Salty Laughter

One of my favorite listening experiences of the last month has been to This I Believe II: More Personal Philosophies of Remarkable Men and Women, an audio collection from the NPR program of the same name. Some authors are famous, most are not, and all have riveting stories to tell about their fundamental guiding life principles. They range from strikingly serious to hilarious, with little schlock in between. It's important to note that I'm not a fan of manufactured emotional outpourings of preachy nonsense. They waltz with my gag reflex and drop it on the dip. The Chicken Soup for the [fill in the pandering noun here] Soul series is not only not my bag; it's my anti-bag. I find them particularly offensive because they cheapen stories that are compelling if simply told by the person who experienced them, which is why I'm drawn to the This I Believe series. If I've learned anything from my father or husband, it is that the fewer the words are spoken, the more attentive the audience, and the deeper the message resonates. While I admire that idea, I have to admit it was/is their guiding principle. It is not mine.

Soooo, what is mine? I've given this a lot of thought in the last week since I listened to these personal stories. If I have kids, who then have their own children, who then raise little ones of their own, what valuable message do I want passed down when they hand over great grandma's wedding ring? Is it that your word and integrity is irreparable? Is it that kindness doesn't always feel good to the giver, but is always necessary? Is it that we're no better or worse than anyone else? Somewhat. On all levels, these truths guide my day-to-day interactions because I heard Mom and Dad when they said or demonstrated them to us kids. But again, these are theirs. I needed to identify one that is uniquely mine. And as I was talking to a friend who is having marital problems and helped her giggle through her sobs, I named it: Not everything is funny, but there is something funny about everything.

When I think back to the most painful moments in my life, I not only remember the jolting phone calls or mind-hobbling revelations, but I remember the laughter that arose from the morbid humor someone dared to reveal at what seemed like a most inopportune time, but what in hindsight was the most opportune time of all. These vivid moments are usually provided by my brother Matt. Standing at the graveside of our dad, my sister asked where our grandma was buried in that same cemetery. Matt promptly replied, "Why don't you ask Russ? He's the Whitman's Chocolates map of death for this place." Three weeks later when our brother-in-law lost his own father, Matt wrote his version of condolences on the back of butcher paper he had lying around his restaurant's kitchen because he was disgusted by the sentiments Hallmark and American Greetings offer in situations such as what we'd just been through.

The best sympathy card I've ever received was a Christmas card someone used to carry their heartfelt message of consolation, even though Dad died in June. The personal message from our friend meant a great deal, especially when it was hilariously set against the background of a polar bear and small sheep communing together in holiday peace. It was probably the only card the person had on hand to get in the mail as quickly as they wanted their message to get to us, and God bless them for that, because it brought not only comfort, but a much-needed chuckle.

For me, a clear equation to live by is that the more a person insists "It's not funny!" the more ridiculously out-of-hand hilarious the situation tends to be. For those of us who've been to church, it's akin to what we know as the holy giggles. There was no clearer example of God's dark sense of humor than when I was a little kid sitting in the pew minding my own business with the priest droning on about unspeakable biblical horrors, and then it happened. The funniest thing I'd ever thought of in my young life would creep up from some profane place and overtake my little self with violent giggles. It didn't matter that my mother would flash me the most withering "pull yourself together RIGHT NOW, Lady Jane" look, or that my brother would elbow me in the ribs. If anything, they made it worse. Insist as they may, it WAS funny. Funny as the flashing fires of hell for which I was bound if I didn't stop it.

My healing and growth would be utterly stunted if I were robbed of the ability to laugh at my challenges and trials. This, I believe.

Back With A Sputtering Vengeance

While on a bit of a hiatus from the blog world, I've rediscovered the joys of audio books and the freedoms they offer me to learn and enjoy the written word while doing the activities that previously impeded my reading time. Driving to work? No problem. Pop in the CDs and enjoy the ride. Doing the dishes and dusting? Not to worry, Mamie. Give the swiffer a good workout while listening to Alan Alda's latest tome. Working out the bills and grocery lists? Ahhhh go on with your education, Darling. The pen flies across the page to the rhythm of David Sedaris' hilarious accounts of his travels and self-loathing.

So here we are again, you and me. I've missed you. What have you (re)discovered in our time apart? I'd love to hear.

Wedding Day Delights

Pictures from the wedding day.

