With the Christmas season winding down, I have finally taken a moment to sit my nitpicky ankle down so that I can write. I find that many times I am standing for hours at a time at home. I'd have it no other way except when I eat dinner. Sometimes I'll send the kid off with a plate and then stand in the kitchen eating for no good reason except that well.....I already said there wasn't a good reason!
While I love most Christmas music, with the exception of dreary Christmas songs like that Red Shoes one or things that involve not being happy because a person is missing for whatever reason, there is one song that should be a movie trailer.
The Trans-Siberian Orchestra wins the prize for Best Movie Trailer with their Carol of the Bells.
Here is what you would see in this trailer:
*A mosh pit with santa hats tucked into the back pockets of shirtless anarchists
*Shia LeBeouf turning around and gaping at something he sees (that we don't see) that is much higher up than he is
*A flash of power streaking out of Dumbledore's wand
*Elephants charging
*A butterfly's wings slowly pulsing before it takes off
*A sweaty scantily clad woman with a gun exclaiming her war cry (that you can't hear because you are only hearing this music)
*A dude running (and being somewhat slowed down by), holding hands with a female he is trying to save. They are both filthy. And hot.
*A high speed chase through the Lincoln Tunnel. On top of other cars. Upside down.
*A fireplace that you can only see through the extreme close up of two tongues desperately searching for a lost altoid in the opposite mouth
*Russell Crowe, in a period film, slamming a clear scotch glass down so that the alcohol jumps up.
*handcuffs clicking shut
*a snowball hitting someone square in the face
*someone being impaled on a cactus
*Brad Pitt smiling (somehow it would fit)
*a hooded man dropping a locket down a well
*And throughout the entire trailer, a flash of a framed photograph falling until the finish, where it smashes
So it was my turn to offer up a musical muse for this exercise. I chose one of those little ditties in between stories on NPR. Apparently, Great Round Burn by Kaki King sends very distinct images. Jeff and I wrote a very similar piece. The last time, we couldn't have been more different, or wrapping it up simply, Sex and the Pope. Read Jeff's Here .
Here is mine:
Annabelle tore through the trees at whatever speed lightning can go when it’s in the form of a nineteen year old girl. Make that a well read nineteen year old girl. Who is great at traipsing through these particular woods but has rarely had to raise her heart rate to get through them. Hearing the distant snaps and sloppy shuffling noises through the leaves on the ground she knew she had a moment to assess. Most of the trees were now bare, leaving many easy to obtain hiding places out of commission until next summer. Fairly close were a few spruce trees in which to try and quietly wedge herself among the branches.
“Fucking sharp needles!” Annabelle huffed to herself while straining to move in slow motion so as to make the least amount of rustling possible.
Gently spitting the edge of a bent branch out of her mouth, she reached into the tiny pocket within the front jeans pocket to be sure that she hadn’t lost it. Even through her cotton gloves she could feel the evenly spaced bumps along the perimeter of the coin - except for where the year was minted - 1795. She tucked her hair behind her ear and waited.
Annabelle’s’ grandfather,(Wompaw as she liked to call him) lived modestly but comfortably three miles into the woodland to be sure to avoid doing the Happy Neighbor thing. He’d given up people a long time ago and was only so happy to do so. “A complicated bother of blather” he called the collective bundle of humans, known as The Entire Population. Wompaw had lived here since before Annabelle was born, so he’d had plenty of years to settle more luxuriously into curmudgeonhood. Annabelle herself lived closer to society but not by much. She was a mere two miles from the wooded border in a small cabin that she helped Wompaw build only two years ago for her impending eighteenth birthday.. Wompaw taught her the meaning of a hearty bread pudding, how to hire a bunch of toads and frogs for the garden by collecting your help during tadpole season and then releasing them into the garden, and biting into a raw ear of corn straight off the stalk, savoring the milky liquid that came with a crunch. More useful currently would be the many times he would creep around corners to catch her unawares, each scream thickening her skin just a sliver more.
Earlier, she’d dropped in on Wompaw for a little help with churning out some of their beloved picture frames from small, wand like branches. Christmas was at least a month away and if she didn’t get started now she might end up handing out a basket of good intentions for the holiday.
She remembers that she walked in, mouth open shooting out melodic, teasing and familiar salutations. She knows a basket filled with collected items on the way over - winterberries on stems, tiny, flexible branch pieces, pinecones and acorns - tumbled to the wooden floor, berries rolling into corners, under the table, leaving red juices as her boot trampled them. She knows that she ran toward him. She goes blank. Next her mind races to the moments after the paramedics took Wompa away, nothing left in his eyes. By the door.....something shiny enough to pull at her attention. Something out of place. His prized Flowing Hair dollar, valued at over $7 million dollars. If Wompa didn’t believe much in the value of being social, he certainly didn’t believe in leaving your prized assets with any institution. “Keep it in a lockbox? Well why the hell would I do that when I can hold it in my fingers, look at the mastery of the minting process as it was at the end of the 18th century? There is energy in everything. Every single person who ever touched this coin has left a piece of themselves within it. Sometimes I don’t even have to read a book, I can just hold this coin, just imagine what it has seen, what it has bartered, and as a result, who had been given more life to live and who fell due to their own acquaintance of it. . Not the coin of course, but what it symbolizes to others. A price has been attached to this coin. But why? Other than the value of history, it is simply a material object, a piece of metal.” Annabelle was not sure how true the story was, but was told that the coin came into Wompa’s hands many years prior as he and his now deceased buddy, Grey George, dug the grounds to create the well, which was now defunct, as a more mordern well had been put in six years past..
