1. Do you like blue cheese? I do. I would eat it on my cornflakes if it weren't so expensive.
2. Have you ever smoked heroin? Not since my stint in the Brownies. Those bitches run rough.
3. Do you own a gun? Nope. Neither of us wants one in the home. The cats are way too volatile.
4. What flavor do you add to your drink at Sonic? I have never been to Sonic, though commercials make it look like shake nirvana.
5. Do you get nervous before doctor appointments? Not anymore, but I used to pass out at the lady doctor. They love that.
6. What do you think of hot dogs? I think they've been marginalized for far too long. Give them the vote, I say. It's time for the othering to stop.
7. Favorite Christmas movie? Three-way tie: Scrooged, Bad Santa, Home for the Holidays
8. What do you prefer to drink in the morning? Cristal, but if that's not available, I'll take tea, I guess.
9. Can you do push ups? Can, youbetcha. Do, ohgodno.
10. What’s your favorite piece of jewelry? The crown jewels. Or my blue sapphire ring from Trace.
11. Favorite hobby? I like to pour myself a nice glass of wine, turn on some Tiny Tim and get to the business of building doll house furniture out of sausages, barley, and spit. You know, the usual.
12. Do you have A.D.D? What? Sorry, I was just about to...can you hold on a second? Thanks. What were you saying? Oh, I was? Well shit. I guess I --look at the pretty lights...
13. What is one trait you hate about yourself? I'm a huge judger and have very little empathy for people who allow themselves to be kicked around by their partners.
14. Middle name? Ellen. After my dad's first wife's sister. Would you like to set up my appointment with a therapist, or shall I?
15. What is your favorite TV show or movie? TV Show: Bret Michael's Whorific Circus Sideshow, er, "Rock of Love" and all its endless derivations. Movie: "The Right Stuff"
16. Name 3 things you bought yesterday. Draino, mayonnaise, and cat litter. Hey! It's the holidays. You celebrate your way...
17. Name 3 drinks you regularly drink. Tea, juice, and unsettled jell-o
18. Current worry? That it's wrong to still have a thing for Heath Ledger, considering he's, well, you know
19. Current hate right now? OH GOD. That terrible commercial with the rabbit that horrifyingly morphs into a running robot dog thing. FUCK YOU, YOU CREEPY RABBITTY BASTARD
20. Favorite place to be? In front of Jeff Bridges' zipper
21. Where would you like to go? To your house. Say, Thursday around 6?
22. Name three people who will complete this? Mickey Rourke, Don Rickles, and Duff McKagan. They're huge followers of this blog. I mean, who isn't?
24. What shirt are you wearing? My Keith Richards for President shirt. Pictured here.
25. What year would you go back in time to? 1988. It was Designing Women's best year.
26. Can you whistle? Not even a little.
27. Favorite color? 1970s orange
28. Would you be a pirate? Wait a second, Survey Writer. Are you asking if I would like to be a real pirate or a movie pirate? The reason I ask is that Johnny Depp's Jack Sparrow would have been passed around a real pirate ship like a lollipop in Oliver's orphanage. None for me, thanks.
29. Favorite girl’s name? Maude Margaret
30. Favorite boy’s name? David Discretion
31. Last thing you dreamed about? Flikka could talk. She was still a cat, but she had a lot to say about how we run the household. I made myself wake up.
32. What’s in your pocket right now? Nothing. I have only the wish for pockets on my pajamas at the moment.
33. Last thing that made you laugh? Clayton's status message that reads: "Thanks to peripheral vision & the breakfast food aisle, I thought for a moment that Post came out with a new cereal called 'Just Bitches'." Beautiful.
34. Best Halloween costume? My personal best was this year's Marge Gunderson from "Fargo"
35. Worst injury you’ve ever had? Broken heart
36. Do you like where you live? I do. I could live without the self-congratulatory smugness this area lends itself to sometimes, but overall Portland kicks booty.
37. How many TVs do you have in your house? 2
38. Who is your loudest friend? Oh hands down. Terry. Jesus wept. His "whisper" makes my eardrum shake its head in disgust.
39. How many dogs do you have? I have three in my head. In reality, though, they're cats.
40. Does someone have a crush on you? Man, I hope so. The wedding could get awkward if he doesn't.
41. What is your favorite book(s)? "I Like You" by Amy Sedaris, "1984" by George Orwell, and "James and the Giant Peach" by Roald Dahl
42. What is your favorite candy? Snowcaps, and for some reason the movie houses around here are major Snowcaps bigots. It makes me sad.
43. Favorite Sports Team? Detroit Red Wings
44. Favorite Sports? Hockey, gymnastics, lion taming
45. What were you doing 12 AM last night? Reading my new book from Turbo
46. What was the first thing you thought of when you woke up? I would like to continue reading my new book from Turbo.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Roles of a Lifetime
Sometimes I get off the beaten path and tend to lose focus about where I'm headed or what I'm doing to get there. I say sometimes when I mean yesterday, today, and tomorrow I do that. I live in the haze with blasts of clarity. Always interesting. Always motivating. One of the things that jars me back to center is my family and relationships. So, I took a moment to do an exercise this afternoon that helped jog my perspective back into joint.
While I don't know who I will be, let me tell you who I am:
I am Sooze, Matt, Russ' sister.
I am Tracie's sister by spirit.
I am Janel and Dave's sister-in-law.
I am Janice and David's daughter.
I am K's stepmother.
I am J's fiance.
I am Oscar, Lillian, Ruth, and Rupert's granddaughter.
I am Dawson, Ababu, and Lily's godmother.
I am Tim, Dawson, Violet, Ababu, Genevieve, Emma, Lily, Sierra, Dakota, Helena, Micah, Noah, Cabe, Quinn, Laura, Leah, Monkey, Devon, Colin, Kenny, and Tessa's aunt. So far.
I am the NPF's employee.
I am Jill, Lissa, and Crystal's moon sister.
I am NPR and Alzheimer's Association's contributing supporter.
I am Nicole, Ron, Christine, and Tracie's old roommate.
I am Silkie Madge, Rascal Reverend Jim, and Flikka's hairless monkey companion.
I am Craig, Rich, Terry's, and the Academy Awards', biggest fan, unashamedly.
It's easy at this time of year to begin to evaluate what happened in 2008 and what circumstances are leading to in 2009, but for me, I find a great deal of comfort in the immovable relationships that shift and grow, but remain fundamentally cemented in the mirror reflection, always at the ready to look back at you with a nod and a wink.
While I don't know who I will be, let me tell you who I am:
I am Sooze, Matt, Russ' sister.
I am Tracie's sister by spirit.
I am Janel and Dave's sister-in-law.
I am Janice and David's daughter.
I am K's stepmother.
I am J's fiance.
I am Oscar, Lillian, Ruth, and Rupert's granddaughter.
I am Dawson, Ababu, and Lily's godmother.
I am Tim, Dawson, Violet, Ababu, Genevieve, Emma, Lily, Sierra, Dakota, Helena, Micah, Noah, Cabe, Quinn, Laura, Leah, Monkey, Devon, Colin, Kenny, and Tessa's aunt. So far.
I am the NPF's employee.
I am Jill, Lissa, and Crystal's moon sister.
I am NPR and Alzheimer's Association's contributing supporter.
I am Nicole, Ron, Christine, and Tracie's old roommate.
I am Silkie Madge, Rascal Reverend Jim, and Flikka's hairless monkey companion.
I am Craig, Rich, Terry's, and the Academy Awards', biggest fan, unashamedly.
It's easy at this time of year to begin to evaluate what happened in 2008 and what circumstances are leading to in 2009, but for me, I find a great deal of comfort in the immovable relationships that shift and grow, but remain fundamentally cemented in the mirror reflection, always at the ready to look back at you with a nod and a wink.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
In honor of the Golden Globe Nominations...
This is a fun little game my friend posted on Facebook. I thought it would be a nifty and timely entry, considering the recent announcement of the Golden Globe nominations.
Here's how it works:
1. Pick 20 of your favorite movies (not necessarily nominated or released in the last year).
2. Go to IMDb and find a quote from each movie.
3. Post them for everyone to guess.
4. Strike it out when someone guesses correctly, and put who guessed it and the movie.
5. NO GOOGLING/using IMDb search functions.
My selections follow.
1. Monkeys? You think a monkey knows he's sittin' on top of a rocket that might explode? These astronaut boys they know that, see? Well, I'll tell you something, it takes a special kind of man to volunteer for a suicide mission, especially one that's on TV. Ol' Gus, he did all right.
"The Right Stuff" by Sooze
2. The suspense is terrible... I hope it'll last. "Willy Wonka" by Armisteads
3. You look so beautiful and peaceful, you almost look dead. And I'm glad, because there's something I want to say that's always been very difficult for me to say. "I slit the sheet, the sheet I slit, and on the slitted sheet I sit." There. I've never been relaxed enough around anyone to say that.
"The Jerk" by E
4. How do I look so young? Quite simple. A complete vegetable diet, twelve hours sleep a night, and *lots* and *lots* of makeup.
5. You've got a program featuring America's favorite old fart. Reading a book in front of a fireplace. Now, I have to kill all of you.
6. Then one day I hear "Reach for it, mister." I spun around, and there I was, standing face to face with a six-year-old kid. Well, I just laid down my guns and walked away... Little bastard shot me in the ass! So I limped to the nearest saloon, crawled inside a whiskey bottle, and I've been there ever since.
"Blazing Saddles" by Armisteads
7. Hey, nice marmot!
8. It's a crystal. Nothing more. But if you turn it this way and look into it, it will show you your dreams. But this is not a gift for an ordinary girl who takes care of a screaming baby.
"Labyrinth" by E
9. What? You pooped in the refrigerator? And you ate the whole... wheel of cheese? How'd you do that? Heck, I'm not even mad; that's amazing. How 'bout we get you in your p.j.'s and we hit the hay.
10. After my divorce from Luther I scraped by with baby-sitting gigs and odd jobs - mostly the jobs we call blow.
11. She had a Mount Rushmore t-shirt on, and those guys never looked so good. Especially Jefferson and Lincoln. Kind of bloated but happy.
12. Listen up, maggots. You are not special. You are not a beautiful or unique snowflake. You're the same decaying organic matter as everything else.
