our community. The Lord of the Flies-wannabes refuse to move to the side of the narrow road. They continue their games and conversations while glaring at the cars, daring interference in their significant, self-entitled child-functions. All traffic grinds to a halt until one fool-hardy soul breaches the child-fortress. Rat-like, the rest of us follow, flowing through the all-but-impregnable child wall, praying for deliverance to our driveways unscathed by the children of the night.
Might there be a flicker of sentient human residing behind their simian eyes? Certainly.
Do their violent actions toward one another and the adults around them mirror their perception of their own treatment? Possibly.
Will the mean-spirited aggression learned in our streets instruct the men and women responsible for leading our country in the future? Definitely.
Terrifying.
It has recently been brought to my attention that some people find my blogs less than child-friendly. I have a word for you: Harrumph. Proving yet again how open-minded I am, I will hypothesize that when children are locked along with their wardens in their homes away from my ears and eyes, they may be (all evidence to the contrary notwithstanding) relatively smell-free, vaguely cogent human beings rather than vampiric hellspawn.
In South Florida we have zero lot lines and are stuffed into our communities like proverbial tinned sardines. Therefore, we share front, side, and rear yard lot lines with a number of homes, some of which include children. Apparently weekend mornings from nine until noon have been universally declared Special Mommy Daddy Time while the children are vigorously thrust and effectively locked outside. Seconds become hours and hours become centuries as the ceaseless, soul-sucking shrieks continue unchecked. Alas, a bone-weary adult voice ends my torment. The cacophony shifts to another zone. Tranquility is restored and my lungs expand with the serenity so long denied me.
The only time I actually see the caterwauling banshees is during my commute home. From 4:00 to 7:00 PM, approximately eight thousand unsupervised four- to six-year olds effectively close down the single route that filters traffic from the main thoroughfare into our community. The Lord of the Flies-wannabes refuse to move to the side of the narrow road. They continue their games and conversations while glaring at the cars, daring interference in their significant, self-entitled child-functions. All traffic grinds to a halt until one fool-hardy soul breaches the child-fortress. Rat-like, the rest of us follow, flowing through the all-but-impregnable child wall, praying for deliverance to our driveways unscathed by the children of the night.
Might there be a flicker of sentient human residing behind their simian eyes? Certainly.
Do their violent actions toward one another and the adults around them mirror their perception of their own treatment? Possibly.
Will the mean-spirited aggression learned in our streets instruct the men and women responsible for leading our country in the future? Definitely.
Terrifying.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Judgment
by tess
Brenda Breedlove is the only born and bred Floridian (aka cracker) that I know. She’s one of those people who has never lived more than 10 miles away from her birthplace. IF she has ever been out of state, it was probably Junior year when her high school softball team reached Regionals and they took a bus over the state line into Georgia.
Now her life is consumed with her husband’s softball and fantasy football leagues which require an inordinate amount of her time. Whatever’s left is divided among her three daughters. While not necessarily a blight on society, the vapid trio will add a certain vague “blondeness” to their junior high cheer squads prior to appearances on MTV’s 16 & Pregnant.
Brenda’s reached that point in her life when her waist-length hair reveals a depressed clinging to the rosy days of yesteryear. It languishes listlessly from the center part she’s worn for 35 years, a jagged curtain begging desperately for a good trim if not a mature style.
For reasons known only unto her, Brenda blathered endlessly to me about graduation gifts for her daughter. In Florida children who manage to scale the unfathomable hurdle of sixth grade receive graduation gifts and parties. I guess it’s a consolation prize for the few local girls who don’t get either a quinceanera blowout or bat mitzvah celebration.
Mistaking me for someone who cares, Brenda asked me what to buy the kid. The sum total of my knowledge about 12 year old girls is that they probably want boobs. Or a date with one of the Jonai, Zac, or P-Ratz. Or all of the above.
Summoning my very best Ebenezer Scrooge, I reminded her: “I don’t have any kids so I don’t really know what’s up with them.”
“But what do your friends do about the gifts?”
Incapable of admitting to a woman who has many dear, life-long friends that I have none: “None of my friends have kids.”
And it’s true. Sort of. If I had friends, they certainly wouldn’t have children. Or at least those children would be adults rather than mindless revenants stumbling around in the haze of pre-pubescence. Only my parents’ sheer grit and steely determination salvaged my own adolescence. Razor-sharp fork tines to my eyes would be preferable to experiencing those years through a mother’s suffering.