But right now she knew she had to stay absolutely quiet. Coming out of the cabin, she thought she saw someone stalking from behind one of the larger oaks. Whoever it was, was certainly looking for something. Something they thought they’d had earlier, and dropped on their way out after stealing Wompa’s last breath. Obviously it had been in someone’s hands. Possibly with a tell tale fingerprint. Dual motive for getting it back.
Quietly turning the coin carefully over in her hand, she heard a silent swooping, just a decibel above noiselessness. Looking up, she saw a crow perched on one of the branches of her hideaway. Curious and intent, it stared down at her. She followed its pitch black gaze to her hand. Without a doubt, it was interested in the coin. Ah, yes. Crows love shiny objects. They are known to steal jewelry, foil, keys and the like. Annabelle amused herself out of boredom momentarily by imagining how many people destroyed relationships over “stolen” things that very well could have been coveted by a smart bird. For no other reason, except the objects glinted. She imagined a room full of crows and a disco ball, each crow attempting to take a piece of it, eventually pecking it into a sort of hollow and pointless pinata.
She put the coin away so as to not to attract attention to her current sanctuary, should Mr. Crow start becoming vocal. She felt around for the baggie in her coat pocket that was filled with trail mix. Good that it was there, but nothing she could do to show her offering to the bird right now. She knew that the owner of the footsteps was most likely somewhere in the vicinity looking for her.
Annabelle looked up slowly just to check where the crow was sitting and visually lined up her head to it’s tail.....whew.....not possible. The last thing she needed was a trick on the head while stuffed inside of a bunch of crisp needled branches.
After a couple of hours went by, Annabelle decided to exit her coniferous hideout. She hadn’t seen who was following her, nor had she heard anything of human foot come through since. Tired of being cold and cramped she felt it time to attempt slipping out.. The movement of her hands gradually pulling apart the branches and ducking her head through, caused the crow to launch itself off of the top of the tree where it had been. Annabelle looked around thoroughly before pulling herself completely out of the tree. When she saw no evidence of another human, she pulled her other leg out through the density of her previous cover and brushed herself off, checking her hood for any “surprises”. She caught sight of the crow now sitting about four trees away, in a nest, which would have been barely visible if not for watching him fly straight to it. A good choice, to not build homebase in a deciduous tree. She looked up at him and pulled out the granola, throwing a small pile on the ground, grateful to have had a companion of sorts during her anxious wait in the tree. He waited for her to step away about ten feet before jumping down from branch to branch, with proper intervals in between to assure his safety. After swooping over the modest pile a few times, he landed, satisfied that it was indeed invulnerable, and swooped off with mouthfuls of food, bringing them up to his nest.
Once home, Annabelle pulled down the shades, barricaded the doors and lit a fire. Wompa had helped create a fairly impenetrable fortress for her when building her humble home. The Medeco Maxums were so plentiful, she slept without worry, even when hearing the sounds that frequent the dark hours of the night. As expected, she didn’t sleep much that night. Or the nights following. She did hear steps around her cabin from time to time, but completely covered windows, 911 on speed dial and a never needed to have been used thus far rifle by her side, she knew she would be fine. For now.
The nights following Wompa’s death saw much introspection for Annabelle. She sat in front of the fire, Johnny Walker in gloved hand, turning the Flowing Hair coin over and over. She hadn’t wanted to compromise any previous prints on the coin and wouldn’t touch it without gloves.
She figured out that whomever it was that wanted the coin would be around her cabin in the darker hours. She could easily call enforcements, but it wouldn’t feel like Wompa would be served proper respects. She knew she had to deal face to face with this callous soul.
She pulled out her roll of fishing line. Alibar, her feline companion had no qualms with fishing line. “Stop it, Al. Here.” She threw a treat across the room to keep him from chasing the line. She wasn’t sure how much to cut but made the line a slim, three feet and taped one end to the Flowing Hair coin. The other end was wrapped around the ring Wompa gave her that she wore on her right hand. She would leave the ring off for tonight.
Annabelle, three drinks later, was not beat by the drink. It only emboldened her. Her idea seemed perfectly logical. If it was plausible, well, that would be up to the Gods. She brought her flashlight and slung her rifle around her chest, pointed toward the ground. Looking for Wompa’s old well, she pulled off the top, and set some thin branches over the top. Then some more, crossing the originals, like a tic tac toe board. She loaded the top with leaves, and evened it out as best as she could without them all falling below. Next, she stuck four smallish branches in the ground, to mark the surroundings of the well. Then she went to the store, stocking up on potato chips, beef jerky, blueberries and also bought one package of chicken.
