Glen Frey feels the burn...

Greetings and salutations, people of Blog, and only my best
to each of you as this weighty old year crawls toward a
most-welcome finish. So long, 2005 - don't let the door
hit you in the ass...
Things around here are not too hideous, my sister has been released
from the hospital and the minimization has begun.
Everything is "fine" and she is "good" and the most important thing
to remember is that we all need to forget about this as soon as possible.
Given the ever-decreasing periods of time between hospitalizations,
I'd say I can safely cross her off my list of things to worry about
until...oh maybe April. After talking to her, I am pretty sure that she
plans to change nothing and so - nothing will change.
Which makes me terribly sad.
On a much lighter note, Christmas was quite festive.
My brother, my son, my daughter and her boyfriend were all here
by Christmas Eve, so Christmas morning was fun. We all got up and had
too much coffee and too much chocolate and watched each other
open presents. The rest of the day was friends and food and still
more chocolate - and then a lot of laying around.
A fine way to celebrate, if you ask me.
Speaking of celebration; pause if you will, and re-read the title
of today's blog and then - gimme a round of applause, because
I am the winner!!!
Following my unfortunate run-in with AssHat from BastardTown,
I did a little research, and found the address of WhereHouse Music
Headquarters. Then I wrote an e-mail, explaining what transpired
between me and the ponytail (and quoting extensively from Wherehouse
Music's own Corporate Code of Ethics), which I fired off to their Executive
Vice President, Treasurer & Chief Financial Officer.
Well - guess who called my house today?
None other than Glen Frey, the Eagle wanna-be,
the AssHat himself...on MY answering machine.
I have to hand it to him - he stayed true to himself. He said (in part),
"We recieved a corporate memo at our store regarding an unfortunate incident
- which I guess I was responsible for -and I would like to speak to you
and see what I can do to make you not not be a customer with us in the future..."
Uh - how about some grammer lessons, for starters?
What I want is for him to actually apologize - and admit that he
needs to pick up some customer service skills. And then, I want
a used CD comparable to the one I had to return. That's it.
Oh, and I want him to cut off his ponytail.
While I do my I'm right dance - on his face.
It feels good, this little vindication.
It feels very good indeed.

bs

people who drink to drown their sorrow should be told:

sorrow knows how to swim.

My oldest sister is back in the hospital -
it's pancreatitis this time around.
She has already been treated medically for
issues relating to her 40 year love-affair
with vodka...18 months ago she was rushed to the ER
in a coma because the ammonia level in her brain
was high enough to interfere with brain function.
Her feet were blue, her legs were like balloons
and she had bruises of varying shades all over her body.
She weighed 74 pounds and, at 63, looked like an 85
year old concentration camp survivor.
That time, we all converged from our hide-outs around
the country, and tried to offer what help and support
we could. But now - I have no idea what help to offer
someone who simply will NOT acknowledge that alcohol
is killing her. Her husband has already begun the usual
subterfuge - noone can talk to her, noone even knows
for sure where (or how) she is.
Sigh.
You gotta love the holidays.

fuck you Glen, you're gonna frey

The holiday breakdown express has officially
left the station and is hurtling through the
countryside at terrifying speed.
There is not enough time in this world
to do what I need to do and so,
I am writing instead.
I went to sleep at 3 a.m. last night - got up today
at 7:15 a.m. wishing I had been born with a thermos of
coffee for a hand so I could drink
mass java before even lifting my weary head
from the pillow.
But, things being what they are (and aren't) I hauled my
carcass down the stairs and woke up the old fashioned way -
one cup at a time.
I wrapped and cleaned and swept up the demon dog/cat hair that
falls endlessly from my animals...WHY are they not naked by now?
Then, I went off to help a friend get her house totally, positively
absolutely ready for that particular kind of guest who is fun and yet
makes you feel almost like you're breaking out in hives.
It was oddly soothing, being there in her house, dusting and fussing
and washing beautiful old glass while music played and her life went
on all around me. There was a calm purpose to working for her that is
absent when I do the same things at home - perhaps because my work here
is never done, while my work there stopped the moment I did.
I felt nearly blissful, and I tried to carry that with me as I headed off
to return a defective CD at SoundWhereHouse (known here, from now on as:
AssHat BastardTown). I bought my defective CD last week, as part of a
used-music buy 2,get one free promo - and since it was defective,
I wanted to replace it with some other, same-priced item. I spoke to
a clerk, went and perused the racks and came back with something I
thought would work. The clerk did her thing, and right then, I had
a moment of truth experience. The defective CD scanned at a much higher
price than I paid for it. The clerk said "19.95?" and all I had to do was
nod and: poof, I'm gone with a really great bargain.
But bliss was lazing through my system like cotton, like sugar,
and instead I found myself saying,"Oh no - I paid much less for that..."
And then, my party was over.
The manager had to be called, and he had to bring his something-stinks
face over and toss his Glen Frey ponytail around and make all sorts of
noises that eventually sounded like this: "The CD you returned was the
free one in your deal. You paid nothing for it, so you get nothing for it.
It's worthless - goodbye." He was so smug I could see his nasty, little
self dancing with glee behind his dismissive,got-my-wind-burn-at-Whistler
look. His tiny, Eagle-wanna-be eyes were saying, "Nah, nah ....fuck you,
you can suck my guarantee..."
I wanted to reach over the counter and rip his Eddie Bauer casual wear
right off his back and light it on fire.
But, I am afraid of confrontation.
My standard M.O. has always been to be nice while secretly seething, and
then head to the nearest bottle of wine for immediate extinguishment.
Since I have removed that option from my emotional control panel - I
have mostly tried to just avoid such situations - or I have moved
directly from secret seething to total shutdown.
However...not today.
Mr.AssHat BastardTown was my last straw. I leaned over the counter
and said "YOU need to watch how you speak to people."
He said "Oh, I'm so sorry." which was such bullshit even he had to
smirk. I said "No, I don't think you are." and I left.
I'm so disappointed that I couldn't think of something just
fantastic to say, somthing so keen and biting and witty that I got a
round of applause from the 742 people behind me in line.
And yet, I stood up for myself.
I had my own back - in front of other people...
and if that don't put the Christ in Xmas
then I don't know what will.