And I meant “None of my friends have kids” not only in the God-isn’t-this-freaking-conversation-over-yet kind of way, but also (I’m ashamed to admit) in an I-belong-to-a-secret-society-of-women-who-have-better-things-to-do-than-procreate kind of way.
And my own arrogance forced me to reflect.
Clearly the choices I have made are neither better nor worse than Brenda’s. She elected to marry her high school sweetheart and squeeze out a few mouth-breathers. I doubt that she ever considered leaving the neighborhood she grew up in. And there’s value in that. The kids are close to their grand-parents and they enjoy a small town everybody-knows-each-other’s-business safety. Brenda’s husband still plays poker with his high school buds and Brenda goes to “girls’ night out” with friends she’s known for 30 years. There’s a sweet simplicity to that and I’ll admit that a small part of me yearns for it.
I’ve lived for a number of years in each of 7 states. And with each move I’ve separated thoroughly from friends and foes alike. Yes, I’ve met lots of interesting people but I’ve also left them all in my dust. The result being that I have no long-term connection to anyone.
It can be liberating that acquaintances don’t know your history, can’t reference former lovers, or snicker about past mistakes. But there’s something to be said for living next door to the first girl you snuck a smoke with. Or observing the swaggering teenage sons of the first boy you loved. Or getting highlights from the girl who once helped dye your hair blue.
I have few regrets about the choices I’ve made. And, happily, I bet Brenda feels the same way. At each crossroads, we choose our own paths. That’s the easy part. The tough part is moving forward in peace without judging ourselves or our peers too harshly.
Brenda Breedlove is the only born and bred Floridian (aka cracker) that I know. She’s one of those people who has never lived more than 10 miles away from her birthplace. IF she has ever been out of state, it was probably Junior year when her high school softball team reached Regionals and they took a bus over the state line into Georgia.
Now her life is consumed with her husband’s softball and fantasy football leagues which require an inordinate amount of her time. Whatever’s left is divided among her three daughters. While not necessarily a blight on society, the vapid trio will add a certain vague “blondeness” to their junior high cheer squads prior to appearances on MTV’s 16 & Pregnant.
Brenda’s reached that point in her life when her waist-length hair reveals a depressed clinging to the rosy days of yesteryear. It languishes listlessly from the center part she’s worn for 35 years, a jagged curtain begging desperately for a good trim if not a mature style.
For reasons known only unto her, Brenda blathered endlessly to me about graduation gifts for her daughter. In Florida children who manage to scale the unfathomable hurdle of sixth grade receive graduation gifts and parties. I guess it’s a consolation prize for the few local girls who don’t get either a quinceanera blowout or bat mitzvah celebration.
Mistaking me for someone who cares, Brenda asked me what to buy the kid. The sum total of my knowledge about 12 year old girls is that they probably want boobs. Or a date with one of the Jonai, Zac, or P-Ratz. Or all of the above.
Summoning my very best Ebenezer Scrooge, I reminded her: “I don’t have any kids so I don’t really know what’s up with them.”
“But what do your friends do about the gifts?”
Incapable of admitting to a woman who has many dear, life-long friends that I have none: “None of my friends have kids.”
And it’s true. Sort of. If I had friends, they certainly wouldn’t have children. Or at least those children would be adults rather than mindless revenants stumbling around in the haze of pre-pubescence. Only my parents’ sheer grit and steely determination salvaged my own adolescence. Razor-sharp fork tines to my eyes would be preferable to experiencing those years through a mother’s suffering.
And I meant “None of my friends have kids” not only in the God-isn’t-this-freaking-conversation-over-yet kind of way, but also (I’m ashamed to admit) in an I-belong-to-a-secret-society-of-women-who-have-better-things-to-do-than-procreate kind of way.
And my own arrogance forced me to reflect.
Clearly the choices I have made are neither better nor worse than Brenda’s. She elected to marry her high school sweetheart and squeeze out a few mouth-breathers. I doubt that she ever considered leaving the neighborhood she grew up in. And there’s value in that. The kids are close to their grand-parents and they enjoy a small town everybody-knows-each-other’s-business safety. Brenda’s husband still plays poker with his high school buds and Brenda goes to “girls’ night out” with friends she’s known for 30 years. There’s a sweet simplicity to that and I’ll admit that a small part of me yearns for it.
I’ve lived for a number of years in each of 7 states. And with each move I’ve separated thoroughly from friends and foes alike. Yes, I’ve met lots of interesting people but I’ve also left them all in my dust. The result being that I have no long-term connection to anyone.