Pouring herself another drink, Annabelle made a magnificent batch of thick skinned fried chicken. She ate one drumstick and put the rest into a container, closed the refrigerator and went to bed.
The next morning, Annabelle went out to give the crows some granola and peanuts, watching the swooping dance that was performed before the offering was accepted. Then she took a deep breath and felt around in her pocket. Flowing Hair was ready. She felt under her vest.....should she need it, the gun was loaded. She hoped this would be unnecessary.
Annabelle located her work from the previous night. She stuck fried chicken, beef jerky, potato chips and blueberries under the leaves around the perimeters of the well. She popped a handful of potato chips in her mouth and washed it down with a flask produced from her vest pocket. She took out her camera and wandered around, slowly, aimlessly, waiting, acting calm, acting like it was just a day. Then she heard the short scuffles that someone else did not mean for her to hear. After Wompa’s training for living in this area for years, Annabelle would hear everything - down to a mating fruit fly. It was one of the first things Wompa had trained her in. The art of observation.
She moved along the birches, the oaks, the maples.....slowly, calmly, taking periodic sips from the flask. Taking photos of anything that she could in order to look normal. Shuffling in the background too quickly became foreground. Annabelle finally knew there would be no more grace periods. She turned around to see him waiting, at least six feet away. She slowly controlled the movement, backing up ever so minutely.
“What do you want from me?” she said, the alcohol forcing her to sound more vulnerable than she really felt.
“I was ….looking for a coin. I lost it while visiting a friend a few days ago. Would you know anything about it?” He was handsome. She had him computed within seconds. Charming, manipulative, dangerously smooth. If she were a slave to even one tenth of a hormone, she’d lose this one.
“What coin?” she countered, hoping he didn’t know who she was, but trying to remember the reality that he’d been following her for days. He knew more than she’d let on that he knew. At least to his face.
“It’s just a silver coin But was given to me by my grandfather so it means a lot to me. I carrry it around for luck, as crazy as it sounds. Has a lady’s face on it. Flowing Hair. I was visiting with an old friend of mine, and like a fool, wore the pants with the hole in the pocket. I believe it fell out. Do you know what I speak of?” he stepped a little closer.
“I’m not sure. Is it a Lady Liberty sort of thing?” How long could this shit go on? They both knew this was a poker game.
“Something like that. It’s more nostalgic than anything else.”
What a fucking liar, Annabelle thought to herself. She glanced down at the ground, seeking out the stakes she’d planted the night before.
“I may have found something actually. When I was visiting my Wompa. Could this be yours?” Annabelle pulled the Flowing Hair out of her pocket.
The man smiled broadly.
“That’s it! That is totally it. Thank you so much. What do I owe you? I’d be happy to take you out for a drink or dinner or something to show you my appreciation.”
Annabelle held out the coin and pretended to stumble over one of the stakes, dropping the coin onto the ground.
“I’m so sorry, let me....”
But by that time, her stalker was so greedy, he’d already stepped forward to grab it out of the leaves. A loud snapping was heard as his weight cracked through the thinly covered branches over the defunct well. Annabelle quickly yanked the fishing line attached to the coin and yanked it back up with her.
“Help me out of here. Please. I think I broke something.:
“You’re a fucking liar. I’m going home. Good luck climbing the concrete, you fuck! It was you that killed my grandfather Why else would you stalk me? This coin was in his collection. How dare you pass it off as your own! How could you even possibly know about this? Tell me, tell me and I may have enough compassion for you to let you go. If you don’t tell me who you are and how you knew he had this, I’m going home now.”
A groan was heard, and then, “I’m George’s son. My dad told me that your grandpa found this coin years ago, but that the didn’t want to do anything with it. Like he refused the magnitude of fortune that would come with it. I thought that if he didn’t care about it, perhaps I would trade it in....but he cared enough. Not for fortune’s sake...”
Annabelle said nothing. Instead, pulled out from behind a tree, a bag. She surrounded the borders of the deep hole with the fried chicken she’d made the night before. She punctuated that with the chips, the beef jerky and even a few Little Debbie’s creme filled cakes, then stepped away. Bears were abundant in these woods and Annabelle knew effectively how to keep them away from her home. Conversely, she knew how to attract them.
The man in the well started to scream in panic. Annabelle threw a few fried chicken legs down.
“Here. This is so you taste better to the bear, you fucking scum. Just like bacon can’t hide the taste of liver, this won’t hide much in your foul flavor either. But the bears need to eat and will be happy with what they get. And here.....you can enjoy this too.” She threw down a coin. As he caught it he noted immediately that it was a penny. This year’s penny. Worth exactly, one cent.
Annabelle walked nearby to the tree in which she knew the crow’s nest to be. She put down a pile of granola and peanuts. The only sound to be heard right before she walked off was in the middle of the pile of granola....a thunk of the Flowing Hair coin being tossed away.
The events of last Friday were unspeakably deplorable and horrific. Any parent, any person with a heart has been deeply saddened by the senseless deaths of the 26 in Sandy Hook, CT. I grew up in Danbury, a town within 15 minutes of Newtown.