Peace on Earth bloggeroos
bs

A Freudian slip is when you say one thing but mean your mother.

I am nearly finished putting Christmas about the house - a good thing
since the big day is less than a week away. Finding and spreading holiday cheer
has been a struggle for me this year;less like making merry and more
like plowing 10 acres with my teeth.
This afternoon, I unearthed the most precious items - stored in a
paper box so old it's really more tape than paper. The ornaments inside
belonged mostly to my parents, many brought back from Germany after the war.
A few were my grandparents - those are losing their colors...
they are my ghosts of Christmas past.
The nightmare of painting the bathroom rages on - now the toilet is
leaking, necessitating 3 trips to the hardware store so far.
And last night,D.was cleaning microscopic dots of old paint off my
50's cut glass light fixture when it slipped from his hands and exploded.
One thing about old glass - when it breaks, it is an event!
I still do not understand why every teeny tiny speck of nearly
invisible paint just HAD to be scrubbed off - but I guess that problem
is solved now.
I should be wrapping some gifts, or cleaning up the the giant mess in
my house - but instead I am writing and staring out the window.
The green and the rain are beautiful and silent and fill me with something
almost like peace.

Sixty dollar head

I woke up this morning with a sixty dollar head.
Which isn't surprising, because I went to bed with one last night.
In fact, since 4:30 yesterday afternoon -
everywhere I go, I go in style -
with my sixty dollar head.
Why do I have one? How can you get one?
Allow me to fill you all in...

I have been in need of a decent haircut for quite some time.
But salons and the hair-people in them fill me with such fear and
loathing that I have managed to ignore the hay bale on my head
for many weeks now. However, the situation atop my shoulders had
recently reached critical mass (probably exacerbated by my emergency
use of the heat gun because my daughter stole my hairdryer....),
and I absolutely HAD to get something done.
There is a new shop in town: Sugardaddy's.
It looks pretty cool - big comfy couch, nice paint - tasteful,
yet edgy decor. And the salon master has tattoos and piercings,
yet he is sort of soft and kindly and big-brotherish.
So - off we go: me, my self and Idon'twannago.
Events transpire smoothly, he snips and chats and
I wonder why I ever thought this was so awful.
Maybe it was the time a boy put gum in my hair in 4th grade and
the janitor had to hold me down and cut it out? Or the time I slammed
my own hair in my locked car door and had to flag down a stranger to
help get me free? Or probably the day my mother took me to her beauty
parlor, and sat me and my waist-length hair down in a chair. Right before
she removed my glasses, I saw my mother make a scissory motion up near
her ears; the hairdressing ensued and ...when I put my glasses back on,
I looked like a pearl onion.

But - I digress.

Sugardaddy finished his work - and I had to admit, it was nice.
I followed him to the front desk, got out my wallet
and thought I heard him say, "That will be sixty dollars."
I'm sure he heard the clank of my jaw hitting the floor,
because he gestured toward this cunningly hidden pamphlet
that explained his fees (on page THREE), and said again,
softly, "Sixty dollars - a check will be fine."
I was stunned.
Mainly because that's an assload of coin for a 21 minute haircut -
but also because (according to the secret after-the-cut pamphlet)
women's cuts are $60 but men's are only $25 and I know I had
no more than a man's ration of hair on my head to begin with.
And yet, I opened my wallet without a word and I paid my money
without a word and I walked out of there like I'd just spent an hour
with a Kreskin the amazing - bender of spoons.
Oh, the terrible power of scissors mixed with mirrors;
it trumps everything - every time.
So if you see me walkin' down the street, give me a shout out...
You'll recognize me - I'm the woman with the sixty dollar head.

bling bling.
bs

nobody gets too much heaven...

oh bliss, bright sun
I love how you make light
of every leaf and stone.