It can be liberating that acquaintances don’t know your history, can’t reference former lovers, or snicker about past mistakes. But there’s something to be said for living next door to the first girl you snuck a smoke with. Or observing the swaggering teenage sons of the first boy you loved. Or getting highlights from the girl who once helped dye your hair blue.
I have few regrets about the choices I’ve made. And, happily, I bet Brenda feels the same way. At each crossroads, we choose our own paths. That’s the easy part. The tough part is moving forward in peace without judging ourselves or our peers too harshly.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Name game 2
by tess
Officially I’m an Accounting Manager. But, trust me, that’s just as contrived a title as anything The Hubs dreams up. My main task at work is to narc on my co-workers. Fortunately I’ve been a brown-nosing tattletale for 46 years now, so it’s a job I embrace. Specifically I inform my manager about my colleagues’ tardiness. Alas, a job I was born to do! One’s inability to arrive in a timely fashion is by far the peeviest of my copious pet peeves. Let’s envision my response to lateness together, shall we? See Rumpelstiltskin completely losing his shit, stomping his little feet and bashing his little fists, completely deranged in an orgy of blood vessel-bursting frustration? Now imagine him with gray hair and red bifocals wearing wrinkled mom-jeans and pink Isaac Mizrahi flats from SuperTarget. Yup. That’s me at 8:35 every morning.
As Human Timeclock, I enjoy the benefits of sitting in the pseudo-Receptionist area between the front door and the restroom. Until a few months ago, I could count the number of times The Smokers went outside for ciggy snacks and cell phone chats. Now that they’re restricted to just two breaks, I have a lot less to do. But I can still count the number of times Katie gets up to wash her hands per hour. She’s not OCD, she just can’t sit still. If she’s not washing her hands, then she’s wandering into the kitchen eating other people’s food. While she’s in there the ring of any phone in the office will elicit an eardrum-shattering Fran Drescher-esque: “Is thaaat miiiiiiiiine?”
Another advantage to sitting at the front desk? The immeasurable reward of hearing iterations of the same comments over and over and over again.
Whenever possible, an external force must be named as the culprit for one’s lateness.
Huuuuuge accident on 95. Right in front of me.
Turnpike is a parking lot. I left home like 3 hours ago!
I had to stop and get milk for everyone’s coffee.
It’s raining soooooo hard and my dog’s really afraid of thunder.
If I have food on my desk, then it’s
Wow, that looks good.
What is that?
Where did you get that?
Is it good? I bet it’s good.
How much was that?
Do you have anymore?
Have you had that before?
You know what? I’m just gonna run over and get one of those. Tell everyone to hold the meeting, I’ll just be a second.
And when it’s warm outside (as it is wont to be during South Florida summers)
God, it’s hot.
Can you believe how hot it is?
It’s AFRICA hot out there today.
It’s supposed to hit 103 today.
I’m already completely soaked. This sucks.
It’s not bad enough to go through The Change. This is just unacceptable.
Can you believe my stupid A/C doesn’t work again so I’ll be late tomorrow.
And Rumpelstiltskin begins her dance anew.
Officially I’m an Accounting Manager. But, trust me, that’s just as contrived a title as anything The Hubs dreams up. My main task at work is to narc on my co-workers. Fortunately I’ve been a brown-nosing tattletale for 46 years now, so it’s a job I embrace. Specifically I inform my manager about my colleagues’ tardiness. Alas, a job I was born to do! One’s inability to arrive in a timely fashion is by far the peeviest of my copious pet peeves. Let’s envision my response to lateness together, shall we? See Rumpelstiltskin completely losing his shit, stomping his little feet and bashing his little fists, completely deranged in an orgy of blood vessel-bursting frustration? Now imagine him with gray hair and red bifocals wearing wrinkled mom-jeans and pink Isaac Mizrahi flats from SuperTarget. Yup. That’s me at 8:35 every morning.
As Human Timeclock, I enjoy the benefits of sitting in the pseudo-Receptionist area between the front door and the restroom. Until a few months ago, I could count the number of times The Smokers went outside for ciggy snacks and cell phone chats. Now that they’re restricted to just two breaks, I have a lot less to do. But I can still count the number of times Katie gets up to wash her hands per hour. She’s not OCD, she just can’t sit still. If she’s not washing her hands, then she’s wandering into the kitchen eating other people’s food. While she’s in there the ring of any phone in the office will elicit an eardrum-shattering Fran Drescher-esque: “Is thaaat miiiiiiiiine?”