And while we are all feeling it as a community, a sort of unbearable loss, if we weren't directly hit, we can still count our blessings. I know some of those directly affected will still count their blessings - those are amazing humans.
So here are the things that I am going to consider blessings whereas I may write an entire post on why they suck:
I have my Humanling. She has epilepsy and we deal with that. Overall she has a pretty normal life and a decent, yet naive understanding of things. But she is here with me. Mornings suck when fighting her body's urge to flee off into a seizure but fight it off we do, most of the time successfully.
I have two adorable rotten animals who's alarm clocks are set to "play with small noisy items that no one knew was under the chair" between 4-6am. I can deal with this. I have a water bottle and at least one of them respects that.
When the cats are on vacation from destroying my beauty sleep, I have hermit crabs, who's claws sound like chalk on the plastic side of the tank as he's trying to burrow himself under the water dish. I'm not sure if any of you realize how slow and methodical crabs are when they are on a mission. Bumping the side of the tank only prolongs the process. As soon as you lie back down, the crab is emerging from his shell again, because he can.
A smoke alarm that goes off when I boil water. Prompting Big Kitty to stalk me and implore me in her desperate meowing that I do something to make it stop.
I have a sign on my forehead that states that I must not take my work seriously while in the office because my podmate, whom I adore, gets along with me so well that she loves talking to me. In a whisper. So no one else can hear and which also requires an advanced course in lip reading. If I am reading lips then you may as well clock me out for lunch because I'm not working either.
Being single. I have found that I'm pretty excellent at getting the garbage out on time, cleaning the litter box, guinea pig cages and watching Christmas movies on the Hallmark channel. My hands might feel a little like sandpaper at the moment but it's nothing a good dose of olive oil couldn't cure. I'm quite the catch right now. Don't blink, I may be snatched up as soon as I post this. There's probably a single carpenter needing a girl with sandpaper hands out there somewhere.
I said that I wouldn't eat mushrooms for loved ones. But in recognition of current events, I have changed my mind. I'd eat mushrooms every day if it would prevent anything like this from ever happening again. And would say "Amen" after gagging down each one.
In this glorious and giving holiday season, I realized that there is one list that I've never put together. The list of things that I will probably not do for a loved one. I know, you guys probably think about this all the time! Consider me a late bloomer.
*Go on amusement park rides. Nope. I've been asked before and I gave in a couple of times only to scream my hatred for the other person during and after the ride. Also calling on the "I will Never do that again" speech.
*Skydive. I am simply not interested. And scared that I'll pass out or have a heart attack before I can pull the chute cord. Or crap myself and have it kill someone on the ground at high velocity speed.
*Eat brains or any other "delicacy". I haven't eaten meat in 20 years so this kills any factory floor leftovers.
*Watch the Exorcist ever again. I'm still not past it. And hate that I wake up often around 3am and can clearly call up a scene that I've been trying to bury deep in the China of my soul since 1979.
*Accompany someone on a hunting trip. (If confused, see vegetarian hobby above).
*Pilot a plane. I have to face that I probably will be on another plane at some point in my life. Amongst other reasons why not, my attention span sucks.
*Willfully stand under one of those dripping pipes in the subway. Shiver. Although I saw it happen to my oldest daughter once. I actually saw a psychological scar form before my eyes. It was one of the funniest things that I ever saw.
*Stick my tongue to a school flagpole. Or anything in a school. That's like kissing hundreds of germy children.
*Allow my face to stay directly in front of one of the animal's faces while I'm sleeping. No other time will they sneeze than now.
*Ever again give up my holiday specials for one of the millions of sports out there....whether it be pro, college, hypothetical or claymation.
*"Enjoy" a heaping bowl of gorgonzola cheese
*Sit through Pink Floyd's "The Wall".
While I'm sure there are many other things I absolutely would not do, I think this will be a fine list to start.
There's been this fun idea just brewing in my mind for over a year. I put it in my Projects book. The book that I never open except to put in a new idea that I hope to eventually carry out and then would go play Farmville instead. But I found an accomplice in a former co-worker from 20 years ago. We used to be in an informal writing group together. And for the life of me I can really only remember one other person who was in the group with us even though I think there were about seven.
Free associate to a song. Listen to the music and write the scene, the story that comes to mind. Stephanie Meyer is said to have listened to Muse as she wrote Twilight. I nudged the idea toward Jeff. He was game. He collaborated on our loose rules and chose the first song.
I'll post what I came up with here. The song is here too, above. You can listen to it while reading or not, but the words below were pulled out of me directly by the music above.
Here is a link to Jeff's mind space for the same song. (FYI, he also wrote this hilarious comic...)
Now this here is two beers worth of material! Take care with it!