Greetings, citizens of Blogtania...how goes the war?
I am off this morning to get Christmas tree.
Or should I say a winter tree? Holiday greens?
A festivus pole is starting to look more and more reasonable...
And now is the time for the airing of the grievances...
(sorry any non-Seinfelders - it's an old joke).

Good news out here in sticksville - I personally escorted an
exhausted, but intact vole out of my house and back into the wilds
from whence he came. I was relieved to KNOW he wasn't moldering
away inside one of my walls, or behind my bookcase...
Which brings to mind the saga of Corky, the head-injured duck.
When he was about 7, my son found a duck in a mud puddle just
off the freeway (pee-stop) and insisted we bring him home.
The poor duck had a visible wound on his head - but my son
was certain we could offer 'rehab' like his uncle was getting
at the time - and then Corky would get better and fly away.
Would you be able to say no?
So Corky came home with us, and rapidly moved toward
his inevitable appointment with death. Later that day, I went out
to the store, and when I returned - noone was home.
Except Corky, who was expired.
Thinking that my son did not know this - I took Corky, planning
to hide him and lie my ass off about miracles and recovery and
all that stuff we were pretty invested in back then.
I was lovingly shrouding him in paper towels when D. and our son pulled up in
the driveway. Panicking, I grabbed a mostly empty oatmeal box,
crammed Corky inside and shoved the whole business way back on
a high shelf above the basement door.
Then I ran outside and pretended to be weeding.
D. and our son were shocked - "Where's Corky?! Wow - if he
took off, it really IS a miracle....". To which I (of course) replied,
"I was thinking the same thing! I came home and he was gone."
A lengthy search ensued, and when Corky did not appear - he was lauded
and applauded and over time, elevated into the stuff that legends are made of.
The truth about Corky surfaced 2 weeks later, when walking into the
back hall became a nightmare of sicky-sweet stink. I looked everywhere
for the source of that smell and suddenly - I remembered...
Oh Corky.
How the mighty have fallen.
It was only then that my husband explained that how he and my son
had been with Corky in his final moments - leaving because they
needed wood to make a coffin. "I was blown away that such a dead duck
could get up and be gone." D. said, "But he was, so I just believed that he did."
And in the silence that followed, there was a moment of such sweet awe
it almost didn't matter that we were celebrating a miracle
that never really happened.

Seasons greetings.
bs

losers on wheels

I went Christmas shopping tonight - it was a little eerie how quiet all the stores were.
Maybe rain and Monday mixed together and kept all the peoples at home?
My friend J. and I had a hard time finding any of the things we were looking for.
It seemed as if, everywhere we went, the answer was either "not any more" or
"haven't seen/made/sold that item in years..." We were like throw-backs,
Cro-Magnon shoppers all befuddled and confused in the middle of Mallamerica.
We went into Victoria's Secret looking for something special for our daughters,
but were a bit daunted by the multi-million dollar crack-floss... I had never
been in there before and the cost of lovely unders floored me.
Then J. got her ears pierced at a little kiosk by a 12 year old and some guy
who had huge diamonds in his ears, and a lot of major bling on his fingers.
When I asked him if his diamond earrings were real, he said,
"Well - I AM an entertainer....I rap" which I guess means yes?
I was pretty overwhelmed by the much-ness of everything...
I need to get out more.

This day was also filled with unexpected gifts: some new music,
a great letter in the mail (an actual paper letter!!), and a spur
of the moment visit from ArtMom, who showed up with a bag full
of the most marvelous beaded art. I was agog. We schmoozed and
had coffee and cigarettes and traded work for work - the whole
experience was utter wish fulfillment.
Another day sans doomliness...look out people, I'm gonna dance now.
Or maybe, just think about it.

Stercus es Microtus agrestris!