Another advantage to sitting at the front desk? The immeasurable reward of hearing iterations of the same comments over and over and over again.
Whenever possible, an external force must be named as the culprit for one’s lateness.
Huuuuuge accident on 95. Right in front of me.
Turnpike is a parking lot. I left home like 3 hours ago!
I had to stop and get milk for everyone’s coffee.
It’s raining soooooo hard and my dog’s really afraid of thunder.
If I have food on my desk, then it’s
Wow, that looks good.
What is that?
Where did you get that?
Is it good? I bet it’s good.
How much was that?
Do you have anymore?
Have you had that before?
You know what? I’m just gonna run over and get one of those. Tell everyone to hold the meeting, I’ll just be a second.
And when it’s warm outside (as it is wont to be during South Florida summers)
God, it’s hot.
Can you believe how hot it is?
It’s AFRICA hot out there today.
It’s supposed to hit 103 today.
I’m already completely soaked. This sucks.
It’s not bad enough to go through The Change. This is just unacceptable.
Can you believe my stupid A/C doesn’t work again so I’ll be late tomorrow.
And Rumpelstiltskin begins her dance anew.
Name game 1
by tess
I’ve noticed from his email signatures that The Hubs has a new title every 45 to 60 days. But he isn’t frequently tasked with new responsibilities and he’s certainly never given any additional salary. This leads me to believe that all these titles are not officially bestowed upon him by his company. Honestly, I bet he makes them up. He reads several corporate journals (and other really boring non-fiction that doesn’t include either vampires or sex – BOOORRIING!). And you know how men are. They spy something shiny and new – in this case a sparkly new title – and covet the bauble with their tiny black hearts. So my guess, after 20 years of knowing the man, is that with each new title comes a tiny boost to the old ego. This month it’s Practice Manager. Not stingy with my mind-boggling insight, I shared, “That’s a lameass title. Are you practicing to be a manager? Maybe one day you’ll move all the way up from Orange Julius to Claire’s Accessories! BRAAHHHH! (Insert self-satisfied bray here.)” I was informed by The Eyeroll of Annoyance that I was, as usual, out of my depth. Okay, fine. My red-hot, broad-shouldered, long-fanged vampires and I will henceforth withhold our phenomenally perceptive observations and you may continue to concoct inane titles.
I’ve noticed from his email signatures that The Hubs has a new title every 45 to 60 days. But he isn’t frequently tasked with new responsibilities and he’s certainly never given any additional salary. This leads me to believe that all these titles are not officially bestowed upon him by his company. Honestly, I bet he makes them up. He reads several corporate journals (and other really boring non-fiction that doesn’t include either vampires or sex – BOOORRIING!). And you know how men are. They spy something shiny and new – in this case a sparkly new title – and covet the bauble with their tiny black hearts. So my guess, after 20 years of knowing the man, is that with each new title comes a tiny boost to the old ego. This month it’s Practice Manager. Not stingy with my mind-boggling insight, I shared, “That’s a lameass title. Are you practicing to be a manager? Maybe one day you’ll move all the way up from Orange Julius to Claire’s Accessories! BRAAHHHH! (Insert self-satisfied bray here.)” I was informed by The Eyeroll of Annoyance that I was, as usual, out of my depth. Okay, fine. My red-hot, broad-shouldered, long-fanged vampires and I will henceforth withhold our phenomenally perceptive observations and you may continue to concoct inane titles.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
I had a dream
by tess
As frequent readers know, my day begins early. Not because I’m one of those today-is-the-first-day-of-the-rest-of-my-life-so-I’ll-rise-with-the-sun-run-for-an-hour-catch-up-with-the-Nikkei-exchange-then-serve-breakfast-at-the-soup-kitchen-before-work kind of people. It is due, rather, to the fact that I suffer from OSCATS (Owner of Spoiled Cats who Act like Terrorists Syndrome). So prior to the Daily Cat Parade of 4 AM Wakedness, I dreamed The Hubs was bashing my face in.
It was a strange dream that began in a park where a group of tweenish friends were designing t-shirts for Camp Be a Ho, with the tagline: or just look like one. The logo was a stick drawing of a wigwam enclosing a stick girl striking a provocative pose.