DVD Released

Unfortunately, this blog will only allow me to upload a certain amount of video at a time. Our DVD wedding is eight times the limit, so the next three blogs will include two (the third is too big in and of itself) original slideshows from the movie.

This clip is the slideshow of our dating life together entitled "The Story is Ludicrous".

Matt Got Older

Fair Enough

Last weekend I had the pleasure of accompanying my brother's family to the Oregon State Fair. This was a new experience for me in that it was much larger than the other fairs I'm used to attending. The paths were paved. The people were relatively clean. The familiar childhood fair scents of diesel gas from the rides mingled with the sweat of weathered carnies gave way to delicious aromas from the food booths and late summer wind.

Growing up, I would begin to feel the excited butterflies start to flutter around late June in anticipation of the third week in July when the quiet fairgrounds in Fowlerville would burst to life with vendors, rides, food booths, games, church lady bake sales, and animal exhibitions. It was important to remember to wear close-toed shoes and socks to avoid the cow bullets and poky sun-burnt hay that was strewn throughout the grounds. Carnies who bore a striking, disconcerting resemblance to One Day at a Time's Schneider milled about in search of their next beer, cigarette dangling precariously next their last well-worn tooth. Their broken grins couldn't shake my enthusiasm for the homemade potato chips and freshly squeezed lemonade I was determined to enjoy first thing. I'll always be grateful to Bill Carr for showing me that if you press your straw just right against the bottom of the cup and tilt it just so, you'll be sure to scoop up a lump of sugar that couldn't be convinced to dissolve with the rest of its kin.

Mom would give us our allowance for the day and find her position in the bingo tent where each game was a quarter, whether you played one card, or set up sixteen in the shape of an H below your four trolls (multiples of your cards were your best luck, you know) and two dachshund figurines that were sure to help the player rake in the bucks, provided one dachshund faced east and the other was on its hind legs to "reach for the stars." Mom relied on no charms of the sort, but did well through sheer perseverance. She would sit there for hours at a time while we tested gravity on the rides and dared the giant hogs to look us in the eyes. She would sit through slow calls of B8 and O72 to get her golden numbers that formed postage stamps or an X on her cards. Eventually the house had to give it up. She knew the odds and rather than goosing her luck with trinkets and superstitions, she wrestled her winnings using old-fashioned mathematics and time.

Armed with these experiences, I took a step back to a different time with my brother last weekend where we could be little kids sharing a sweet treat, but this time we also shared it with his little ones. The way their eyes lit up when a horse reared back, or when we took a gondola ride over the fair was well worth the admission.

Next time we go, I'll have to show them the lemonade trick. It's a doozy.

The Flower Anniversary

Four years ago today, I moved across country to the place I now call my hometown. It was a transitional time in my life made even more complicated by losing Dad just two weeks prior to the move. I had already planned on coming out before we lost him. In fact, the last Father's Day gift I ever gave him in person was a set of stationary and two books of stamps he could use to write me after I'd headed out west. He was no stranger to letters to and from Oregon, as his brother had lived in Salem over half his life, and both his sons had settled in the northwest in the '90s. So, to say goodbye to his youngest and see her off to a different life didn't carry with it any alien expectations.

He died two days prior to Father's Day. A rather nasty last practical joke, really. Now, every June I endure elated pitchmen screaming about the latest golf and hunting accoutrement that is "sure to bring a smile to Dad's face this year on his special day." I wouldn't be so sure there, Mr. Popeil. That tinny crap wouldn't have made him smile when he was alive, and your chances of bringing a grin to his face now have significantly lessened, I'm afraid.

So, it was with an angry, heavy heart that I set off in the Buick to a new home and a future that would be so happy there was no way at the time to have predicted it. My brother's family kindly opened their home and lives to me to help me get on my feet. I wasn't in any stable place to appreciate their sacrifices at the time, but distance and much healing work has sharpened my hindsight and brought some poor choices into focus. Most have been rectified, others were lessons hard learned, including an affair with a rather nasty individual who had the looks of a Playgirl centerfold and the proclivities of a snaggletoothed pimp in a C-grade Jack the Ripper movie. Ahh well, who would we be if we weren't the product of our more interesting mistakes?