13. Except my name. I'll give up all that other stuff, but only if I get to keep my name. I've worked too hard for it, your honor.
14. Now finish up them taters; I'm gonna go fondle my sweaters.
15. I guess you think I'm kicking you, Bob. But it ain't so. What I'm doing is talking, you hear? I'm talking to all those villains down there in Kansas. I'm talking to all those villains in Missouri. And all those villains down there in Cheyenne. And what I'm saying is there ain't no whore's gold. And if there was, how they wouldn't want to come looking for it anyhow.
16. Uh, I could do that sir, yeah. Yeah, I could do that I suppose. What I was thinking was I was going to ask Him if He could make me a bit lame in one leg during the middle of the week. You know, something beggable, but not leprosy, which is a pain in the ass to be blunt and excuse my French, sir.
"Life of Brian" by Armisteads
17. Yes. Yes, I did it. I killed Yvette. I hated her, so much... it-it- the f - it -flam - flames. Flames, on the side of my face, breathing-breathl- heaving breaths. Heaving breath...
18. That's pretty dangerous building a road in the middle of the street. I mean, if frogs couldn't hop, I'd be gone with the Schwinn.
19. Listen, if you didn't know you're bein' scammed, you're too fuckin' dumb to keep this job. If you did know, you were in on it. Either way, you're out. Get out! Go on. Let's go.
"Casino" by E
20. Neighbors bring food with death, and flowers with sickness, and little things in between. Boo was our neighbor. He gave us two soap dolls, a broken watch and chain, a knife, and our lives.
"To Kill a Mockingbird" by Armisteads
Here's how it works:
1. Pick 20 of your favorite movies (not necessarily nominated or released in the last year).
2. Go to IMDb and find a quote from each movie.
3. Post them for everyone to guess.
4. Strike it out when someone guesses correctly, and put who guessed it and the movie.
5. NO GOOGLING/using IMDb search functions.
My selections follow.
1. Monkeys? You think a monkey knows he's sittin' on top of a rocket that might explode? These astronaut boys they know that, see? Well, I'll tell you something, it takes a special kind of man to volunteer for a suicide mission, especially one that's on TV. Ol' Gus, he did all right.
"The Right Stuff" by Sooze
2. The suspense is terrible... I hope it'll last. "Willy Wonka" by Armisteads
3. You look so beautiful and peaceful, you almost look dead. And I'm glad, because there's something I want to say that's always been very difficult for me to say. "I slit the sheet, the sheet I slit, and on the slitted sheet I sit." There. I've never been relaxed enough around anyone to say that.
"The Jerk" by E
4. How do I look so young? Quite simple. A complete vegetable diet, twelve hours sleep a night, and *lots* and *lots* of makeup.
5. You've got a program featuring America's favorite old fart. Reading a book in front of a fireplace. Now, I have to kill all of you.
6. Then one day I hear "Reach for it, mister." I spun around, and there I was, standing face to face with a six-year-old kid. Well, I just laid down my guns and walked away... Little bastard shot me in the ass! So I limped to the nearest saloon, crawled inside a whiskey bottle, and I've been there ever since.
"Blazing Saddles" by Armisteads
7. Hey, nice marmot!
8. It's a crystal. Nothing more. But if you turn it this way and look into it, it will show you your dreams. But this is not a gift for an ordinary girl who takes care of a screaming baby.
"Labyrinth" by E
9. What? You pooped in the refrigerator? And you ate the whole... wheel of cheese? How'd you do that? Heck, I'm not even mad; that's amazing. How 'bout we get you in your p.j.'s and we hit the hay.
10. After my divorce from Luther I scraped by with baby-sitting gigs and odd jobs - mostly the jobs we call blow.
11. She had a Mount Rushmore t-shirt on, and those guys never looked so good. Especially Jefferson and Lincoln. Kind of bloated but happy.
12. Listen up, maggots. You are not special. You are not a beautiful or unique snowflake. You're the same decaying organic matter as everything else.
13. Except my name. I'll give up all that other stuff, but only if I get to keep my name. I've worked too hard for it, your honor.
14. Now finish up them taters; I'm gonna go fondle my sweaters.
15. I guess you think I'm kicking you, Bob. But it ain't so. What I'm doing is talking, you hear? I'm talking to all those villains down there in Kansas. I'm talking to all those villains in Missouri. And all those villains down there in Cheyenne. And what I'm saying is there ain't no whore's gold. And if there was, how they wouldn't want to come looking for it anyhow.
16. Uh, I could do that sir, yeah. Yeah, I could do that I suppose. What I was thinking was I was going to ask Him if He could make me a bit lame in one leg during the middle of the week. You know, something beggable, but not leprosy, which is a pain in the ass to be blunt and excuse my French, sir.
"Life of Brian" by Armisteads
17. Yes. Yes, I did it. I killed Yvette. I hated her, so much... it-it- the f - it -flam - flames. Flames, on the side of my face, breathing-breathl- heaving breaths. Heaving breath...
18. That's pretty dangerous building a road in the middle of the street. I mean, if frogs couldn't hop, I'd be gone with the Schwinn.
19. Listen, if you didn't know you're bein' scammed, you're too fuckin' dumb to keep this job. If you did know, you were in on it. Either way, you're out. Get out! Go on. Let's go.
"Casino" by E
20. Neighbors bring food with death, and flowers with sickness, and little things in between. Boo was our neighbor. He gave us two soap dolls, a broken watch and chain, a knife, and our lives.
"To Kill a Mockingbird" by Armisteads
Captain Quirk
Yesterday was my nephew Dawson's 15th birthday. While that number gives me the dry heaves, it's also a testament to my memory that I'm able to recall things from 15 years ago with utmost clarity. He was my first godchild of many to come. Tim was a novelty because he was my first niece/nephew type person, so he had broken me in on the baby lovins front, but Dawson came with his own brand of untamed cuteness in an entirely too small package. He wasn't born prematurely, but may as well have been. He lost a pound from the time of his birth to when he was allowed to come home two days later. For those of us without kid experience, that's about a Load.5, metrically speaking. We were worried.
Regardless of how small and fragile he was, I was able to hold him while my mom entertained Tim in the hallway and my sister underwent some ghastly (no doubt) procedure behind drawn curtain. So, it was just him and me. I could feel his tiny spine in my left palm as I turned him to look at me. He was so light and pale that I wanted to pack him away inside my coat to make sure he was warm enough, regardless of his little hospital issue baby blanket burrito and beanie. When I told him that we had been waiting for him and we loved him, he opened his eyes. His giant eyes. I know that kids that young have no control over their smiling equipment just yet, but I would absolutely swear that he did. He smiled crookedly and with intent. Apparently he'd been waiting for us too.
I'm close with each of my nephews and nieces in our own ways, and I love them deeply and without reservation, but this one. Well, this one. Let's just say I'm glad he came to the party and brought the sass punch...
Sunday, December 14, 2008
The Tree
Every December from the time I can remember, I would ask when we're going to get the tree. Without fail, Dad would answer "We're not getting one." No explanations. No excuses. No context whatsoever. Just "Don't get your hopes up." On and on the begging would go. It was like some kind of primitive torture you would use on a POW Christmas elf you kept in the cellar. "No No, Elfie Saggins, we're not getting a tree this year. Maybe next. Keep your tiny fingers crossed."
He was completely merciless. He even told people outside the family that we weren't getting a tree. If a neighbor stopped by on December 20th and noted the conspicuous absence of evergreen cheer, Dad would say "No, we decided not to get one this year. Too much trouble." I could feel the color drain from my face when the neighbor would reply "What a great idea! I wish we could get away with not getting one." I would recoil in horror at the Scroogey condoning of this tree bigotry and slowly retreat to my room, making sure to never turn my back on these Christmas poo-pooers in the process.
How could we not have a tree? To me, the tree was a visible symbol of our whole family. I was born 14 years after my sister and 10 years after my oldest brother, so the only sibling who was a constant in my life and in the house was Matt, and we managed to make Sibling Rivalry cower in the corner and cry itself to sleep at night with our vivid fighting and relentless teasing. For two weeks out of the year, the tree stood there with all four of our sibling ornaments that meant we're brothers and sisters, David and Janice's children, regardless of age or location.
We had to have a tree.
Every year he did this. Every single year. And every time I felt the sincerity in his voice when he said no and wondered if this would be the year he would go through with it and we really wouldn't have one. But each December 23rd or 24th, he would go out to the garage and bring in the most beautiful, carefully chosen, tall and mighty tree he could find that year. I could see the marks where he meticulously cut the branches off the bottom so that there were still plenty of prime ornament spaces, but just enough room for me (the smallest) to belly crawl to the holder each morning and keep the water at a safe level.
After we let the tree get used to the temperature in the house and open up a bit, Russ would string the lights on it while I brought up all of the ornaments from the basement. There were four things that had to happen in a set order before we could declare game on and hang ornaments at will. First, Russ would put the angel Mom made of her ribbon roses on the highest branch that Dad had whittled to a safe perch for her . The second order of business was the first item of decoration on the body of the tree: a small paper Jesus that was from our grandma's tree who would sit front and center nestled in the branches. The first official ornament was a Michigan State Ornament that Bill Carr hung as near the angel as possible. We didn't quite revere MSU as much as little Jesus, but it was up there. And the final step in the tree ritual would be the official sibling ornaments. When each of us were born, Mom had an ornament made, a large metallic ball with our name on it, in different colors. Sooze's was blue, Russ' was green, Matt's was silver, and mine was gold. Matt's was the biggest. Every year we heard that his was the biggest. Whose was the biggest, you ask? Matt's. It was with great care that we picked out our spots on the tree. They would hang in descending birth order, which was cool because mine usually ended up next to Jesus, and that was prime real estate as far as I was concerned. Once the sibling balls were placed, all other ornaments could then be hung.
The finishing touch of the tree was the tinsel. Mom showed me that while you could fling the tinsel with abandon, it might be better to hang each strand one at a time--best to avoid looking like the Christmas tree at the Bunny Ranch that way. She and I would finish what had been a long journey of wonder and worry. We had a Christmas tree. And it was perfect.