While we selected shirt colors, I suddenly panicked, remembering that our flight was at 4:30. Fleeing the scene leaving money and hairbrushes behind, I inexplicably encountered The Ex Hubs (and his wife who looked nothing like The Princess New Bride). Somewhat concerned, he indicated that he’d check at the front desk, but thought we were scheduled to leave the following day.
Suddenly I was at the Jules Verne restaurant in the Eiffel Tower. Gazing out the vast picture windows I could see terrifying gargoyle statues and some sort of Harry Potter-esque emerald green zeppelin flying through the streets directly in front of us. I remember thinking, “This is amazing. I’ll always remember this.”
Later, from a raised viewing deck behind thick glass, we could see the Metro subway trains. Finally the train advertising our Camp Be a Ho graphics trundled past. Some passengers on the train and those waiting to board were glaring menacingly at us, particularly one very tall red-wigged transvestite. (Think 90% Dr. Frank-n-Furter, 5% Ronald McDonald, 5% Tyra Banks.)
Suddenly we were in a hotel room and The Hubs awakened me. He was yelling that I do something ALL THE TIME and punching my head while I screamed NO NO NO NO NO NOOOO and wondered when Security would arrive.
End of dream.
I only know two things about dream analysis. 1) Appearing shockingly and embarrassingly naked but unable to cover yourself represents a fear of exposure. 2) Being forced to take an exam for a class that you forgot to attend represents a fear of unpreparedness. These are very common threads in my dreams and no longer haunt me because within the dream itself another part of my mind interprets the meaning. But what interests me here is the common element of sitting behind windows while life progresses in front of me rather than being actively involved. Again, not surprising and easily interpreted, but interesting nonetheless.
I cannot fathom what the tween scene is about. And The Ex? No clue.
That leaves the rather climactic and wholly unexpected Friday Night Fight Night showdown. Strangely, I’m not absolutely certain it was The Hubs punching me. It could have been Hulk Hogan. No, The Hubs doesn’t even vaguely resemble Hulk, but somehow I’m sure that it was one or the other of them.
I just started reading Graham Joyce’s Dreamside last night and I’m wondering if I’ll have weirdass dreams the whole time I’m reading it. I hope so. I mean nobody wants to have violent dreams obviously, but who doesn’t enjoy a crazy dream here and there?
As frequent readers know, my day begins early. Not because I’m one of those today-is-the-first-day-of-the-rest-of-my-life-so-I’ll-rise-with-the-sun-run-for-an-hour-catch-up-with-the-Nikkei-exchange-then-serve-breakfast-at-the-soup-kitchen-before-work kind of people. It is due, rather, to the fact that I suffer from OSCATS (Owner of Spoiled Cats who Act like Terrorists Syndrome). So prior to the Daily Cat Parade of 4 AM Wakedness, I dreamed The Hubs was bashing my face in.
It was a strange dream that began in a park where a group of tweenish friends were designing t-shirts for Camp Be a Ho, with the tagline: or just look like one. The logo was a stick drawing of a wigwam enclosing a stick girl striking a provocative pose.
While we selected shirt colors, I suddenly panicked, remembering that our flight was at 4:30. Fleeing the scene leaving money and hairbrushes behind, I inexplicably encountered The Ex Hubs (and his wife who looked nothing like The Princess New Bride). Somewhat concerned, he indicated that he’d check at the front desk, but thought we were scheduled to leave the following day.
Suddenly I was at the Jules Verne restaurant in the Eiffel Tower. Gazing out the vast picture windows I could see terrifying gargoyle statues and some sort of Harry Potter-esque emerald green zeppelin flying through the streets directly in front of us. I remember thinking, “This is amazing. I’ll always remember this.”
Later, from a raised viewing deck behind thick glass, we could see the Metro subway trains. Finally the train advertising our Camp Be a Ho graphics trundled past. Some passengers on the train and those waiting to board were glaring menacingly at us, particularly one very tall red-wigged transvestite. (Think 90% Dr. Frank-n-Furter, 5% Ronald McDonald, 5% Tyra Banks.)
Suddenly we were in a hotel room and The Hubs awakened me. He was yelling that I do something ALL THE TIME and punching my head while I screamed NO NO NO NO NO NOOOO and wondered when Security would arrive.
End of dream.
I only know two things about dream analysis. 1) Appearing shockingly and embarrassingly naked but unable to cover yourself represents a fear of exposure. 2) Being forced to take an exam for a class that you forgot to attend represents a fear of unpreparedness. These are very common threads in my dreams and no longer haunt me because within the dream itself another part of my mind interprets the meaning. But what interests me here is the common element of sitting behind windows while life progresses in front of me rather than being actively involved. Again, not surprising and easily interpreted, but interesting nonetheless.