And so it is, four years later and a complete turnaround of fortunes. Four jobs, two boyfriends, one husband, one stepdaughter, five music concerts, gallons of coffee, and countless new friends later, it's a good place to be. Not just Oregon, but the big HERE. Here is where I want to be, with the people I want to be with, doing what I want to do. And that's sure to bring a smile to Dad's face....

Cultured Feelings

For the last few weeks I've had several emotions bubbling close the surface, both positive and negative, but all of them jolting and powerful. Most of them stem from an identifiable event or conversation, but some of them don't have parent catalysts at all that I can easily identify. They're just there. Since I was little I've rarely been able to process my feelings without some link to popular culture. Sad, I know, but oh so true. Each time I've sat down to write, I'm overwhelmed by one of these emotionally charged creeping tentacles and just sit back in the chair overwhelmed, and eventually walk away from the computer and think "I'll deal with it later and then I'll be able to write." Well, that hasn't worked out so well, so I'm going to do some pop therapy and do the blogging equivalent of an interpretive dance of my feelings, silly as that may seem. Maybe this dam can be broken yet.




Grief: John Cleese delivers the eulogy for Graham Chapman





Faith: Charlene and Julia church it up






Empathy: Jackson Browne performs "For a Dancer" live in '76






Forgiveness: Gary Oldman's Beethoven showcases the conception of "Ode to Joy" from very unjoyful childhood circumstances in "Immortal Beloved"





Healing: Richard Farnsworth's last movie, "The Straight Story"






Elation: Wall-E and Eva's dance






Contentment: Navin R. Johnson finds his special purpose






Loved: Trent + Kirk + Spock = Magic (NSFW)

Newly Old Love

Recently with my own wedding safely tucked to bed, I looked back on a reading I wrote for the 2004 wedding of our friends Crystal and Ptahmb who have been integral to the joy of our ceremony and celebrations. At the time I wrote it, I was thinking of them and their lovely union, but upon the re-reading, it's nice to see where it applies in J and my lives, too.

Have a look and see if you recognize yourself and your relationships. This is a living piece and I would love to hear your own spin on it.

Here goes:

"David Sedaris refers to two types of love. There is new love, which many experience. And there is real love, for which there are only a chosen few.

New lovers look deeply into each other's eyes and savor every word that escapes their dear one's mouth.
Real lovers look deeply into each other's eyes and whisper "Could you shut up for maybe five minutes?"

New lovers notice when the other has taken out the candles or champagne for a night of bliss. Real lovers notice when the other has taken out the trash or the hair from the bathtub drain.

New lovers hold hands to enjoy the good times.
Real lovers hold hands to see each other through the rough times.

New lovers live for the next time they will see each other.
Real lovers live for the next time they will listen to each other.

Today we have come together to witness two Real lovers who have lived enough to know the difference between these two types and were smart enough to embrace a lifetime together."

That passage more accurately sums up how the wedding ceremony went far more than if I bored you with a description of my dress, or Jason's wedding hat, or the cake, or who said what to whom. Just rest assured that what was supposed to happen happened. And now we've joined hands to play, laugh, and work our way through this delightful marriage.

I'm Just Waiting On A Friend

"Forgiveness is the fragrance the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it." ~~Mark Twain


Rarely am I given the opportunity to truly atone for my own sins of the past (lo there are many to choose from), or witness as someone close to me does so, much as I would like to be there. But in the last two weeks that's exactly what's happened. A person who means a great deal to me and who has been a source of my lowest lows and privy to my loudest belly laughs seems to be coming out of a very dark place.

As I grieved for my dad, so did I grieve for this fellow. It seemed that he was always on the shaded side of the street, head down and dragging his feet. He'd lost faith in the world and in himself, which was a true shame because that's the only person he felt he could be around for any length of time. I wanted nothing more than to hug him and help him smile like he did before, but knew nothing could be more wrong than to follow that instinct. I knew I couldn't make him feel happiness or force him to engage. He had to want it. He needed help. And the help couldn't come from me or any of my kind. For us I thought there would be no chance of healing. Where I longed for kind encouragement or playful banter, there were only awkward stutters and angry exchanges. In place of smiling eyes and wide grins, I was met head on with gazes of pure despair and unfettered, wild grief.

Years passed. Years.

I grew hard.

I moved on.

I left him to fight his demons alone. I never expected him to win. But he is. He is winning.