Translation: "Shit, there's a vole in my house!
Our cat brought some outside in - and now it is somewhere in my living room.
I took part in an exhaustive round-up effort, armed with a stick and a towel
(for herding and capturing respectively), but the dog was too much help
and I think the little thing is either in shock under the piano - or...who knows?
I had a weird dream last night, part of which involved finding myself
accidentally attending some kind of retreat or camp out. In the dream,
I had memories of this happening before and I was looking for blankets
and shoes because I was again cold and unprepared.
All of which put me in mind of the time my mother took me into town
and dropped me off at our little local college gymnasium and said,
as I got out of the car, "Have fun, I'll see you on Sunday morning...
oh - here's your bag." When she handed me the suitcase I didn't pack,
I finally realized I wasn't going to some vaguely defined girl+ scouts+crafts thing
- but a real life weekend-long event. In a gym filled with girls I didn't know.
I think that is a weird thing to do to an 11 year old - or to any year old, really.
Saturday night I had a birthday party for my friend C. - who turned 54.
15 women came to my house and we all sat around and made hats.
It was very loud and made a huge mess - but it was actually very fun -
and made me think about how I might steer that sort of gathering toward
creating things for women in need....along the lines of sewing circles and
quilting bees back in the day. Because alcohol is no longer part of my party equation
- I really love having SOMETHING to do with myself besides wander about
obsessing about not obsessing about drink. And - what's not to love about fabric
and feathers and vintage buttons and gems and all the other frou frou
that we tossed all over my house for the 4 hours we worked?
Hold the phones, bloggerees - I believe I had a good time -
and am actually posting something positive for a freaking change of pace.
But fear not, as I tend to keep at least one of my feet on the dark side at all times.

Balance.
Defense.
Habit.

Goodbye Richard Pryor, you crazy burning star, you master of dark comedy, you.
Farewell Eugene McCarthy, you poetry reading, anti-war mongering gentleman, you.

I am off to finsih painting my bathroom -
"Concrete Paws" and "Jute" --
green-grey and creamed brown for those of us who
don't work in the nuthouse where colors are named.

TV viewing this weekend: Paradise Lost: the Robin Hood Hills Murders -
Finally out on DVD, this documentary is a SCARY look at small-town,
southern American 'justice'.

this is the fear, this is the dread

These are the contents of my head...

Something has happened to my self.
And now, everything is strange.

It's unsettling, this displacement sensation -
where did everything go?
My reliable mind: vamanos muchacho.
My delight in the everyday: extinct.
I feel like a changeling, like my chest is stuffed with leaves,
and there's no room left for me, or for words, or art, or breath.
and yet -
and still -
sometimes there is such longing.

Change.
The deadliest occupation on earth.

In other news:
Today I made some Christmas cookies and it was as if I'd never cooked before in my life.
I forgot to preheat the oven, and when I did - I set it at the wrong temperature.
I neglected to properly grease my pan, and left the baking soda out of my first batch of gingersnaps. When I was boiling the goo for pralines, some volcanic bubbles
blurped out of the pan and blistered my wrist in three places. I got my potholders wet
while administering cold water to those burns - which I discovered only upon using them
to take a stainless steel pan out of the oven (though I regretted it immediately).
By the time I was finished, it was difficult to tell if anything even tasted good.
But, it's good to remember that if there's enough sugar in it,
somebody will almost always eat it.
And speaking of eating it; D. finished putting a skim-coat of mud on
the bathroom wall last night, and there is sheetrock dust EVERYWHERE.
I brushed my teeth this morning and.....bleeeech.
Somehow, I will be having a party here Saturday night -
which, if I don't morph out of this pupae stage, could be ugly.


On the pathetic t.v. front: Invasion won't return until January...
which reminds me; where are the Sopranos??

Time to vacuum.


oh -
P.S. Dear Victoria's Secret Christmas show: Fuck off.

It's a bird, it's a plane...it's less-than-super woman...

And now a flashback for all you old Stevie Smith fans, who feel that they too are not waving, but drowning...

...There is no pain, you are receding.
A distant ship’s smoke on the horizon.
You are only coming through in waves.
Your lips move but I can’t hear what you’re sayin’.
When I was a child, I caught a fleeting glimpse,
Out of the corner of my eye.
I turned to look but it was gone.
I cannot put my finger on it now.
The child is grown, the dream is gone.

I have become comfortably numb.

Hello all you creatures from the blog lagoon. If it seems as if I have been away for a while -
well, I have. Directly after Thanksgiving, some sort of portal opened up
and I was sucked into a fresh hell that I only just began to climb out of.
I won't bore you with the details (quoting Pink Floyd ought to be enough),
but I plan to eat my weight in Vitamin B between now and Christmas in an
effort to avoid a repeat vapor lock.
Usually I adore the winter holidays - they are made up of all the best things: food,
glitter, shiny paper, lights, presents... Yet, I suppose they are also made of some
other things: family, memory, expectations and other messy ingredients that can
really get in the way of having a good time.
While I was off with my head in the oven, life continued on...
Pat Morita died - crushing any hope of one more Karate Kid movie.
But take heart, because Al Sharpton has unveiled plans to star in his own sitcom...
you guessed it:"Al in the Family". I can hardly wait.
And speaking of bad t.v. - it seems as though the sherrif on
Invasion might finally be exposed as the water-breathing freak from another
planet that he has secretly been all along. I'm embarassed because I am actually,
truly into that show.
I did manage to go out into the great unwashed world and see Walk the Line,
which I really liked. Actually, that is a lie.
What I really liked was Joaquin Phoenix.
I believe I would crawl 1000 miles over burning glass
just to be near his smoldering fabulousness...
but that's another story entirely.
I have to get up early tomorrow - so I am going to try and get some sleep.
I have graduated from 3.7 hours a night to almost 5 - and am hoping the
improvement continues.