Introducing, Wye Oak - "Sprial." Swirling ripples flowing outward, I ponder if I will ever see the ropes clear a moment for me to jump into this double dutch tonight. A foggy haze - not a deafening, dominant, blinding fog, but a sheer fog with muscle - indistinctness moonlights as beer goggles...just enough to see all in this place as the perfect amount of sexy. We all strut like cougars, like big cats, shoulders pronounced and meaningful with each step all on display. Someone comes close to me, lightly touches my fingers and with a grasp so slight, I’m not sure they are even doing so (such as with a ouija board, are you pushing or am I imagining this ease of movement?). I am being lured onto the floor. Slow hip rocking, up ....down, sinking small ships carrying port, maybe packed in styrofoam maybe paper instead so that when wet, it breaks down as we all do …..emotions when wet are naked and vulnerable to any and all extremes you can think of - - but for now this ….even, innately measured movement, left hip up, right hip pushing, switch right hip sway up, left hip pushing, a pendulum of want, of ritual, of blessings to have the good experience of sensation. Doesn’t matter that this body in front of me is male or female... they chose me to spend this kinetic transference of love and time with the sparse moments of their own lives, for we wish it would last longer than it does... - and will this beckoning body before me remember me someday, remember this moment if it goes no further? Will they remember the quick snap of electricity that urgently whispered before lying down subservient to muteness immediately after our fingers first connected? Or is this the start to our lifelong dance? Are we going to face the glare of last call together, sweat drying, voices and words making everything awkwardly between the scenes? Will you, this new incomprehensible and enigmatic figure become more than a thief of a five minute tangle? Can we move in silent fluidity over lines that have been previously sloppily erased? Will we ever need to speak or will gazes serve, finding its emphatic enhancements when needed? Will I see you cross a street, your eyes momentarily flashing to extract all available oxygen for a second past Too Much? Closer, and your breath is 200 proof as the ship sinks, taking me under, logs, fish, pocket watches, coins, wedding rings, the lively colonies of a pier leg, submerged, full of life, full of undisciplined emotion. Pause. Yet there is still movement. Time hesitates and cranes its neck....for not even time knows what this ending is. It only keeps the beat, it can’t project the melody. Top hatted, bespectacled, sitting forward, I don’t envy any of it. Your deliberate and desirous infused exhalation touches my senses, ignites smoldering tiny fires, soon to join hands to become a circular undertow. And I won’t swim. I will drown before salvaging anything other than this current.
So long as the lights don’t dry us out, I give myself to this wet earth amongst rusty pocket watches. There are no other First Times to have.
Twas an event that graces my life but thrice a year. The library booksales. I need a moment whenever I think of that first moment that you walk into one, empty bags in hand. What book here can change my life? What book will I buy that changes someone else's? And finding the classics for half a dollar feels like I've robbed Deutsche Bank AND took the fishbowls of lollipops on my way out.
This is probably the baby sister of the other two book sales as it happens the weekend of the tree lighting ceremony. Last minute gifts, a bar down the road in case drunk, literate aspiring writers need to wander through. Or people like me that really are addicted to books, their covers, the cut of the pages, the type of paper used, the energy of an old, old book. My favorite is to obtain a book and find something personal of its former owner in it. Airline ticket stubs, grocery lists and just this weekend, a thank you card. I actually do leave things in books myself....usually leaves that I've picked up off the ground. Sometimes I'll write the year on the leaf.
If I get a book from the library, I may leave a little note somewhere in the pages, something complimentary or inspiring for the person who finds it. A happy surprise. Or maybe creepy if they think I'm an old man slipping notes in through their bedroom window when they put the book down to go get something from the kitchen.
So I tried to be frugal (ha! That's the whole point of a library booksale!) and for fourteen dollars, these were my finds:
Rachel Ray: Just in Time - These are 30 minute recipes. I love Rachel Ray. I want her life. Could give or take her husband choice. I snatched it up thinking I would have a lot in here to work with. Upon further consideration, this one, which looks brand new, will be going to my mother. It has an abundance of meat and fish recipes, of which I have no use for. Still, it's a great looking book and I hope mom & stepdad can use it.
Brooklyn: Robbins and Palitz - My mother is from Brooklyn originally. Ok, really Manhattan until age two, and then Brooklyn for the next 10 years. If she could put the borough of Brooklyn into a teddy bear, she'd hug it all night long. She loves all books Brooklyn and I usually get her one or two per year. However I've lost track of what books I've gotten her on it already. Recently I took a photo of the ones she already has. I had to ask where they were because they were not all sitting out on the shelf as normal people who are proud of their acquisitions may display them. My mother has sort of a scarcity complex and they were squirreled away in a bottom drawer, which she brought me to. I guess if the burglars come, they are not finding those books. From what I can see in the photos, she does not have this one. Intuition however, tells me that she does.
This was pre-Blue Zones. It's a page or two for each interviewed centenarian. A hard-cover, beautiful book. I of course need to know how I am going to preserve this body for another bunch of years because I have too many books to read.
Saving Dinner the Vegetarian Way: Leanne Ely - This is better than a consolation prize from my unfortunate lack of use for the Rachel Ray book. I have not taken a good enough look at it yet but it will go on the counter in my ever growing cookbook section.