He's found a great worth inside himself that has triggered him to see what most everyone around him has seen. He's had tools and help, and I wouldn't have it any other way. No one should be expected to deal with that kind of crushing sadness alone. I admire the tremendous amount of work he's done, and continues to do, to open up the branches a little for the light. Even if it's just a little, by God it's something.

Good Times Are Here Again...

In my never ending quest to see all of the major Oscar nominees prior to the Academy Awards telecast on February 22, I am woefully behind, I fear. Christopher Nolan wasn't the only person the Academy shafted on Thursday morning. I thought I had tied up at least two of the likely Best Picture nominees when I saw "The Dark Knight" and "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button", and possibly even three with my viewing of "Wall-E." But no. It was not meant to be. Currently I'm 1 for 5 in that category. After all of the nominations were made available, J and I determined the order of the rest of the BP nominees we'll head to see at the theater, as they are all still in wide release, and not yet available on DVD (thanks for THAT, Hollywood). Fortunately, we live in a town that still subscribes to the idea of movies as little pieces of celluloid magic, so all of the films are available to us at a theater nearby. We have about 27 movie houses in our close vicinity, most of which are independently owned, and we do not take that treasured state of affairs for granted, believe me. As sick as it might sound, I chose this apartment based on not only how close it was to my dear Polish friends, but also its proximity to the greatest indy video store in the nation, Movie Madness, where my favorite video tech looks exactly like a hot version of Mama Firefly and is endlessly helpful.

We commemorated Oscar Nomination Eve (ONE) on Wednesday with a 7:00 showing of "The Wrestler." As unpredictable as the Best Picture and Best Actress categories have a tendency to be, the Best Actor nominations are historically closely linked to the Golden Globe nominees for male in a dramatic leading role, so I was pretty confident we could count on a Mickey Rourke nod, if not win. I still haven't seen "The Visitor", "Milk", or "Frost/Nixon", so my apologies to Richard Jenkins, Sean Penn, and Frank Langella for such presumption. And Brad, well, Brad. As much as I love you in the deep loving bits of my heart, the movie wasn't about you, but more about the people around you reacting to your steadfast portrayal of an odd character, so I'm pretty sure this isn't your year just yet.

Heath Ledger's performance as The Joker (if you have not seen it yet, stop reading this and do so) has earned him the last nomination he will ever have. Alive or dead, his performance is striking and he's going to win--sentimentality aside, the guy's talent is hard to overlook (though the Academy managed to do so in 2005, much to their lame chagrin these days). Philip Seymour Hoffman is yet again pitted against Heath, and while I've not yet seen "Doubt", I would swear a blood oath that his performance is Oscar-worthy. I mean, let's face it. He's Philip Seymour Hoffman and he rules. He just does. But because he had the misfortune of being the guy who beat Heath in 2005, he will not win. Nor will Robert Downey, Jr.'s freakishly comedic turn in "Tropic Thunder," though I wouldn't cry in my bowl of Total if he did. Josh Brolin, whose bodily proportions never fail to remind me of an overgrown midget and give me pause every time I see him in a movie, has the only genuine shot at slicing through Heath's juggernaut of glory because he plays a psychotically homophobic killer and that makes the Academy ooooohhhh and aaaahhhh with squishy-panted delight.

Every year it seems the nominees serve up at least a dollop of misery in one or two overwrought dramas, and this year is no exception. "The Reader" is set with the backdrop of a WWII tragedy and a love story, because apparently nothing says "get it on" in Hollywood more than the tragedy of the Holocaust. Ralph Fiennes has dug out quite the niche for himself with this type of film by starring in not one, not two, not even three, but FOUR Holocaust pictures. Check my math: "The English Patient", "The End of the Affair", "The Reader" and of course his horrifying turn as Nazi Amon Goeth in "Schindler's List." While I abhor sitting through this kind of movie, I'll do it for Kate Winslet because she is the female answer to Philip Seymour Hoffman. She rules because she does. Circular or not, the logic sticks. She is a brilliant actress and can make even the most repulsive movie (suck it, "Little Children") watchable. Oh you'll feel it in the morning, but at the time you're watching it all you can focus on is how she spins disgusting story arcs straw into mesmerizing gold. For too long, six nominations to be exact, she has been snubbed, overlooked, and forsaken for the likes of Helen Hunt. That's right. I said it. Fucking Helen Hunt, who graduated summa cum laude from the Gwyneth Paltrow School For Wooden Expressionless "Acting" beat our beloved Kate. I say NO MORE will we stand for this kind of shenanigan voting practice on the part of the Academy.