After Dad died, we all made incredible adjustments to our holiday celebrations and traditions, and just now seem to be settling into a groove that makes sense and keeps the joy alive. J and I go to Matt and Janel's family to celebrate, Russ flies to Michigan to be with Mom for the season, and Sooze's family keeps Christmas their way in Maine.
It's been three years since I've had an evergreen tree. I say it's because I don't want the kitties to get at the ornaments, or because it costs too much, or we don't have enough space, but the truth is that I'm still not ready for it. In an effort to make sure I can still show off our wonderful family ornament history that Mom carefully preserved, we display them in a different sort of way that makes sense to us. J creates an incredible "tree" on the wall where I can hang my ornaments. It still means a great deal, and it's sufficiently unique enough to allow me to keep Christmas in the present while acknowledging Christmases past.
Last week I was in my office when one of my co-workers stopped by to ask if we'd already put up our tree this year. Inexplicably I heard myself saying "Oh, we're not going to have one this year."
"Really? Why not?"
"Too much trouble."
"Wow. I don't think we could not have one for the kids. But you're right, they are a lot of trouble."
"Yeah, they are."
And I have to admit there was a little bit of satisfaction when they walked away with a perplexed expression of surprise wondering if I was really serious or not.
I was not.
He was completely merciless. He even told people outside the family that we weren't getting a tree. If a neighbor stopped by on December 20th and noted the conspicuous absence of evergreen cheer, Dad would say "No, we decided not to get one this year. Too much trouble." I could feel the color drain from my face when the neighbor would reply "What a great idea! I wish we could get away with not getting one." I would recoil in horror at the Scroogey condoning of this tree bigotry and slowly retreat to my room, making sure to never turn my back on these Christmas poo-pooers in the process.
How could we not have a tree? To me, the tree was a visible symbol of our whole family. I was born 14 years after my sister and 10 years after my oldest brother, so the only sibling who was a constant in my life and in the house was Matt, and we managed to make Sibling Rivalry cower in the corner and cry itself to sleep at night with our vivid fighting and relentless teasing. For two weeks out of the year, the tree stood there with all four of our sibling ornaments that meant we're brothers and sisters, David and Janice's children, regardless of age or location.
We had to have a tree.
Every year he did this. Every single year. And every time I felt the sincerity in his voice when he said no and wondered if this would be the year he would go through with it and we really wouldn't have one. But each December 23rd or 24th, he would go out to the garage and bring in the most beautiful, carefully chosen, tall and mighty tree he could find that year. I could see the marks where he meticulously cut the branches off the bottom so that there were still plenty of prime ornament spaces, but just enough room for me (the smallest) to belly crawl to the holder each morning and keep the water at a safe level.
After we let the tree get used to the temperature in the house and open up a bit, Russ would string the lights on it while I brought up all of the ornaments from the basement. There were four things that had to happen in a set order before we could declare game on and hang ornaments at will. First, Russ would put the angel Mom made of her ribbon roses on the highest branch that Dad had whittled to a safe perch for her . The second order of business was the first item of decoration on the body of the tree: a small paper Jesus that was from our grandma's tree who would sit front and center nestled in the branches. The first official ornament was a Michigan State Ornament that Bill Carr hung as near the angel as possible. We didn't quite revere MSU as much as little Jesus, but it was up there. And the final step in the tree ritual would be the official sibling ornaments. When each of us were born, Mom had an ornament made, a large metallic ball with our name on it, in different colors. Sooze's was blue, Russ' was green, Matt's was silver, and mine was gold. Matt's was the biggest. Every year we heard that his was the biggest. Whose was the biggest, you ask? Matt's. It was with great care that we picked out our spots on the tree. They would hang in descending birth order, which was cool because mine usually ended up next to Jesus, and that was prime real estate as far as I was concerned. Once the sibling balls were placed, all other ornaments could then be hung.
The finishing touch of the tree was the tinsel. Mom showed me that while you could fling the tinsel with abandon, it might be better to hang each strand one at a time--best to avoid looking like the Christmas tree at the Bunny Ranch that way. She and I would finish what had been a long journey of wonder and worry. We had a Christmas tree. And it was perfect.
After Dad died, we all made incredible adjustments to our holiday celebrations and traditions, and just now seem to be settling into a groove that makes sense and keeps the joy alive. J and I go to Matt and Janel's family to celebrate, Russ flies to Michigan to be with Mom for the season, and Sooze's family keeps Christmas their way in Maine.
It's been three years since I've had an evergreen tree. I say it's because I don't want the kitties to get at the ornaments, or because it costs too much, or we don't have enough space, but the truth is that I'm still not ready for it. In an effort to make sure I can still show off our wonderful family ornament history that Mom carefully preserved, we display them in a different sort of way that makes sense to us. J creates an incredible "tree" on the wall where I can hang my ornaments. It still means a great deal, and it's sufficiently unique enough to allow me to keep Christmas in the present while acknowledging Christmases past.
Last week I was in my office when one of my co-workers stopped by to ask if we'd already put up our tree this year. Inexplicably I heard myself saying "Oh, we're not going to have one this year."
"Really? Why not?"
"Too much trouble."
"Wow. I don't think we could not have one for the kids. But you're right, they are a lot of trouble."
"Yeah, they are."
And I have to admit there was a little bit of satisfaction when they walked away with a perplexed expression of surprise wondering if I was really serious or not.
I was not.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
All aboard the Friend Ship. Wooo Wooo!
J and I were talking at lunch this afternoon about some plans that I made tonight to watch the terrible, yet delicious, "Rock of Love Charm School" with my friend Turbo, when J made the sweet, but seemingly offhand comment, "You have nice friends". And it struck me. I do. I do have wonderful, kind, good-hearted, funny, considerate, delightful friends. They're all shapes and colors on four different continents and each one is a character in his or her own way, but they are all "nice friends".
This was not always the case.
The friendships I'm so fortunate to have are products of hard work and lots of deep belly laughs. They've seen me through the darkest, scariest times of my life, and I try my best to be there, at least in spirit and in words when they need a love crutch to lean on. In some cases, love interests have turned into deep platonic friendships that would never have blossomed if they were just part of a long line of failed dating attempts. But others who could either not keep their drama in check, or who intentionally worked at being really awful, if entertaining, people have gone by the cold, muddy wayside with haste.
I don't find it upsetting that a lot of my friends live far away from the possibility of a kitchen table tea date. Each time I talk to them on the phone, or hear from them in e-mail, it's just like we had lunch that afternoon and are catching up on our evening plans. No gaps. No sadness. Just connection and warmth.
The only time I feel funky twinges is when I see pictures of their kids. For instance, it's uncool that I don't get to give my Micah (oh there's a story there) a hug every day and read him a bedtime story, or have him read me a story with all of his reading prowess these days, but I get regular updates from his mom and know that he still loves his Aunt Sheila as much as I love his wee self. When I moved to Oregon, his goodbye was my hardest to give. He didn't make it any easier when he said "Aunt Sheila when you come back and see a big boy behind my mom, that boy will be me, okay?" Ouch. All I could muster was "Okay, Monkey. I'll look for him."
And he was right. Last May when I visited friends and family, there was a giant kid where my little Monkey used to be. But we hadn't missed a beat. He was still my Micah friend.
This spring it's looking promising that I'll be able to speak to one of my dearest friend's college organization, and I couldn't be more excited. She has two gorgeous girls, the youngest of whom I've yet to smother with Auntie lovins, and while we haven't seen each other in far too many years, I know it will be like we're still sharing a room and all our secrets at college all over again.
I have nice friends. I hope they know they have me, too.
This was not always the case.
The friendships I'm so fortunate to have are products of hard work and lots of deep belly laughs. They've seen me through the darkest, scariest times of my life, and I try my best to be there, at least in spirit and in words when they need a love crutch to lean on. In some cases, love interests have turned into deep platonic friendships that would never have blossomed if they were just part of a long line of failed dating attempts. But others who could either not keep their drama in check, or who intentionally worked at being really awful, if entertaining, people have gone by the cold, muddy wayside with haste.
I don't find it upsetting that a lot of my friends live far away from the possibility of a kitchen table tea date. Each time I talk to them on the phone, or hear from them in e-mail, it's just like we had lunch that afternoon and are catching up on our evening plans. No gaps. No sadness. Just connection and warmth.
The only time I feel funky twinges is when I see pictures of their kids. For instance, it's uncool that I don't get to give my Micah (oh there's a story there) a hug every day and read him a bedtime story, or have him read me a story with all of his reading prowess these days, but I get regular updates from his mom and know that he still loves his Aunt Sheila as much as I love his wee self. When I moved to Oregon, his goodbye was my hardest to give. He didn't make it any easier when he said "Aunt Sheila when you come back and see a big boy behind my mom, that boy will be me, okay?" Ouch. All I could muster was "Okay, Monkey. I'll look for him."
And he was right. Last May when I visited friends and family, there was a giant kid where my little Monkey used to be. But we hadn't missed a beat. He was still my Micah friend.
This spring it's looking promising that I'll be able to speak to one of my dearest friend's college organization, and I couldn't be more excited. She has two gorgeous girls, the youngest of whom I've yet to smother with Auntie lovins, and while we haven't seen each other in far too many years, I know it will be like we're still sharing a room and all our secrets at college all over again.
I have nice friends. I hope they know they have me, too.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
My Christmas In Five Senses (if I had my druthers)
Hearing
from
from
Taste
Busche de Noel cake
Busche de Noel cakeSmell
Incense at Midnight Mass
Sight
George C. Scott's Scrooge is foretold of three visitors
Incense at Midnight MassSight
George C. Scott's Scrooge is foretold of three visitors
Touch
Warm fuzziesSaturday, November 29, 2008
Happy Christmas Decoration Eve
I walked in my friends' home last night and saw they had already decorated for the holidays, and I felt the butterflies in my tummy because it's not December 3rd yet.
In a family of four kids, my parents tried their best to preserve the identity of each child and make sure they felt special and cared for individually. My brother Russ was born on December 2, so Mom and Dad would adamantly disallow any Christmas decorations to be up in the house or out in the yard until December 3rd. Until that day we were welcome to submit our wish lists to Santa and talk about what we wanted, even underscore our points with pictures we cut out from magazines, but under no circumstances were we allowed to put anything that was red, green, silver, gold, gold-plated, or in any way jingled and/or jangled in a manner fit for a holiday spectacle where the general public could see until the day after we celebrated Russ' birthday. Not the night of the 2nd. The morning of the 3rd.