The China Study: T. Colin Campbell, Ph.D - I have been meaning to read this for years. And it will probably take years until I get to it. But I hear it has intriguing information. If it tells me to drop the coffee and booze though, I'll have to tear those pages out and transfer them to the guinea pig cages.
Rasputin: Harold Shukman - To anyone who read this, you will know who this is going to. Whether we are talking or not.
Howard's End: E.M. Forster - This summer I read a 1950s copy of Room With a View. It was part of my quest to read those quirky little paperbacks that seemed old from other booksales. I loved it, looked up the author and made a note to myself to put Howard's End on my Netflix list. But not before reading the book itself. During checkout, one of the library sale volunteers said that she had no idea that book was there or else she would have bought it herself. What a good marketing trick. Now I can't wait to read it even more.
Bird by Bird - Anne Lamott - Something that Amazon.com keeps telling me that I must have. And so I do. Two of them. Because I hadn't realized that I'd already bought one at a different library book sale. Whoops. The perils of owning so many books. I will see if I can find a writer friend who may be interested in having the other copy. It's a book with those lovely chapters that last for a moment or two instead of being a dissertation. I love those.
The Book of Tea: Okakura Kakuzo - man, this one looks awesome. I had never heard of it, or I don't think so anyway. It came in this wonderfully cared for outer box and was originally published in 1956. This copy was I believe printed in 1994 but has an older feel to it.
There were a few more items.....Italian and Spanish language books for Humanling. She also wanted one of those Chicken (Tofu) soup books for the Teens Christmas Soul under a full moon with mismatching mittens sort of book. She likes those but recently got rid of a few of them. Now one has established it's presence back into the house.
Now that the beans are almost finished cooking, I must clear off an item from the weekend wish list and clean those piggie cages so that I can roll around in my books as my Humanling looks on, embarrassed
While working from home, I had the precious luck of a phone call from the school nurse within an hour after the child left for school. Sick kid. Please retrieve.
You wonder to yourself when these things happen, what am I in for today? Tell the blood pressure to stay normal...no biggie. And so it was.
However, as Humanling recouped from her morning of intestinal woes, which really weren't too bad at home, but would have been devastating to drag around school, she put on comfort TV. For me, comfort TV is the Food Network, Rachel Ray, old movies with old stars such as Fred Astaire, Joan Crawford, Claudette Colbert, Clark Gable, Marilyn Monroe, etc, Christmas specials, the Fashion channel, etc. These are things that keep my mind in a pleasant place, because when you're not feeling well, the last thing you need is excitement. I remember when I used to live with Flip, he'd inevitably put on loud ass movies with men who must have had magazines to hold 900 bullets and wanted to shoot them all out at once. There was always violence, loudness, bloody type shouting....whatever. I tried asking a few times nicely if it could be turned down since I had t go to sleep, but then he told me that I was trying to control him. Forget even saying "but I have to work tomorrow" because as he was jobless, I was told that thought that I was "better than" him. Sheesh. Exit Tangent.
So for Humanling, that Comfort mode would be something from her younger days. Dora the Explorer. Only worse, it was a Christmas special. And yes, I'm aware that Christmas Specials are on my own list. As she nodded off I left it on since even unconscious, the comfort vibe would still surround her. However, I was trying to work and was wracked by many a detail in this special.
First....kids cartoons these days have a lot of loud and high pitched voices. Is it that my ears are morphing and have obtained the super sensitivity of a wolf? Am I now a Get Off My Lawn elder? WTF with these? Were our cartoons infused with these ear piercing eunuchs too? Dora asks us who likes to swipe. Two fold answer - an adult doesn't *like* to swipe. If they are swiping it means they don't have enough to take care of the home needs and have to do a Community Borrow. Or....if they are employed, as in my situation, 1990 is calling us home to go back to this Big Brother tactic. Swiping, especially after years of not swiping, means the company is cutting costs down to the minute and is avoiding sliding into Corporate Armageddon. Dora is doing a disservice to minorities in this segment. Both as a female and as a Mexican. She states in a tone of helplessness that Swiper is knocking over the Christmas tree. Bitch, please. You are from Mexico. You have your choice of high powered guns in which 95% of them have been traced back to the US (good job, Swiper!). And yet you don't even have a squirt gun to stun that conniving SOB Fox from getting into the tree. If Dora was truly legit, you'd find a headless fox hanging from a remote cactus somewhere along the border. By the end of this mind sucker, Swiper is supposed to have stopped pilfering right in front of our faces as he always does, and has taken on altruism. Do the writers not realize how confusing this is going to be for kids when on the very next viewed episode of Dora the Explorer, he's back to his old felony tainted ways without so much as a validated response to the Christmas spirit that everyone saw him partake in? This is what happens when you leave me alone with this sort of stuff. My mind goes all Mystery Science Theater.
Yeah, that was a Chicago song reference (Just in case it took a hot air balloon over anyone). I am not a Chicago fan nor do I have that knee jerk reaction to changing the radio station when they come on, Note One, as I do with Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin or Pink. I recognize the first two bands as legendary! Groundbreaking! Barrier busting! Pink Floyd I could have always lived without....I am a pure hater since day one of their expression assaulting my ears. Everything they do feels like it's encased in some sort of membrane type ooze. I am certain that I can thank them from some variant band later on though.