So at this most sacred time of year in my warped little world, I make a nightly wish and throw it to the south where the majority of Academy voters reside to ask that you do your jobs, Voting Elite, and cast your ballot (for once) on the merits of the performance without the distraction of studio campaigns, sentimentality, insider politics, nepotism, or profiteering interests. Shhhhhhh. Just do it.

And Oscar Goes To... Not So Fast, Mr. Penn!

Ladies and Gentlemen, the full list of Oscar Nominees. Read it. Learn it. Live it.


Best Motion Picture of the Year
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Frost/Nixon
Milk
The Reader
Slumdog Millionaire

Achievement in Directing
David Fincher, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Ron Howard, Frost/Nixon
Gus Van Sant, Milk
Stephen Daldry, The Reader
Danny Boyle, Slumdog Millionaire

Performance by an Actor in a Leading Role
Richard Jenkins, The Visitor
Frank Langella, Frost/Nixon
Sean Penn, Milk
Brad Pitt, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Mickey Rourke, The Wrestler

Performance by an Actor in a Supporting Role
Josh Brolin, Milk
Robert Downey Jr., Tropic Thunder
Philip Seymour Hoffman, Doubt
Heath Ledger, The Dark Knight
Michael Shannon, Revolutionary Road

Performance by an Actress in a Leading Role
Anne Hathaway, Rachel Getting Married
Angelina Jolie, Changeling
Melissa Leo, Frozen River
Kate Winslet. The Reader
Meryl Streep, Doubt

Performance by an Actress in a Supporting Role
Amy Adams, Doubt
Penélope Cruz, Vicky Cristina Barcelona
Viola Davis, Doubt
Taraji P. Henson, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Marisa Tomei, The Wrestler

Best Animated Feature Film of the Year
Bolt
Kung Fu Panda
Wall-E

Original Screenplay
Dustin Lance Black, Milk
Courtney Hunt, Frozen River
Mike Leigh, Happy-Go-Lucky
Martin McDonagh, In Bruges
Andrew Stanton and Jim Reardon, WALL-E

Adapted Screenplay
Eric Roth and Robin Swicord, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
John Patrick Shanley, Doubt
Peter Morgan, Frost/Nixon
David Hare, The Reader
Simon Beaufoy, Slumdog Millionaire

Best Foreign Language Film of the Year
The Baader Meinhof Complex (Germany)
The Class (France)
Departures (Japan)
Revanche (Austria)
Waltz With Bashir (Israel)

Original Score
Alexandre Desplat, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
James Newton Howard, Defiance
Danny Elfman, Milk
A.R. Rahman, Slumdog Millionaire
Thomas Newman, WALL-E

Original Song
"Down to Earth," Peter Gabriel and Thomas Newman; WALL-E
"Jai Ho," A.R. Rahman and Gulzar; Slumdog Millionaire
"O Saya," A.R. Rahman and Maya Arulpragasam; Slumdog Millionaire

Achievement in Art Direction
Changeling
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
The Dark Knight
The Duchess
Revolutionary Road

Achievement in Cinematography
Changeling
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
The Dark Knight
The Reader
Slumdog Millionaire

Achievement in Costume Design
Australia
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
The Duchess
Milk
Revolutionary Road

Best Documentary Feature
The Betrayal (Nerakhoon)
Encounters at the End of the World
The Garden
Man on Wire
Trouble the Water

Best Documentary Short Subject
The Conscience of Nhem En
The Final Inch
Smile Pinki
The Witness—From the Balcony of Room 306

Achievement in Film Editing
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
The Dark Knight
Frost/Nixon
Milk
Slumdog Millionaire

Achievement in Makeup
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
The Dark Knight
Frost/Nixon
Milk
Slumdog Millionaire

Best Animated Short Film
La Maison en Petits Cubes
Lavatory—Lovestory
Oktapodi
Presto
This Way Up

Best Live Action Short Film
Auf der Strecke (On the Line)
Manon on the Asphalt
New Boy
The Pig
Spielzeugland (Toyland)

Achievement in Sound Editing
The Dark Knight
Iron Man
Slumdog Millionaire
WALL-E
Wanted