Once our family started decorating, we also had mandated placements and decorations that were not up for deviation. Mom would arrange the cardboard cutouts of the Christmas ice skaters on the double closet doors in the main hallway, Matt and Russ would decorate the main pine tree in the front yard. I would put up the plastic stained glass cutouts on the big front window, and then we would all bring up the Christmas books and puzzles Mom kept on the ping pong table that served as the year-round groaning beast of burden for her holiday hoard.
Overnight, with a little help from the kids, Mom turned our ordinary house into a magical wonderland that was sure to make Santa blush. I lived for that time of year. I think Mom did too. She was so busy taking care of everyone else all year, whether they were her kids or her parents or siblings or husband, that I think this was a time she could call her own. She takes care with everything she does and Christmas calls for meticulous methods. She taught me how to hang tinsel one strand at a time to make the tree look like we harnessed a moment of winter and brought it inside to enjoy for ourselves. She could tell you every ornament she hangs on her miniature tree and where to find it. She not only believes in Santa, she makes sure others know he is real, too.
I still keep this tradition every year, though I've lived on my own for quite some time now. Even in the dorms when I was in undergrad, I explained it to my roommate who was completely understanding of this hold the 3rd still had on me and we waited until that day to set up our little tree and Christmas lights around the room we called home.
I haven't mentioned the family tree yet. I'll save that for another time. In the meantime, I'm going to make my wish list and wait with quiet anticipation until after we've wished Russ a very happy birthday to hang our stockings by the chimney with care.
In a family of four kids, my parents tried their best to preserve the identity of each child and make sure they felt special and cared for individually. My brother Russ was born on December 2, so Mom and Dad would adamantly disallow any Christmas decorations to be up in the house or out in the yard until December 3rd. Until that day we were welcome to submit our wish lists to Santa and talk about what we wanted, even underscore our points with pictures we cut out from magazines, but under no circumstances were we allowed to put anything that was red, green, silver, gold, gold-plated, or in any way jingled and/or jangled in a manner fit for a holiday spectacle where the general public could see until the day after we celebrated Russ' birthday. Not the night of the 2nd. The morning of the 3rd.
Once our family started decorating, we also had mandated placements and decorations that were not up for deviation. Mom would arrange the cardboard cutouts of the Christmas ice skaters on the double closet doors in the main hallway, Matt and Russ would decorate the main pine tree in the front yard. I would put up the plastic stained glass cutouts on the big front window, and then we would all bring up the Christmas books and puzzles Mom kept on the ping pong table that served as the year-round groaning beast of burden for her holiday hoard.
Overnight, with a little help from the kids, Mom turned our ordinary house into a magical wonderland that was sure to make Santa blush. I lived for that time of year. I think Mom did too. She was so busy taking care of everyone else all year, whether they were her kids or her parents or siblings or husband, that I think this was a time she could call her own. She takes care with everything she does and Christmas calls for meticulous methods. She taught me how to hang tinsel one strand at a time to make the tree look like we harnessed a moment of winter and brought it inside to enjoy for ourselves. She could tell you every ornament she hangs on her miniature tree and where to find it. She not only believes in Santa, she makes sure others know he is real, too.
I still keep this tradition every year, though I've lived on my own for quite some time now. Even in the dorms when I was in undergrad, I explained it to my roommate who was completely understanding of this hold the 3rd still had on me and we waited until that day to set up our little tree and Christmas lights around the room we called home.
I haven't mentioned the family tree yet. I'll save that for another time. In the meantime, I'm going to make my wish list and wait with quiet anticipation until after we've wished Russ a very happy birthday to hang our stockings by the chimney with care.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Dog Bless You
I miss dogs. Dogs are funnier by trade. Even the jokes about dogs are funnier. We have three cats and they're cool. They're cool because they act like dogs. I don't tell them this because I don't want to hurt their little non-dog feelings. I do love them. I do. They are good inside friends. But they are not dogs.
I grew up with a dog who was the same age as me. His name was Ben and he was a beagle/basset. I really really hated him when we first got him. He scared the living shit out of me, to be accurate. I was six and I was teeny for my age. Skinny, short, slow kids make for awesome dog toys if you're wondering what to get your furry best friend this Christmas.
For the first two weeks of "adjustment" as Mom called it, I spent my time on the back of the couch with the coffee table pulled flush against the seat part so that it made it harder for Ben to scale to doggy victory. Every time I left the safety of the couch, he would chase me down and wrap his two front legs around mine and trip me. I'd lay there in a heap while he jumped around like a loon. I figured if I didn't move too obviously, he'd get bored and become distracted by something shiny or loud. No luck. He'd sit there while I cowered and listened to Mom say "Oh you don't have to be scared. He's just playing with you. He's not used to little girls." I may not have had to be scared, but I volunteered for it. His teeth were big and my hands were soft, yet crunchy and fun to chew if he were inclined to do so. After a while the jumping would stop and he'd lie down next to me. I liked him then. He was my level and I could look him in the eye.
We made peace on Halloween after weeks of trippage and couch anxiety. I don't know if it was my Lemon Meringue costume that made him see me as a force to be reckoned with, or if he just found more pleasure from my pets and lovins than from my fear and crying spells. I know I did. We lived in harmonious peace and mutual adoration until May 20, 1992 when he committed suicide. Yes, he killed himself. He laid down behind the truck so that a driver couldn't see him and then waited for someone to back over him. It was quick and he was 15, and while sad, it was how he wanted it. We had to respect his wishes.
I live next to a very busy main drag and still believe car + animals = suck. With that in mind, the kitties are inside only and we compensate with many many toys. J fashioned a virtual box city for Flikka out of different boxes we've collected from mailed packages and Costco visits. We have a fishing pole with a sock on the end of a shoelace that makes The Reverend literally jump for joy. We also have several toys in shapes that mostly please them, like a small cloth sandwich and a little burger. Madge only requires a secluded closet where no one will bother her. Especially if the someones aren't legally allowed to vote yet. She's very patriotic. And hates kids. One exception to that rule is The Pixie. Madge would allow K to throw her from the balcony if she wanted to. Madge worships her. She was so distraught when we took her back to Canada that she didn't come out of her closet for three days except to use the facilities. We brought her room service to see her through the ordeal. They are righteous familiars, the kitties.
But I still miss dogs.
I grew up with a dog who was the same age as me. His name was Ben and he was a beagle/basset. I really really hated him when we first got him. He scared the living shit out of me, to be accurate. I was six and I was teeny for my age. Skinny, short, slow kids make for awesome dog toys if you're wondering what to get your furry best friend this Christmas.
For the first two weeks of "adjustment" as Mom called it, I spent my time on the back of the couch with the coffee table pulled flush against the seat part so that it made it harder for Ben to scale to doggy victory. Every time I left the safety of the couch, he would chase me down and wrap his two front legs around mine and trip me. I'd lay there in a heap while he jumped around like a loon. I figured if I didn't move too obviously, he'd get bored and become distracted by something shiny or loud. No luck. He'd sit there while I cowered and listened to Mom say "Oh you don't have to be scared. He's just playing with you. He's not used to little girls." I may not have had to be scared, but I volunteered for it. His teeth were big and my hands were soft, yet crunchy and fun to chew if he were inclined to do so. After a while the jumping would stop and he'd lie down next to me. I liked him then. He was my level and I could look him in the eye.
We made peace on Halloween after weeks of trippage and couch anxiety. I don't know if it was my Lemon Meringue costume that made him see me as a force to be reckoned with, or if he just found more pleasure from my pets and lovins than from my fear and crying spells. I know I did. We lived in harmonious peace and mutual adoration until May 20, 1992 when he committed suicide. Yes, he killed himself. He laid down behind the truck so that a driver couldn't see him and then waited for someone to back over him. It was quick and he was 15, and while sad, it was how he wanted it. We had to respect his wishes.
I live next to a very busy main drag and still believe car + animals = suck. With that in mind, the kitties are inside only and we compensate with many many toys. J fashioned a virtual box city for Flikka out of different boxes we've collected from mailed packages and Costco visits. We have a fishing pole with a sock on the end of a shoelace that makes The Reverend literally jump for joy. We also have several toys in shapes that mostly please them, like a small cloth sandwich and a little burger. Madge only requires a secluded closet where no one will bother her. Especially if the someones aren't legally allowed to vote yet. She's very patriotic. And hates kids. One exception to that rule is The Pixie. Madge would allow K to throw her from the balcony if she wanted to. Madge worships her. She was so distraught when we took her back to Canada that she didn't come out of her closet for three days except to use the facilities. We brought her room service to see her through the ordeal. They are righteous familiars, the kitties.
But I still miss dogs.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Don't Name The Lambs
We grew up next to a farm, a few farms, really, and always looked forward to the Easter lambs--so named because they were born in the spring just in time to be a succulent feast to celebrate the big day. They knew it, too. I'd go to pet their fuzzy little heads and they'd look up at me with a hushed desperation that said "I heard them talking. They're going to eat me." Little did it know I was part of the treacherous They. By the time I was about 7 I'd learned not to name the baby animals on the farm, especially the lambs. Recipe for tears and teeth gnashing, that.
It was a lesson I'd carry into my adult life when I took a stab at the corporate world. I'd worked in restaurants from the time I could spell h-a-s-h s-l-i-n-g-i-n-g sleepily at 5:30 in the morning and had seen some mad staff turnover, but never could I have possibly predicted the revolving door of haggard, spent souls that make up this living compost heap of our industrial society. Every six months or so, they'd spritz us with poo water and turn us over for a whole new perspective on how we'd managed to take the path of the damned and had given the pretty path that was covered in flower petals and butterfly whispers the big throbbing finger when we accepted our position where the only benefit was that they weren't legally allowed to poke us with real pitchforks.
The jewel in this crown of thorns was a small company whose main (READ: only) client was a hulking bitch of the corporate master race. They had to have seven people sign off to decide what size the font would be on something the size of a cigarette box. Guess how many times all seven folks concurred on the first go. Go ahead. Guess. I'll wait. How did you know? Were you listening to the seventeen conference calls where you're huddled around one of those weird Trekkie reject tri-sided speaker phones next to the boss who makes you wish you were sliding down a banister made of buzz saws and ice cream headaches instead of sitting shoulder to shoulder with Screwella De Shrill and her Fawning Band of Seven Eejits?