Led Zeppelin, I've simply heard enough of. I remember pulling their LPs out of my mother's trunk of albums back in 1985 and realizing how awesome they were....and thinking how awesome it was that my mom listened to them. Or rather, I'd hoped she earned those generation gap closing points on her own and that someone didn't instead just leave them behind for her to inherit.
Pink. I don't think I have anything I can say to validate my GET IT OUT OF MY EARSPACE ways. There was one tough girl for me....and only one. Joan Jett. Pink, you're too late for me. I would marry Joan Jett if she asked me to. I don't dig the name, the hair, and can't figure out what exactly she is trying to be. She's like decaf Jett.
Now I had this conversation last night with a friend about how some authors say that they didn't know what they were going to write....it just fell out of them from everywhere basically, pulled out their alphabetical GPS's and led the way to a story ending. I think about that from time to time and realize that I fully never meant to write any of this this morning. Not where I was going at all!
I am very affectionate with Friday. And so, Friday, know my undying love for you. Here is my weekend wishlist:
*Be sure all stockings and Christmas decor is up (a last week leftover due to enthusiastic imbibing on Saturday)
*Clean those piggie cages earlier than later so that it's not hanging over my head like the poopy doom that it really is
*Lots of relaxing and coffee
*Try to the 3rd power to finish a book. I've been reading Dracula for 2 months now.
*Try to read through one magazine (my subscriptions are many)
*Write!
*Draw up the week's budget. And then matte and frame it.
*Go to Christmas festivities in town tonight
*Try not to cry about leaving my camera in a friend's car - especially while I see things that can't be duplicated due to weather, light, activity.
*Complete figuring out the Christmas list
*Chip down piles of unread newspapers. This one might as well be the reminder on my Outlook that I have hit snooze on for the last 98 weeks. You all know you've done that.
*Move further along into another Marc Allen chapter.
*Run hands all over my own books - because books make me happy.
*Do something about the abomination that is Humanling's room.
*Bottle of wine or a nice enjoying beer
*maybe even bourbon with a friend
*Watch (or at least just have on in the room) lots of Christmas specials! Even if the TV and I are engaging in parallel play.
*Hang out with my animals (including the two legged one)
*Hit the track if nice enough
That's all I've got for now. These are my weekend happies. And you?
I'm a fan of daily emails from *inspirational* coaches, sites, drawings or small pebbles. There is one that I receive that usually has about one small phrase in it. You know, to *think* about.
On days where I don't feel like having it apply to me, I delete it in a huff of "N/A!" Then some days, I think, WOW....she is totally spying on me! Sort of like horoscopes.
Today it reminded us to figure out what excites us. We're going to just by pass all those helpful titters and *suggestions* and move on.
I'll try to keep it under 20 items....
*that first sip of coffee
*having a drink with a friend
*the greeting when I get home from work from Humanling and my "terrible cats".
*finally settling in at night and sitting in bed with the blankets & the laptop or a book
*snow storms (but only while they are going on. Then they can leave. Like Napoleon Dynamite.)
*Christmas specials! (non Hallmark variety. Fooled you, huh. Well, those are a "comfort" as opposed to a tried and true marathon of A Christmas Story!)
*cupcakes with frosting that is 100% not gritty but instead Like Butta
*knowing that I am going to work from home the next day (that'd be tonight!)
*going to NYC for whatever reason
*sharing desert with another person
*feeling creative
*seeing an Amazon.com box with my name on it even if it is a present for someone else
*libraries
*bookstores
*travelling by train
*taking photos
*having a great conversation, whether old-fashioned and in person or via email
*seeing photos of my daughter, son in law and grandwolverine
*library booksales (sensing a trend?)
*seeing a new issue of Shamhbala Sun in the mailbox
*All the non political sections of the Sunday NY Times
Of course there are more but if I recall them all, I shan't sleep from all the excitement.
Unrelated to anything that I'm about to write, what never fails to make my brain carve out a happy path is Chris Christie on SNL, saying "I'm gonna die in this fleece!" Glad that's out of the way.
I went out on another bourbon spree with a friend last night because bourbon is the new coffee. Although "Spree" might be a strong word. Then again I guess it depends on how high you fill the glass. My company decided to test my strength of Right Speech by ordering multiple Bud Light beers. Poor thing does not drink the bourbon (obvious wuss) and at one point offered to get me a refill. What fun to say, "Two cubes please. Three if they must." and see the perplexity of expression as if to say, "are you joking or do I really order it that way?"
Oh ho Makers! You will not catch me wobbling on the Too Many bullseye this time! Having a slice of pizza while discussing where you can go dancing when over 40 and chugging a cup of 9pm coffee like it was Gatorade was much better on the second drive by than it was the other night. I done learned how to not wake up at 2am feeling the effects of becoming the Changling of Sobriety.