Tomorrow, I will make some buttermilk pralines and perhaps,
some fudge...which I think is an unattractive name for something so
delicious.

jagged little pillow

insomnia.
relentless self-evaluation.
dissatisfaction.
insomnia.
foggy outside, foggy inside.

Like sand through the hourglass

9:30 a.m. - Turkey in the oven. Other stuff underway.

10: 15 a.m. -- While rushing through the kitchen carrying some vintage china plates, I step on the metal hose part of the vacuum, which is
lying on the tile floor. The hose begins to skid across the tiles, and I cannot shift my weight to step off - or use my arms to regain my balance.
I learn right then that a rounded metal tube can move on tile like butter moves on a red-hot griddle; which is the last coherent thought I have before unwillingly doing the splits like an Olympic gymnast.
10:16 -- Pain.

10:40 a.m. -- I discover that those squeezy plastic bulb things on turkey basters don't last forever. I don't want to serve my guests a big pile of boot leather shaped like a turkey, so I look around for some other thing to baste with...and find absolutely nothing. I briefly consider using some plastic tubing to siphon the juices into a bowl - until my son reminds me that a mouthful of superheated grease could put a damper on our day.
After several plans fail (all ending with me getting sprayed or spattered with hot fat), I empty out a mustard squeeze bottle, and juicy tenderness is again on the menu.
10:53 a.m. -- Pain.

12:37 p.m. -- Some friends unexpectedly drop by to say hello.
I am wearing the following: Shrunken, pickle-green pants made
of long underwear material. A short-sleeved, salmon colored
zip up shirt made of corduroy. Black leather shoes with no socks.
My glasses, circa 1988. Yesterdays' hair.
12:38 p.m. -- Pain.

3:18 p.m. -- I pour baby peas into my favorite blue bowl, take
them to the table, and another Thanksgiving begins.
The turkey is bliss, the gravy divine, and my once-a-year jello
doesn't slip off its plate to land in anyones lap.
There is silence for a moment and I am fed, looking at
these people I love.

1:29 a.m. -- My brother is finally asleep upstairs; an hour and
a half after he first went to bed. First he lost his toothpaste, and
then he lost his cane. He lost his balance in the bathroom at a critical
moment, but D. scored some bonus points by mopping up the pee.
He brushed his teeth for 15 minutes, then he actually got undressed,
but before he even hit the bed...it was back to the bathroom again.
I was ready to kill him, I was planning to kill him - but he crawled
under the covers right before I went for the axe.
Lying there, he looked up at me and for a minute I could see the boy
he was so long ago....
I miss my parents.
I feel the weight of his condition more and more as time goes by.
I worry.
I feel guilty.
Pain.

Lucky is my middle name

I woke up late this morning, from a dream about an annoying next door neighbor who would not stop using his remote-control chain-saw right outside the bedroom window I do not currently have in real life. I hate alarm clock dreams - they make for agitated re-entry into the waking life.
I was late leaving for work, so I indulged in a bit of extreme speeding on the back road to my job. I was the only car around, and had hit about about 57.5 mph (in a 35 mph zone) when I saw a car with a roof-top luggage rack pulled off on the wrong side of the road. I slowed down a bit, and had time to think, "I wonder wha...." when I realized THAT was no luggage rack. I actually threw my hands up like somebody about to get shot and.... nothing happened. No lights came on, no hand waved; NOTHING.
I was so stunned I don't remember driving the next few miles to my job (that's not true - I turned a corner just after I passed the cop, and did 65 with one eye on my rearview mirror so I could pull into my workplace before I was busted). However, it is totally true that there's a message there about counting one's blessings, so - since I spent last night complaining, whining and moping - today I will take notice when good fortune cuts me a massive break.
The sun is out, the fog has lifted and I will not be paying a $275 speeding ticket. Hey - hit me with some giblets - it's time to celebrate.
In other news, my cat has won the battle of the tomatoes yet again - and I am beginning to think about ripping his little fur-filled head off. If I bring a tomato into the house, he will hunt it down and eat it. I have hidden tomatoes on top of the fridge, in drawers, and under bowls on the counter. This time, I had them in a plastic bag, inside of a paper bag, under the cupboard with some other Thanksgiving stuff. While I was at work, he discovered them, and now I have a handful of pulpy, mutilated tissue to toss in my salad tomorrow.
Mmmm - do you want Italian or Bleu cheese with your remains?
Okay, okay - time to get on with it
Pathetic T.V. - I did watch a little last night - The American Music Awards kept me
company while I tore up bread for dressing. Between Mariah Carey's exploding breasts
and Lindsay Lohan's size 14 shoes, it was quite distracting. Annie Lennox was fabulous -
and sadly the only political moment of the entire night.
Oh shit.
Oh shit city.
Son of a son of a mother#&^*+$# +*&%$ @!!!!!
I hid my carefully torn bread in the oven last night so the cat could not get into it - and
did not think once about it when I turned the oven on to preheat an hour ago...I kept smelling something like overdone toast.... Oh well; change one little letter and luck becomes something else entirely....
And so, the fun begins.