We weren't allowed to talk to each other about anything other than the utterly meaningless task at hand. I sat next to a guy for four months before I knew he had a kid. The only way I found out his last name was from an errant e-mail he accidentally sent me. We weren't allowed to have any decorations at our desk, lest they distract us from our miserable sluggery. All of the desks faced the wall. They blocked the windows for "confidentiality" reasons so that no lurkers at our rat maze of an industrial park would get a glimpse of the newest box. Yes, box. We made boxes. BOXES. Not pacemakers or canes for small children who lost a limb sifting through candy shaped bombs, or even the little carts dogs scoot around on when their hind quarters give out. Nope. We made boxes for completely useless unnecessary shit that people lived millenia without ever having near them.
And to these owners, those boxes were where they kept our self respect and estimated worth. That is, until the day the employee would remember that boxes are wildly lame and that (s)he has an actual life to forge, unencumbered by unrealistic expectations and cheapened earthly dealings. On that day, without exception, the employee would have a "fuck this, fuck you, and fuck boxes" moment and make their future their present. It was a good day. It usually didn't take long either. In the nine months I worked there, seven different people in an office of nine total employees had that special moment. In the interim two weeks (if the departing employee hadn't just simply thrown their keys on the boss' desk and bolted), they'd bring in some poor unsuspecting bastard for an interview and short of the walls bleeding and a voice in the distance screeching "GEEEETTTTT OOOUUUUTTTT", the present employees would try to deter the fresh meat from taking the job for their own and their family's sake. But they needed the money just like we thought we needed it at the time of our acceptance of the offer and they would come to work. After about the third time of watching this cycle play out, I just stopped trying to learning anything about the newbies. I didn't want to get attached. Easter dinner was coming and I didn't want to call it by name.
In the ninth month of my frustration gestation, I had that moment. And it was delicious. I could feel the earth righting itself under my feet the second I said "I quit. I'm done. And now I'm even more done than I was a second ago. You have two weeks to find someone for me to train." I didn't have a job lined up. I hadn't even sent out one resume on the search. I just knew it was over. Done. Done. Done. So then I sent out about thirty resumes a night. The day before the two weeks was up I got the call from where I work now offering me more money, job security, peace of mind, and a benefits package straight out of the 1950s (100% health, dental, optical coverage). Things work out.
My heart still stops for a second when I hear a door slam, or if I see one of the boxes we built on a shelf in the store, but then I take a deep breath and revel in the knowledge that it's over for me. They're now down to five full time employees. Two originals from when I quit two years ago are still there. They must be going for some kind of record. But the giant corporate client has dropped the company like a dribble glass of syphilis. For the people who chose to stay there, I say a little prayer every night and wait for the echoes of the lambs to stop screaming...
It was a lesson I'd carry into my adult life when I took a stab at the corporate world. I'd worked in restaurants from the time I could spell h-a-s-h s-l-i-n-g-i-n-g sleepily at 5:30 in the morning and had seen some mad staff turnover, but never could I have possibly predicted the revolving door of haggard, spent souls that make up this living compost heap of our industrial society. Every six months or so, they'd spritz us with poo water and turn us over for a whole new perspective on how we'd managed to take the path of the damned and had given the pretty path that was covered in flower petals and butterfly whispers the big throbbing finger when we accepted our position where the only benefit was that they weren't legally allowed to poke us with real pitchforks.
The jewel in this crown of thorns was a small company whose main (READ: only) client was a hulking bitch of the corporate master race. They had to have seven people sign off to decide what size the font would be on something the size of a cigarette box. Guess how many times all seven folks concurred on the first go. Go ahead. Guess. I'll wait. How did you know? Were you listening to the seventeen conference calls where you're huddled around one of those weird Trekkie reject tri-sided speaker phones next to the boss who makes you wish you were sliding down a banister made of buzz saws and ice cream headaches instead of sitting shoulder to shoulder with Screwella De Shrill and her Fawning Band of Seven Eejits?
We weren't allowed to talk to each other about anything other than the utterly meaningless task at hand. I sat next to a guy for four months before I knew he had a kid. The only way I found out his last name was from an errant e-mail he accidentally sent me. We weren't allowed to have any decorations at our desk, lest they distract us from our miserable sluggery. All of the desks faced the wall. They blocked the windows for "confidentiality" reasons so that no lurkers at our rat maze of an industrial park would get a glimpse of the newest box. Yes, box. We made boxes. BOXES. Not pacemakers or canes for small children who lost a limb sifting through candy shaped bombs, or even the little carts dogs scoot around on when their hind quarters give out. Nope. We made boxes for completely useless unnecessary shit that people lived millenia without ever having near them.
And to these owners, those boxes were where they kept our self respect and estimated worth. That is, until the day the employee would remember that boxes are wildly lame and that (s)he has an actual life to forge, unencumbered by unrealistic expectations and cheapened earthly dealings. On that day, without exception, the employee would have a "fuck this, fuck you, and fuck boxes" moment and make their future their present. It was a good day. It usually didn't take long either. In the nine months I worked there, seven different people in an office of nine total employees had that special moment. In the interim two weeks (if the departing employee hadn't just simply thrown their keys on the boss' desk and bolted), they'd bring in some poor unsuspecting bastard for an interview and short of the walls bleeding and a voice in the distance screeching "GEEEETTTTT OOOUUUUTTTT", the present employees would try to deter the fresh meat from taking the job for their own and their family's sake. But they needed the money just like we thought we needed it at the time of our acceptance of the offer and they would come to work. After about the third time of watching this cycle play out, I just stopped trying to learning anything about the newbies. I didn't want to get attached. Easter dinner was coming and I didn't want to call it by name.
In the ninth month of my frustration gestation, I had that moment. And it was delicious. I could feel the earth righting itself under my feet the second I said "I quit. I'm done. And now I'm even more done than I was a second ago. You have two weeks to find someone for me to train." I didn't have a job lined up. I hadn't even sent out one resume on the search. I just knew it was over. Done. Done. Done. So then I sent out about thirty resumes a night. The day before the two weeks was up I got the call from where I work now offering me more money, job security, peace of mind, and a benefits package straight out of the 1950s (100% health, dental, optical coverage). Things work out.
My heart still stops for a second when I hear a door slam, or if I see one of the boxes we built on a shelf in the store, but then I take a deep breath and revel in the knowledge that it's over for me. They're now down to five full time employees. Two originals from when I quit two years ago are still there. They must be going for some kind of record. But the giant corporate client has dropped the company like a dribble glass of syphilis. For the people who chose to stay there, I say a little prayer every night and wait for the echoes of the lambs to stop screaming...
Friday, November 14, 2008
Friends, Romans, Countrymen, Lend Me Your Ears. Seriously. I'll give them back next week. Swear.
For the last week I've not been able to hear out of my left ear. At all. My doctor is working on it and it's more than likely not a permanent state, but in the meantime this unholy suckage is unpleasantness' ugly step-cousin. Fortunately, it's not my phone ear (yes, I have one), so I can still work with our clients without interruption or distraction. So there's that.
Since I was a little kid I've had a particular fondness for my sense of hearing. Maybe it's because my eyesight makes Mr. Magoo look like he has the optical precision of a Navy S.E.A.L. Or it could be that I have a weird affinity for the nuance of different voices. For instance, some people's words get sticky when their mouths are dry (just listen to NPR host Michele Norris on "The World" to hear what it sounds like when a person hasn't had a drink of water in six months), or that certain accents are most assuredly not the person's accent of origin (a friend of mine moved to place known for its distinct accent about a year ago and somehow adopted the region's dialect in the span of a week. NOT POSSIBLE)? Have you ever been talking to a person who's telling you something important and completely lost the meaning of their words due to your preoccupation with how their thin, tiny lips are forming the sounds you're hearing? Because I have.
So, this week has been an exercise in adjustment to say the least. I'm grateful that it's just the one ear and there's no pain or balance issue, though it's proved to be troublesome in that I tend to sleep on what has become my good ear, so this morning Jason had to come in the room to wake me up because I couldn't hear the alarm. That was...strange. All of my usual "things" are fixations that I can indulge at will, except with this one, I may have to accept that I'll move forward with only half the tools to fixate on voices and music and weird outbursts this town makes from time to time. I can usually tell you what key someone's laughter is in. Joyful laughter tends to be a major while wry or ironic chortles hang in the minors. I can still hear that, but I couldn't tell you when I'm a D-sharp or a B-flat right now.
Oh well. I guess the important thing here is that I'm still laughing.
Since I was a little kid I've had a particular fondness for my sense of hearing. Maybe it's because my eyesight makes Mr. Magoo look like he has the optical precision of a Navy S.E.A.L. Or it could be that I have a weird affinity for the nuance of different voices. For instance, some people's words get sticky when their mouths are dry (just listen to NPR host Michele Norris on "The World" to hear what it sounds like when a person hasn't had a drink of water in six months), or that certain accents are most assuredly not the person's accent of origin (a friend of mine moved to place known for its distinct accent about a year ago and somehow adopted the region's dialect in the span of a week. NOT POSSIBLE)? Have you ever been talking to a person who's telling you something important and completely lost the meaning of their words due to your preoccupation with how their thin, tiny lips are forming the sounds you're hearing? Because I have.
So, this week has been an exercise in adjustment to say the least. I'm grateful that it's just the one ear and there's no pain or balance issue, though it's proved to be troublesome in that I tend to sleep on what has become my good ear, so this morning Jason had to come in the room to wake me up because I couldn't hear the alarm. That was...strange. All of my usual "things" are fixations that I can indulge at will, except with this one, I may have to accept that I'll move forward with only half the tools to fixate on voices and music and weird outbursts this town makes from time to time. I can usually tell you what key someone's laughter is in. Joyful laughter tends to be a major while wry or ironic chortles hang in the minors. I can still hear that, but I couldn't tell you when I'm a D-sharp or a B-flat right now.