And as folks used to use the hard stuff to cure colds and ailments, it has also been a great giver of knowledge. The bourbon exposed to me who would be the Santa at our Christmas party next week. Because otherwise I would not have recognized my skinny ex boyfriend wearing the fake white beard. I also realized that I am a generous and happy drinker. I will offer to get you the Mona Lisa for your birthday. Not only that, but I'll tell you that she'll take you out to dinner first before seeking her position on a wall not facing the harsh afternoon sun.
There should be more people like me on the sauce in this world.
So we tried Bush's baked beans, bourbon and brown sugar flavor. Yes, really. I'd eat it again, however that must be because I don't mind the taste of bourbon with extract of new band-aid sprinkled in it. That's what it really tasted like to me. Perhaps just filling a glass with beans and throwing two cubes in it might suffice on nights where AA starts to resonate.
And now, my attention must divert back to the Hallmark channel. Some cozy, life's-not-really-like-that movie is on and I certainly don't want to miss it. After all, these Christmas movies just started at the end of October.
Note: I googled to see if I could find a photo of beans in a glass after I wrote this. All I can say is "Huh. Must be meant to be!"
It is a beautiful rainy night. The Grinch (Carrey flavored) is on. I've done more loads of dishes for only two people today than should be possible. I opened a beer about 20 minutes ago and finally took my first sip now. That was a lot of bourbon last night. And I learned quite a bit. Like when you see someone that wants to bear hug you and pick you up, don't allow them to try and neatly "sit" you back on a stool. Doesn't work, things fall over and people bite their tongues when they get startled from the noise.
Also, don't put off your chores before you go out for a bourbon date because no matter how early you left the house, they ain't getting done when you get back. One bourbon gives birth to three or four.
By this time, my friend had said a lot of things they have no receipt for, therefore cannot take it back. They were complimentary, wonderful things to hear. Unfortunately I really am not in that space with this particular person so when I woke up this morning I knew that I had to start thinking of how I will let it be known that while all is appreciated, this is not how I want to go forward. Being friends is cool. The vibe is just not there for me.
There was an older couple sitting at a table having dinner and drinks. The man looked to be in his late 60s, maybe early 70s. The woman about the same. She had long gray hair, nicely tended to. She is just another one of those women who show me that my aversion to ever going with the Time To Cut It age just doesn't exist. My mother went to the Older Mom haircut and frost in her early 30's. Then again, she was more prone to grays. I inherited my father's color and am just fine with so far not having to deal with gray hair. Someday it may happen though.
The older man never let go of his phone. It stayed in his left hand the entire time - he stared into the screen as he ate with his right hand. She did not do anything to distract herself from the moment. Eventually I went over to tell her how beautiful her hair was. She seemed delighted with the compliment, although I'm sure she must get them all the time. Still, it's good to never assume and just go with it if it is kind. I didn't go with the other speech I had in mind for her hubby regarding the superglue and phone accident.
Time for me to take care of some more Wishlist items before the night is done. Reading the cover story about Brad Pitt on this week's People isn't one of them but it might have to happen anyway.
Holy I Feel Dirty. And this is a far cry from those "Mom, I don't feel fresh" commercials of Things That Girls DON'T Ask Their Moms About.
More like foggy, yes, I am enjoying a fog in the head today. I tell myself "enjoying" so that the rest of me goes right along with the pack mentality of the nematoads on Spongebob. "Enjoying. Enjoying. Enjoying!"
I am impressed that I did indeed get a few things done on the Weekend Wishlist, despite my lack of motivation to move out of Bourbon Fields yesterday. We can check off "drink with a friend." That lasted for hours. Like seven of them. By the time I got home all I had energy for was to walk the child down to get a hot chocolate from a local restaurant and then we noshed in silence, having a slice of pizza from another downtown venue. And then I put Elf on and snooozzzee........
So I am wringing out today.
I've done two loads of dishes already this morning and yet the sink is full of them again. This phenomenon must be related to those birthday candles that you blow out and they stay lit. Google has already this morning soothed my mind. The water is coming out cloudy, then clearing up. Pretty normal, right? It doesn't usually happen here. And especially with cold water. I checked in with my Browser Boyfriend Google and he said that it is most likely an abundance of Calcium in the water. Which is precisely why months ago, I switched my male guinea pigs to bottled water. Too much calcium in their bodies will cause stones. Betcha didn't know that. Makes you want a goldfish now, huh?
Then I was told that I was googled yesterday. So I decided to try it myself. EW!!!! The MySpace account that I used to use is still there!!!! Nothing makes me feel so outdated and exposed for some reason as seeing this MySpace account. I know, most of us have done it....I shouldn't be so hard on myself. I also found a bunch of comments made under my name on various YouTube videos, compliments of my 13 year old daughter.
On a high note, I picked up short nails yesterday to hang the stockings. So we're getting somewhere. As for now, I think I'll attempt to blow out those trick candles in the sink and have a first date with that new Swiffer that I have. I'm dying to see if it adds hours to my day like the commercials say. Like Swiffer Savings Time. And it being a brisk 45 degrees today, the track might be calling me to some sort of penance for my long affair with bourbon yesterday.
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