Thanksgiving pre-ramble

It is late and I am tired, and should be in bed.
But fear and loathing are keeping me more than wide awake, yet
somehow delightfully unable to complete even one of the 254 duties
on my Thanksgiving roster.
My brother will ome over early Thursday morning - D. will go pick him up,
thus acquiring another Saints-of-the-Modern-World merit badge.
I will be cooking.
Turkey, dressing, peas in butter sauce, my mom's black cherry/raspberry jello,
garlic-mashed potatoes and possibly the best gravy ever made on Earth. Pumpkin pie, raspberry-apple pie, and the obligatory puffy white rolls. All of which is basically
prep for the real Thanksgiving, which comes the next day when we have leftover
mashed potatoes and gravy for breakfast and heavenly turkey sandwhiches for dinner.
And then lay around, watching ice skating so we can be cruel and critical, or
Spanish T.V. so we can make up our own dialogue.
When I could still have wine while I worked, I was really dedicated to creating
THE most beautifully inviting table and THE most classic holiday ambience;
I worked my ass off to achieve perfect... perfectness.
I could - and would - work slavishly for days on end, multi-tasking like Martha.
Now, I suppose I am like a regular person - or maybe a slightly irregular one.
I am resistant to over-doing, and have left many jobs to the most horrifyingly last minute.
I have pared down my usual menu, given up on making THE indelible
holiday memory, and basically decided to do what I can (and want to) do.
Even the idea of perfection makes me tired...
I hope good is good enough.
However, the ghosts of perfection must be persistent, because here I am,
still up at 1 a.m. - stunned by all I have not done.
Tomorrow I WILL vacuum up the dog-hair tumbleweeds and dust off the major flat
areas around the house. I will. I will.
Won't I?

My own private Iowa

In the news this morning:
"Dangerous inmates escape from an Iowa prison - scaling a 50' wall
with a 'rope' made of upholstery webbing to make their getaway in a
waiting gold Pontiac Bonneville." And as the holiday season turns
one last corner and begins to bear down upon me; I can relate...
I used to look forward to Thanksgiving - it was my favorite celebration.
For almost 20 years our house was the place to come for fabulous turkey with
all the accessories, and we usually had between 10 and 25 people at the table.
Now I would almost rather stuff and roast my own larynx than think about busting
out my baster and making turkey for 5 people.
How did it come to this? What is the matter with me?
Well.... for starters, there is the Village of the Damned syndrome that occurs whenever my brother comes to stay with us (which includes, but is not limited to: urinal spilling,
dog whacking, cat baiting, cane pounding, 3 a.m. NPR blaring, accidental full body
stairway surfing, pot-induced speechifying, arguing, and the biggest platter of guilt,
grief and agitation ever served at any holiday since last Thanksgiving). Then, there is
the grown and gone effect - featuring the son who lives in Spokane and cannot get over
to this side of Snoqualmie Pass and the daughter who works and cannot get over to this
side of the theatrical release of the new Harry Potter.
And of course, I can't forget that pesky little no-alcohol rule I made for myself a few
years ago; now it's merely cooking - no more Teatro Butterball for me.
I guess I better start practicing some powerful positive thinking or I won't make it
through the rigors of the season alive.
Or - start weaving that upholstery webbing...

Sad T.V. - Ooooh - Invasion was scienceficsational last night.

He's VERY gentle with the needle

.... and with prices like that, he better be.

I'm referring, of course, to my man in white, The King of Pain,
Dr. Whoyagottacall; my freaking endodontist.
After enduring terrible pain for over 7 months, I finally had to throw in the towel
(and most of my other household goods) and get a root canal Thursday.
Aside from the horror of having strange hands in my mouth, and the agony of
10 shots of novacaine, the whole ordeal wasn't too bad. And, I am now tooth-pain
free, which is absolutely marvelous.
I had no idea how much I'd been suffering until it was over.
My face is puffy and I spent the whole next day overhung from Citizen novaCaine...
but I am now ready for my crown - and that much closer to being royalty.
He was very gentle with that needle, even after I pointed out to him that the word
DON'T is right there in his title.