Oh well. I guess the important thing here is that I'm still laughing.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
"There's more of gravy than of grave about you"
I fought myself awake this morning. Literally. I have the skinned elbow and knuckles from decking/back-'bowing the wall to prove it. The subject matter is a familiar one to me. Apparently my subconscious isn't fed enough complaint material by J's kindness in my waking life, so it feels the need to compensate for this diligent lack of abuse with horrible nightmare scenarios where he's nothing but a dirty bastard whose sole purpose is to hurt and upset me. Dream Jason is a full on git who loves to see Dream Sheila crying and wounded by horrific words and underhanded actions. In essence, he's the culmination of the ungood characteristics of every selfish, scabby cockknocker I dated before I met him.
Dream Jason doesn't get lonely, though. One of my best friends lived with me for a while with my godson for about year while she pulled herself back on her feet after a divorce. We're very much like sisters in that we share everything and trust each other completely. Well, that just wasn't good enough for my dream generator gnome because that cranky fella turned Dream T into the most hurtful, conniving wench it could unleash in my dreams. I would wake up bitter and confused that I'd missed a key clue when I was awake that informed my dreams before anyone bothered to let my waking self in on the scoop. As I do with J, I tell her right away when it happens so that they could give me a little space to still the need to put together non-existent clues into a John Nash-style masterpiece of angsty delusion.
The only other person I've met who shared this flippy floppy phenomenon of creating alter-egos for their best friends was my old roommate/life brother Ron. And while it is true that he played host to a dream terrorist shaped like a confidante, the only person he manifested in this way was...me. He even named my evil dream doppelganger Esther so that we would have a reference point for his dreams.
I can't help but feel a little bothered by the fact that my psyche won't accept pure kindness, love and trust without exercising the need to use it against me by employing the face of the people with whom I've unquestionably bonded and then stuffing them full of cruelty like some sort of profane, grotesque animated scarecrow. It's also troublesome that in some way, a friend who only encouraged positivity in our friendship was plagued by angry Esther through no fault of his own.
The meaning is hidden to me. I do believe dreams mean something, but I don't know what, short of some sort of strange compensation. Maybe it's a reminder of what life could have been if I'd made different choices. Maybe it's part of the collective unconscious that demands balance. Or perhaps it's just a chemical process that will remain unknowable to me. Whatever it is, I'll continue to fight myself awake and thank God when I wake up that the negative compensation had to make itself known that way, instead of being forced to create an atmosphere of nurturing out of whole cloth only to be awakened not by my own violence, but by that of another.
Dream Jason doesn't get lonely, though. One of my best friends lived with me for a while with my godson for about year while she pulled herself back on her feet after a divorce. We're very much like sisters in that we share everything and trust each other completely. Well, that just wasn't good enough for my dream generator gnome because that cranky fella turned Dream T into the most hurtful, conniving wench it could unleash in my dreams. I would wake up bitter and confused that I'd missed a key clue when I was awake that informed my dreams before anyone bothered to let my waking self in on the scoop. As I do with J, I tell her right away when it happens so that they could give me a little space to still the need to put together non-existent clues into a John Nash-style masterpiece of angsty delusion.
The only other person I've met who shared this flippy floppy phenomenon of creating alter-egos for their best friends was my old roommate/life brother Ron. And while it is true that he played host to a dream terrorist shaped like a confidante, the only person he manifested in this way was...me. He even named my evil dream doppelganger Esther so that we would have a reference point for his dreams.
I can't help but feel a little bothered by the fact that my psyche won't accept pure kindness, love and trust without exercising the need to use it against me by employing the face of the people with whom I've unquestionably bonded and then stuffing them full of cruelty like some sort of profane, grotesque animated scarecrow. It's also troublesome that in some way, a friend who only encouraged positivity in our friendship was plagued by angry Esther through no fault of his own.
The meaning is hidden to me. I do believe dreams mean something, but I don't know what, short of some sort of strange compensation. Maybe it's a reminder of what life could have been if I'd made different choices. Maybe it's part of the collective unconscious that demands balance. Or perhaps it's just a chemical process that will remain unknowable to me. Whatever it is, I'll continue to fight myself awake and thank God when I wake up that the negative compensation had to make itself known that way, instead of being forced to create an atmosphere of nurturing out of whole cloth only to be awakened not by my own violence, but by that of another.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
A Rose Is A Rose
There are certain people I think of when I need to remind myself that not all of humanity is comprised of bottom-feeding scumpuppies. I have an entire mental library of good souls. Each one is unique and perfect in their own ways. Five years ago one of these bastions of goodness was bestowed on our family. Emma Rose is the kind of kid who shocks me with her intensity of wit and reassures me that the future of the family is securely fastened to a star-bound messenger.
If you haven't met her yet, you should. She's an experience gift wrapped as a small brilliant child. She chews the scenery and spits out a stage for herself. And God help you if you divert your attention for even a moment. You'll miss something, guaranteed.
Emma has a knack for getting her picture or quote in the local newspaper. In fact, one day she turned to her mom and said "I would like to be in the paper again." The next week, somehow, she was. I think it was her fourth go. She manages to be in just the right place at the right time when the paparazzi strike in order to keep her public abreast of the goings on of Emma Rose.
She has a tight bond with each of her parents in a way that works for them. When her mom takes Emma to the library each week, they make sure to choose a "Daddy book" that is usually about a kid and their parent/grandparent. Only my brother is allowed to read it to her. When she was super teeny, he and Emma would have Daddy/Daughter days when Matt would take her to the coast, or out to breakfast just them. Matt and Janel both make sure their time with the kids counts. Emma, fortunately, makes for a fun adventure partner and storyteller when the adventure comes to an end.
Above all, she knows her mind, and if you stand still long enough, so will you. Especially if you've done her wrong, in her critical estimation. She has a future in the FCC. She'll let you know if the words "hate, stupid," or any curse words make it through your internal censors and in to her earshot. The fines are steep, so it's best to think before you speak around Tiny Tina, the Anti-Swearing Hyena.
This little friend of mine makes it quite easy to Remember Remember the 5th of November, and I'm purely delighted that I'm related to this sweet 5-year-old darling of Oregon.
Have a very Merry Birthday and a Happy School Year, Emma Rose!
Have a very Merry Birthday and a Happy School Year, Emma Rose!
Saturday, November 1, 2008
He's got the silver, he's got the gold
I've never been a fan of traditionally defined romantic gestures. Roses and chocolates are great if that's your gig, and they've never hurt anyone, but I just don't respond to them the way I'm "supposed" to react. Fortunately, J shows his love and affection in ways that warm my cockles without feeling forced or prescribed. His overtures tend to be functional with a sweet crunchy coating. So, I'd like to thank him for his most endearing qualities and gestures that are cheese free and full of kindness. Or just plain funny.
He keeps the cars healthy, running, and registered even though he h-a-t-e-s that he was trained as a mechanic.
He volunteers to come with me on laundry trips (washer is still broken--it's a complete dick) even when he's tired after his shift so that I won't be bored.
He remembers what color game piece I like to use when we play Trivial Pursuit.
He talks to my mom and makes her laugh on the phone until I'm finished being up to my elbows in dinner preparation.
He makes my nieces giggle and lets the wee one pet his beard when she gets curious about it.
He always always always soothes the kitties after their monthly flea treatments, and sings to them. If they need to go to the doctor, he talks to them all the way there and all the way home when they're crying and scared.
He helps me remember the entire filmography for actors I can't quite place when we're watching a movie until we hit the character I saw them as.
He confuses Glenn Close with William Hurt without exception. No explanation has been identified for this phenomenon, but I love it.
He researches new movies that are coming out and takes his Netflix list order very seriously.
He loves his little girl much and shows his fatherly adoration sincerely and without pretense.
He doesn't make judgments about people unless they're actively trying to hurt him or his family.
His patience with my "things" knows no bounds.
He watches "America's Funniest Home Videos" and reads Umberto Eco at the same time.
He treats my friends and family with genuine respect.
He researched places for our first date.
He works overnights so that he can read his books when there's a break in the work activity without interruption from co-workers.
So, Babe, with Frank's help, this one's for you. Mwah.
He keeps the cars healthy, running, and registered even though he h-a-t-e-s that he was trained as a mechanic.
He volunteers to come with me on laundry trips (washer is still broken--it's a complete dick) even when he's tired after his shift so that I won't be bored.
He remembers what color game piece I like to use when we play Trivial Pursuit.
He talks to my mom and makes her laugh on the phone until I'm finished being up to my elbows in dinner preparation.
He makes my nieces giggle and lets the wee one pet his beard when she gets curious about it.
He always always always soothes the kitties after their monthly flea treatments, and sings to them. If they need to go to the doctor, he talks to them all the way there and all the way home when they're crying and scared.
He helps me remember the entire filmography for actors I can't quite place when we're watching a movie until we hit the character I saw them as.
He confuses Glenn Close with William Hurt without exception. No explanation has been identified for this phenomenon, but I love it.
He researches new movies that are coming out and takes his Netflix list order very seriously.
He loves his little girl much and shows his fatherly adoration sincerely and without pretense.
He doesn't make judgments about people unless they're actively trying to hurt him or his family.
His patience with my "things" knows no bounds.
He watches "America's Funniest Home Videos" and reads Umberto Eco at the same time.
He treats my friends and family with genuine respect.
He researched places for our first date.
He works overnights so that he can read his books when there's a break in the work activity without interruption from co-workers.
So, Babe, with Frank's help, this one's for you. Mwah.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Submit Your Concerns In Writing
Normally I don't talk about politics in public. I find it mostly just serves to bring out the foolish side of folks. A reasonable, intelligent person suddenly erupts into a frothing beast of fury and zealotry at the slightest mention of the issues or the candidates. I'll tell you what--I just don't have the stomach to watch as they whip themselves up into a self-righteous fit with little regard for handy things like facts or evidence. Those nuisances would just serve to get in the way of their inflated tirade. And that goes for voters on both sides of the fence. Smuggery is an ugly bitch in both red and blue.
Conversely, I don't really keep my leanings a secret either, and will engage in debates if they're handled respectfully and keep to the issues, but I don't wear pins or wave flags. I vote. I make sure my ballot gets to me on time, that all of my information is correct, that I've researched, read and understand the measures and positions at stake, and then I vote.