Achievement in Sound Mixing
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
The Dark Knight
Slumdog Millionaire
WALL-E
Wanted

Achievement in Visual Effects
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
The Dark Knight
Iron Man

Room 1009

Some families are Muslim. Some families are Jewish or Catholic. Our family is Rolling Stonish. We have followed the goings on of Mick Jagger, Keith Richards, Charlie Watts, (Bill Wyman, Brian Jones, Mick Taylor, and Ronnie Wood) the way normal people watch their favorite baseball team or coolest uncles' antics. From an early age I can remember setting up a war fort or space scene in the basement while I created my own unfilmed videos to "Paint It Black" and "2000 Light Years From Home".

My brothers and I each have a favorite Stone, mine and Matt's being Charlie, the silent drummer who looks like he's putting up with the stage shows more than living them up. He's the anchor of the band, literally and figuratively. His drum set establishes the center of the stage around which the other players orbit like drunken comets, while his stable demeanor has helped see his band mates through cracked marriages and almost admirable, if it weren't so copious and destructive, drug and alcohol abuse. If bodies are temples, this group is a rain soaked, smoldering tent city.



So it was with great anticipation that I finally watched "Shine A Light", the Rolling Stones and Martin Scorsese collaborative rockumentary released in early April '08. I hadn't seen it in the theater when it came out because I was saving for a trip back to Michigan. When I came back, the Pixie was in town and it wasn't a movie she felt the urge to see. By the time September rolled around, the movie was out of the theaters, even the second runs, and I would have to wait for the DVD. I told J I wanted it for Christmas and he delivered the goods with glee last week.

When I first heard of the project, I was ecstatic that Martin Scorsese was the director. Not only because he rules as a director, but because he has a great history with the band and wouldn't treat them as just some rock oddity who's managed to struggle their old bones through a performance. He relishes and uses their music to form a girder on which he builds the often harsh stories he tells about the underworld. Next time you're watching "Casino" or "The Departed" or "Goodfellas", have a listen. He's subtle about it, but their gritty tunes are what he wipes the used knives on after the gruesome mob retributions explode. This movie was going to be that of a friend's perspective, rather than a snuff exploitation of an aging rock band.

I did have a bone to pick with Marty, though. I was disappointed with the title "Shine A Light" for completely selfish reasons. That is in my top 3 favorite Stones songs and I didn't want to share. It killed my soul a little to think about some ignorant college freshman dumbass grooving to my song without understanding the full scope of its awesomeness. That it was conceived from the pain of two broken souls losing their dear doomed friend in the throes of addiction and it was birthed on, in my opinion, the greatest rock album of all time, Exile on Main St. three years after said friend's death. But then I took a step back. Maybe this song would be sacrificed on the altar of rock education and teach that kid something about what real music should sound like. Maybe that song would move her to set aside (or better yet smash under a bulldozer) her Ashlee Simpson CD and delve into the history of the song and the band. And I could live with that.

As I watched the movie last night, two moments stood out. During a fantastic rendition of "Far Away Eyes", a song with a fun country twist, Mick and Keith come together to sing a bar of the chorus and Keith casually, and seemingly instinctively puts both arms loosely around Mick's shoulders, as if that's where they were meant to be. It was made more beautiful by the pure incidental nature of the gesture. Keith may have been just trying to hold himself upright, but to me, it was an easy comradery reserved for musical spouses celebrating their union in the only way they know how.

The second, and most moving moment was in the Behind the Scenes featurette which showcased both Martin Scorsese's mastery of images, and the essence of the band. It was before the show, after sound check and the meet and greet of the VIPs (that included President and Senator Clinton). Mick is glad handing some guests off to the side, Charlie is off the scene, and Keith is sitting on the farthest stool from the Mick crowd, alone with his guitar and working through a song that sounds nothing like the Stones genre of music. He's content and playing, his fingers gnarled from overuse are plucking at the strings of an acoustic guitar. He looks up for a moment to smile at the camera man, and then looks down to lose himself in the music.

Fade to black, but not fade away....

At Jess' Request...

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.

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.

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

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...

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.

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.

My Christmas In Five Senses (if I had my druthers)

Hearing



from

Taste

Busche de Noel cake

Smell

Incense at Midnight Mass

Sight



George C. Scott's Scrooge is foretold of three visitors

Touch

Warm fuzzies