And ennui go...

The last disheartening 24 hours have been mostly about arguing with my brother.
Because of his brain injury, he cannot always help being a lit match - and I, in spite of knowing better, cannot seem to stop being an endless, high octane gas leak. And so we go, around and around, in a ridiculous contest of wills that never changes and rarely ends well.
Conflagrations - you may already be a winner!
I am thinking now, as I often do, of how overwhelming and confusing living is - and how fragile and poorly equipped we all are for the job. To live well, it seems one must always strive to do what is healthy and right and safe and fulfilling - and how does anyone succeed at that? It's like becoming your own IRS agent and auditing yourself, or judging your entry in your own art show. "Woah, this is an ugly piece of work but you know, it is MY show..."
Hmmm, that sounds a bit bumperstickery, though not quite as lame as IF FARTING WAS AN ART I'D BE PICASSO, which I actually saw today.
Okay - time for sleep, and then further exhibiting - because it is, you know,
my show.

Pathetic tv - Invasion. Ya gotta love it.
Recent reading matter: The Adversary by Emmanuel Carrere
(If you've ever known a master liar - this is the book for you.)

Perfect.
'Mildred Pierce' is on the television.
James M. Cain - he falls like rain inside my head.

Autumn is fading and the trees are mostly naked; they stand around in groups
stunned by the arrival of colder weather. I miss the extravagant finery they still wore
last week and applaud the stubborn few still hanging on to their gold and their crimson.
These briefer, darker days agitate me. Somehow, navigating inside an ever shrinking pool of sunlight creates ambivalent compulsions: do more/be less, do less/be more, get busy/plant your ass, wake up/sleep like the dead...
connect.
disconnect.

It's official: Bitter Moody Cashier Guy at Albertsons has no more patience with me.
I have no idea what wounded that particular camel - but its' back broke right in half
on Halloween when I said, "Hey, let me guess: Junior High School P.E. Teacher"....
How was I supposed to know he wasn't wearing a costume?
In other news, Oprah has finally actualized herself completely beyond of my realm of acceptance, and into the seething outer rings of my antipathy (where she joins other notables that currently include: Paris Hilton, Jennifer Anniston, Nancy Grace, Sheryl Crow, my older sister, and Mel Gibson's giant beard).
In truth, Oprah is barking right outside my morgue of aversion, where - if things don't improve with her soon - she'll enter to cool her heels with Tom DeLay, George Bush, Melanie Griffith and a few other hair farmers I know.
I know....I feel you... you are wondering "Why all the hatin' on O, brown shoes? And who, might we ask, DO you like?"
Well, the O situation has been building for years, but recently it has reached critical mass. Symptoms? Celebrity fever. Designer fever. Richest woman on earth fever.
Her Maya Angelouges and....
Tom Cruise.
Need I say more?
And as for love - well - there are many to crush on like crazy these days.
Jack Lemmon. Jerry Orbach (and yes, I'm aware they are dead).
Steve Almond, author of Candyfreak. Palmer Candy Company, architect of Junior Mints.
My son, who finagled me a pair of prosthetic feet. Vincent D'Onofrio. The manager of my
bank branch, who actually did what she said she'd do.
Baby Theodore, who is the newest person I know. Carol Burnett.
But, I digress.
The crucial point here is that BMC guy does not like me - and now I will be forced to use the
U-SCAN thing when he's the only living cashier available.
Which I suppose is karma for spending the last half hour blazing this little judgment trail
through cyberspace.
Guilty T.V. - Real Exorcisms. Real Hauntings. Real Psychics......
what have I become?

Tangents

Wednesday.
About the photo:
I had to put fuel in the auto, and prices are still quite high.


I was very out of sorts today - no idea why. Maybe it was the incredible headache I woke up with - like somebody in dreamland slapped a cast iron fez on me so that I went about all day with a burning ring of pain right on top of my head.
Which, as many of us know, can only lead to one thing: the crushing fear of undetected, but deadly tumors...which perhaps sucked all the energy out of my day, leaving me cranky and ill-prepared to do my job. And not being able to do my job possibly led to hating portions of said job in a way I usually never do...which led to having to stay at work 2.5 hours longer than I normally do.
All of which put me back at home too late to call the bank and transfer money to my brother, which made me feel guilty - and since everybody knows that guilt is the harbormaster of little minds (or something like that) I was made small and mean in my guilt...which left me completely out of sorts. And all of this was just the first portion of my day.
I left out the part of my day where I watched James Frey (A Million Little Pieces) on Oprah, and how that made me think about recovery and treatment and sorrow (and a little bit about how good it would be to turn a history of suffering into #1 on the NY Times Best Seller list),
and the part of my day where I thought my daughter called to tell me she loves me, but she really called to find out where our dentist's office is...and I definitely left out the part where I watched part of "Pollack" for probably the 8th time because his searing miserableness so speaks to me....
So now I return to dreamland, where perhaps I can drop off my headache, which would really take the edge off those tumors and - as you might well imagine - make tomorrow a better day.