This nonsensical argument about "real Americans" and "serious patriots" just pisses me right the fuck off. You want to know who Real Americans are? They're the folks who vote in Oregon and Ohio and Texas and California and Michigan and Maine and Nevada and Florida and Georgia and Alaska and any of the other states and territories where they're legally counted. They vote when it's raining or snowing or 100 degrees. They vote when they didn't get enough sleep the night before and when they have a pile of work waiting on their desk when they get in. They vote by mail, or early, or after hours of waiting. They pay babysitters to watch their children, or they take their kids with them to watch and learn. Real Americans vote when they know their ballot might not be counted, but also know they have to at least try. Real Americans know that the only way their voice will be heard is if they raise it above the din of corruption in a sturdy yawp by casting their ballot.
I'm tired of being angry. I'm exhausted by waiting for the accountability that will most likely never come to Washington D.C., to my satisfaction anyway. I'm ready for logic and compassion to stop being side items on the political buffet. As serious as this election is, the humor has gotten me through it. I hope the following bits will bring a smile to your face as well-- right before (or after) we join together as Real Americans, and vote.
Lisa Nova as Sarah Palin (beats the timing out of Tina Fey, though also a good imitation):
Larry David on the Huffington Post (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/larry-david/waiting-for-nov-4th_b_137029.html):
Conversely, I don't really keep my leanings a secret either, and will engage in debates if they're handled respectfully and keep to the issues, but I don't wear pins or wave flags. I vote. I make sure my ballot gets to me on time, that all of my information is correct, that I've researched, read and understand the measures and positions at stake, and then I vote.
This nonsensical argument about "real Americans" and "serious patriots" just pisses me right the fuck off. You want to know who Real Americans are? They're the folks who vote in Oregon and Ohio and Texas and California and Michigan and Maine and Nevada and Florida and Georgia and Alaska and any of the other states and territories where they're legally counted. They vote when it's raining or snowing or 100 degrees. They vote when they didn't get enough sleep the night before and when they have a pile of work waiting on their desk when they get in. They vote by mail, or early, or after hours of waiting. They pay babysitters to watch their children, or they take their kids with them to watch and learn. Real Americans vote when they know their ballot might not be counted, but also know they have to at least try. Real Americans know that the only way their voice will be heard is if they raise it above the din of corruption in a sturdy yawp by casting their ballot.
I'm tired of being angry. I'm exhausted by waiting for the accountability that will most likely never come to Washington D.C., to my satisfaction anyway. I'm ready for logic and compassion to stop being side items on the political buffet. As serious as this election is, the humor has gotten me through it. I hope the following bits will bring a smile to your face as well-- right before (or after) we join together as Real Americans, and vote.
Lisa Nova as Sarah Palin (beats the timing out of Tina Fey, though also a good imitation):
Larry David on the Huffington Post (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/larry-david/waiting-for-nov-4th_b_137029.html):
"I can't take much more of this. Two weeks to go, and I'm at the end of my rope. I can't work. I can eat, but mostly standing up. I'm anxious all the time and taking it out on my ex-wife, which, ironically, I'm finding enjoyable. This is like waiting for the results of a biopsy. Actually, it's worse. Biopsies only take a few days, maybe a week at the most, and if the biopsy comes back positive, there's still a potential cure. With this, there's no cure. The result is final. Like death.
Five times a day I'll still say to someone, "I don't know what I'm going to do if McCain wins." Of course, the reality is I'm probably not going to do anything. What can I do? I'm not going to kill myself. If I didn't kill myself when I became impotent for two months in 1979, I'm certainly not going to do it if McCain and Palin are elected, even if it's by nefarious means. If Obama loses, it would be easier to live with it if it's due to racism rather than if it's stolen. If it's racism, I can say, "Okay, we lost, but at least it's a democracy. Sure, it's a democracy inhabited by a majority of disgusting, reprehensible turds, but at least it's a democracy." If he loses because it's stolen, that will be much worse. Call me crazy, but I'd rather live in a democratic racist country than a non-democratic non-racist one. (It's not exactly a Hobson's choice, but it's close, and I think Hobson would compliment me on how close I've actually come to giving him no choice. He'd love that!)
The one concession I've made to maintain some form of sanity is that I've taken to censoring my news, just like the old Soviet Union. The citizenry (me) only gets to read and listen to what I deem appropriate for its health and well-being. Sure, there are times when the system breaks down. Michele Bachmann got through my radar this week, right before bedtime. That's not supposed to happen. That was a lapse in security, and I've had to make some adjustments. The debates were particularly challenging for me to monitor. First I tried running in and out of the room so I would only hear my guy. This worked until I knocked over a tray of hors d'oeuvres. "Sit down or get out!" my host demanded. "Okay," I said, and took a seat, but I was more fidgety than a ten-year-old at temple. I just couldn't watch without saying anything, and my running commentary, which mostly consisted of "Shut up, you prick!" or "You're a fucking liar!!!" or "Go to hell, you cocksucker!" was way too distracting for the attendees, and finally I was asked to leave.
Assuming November 4th ever comes, my big decision won't be where I'll be watching the returns, but if I'll be watching. I believe I have big jinx potential and may have actually cost the Dems the last two elections. I know I've jinxed sporting events. When my teams are losing and I want them to make a comeback, all I have to do is leave the room. Works every time. So if I do watch, I'll do it alone. I can't subject other people to me in my current condition. I just don't like what I've turned into -- and frankly I wasn't that crazy about me even before the turn. This election is having the same effect on me as marijuana. All of my worst qualities have been exacerbated. I'm paranoid, obsessive, nervous, and totally mental. It's one long, intense, bad trip. I need to come down. Soon."
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Birthday, Observed
Dad was born on October 26, 1926. Let me tell you a few things I learned about and from my dad.
He loved mincemeat pies and rutabaga. Both "foods" make me sad. Mincemeat is the kind of mixture you would conjure up at the middle school lunchroom table and then dare your weakest willed friend to eat it for a dollar--but they have to finish the whole thing. Rutabaga, on the other hand, tasted alright if you could get beyond the stench of cooking it. The wreak of that vegetable breaking down to baby food consistency used to wake us up on Thanksgiving with all the pleasure of the Harvest Clown sitting on our chests and stealing our breath.
Dad could draw Popeye in less than a minute. And not some crappy stick figure holding a cylinder shape with "spinach" written across it. No way. His Popeyes were publishable quality.
He was like the Pied Piper of Hartland without all the death. I'm pretty sure he liked little kids, but holy God did they love him. If there was a kid under 5 in a two mile radius of him, their little kid radar went off and they honed in on him. Some broke into a flat out run to get to him. Once they got to him, their reactions ranged from standing in silent awe to doing a Kerry Strugg vault straight up into his arms. However they reacted to him, he always had the same reaction. He'd look at them over his glasses and make his forehead wrinkle until they were giggggggling little balls of adoring jell-o.
He wore a black ambassador hat with a red and gold feather pin for dressing up, steppin' out occasions like church or weddings.
I saw him visibly mad once in my whole life.
He taught Driver's Education as a little extra income. I don't know how he taught the students he hadn't help make, but I can tell you that our first and only ride together before I earned my license ended with this direction: "brake. Brake. Brake! BRAKE! USE THE GODDAMN BRAKES!" My siblings tell similar stories.
He served in WWII. When "Saving Private Ryan" came out, I kept offering to take him, but he continually declined. He went to see it by himself and told me about it a couple months after the fact.
He had a belly laugh that started in his toes until he would roar with it. Tears would stream from his eyes and he'd almost stop breathing he was laughing so hard. Certain comedians could get him going, but usually it would be our neighbors who stopped in with tales about their kids or grandkids' shenanigans that would set him off the most.
He hated raspberries. We used to have raspberry bushes in the big garden. I'd spend hours in the summer out there gathering them. He could barely stand the sight of them, but tolerated it for us. To a point. The summer after I went to college, he plowed them under with the tractor. He claimed it was an "accident" and didn't see them, but for 18 years, he'd managed to avoid a bush calamity, so I was skeptical. Entertained, but skeptical.
He was raised on a farm in the middle of the Depression in rural Tennessee. His attachment to farm animals was that of caring for them so that they were comfortable until they were edible. He took the same approach to our pets, minus the eating them part. Feed them, pet them if they happened to come near your open palm, never hurt them, and be merciful. His mercy wasn't necessarily my mercy. We had a cat named Hennessy (after the cognac) who was an outside kitty. She developed a horrid infection on her head that we cleaned and treated to no avail. One morning, Dad told me to tell Hennessy that I loved her. I did and then went to school. I came home and went looking for her out by the barn. No Hennessy. I went to change her water and the bowls were gone.
Dad was sitting outside reading the paper and I asked him, "Dad, have you seen Hennessy?"
"Yes."
"Where was she?"
"Out behind the barn."
"I just looked there. When was that?"
"This morning. When I shot her. She's buried back there if you want to go see."
Like he was telling me what he had for breakfast. I don't even think he looked up from the paper. But that's the way he approached animal death. He'd rather take care of them himself, someone who loved them, than some stranger, as he perceived it. He respected our vet while the pets were alive (his brother and son were both vets), but when it came to the end, that was his job.
Dad loved peppermints. Brachs peppermints, not the horrid imitations restaurants hand out when they run out of fortune cookies. He believed they could cure everything from tummy aches to hurt feelings. For the most part, I think he was right, though I know my brother disagrees with me. He thinks they're unsatisfying stand-ins for dessert, but what does he know? He's just a nationally honored chef. Hack.
Today would have been Dad's 82nd birthday, so don your ambassador, pop a Brachs, and join me in a toast to the Pied Piper himself.
He loved mincemeat pies and rutabaga. Both "foods" make me sad. Mincemeat is the kind of mixture you would conjure up at the middle school lunchroom table and then dare your weakest willed friend to eat it for a dollar--but they have to finish the whole thing. Rutabaga, on the other hand, tasted alright if you could get beyond the stench of cooking it. The wreak of that vegetable breaking down to baby food consistency used to wake us up on Thanksgiving with all the pleasure of the Harvest Clown sitting on our chests and stealing our breath.
Dad could draw Popeye in less than a minute. And not some crappy stick figure holding a cylinder shape with "spinach" written across it. No way. His Popeyes were publishable quality.