I cannot fathom what the tween scene is about. And The Ex? No clue.
That leaves the rather climactic and wholly unexpected Friday Night Fight Night showdown. Strangely, I’m not absolutely certain it was The Hubs punching me. It could have been Hulk Hogan. No, The Hubs doesn’t even vaguely resemble Hulk, but somehow I’m sure that it was one or the other of them.
I just started reading Graham Joyce’s Dreamside last night and I’m wondering if I’ll have weirdass dreams the whole time I’m reading it. I hope so. I mean nobody wants to have violent dreams obviously, but who doesn’t enjoy a crazy dream here and there?
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
The Fat One and The Bus
by tess
Jason is a typical child, really cute but typical. At 2 ½, he has not yet developed the filter which modifies the thought in his brain prior to speaking it aloud.
He was riding his little truck around the office on Monday when Kirstie walked past. Unfiltered Jason asked his Daddy, “What’s the fat one’s name?” Mortified and feigning acute deafness, his father ignored Jason. Sadly that evening’s conversation about why it’s rude to call people fat didn’t quite melt into little Jason’s brain. Nor did Kirstie’s name.
On Tuesday when Kirstie wended her way toward the kitchen, Jason asked his Daddy, “Where’s the fat one going?”
It’s Wednesday evening and Jason’s been here all day. Kirstie hasn’t left her desk since 8:15; I think she’s peeing in her coffee cup rather than facing that child again.
I know that every parent has a similar horror story. My mother’s favorite is The Bus. I grew up in Baltimore, a city that embraced mass transit as a viable alternative to adding even more lanes to the already-horrific Beltway. Mom believed in exposing me to the culture of the city, so we rode the bus together on weekends along with the diversity-rich ridership of any large city.
One Saturday afternoon on our way home from our favorite museum, a woman from Africa climbed the stairs and sat a football field worth of rows in front of us. Mother must have been temporarily distracted and missed the telltale eye-widening which inevitably precedes broadly exclaimed truth-telling. And so the tiny blonde child accompanied by her tiny blonde mother shouted at the top of her not-so-tiny lungs: “SHE SURE IS BLAAAAACK.”
We were a substantial (and expensive) taxi ride away from our home, but my mother rang the signal for the next stop and we exited the bus within seconds. I imagine that the entire bus burst into laughter as soon as we were gone. Or perhaps not. Baltimore in 1967 wasn’t exactly a bastion of race camaraderie. It might not have been a laughing matter at all.
Jason is a typical child, really cute but typical. At 2 ½, he has not yet developed the filter which modifies the thought in his brain prior to speaking it aloud.
He was riding his little truck around the office on Monday when Kirstie walked past. Unfiltered Jason asked his Daddy, “What’s the fat one’s name?” Mortified and feigning acute deafness, his father ignored Jason. Sadly that evening’s conversation about why it’s rude to call people fat didn’t quite melt into little Jason’s brain. Nor did Kirstie’s name.
On Tuesday when Kirstie wended her way toward the kitchen, Jason asked his Daddy, “Where’s the fat one going?”
It’s Wednesday evening and Jason’s been here all day. Kirstie hasn’t left her desk since 8:15; I think she’s peeing in her coffee cup rather than facing that child again.
I know that every parent has a similar horror story. My mother’s favorite is The Bus. I grew up in Baltimore, a city that embraced mass transit as a viable alternative to adding even more lanes to the already-horrific Beltway. Mom believed in exposing me to the culture of the city, so we rode the bus together on weekends along with the diversity-rich ridership of any large city.
One Saturday afternoon on our way home from our favorite museum, a woman from Africa climbed the stairs and sat a football field worth of rows in front of us. Mother must have been temporarily distracted and missed the telltale eye-widening which inevitably precedes broadly exclaimed truth-telling. And so the tiny blonde child accompanied by her tiny blonde mother shouted at the top of her not-so-tiny lungs: “SHE SURE IS BLAAAAACK.”
We were a substantial (and expensive) taxi ride away from our home, but my mother rang the signal for the next stop and we exited the bus within seconds. I imagine that the entire bus burst into laughter as soon as we were gone. Or perhaps not. Baltimore in 1967 wasn’t exactly a bastion of race camaraderie. It might not have been a laughing matter at all.
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