The Aftermath

Guilty t.v. viewing tonight: "Taboo: Crime Scene" on the National Geography channel.
Utterly fascinating.
Death, I think, is on my mind tonight. Today my daughter told me that a young guy she vaguely
knew hung himself over the weekend. And that a girl (who was once a fairly close friend of hers) slit her wrists twice on Sunday night.
They make me unbearable sad often, some of the kids she has brought around. They seem so old for such young people, and so weary already of the world.
And, I guess I am also rather hungover - sucking up waaaay too much hurricane/bombing/woman throws kids off pier news ....
And, for dessert: a mighty confection made of presidential corruption/arrogance/sleezeandgreed, iced with goodoldboy contempt and heedless opportunism.
Not that I want to stick my head in the sand - but my god.
I think I need to go on a diet.

Probation

Monday:
Awake for some ungodly reason at 5:30 a.m.
NO COFFEE.
Late to work due to eerie fog everywhere I tried to drive.
Recieved numerous phone calls reminding me to drink 32 ounces of water at 10:15 a.m.
Drank 32 ounces of water at 10:17 a.m.

Held it.
Held it.

Went in for a pelvic ultrasound at 11:15 a.m.
(still holding)
The ultrasound tech was 14 ... okay, 17.
She was very blonde and business-like - I felt like I was in the original version of Solaris; lots of white surfaces and language I couldn't really understand.
Except for this: "Ooookay, slight pressure as I introduce the probe."

I have never cared for the word 'probe', and nothing that happened next
made me change my mind.

The hair apparent

Friday at last.
I finally forced myself to go get a haircut, which I have been needing for quite some time.
This salon was all about product - how some people named Ken and Rachael have invented a new kind of water that beads up and"silkenates" each individual hair. Please - take a look at me! Do I look like I give a flaming shit about silkenizing?
As I had promised myself I would before going in, I tried to state my few hair needs clearly and concisely. Right before my hair cutting lady began to snip I said, "Please do not give me bangs."
"Ooooh, no need to panic," she answered, and then her scissors made bangs from one side of my head to the other. At this point, I experienced the haunting phenomenon I always experience in beauty parlours - I became as paralyzed as if I'd been shot with a tranquilizer gun (and oh, how I wish I had been). Immobilized, I just sat there, seeing myself see myself in all my miserable, bang-getting misery while Hair Lady snipped happily away.
In the end, I looked pretty much like I usually do, except for the curtain of hay across my forehead. Hair Lady turned me around a few times, gave me a chuckle of affirmation and then sprayed me with a cannister of liquid Satan that smelled like vitamins and fruit... silkenizer no doubt...and I was done.

Sad television confession of the day: 3 minutes of Star Jones on The View. I turned it on accidentally while looking for the news, and it took me all 3 minutes to realize I who I was looking at. Star has lost a lot of weight, and somehow gained a lot of eye; it's a predatory
look I found extremely unsettling.

Mystery Bus

Something is going on with the guy down the road from us.
Late night lights, tarps and partial vehicles everywhere, and today; the return of the mystery bus. The same bus was there two weeks ago, and just when I was ready to start my own private investigation, it disappeared...only to show up again this afternoon.
It's old school yellow, with grimy looking clothes and debris hanging out some of the windows. A ton of other stuff was spilling out of the open rear door, but some unknown guy was jumping around next to the bus when I drove by (think Deliverance), so I could only take a quick look.
A while ago, we saw a truck on our road, heading up beyond us toward an open piece of property where people often go and dump their trash. D.(amazingly) got in our car and went up there only to find down-the-road guy just sitting up there in his truck. D. asked him what was going on and DTR guy said, "I needed to eat a sandwich".
Well, that's why we live in the outback - so we can meet our sandwich needs any damn way we please, right?
Ugly television confession for today - okay...I admit it...so far, the aliens of Invasion look a lot like a bunch of guys with flashlights swimming in non-menacing circles in my bathtub - but I am still watching it. Ssshhhhh....don't tell anyone.
And finally, on a positive note, I went to Yang's Botanical Gardens today.
They have quite a few unusual evergreens, a variety of palms, and 5 or 6 Angel's Trumpets that were just huge. But I went there to see the maple trees, and I was not disappointed.
A little valley filled with bloody reds, scandalous salmons, and insanely brilliant
golds and bronzes...it was spectacular! and all just a mile or ish from my house.
Sigh - I am lucky.
Off.