He was like the Pied Piper of Hartland without all the death. I'm pretty sure he liked little kids, but holy God did they love him. If there was a kid under 5 in a two mile radius of him, their little kid radar went off and they honed in on him. Some broke into a flat out run to get to him. Once they got to him, their reactions ranged from standing in silent awe to doing a Kerry Strugg vault straight up into his arms. However they reacted to him, he always had the same reaction. He'd look at them over his glasses and make his forehead wrinkle until they were giggggggling little balls of adoring jell-o.
He wore a black ambassador hat with a red and gold feather pin for dressing up, steppin' out occasions like church or weddings.
I saw him visibly mad once in my whole life.
He taught Driver's Education as a little extra income. I don't know how he taught the students he hadn't help make, but I can tell you that our first and only ride together before I earned my license ended with this direction: "brake. Brake. Brake! BRAKE! USE THE GODDAMN BRAKES!" My siblings tell similar stories.
He served in WWII. When "Saving Private Ryan" came out, I kept offering to take him, but he continually declined. He went to see it by himself and told me about it a couple months after the fact.
He had a belly laugh that started in his toes until he would roar with it. Tears would stream from his eyes and he'd almost stop breathing he was laughing so hard. Certain comedians could get him going, but usually it would be our neighbors who stopped in with tales about their kids or grandkids' shenanigans that would set him off the most.
He hated raspberries. We used to have raspberry bushes in the big garden. I'd spend hours in the summer out there gathering them. He could barely stand the sight of them, but tolerated it for us. To a point. The summer after I went to college, he plowed them under with the tractor. He claimed it was an "accident" and didn't see them, but for 18 years, he'd managed to avoid a bush calamity, so I was skeptical. Entertained, but skeptical.
He was raised on a farm in the middle of the Depression in rural Tennessee. His attachment to farm animals was that of caring for them so that they were comfortable until they were edible. He took the same approach to our pets, minus the eating them part. Feed them, pet them if they happened to come near your open palm, never hurt them, and be merciful. His mercy wasn't necessarily my mercy. We had a cat named Hennessy (after the cognac) who was an outside kitty. She developed a horrid infection on her head that we cleaned and treated to no avail. One morning, Dad told me to tell Hennessy that I loved her. I did and then went to school. I came home and went looking for her out by the barn. No Hennessy. I went to change her water and the bowls were gone.
Dad was sitting outside reading the paper and I asked him, "Dad, have you seen Hennessy?"
"Yes."
"Where was she?"
"Out behind the barn."
"I just looked there. When was that?"
"This morning. When I shot her. She's buried back there if you want to go see."
Like he was telling me what he had for breakfast. I don't even think he looked up from the paper. But that's the way he approached animal death. He'd rather take care of them himself, someone who loved them, than some stranger, as he perceived it. He respected our vet while the pets were alive (his brother and son were both vets), but when it came to the end, that was his job.
Dad loved peppermints. Brachs peppermints, not the horrid imitations restaurants hand out when they run out of fortune cookies. He believed they could cure everything from tummy aches to hurt feelings. For the most part, I think he was right, though I know my brother disagrees with me. He thinks they're unsatisfying stand-ins for dessert, but what does he know? He's just a nationally honored chef. Hack.
Today would have been Dad's 82nd birthday, so don your ambassador, pop a Brachs, and join me in a toast to the Pied Piper himself.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Moving Shadows
For as many movies as J and I watch (and research ad nauseam), we really don't own that many. Rent? Sure. I've rented enough movies to make Ebert blush, but rarely do I buy them. I make exceptions for Life Changers. You know, the movies that help shape your life or make you think until your ears ooze thinking juice, or forge a bond between you and a loved one. My film library contains moving snapshots from my personal history, and serves as physical illustrations of why I cherish movies and everything that surrounds them. Everything I relate to in life either has some basis from film, or I just haven't found that particular piece of celluloid yet. But I will.
When I moved to Oregon from Ohio, I brought what I could shove in my Buick and a whole lot of baggage that no suitcase could contain. An interested observer might be prompted to ask me if I've actually sought treatment for my neurotic disorder from my odd movie collection (which made the trip at the expense of most of my clothes). Looking at it objectively, yeah, I guess it's a little unusual to find "Unforgiven" propped up next to "Sleepless in Seattle", or to find "Fairy Tale: A True Story" mingling with "The Exorcist", but if I told you that Dad took me to see "Unforgiven" in the theater and that Mom took me to see "Sleepless in Seattle" at the same theater, it might start to make sense. My movies aren't arranged alphabetically. They're ordered autobiographically.
I took my beautiful, incredibly pregnant dear friend to see the re-issue of "The Exorcist" eight years ago so that we could enjoy the extra 11 minutes of footage together, and hopefully smoke the baby out of her well overdue burrow. It made perfect sense. She and I were roommates for three years in college and watched the original movie enough that we could absolutely pinpoint the extra footage when it came up. Especially the emotionally scarring backward spider walk down the family stairs. The bowel-loosening memory maker did the trick. Her sweet daughter was born the next day. That little girl and I spent lots of Aunt Sheila/Miss Lady time together and one of our favorite movies was "Fairy Tale: A True Story". Ahhhhhh, now it's coming together.
Just as I keep family photos together, I keep family movies together. I can glance over and see "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" and remember my brothers helping me rent it from Cromaine Library. The cover of "To Kill A Mockingbird" reminds me of staying with my sister and brother-in-law in their first house on McCormack Street where the basement could have easily served as the stand-in set for the storage unit in the "Silence of the Lambs". Speaking of which, holding my "Silence of the Lambs" tape brings me back to the night when my brother taught me how to take a shot like a badass and then hid his face under a pillow until the bad guy was taken care of at the end of the movie.
It would be a crime to finish this post without talking about my personal story of "E.T". This is the first movie I can remember seeing with our family's best friend, Bill Carr. Every ounce of my cinephilia is rooted with Bill. Never in my life have I known anyone who culled as much genuine enjoyment from the theatrical experience as he did. He truly believed and imparted that movies are meant to be powerful and magical. They are salves for tattered souls that can neatly stitch broken hearts as good as new. He didn't have any patience for movies that didn't take that responsibility seriously and were spattered with gore or profane language. If the movie wasn't suitable for an innocent, imaginative child, Bill didn't want any part of it either. The night we lost Bill, I watched "The Muppet Christmas Carol", the first movie released under the Henson name after Jim Henson died in 1990. Bill had taken me and my brother to this movie in December of that year to help celebrate that while Jim Henson's time had come to an end, he can still live on through the wonder of the movies.
Contrary to my standard system, "E.T" isn't next to "The Muppet Christmas Carol" on my movie shelf. Instead, "E.T" is the first movie on the top shelf, and "The Muppet Christmas Carol" is the last movie on the bottom shelf, as movies always begin and end with my gratitude to Bill.
When I moved to Oregon from Ohio, I brought what I could shove in my Buick and a whole lot of baggage that no suitcase could contain. An interested observer might be prompted to ask me if I've actually sought treatment for my neurotic disorder from my odd movie collection (which made the trip at the expense of most of my clothes). Looking at it objectively, yeah, I guess it's a little unusual to find "Unforgiven" propped up next to "Sleepless in Seattle", or to find "Fairy Tale: A True Story" mingling with "The Exorcist", but if I told you that Dad took me to see "Unforgiven" in the theater and that Mom took me to see "Sleepless in Seattle" at the same theater, it might start to make sense. My movies aren't arranged alphabetically. They're ordered autobiographically.
I took my beautiful, incredibly pregnant dear friend to see the re-issue of "The Exorcist" eight years ago so that we could enjoy the extra 11 minutes of footage together, and hopefully smoke the baby out of her well overdue burrow. It made perfect sense. She and I were roommates for three years in college and watched the original movie enough that we could absolutely pinpoint the extra footage when it came up. Especially the emotionally scarring backward spider walk down the family stairs. The bowel-loosening memory maker did the trick. Her sweet daughter was born the next day. That little girl and I spent lots of Aunt Sheila/Miss Lady time together and one of our favorite movies was "Fairy Tale: A True Story". Ahhhhhh, now it's coming together.
Just as I keep family photos together, I keep family movies together. I can glance over and see "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" and remember my brothers helping me rent it from Cromaine Library. The cover of "To Kill A Mockingbird" reminds me of staying with my sister and brother-in-law in their first house on McCormack Street where the basement could have easily served as the stand-in set for the storage unit in the "Silence of the Lambs". Speaking of which, holding my "Silence of the Lambs" tape brings me back to the night when my brother taught me how to take a shot like a badass and then hid his face under a pillow until the bad guy was taken care of at the end of the movie.
It would be a crime to finish this post without talking about my personal story of "E.T". This is the first movie I can remember seeing with our family's best friend, Bill Carr. Every ounce of my cinephilia is rooted with Bill. Never in my life have I known anyone who culled as much genuine enjoyment from the theatrical experience as he did. He truly believed and imparted that movies are meant to be powerful and magical. They are salves for tattered souls that can neatly stitch broken hearts as good as new. He didn't have any patience for movies that didn't take that responsibility seriously and were spattered with gore or profane language. If the movie wasn't suitable for an innocent, imaginative child, Bill didn't want any part of it either. The night we lost Bill, I watched "The Muppet Christmas Carol", the first movie released under the Henson name after Jim Henson died in 1990. Bill had taken me and my brother to this movie in December of that year to help celebrate that while Jim Henson's time had come to an end, he can still live on through the wonder of the movies.
Contrary to my standard system, "E.T" isn't next to "The Muppet Christmas Carol" on my movie shelf. Instead, "E.T" is the first movie on the top shelf, and "The Muppet Christmas Carol" is the last movie on the bottom shelf, as movies always begin and end with my gratitude to Bill.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Oh, Brother
And so it came to pass in the house of David on the 22nd of October, a second son was born.
His fashion sense was second to only his style icon brother.
The Force was strong with this one.
As a reward for his majesty, his parents brought him a pet to love.
He groomed it.
And read to it.
And took it for walks.
But the boy could not stay in the house of David forever, and took a lovely wife.
Matthew and Janel begat Emma. The Force has an heir.
Matthew and Janel begat Lily. The fashion empire lives on.
And so it is with great joy we link hands and dance the Birthday dance of the ages for the second son come every 22nd of October.
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