Recap. Partial.

I was going to do a recap of 2008, after being inspired by my friend Tyge's blog, but decided I should wait until 2009, So, instead I'm going to recap this day. I woke up at 8:11 am. I'll tell you, 8:00 am used to be EARLY for me, but now it's sleeping in. That's what happens when you grow up. I can remember the days of staying up until 5am and sleeping until 3 in the flipping afternoon. Okay, that was 20 years ago. But I do vaguely remember it. So, up by 8:15, check e-mails, read the paper, have coffee (Starbucks of course). I've been sick with a miserable cold the last 5 weeks (when I get a cold it just lingers FOREVER) and I've been taking Muscinex D and using my beloved netti pot. Basically, you fill this little mini ceramic watering can with warm salt water and lean over the sink and put the spout up your nose and tilt your head and the water RUNS THROUGH YOUR SINUSES AND OUT THE OTHER NOSTRIL. Yes, it's true. I like to do it when my son has friends over. Is that too much information? Anyhoo. it works. The first time I used it I thought I was going to drown. Moving on. Then, I got dressed in my UNIFORM and went to work at Starbucks. The ski resort is open here (btw, we got 3 feet of snow over the last two weeks) and people were flocking in to get a grande triple half caf 2 pump hazelnut 3 pump vanilla non fat soy latte. Really. I love my job but I get very confused. Then, after work, home. Changed clothes, got Jay, went to the post office, the bank, the shoe store (I got the most awesome boots for Christmas, and I'm not really a shoe girl so I needed someone to tell me what to do to keep them nice). Came home, got mail (still getting Christmas cards, still getting bills), unloaded dishwasher. Jay, B and I met some friends of mine for Mexican food. I really like being with a man I feel good about introducing to my friends. Sounds simple. Hasn't always worked. Came home, played Apples to Apples (I LOVE this game. Thanks Suzy), got Jay in bed, checked blogs (that's where I am now). My yearly recap will be 365 times this long. KIDDING.

Popcorn?

Watched "it's a Wonderful Life" last night. Great movie. Jay watched it for the first time. Went like this.....

Movie starts - Jay sitting at computer in kitchen, Come on! I say. It's starting. Strange ten year old boy noise coming from kitchen. Big sigh. Okay he says. Drags feet into living room Plops on couch. Pissed.

First fifteen minutes of movie - Fidgeting, Irritation. Visible longing glances at computer. More strange sighs and low grunting.

Thirty minutes in - Clarence appears. Zuzu. Jay's eyes stay on television. No more longing computer looks. Laughter. Interest.

Rest of movie - Focused. More laughter. Intent during the serious parts. Yay!

End of movie - That was good he says.

Today he said it again...That movie last night was really good. I want him to GET some things. Certain movies, some people, the concepts of compassion and honesty. Yeah, I know he's only ten. But he watched the whole movie and he liked it. Made my heart feel good. Great movie.

Catching up

Where does the time go?! I have a few things....

We're having a Holiday Art Sale and Open House! Lots of wonderful pottery, made by B (would you look at that gravy boat!?), and a few pieces of painted furniture, made by me. Plus, signed copies of my book and mulled wine and hot cider. See, I have been working! Aside from Starbucks I mean. I think I'm working harder now that I have since I owned the wine store. I work at Starbucks during the day, come home or teach my class, help Jay with homework, make dinner, and then paint furniture or write poems. E-mail me for directions if you're local and want the time, day and address.


And another thing....

I used to have a mini van. I was really proud of my mini van. It was roomy and fun and got good gas mileage. But, people made fun of the mini van. In a very general way, people make fun of mini vans. It's not "cool" to drive a mini van. It's like a frumpy car, the mini van. Well, I loved my mini van and I was still cool when I drove it. So there. Now, I'm running into the same type of stigma associated with the "Christmas letter." Yes, I write a Christmas letter. I do not expound on how wonderful my life is or how my son is a straight A student. I just catch people up. I send out 75 Christmas cards because I like to. Some are to friends of my parents who I've taken on the role of letter writer to (Yeah, an English teacher just wrote that sentence). I also have a dozen folks I only correspond with at Christmas...people I've known for a few decades and enjoy hearing from. If I had to write each person a letter saying the SAME FLIPPING THING, I'd be a wreck. So, I type up a good letter, make copies, and send them off, with a sentence or two of personal stuff. Am I being overly sensitive here? Anyway, I LOVE the Christmas letter. Here's an excerpt. And I include it because of Jay...

"Jay is ten now. He is playing lacrosse, learning the cello, and reading The Hardy Boys mystery books. Jay was elected class rep in his fifth grade class and is getting his first real taste of politics, and he’s still playing basketball on a regular basis. We have our share of arguments over homework, and exchanges about how many snacks are permissible in a single day, but he is a good boy and we have so much fun together. We spent several weeks in Kansas this summer, taking the train once, and driving while hauling a U-haul the other time. Blah blah blah"

It doesn't really say blah blah blah, I was just done with the excerpt. Now, this year, Jay read a copy of the letter before I sent it out. He REALLY got upset. I couldn't figure it out. Finally, he said, through tears, "take out that part about the arguing." Well, I didn't. It's MY letter. But I thought it was interesting how he wanted that part out of there. Boy, is he going to be mortified someday when he gets old enough to find my blog :)

And a final thing....

December 8th was the one year anniversary of my mom's death. It was an okay day really. I went back and read what was happening a year ago and I realized how relieved I felt when she finally went. How sad and alone I felt, but how much I wanted her to not be suffering anymore. I still think about her every day. I wish I dreamed about her more. Her death made me want to believe in that Sunday School kind of Heaven. The one where you meet all the people you loved again, looking the same as ever, all healed and complete. What a beautiful thought. I also have watched a few videos of her...from ten years ago when she was well and still vital. The mom I would see in that Sunday School Heaven. So, do this; take video. TAKE VIDEO. Or DVD I guess. But get the people you love on film. I still have her laugh and her voice. I have her holding Jay when he was one, and I have the day she filled the dishwasher with liquid dish soap instead of electric dish soap and it overflowed EVERYWHERE. That was when she was starting to get sick but we just didn't know. I have her in Kansas and Vegas and Phoenix, at Christmas and Easter. Because I took video, Jay, whose memory is more filled with the grandma with Alzheimer's, gets to remember her whole and complete. So if you can't decide what to get yourself for Christmas (because we ALL get ourselves something too), get a cheap video camera. It's so cool to hear her laugh, and it's so good to see her again.

I Was Not Tired of Blogging, Only Busy

For some reason I keep thinking about this one thing.

Several years ago when my parents were alive and I was down visiting them for the weekend, I wanted to find this one yellow dress. It was in their closet; good lord, they had three closets filled with clothes. Their room, the spare room, and the other spare room, all filled with clothes. See, I had made this hideous yellow dress when I was about twelve. I was not a great seamstress. The most interesting and successful thing I ever did in Home Ec was to sew my hand to Lisa Frantz's hand in the ninth grade. We took a needle and thread and sewed through little bits of skin and sewed our hands together. It didn't hurt. There was no blood. It wasn't as weird as it sounds. Anyway, when we showed Mrs. Sheets what we'd done, she sent us to the councilor. It really was not that weird.

So, anyway, back to the dress. Picture this...polyester lemon yellow tank dress, knee length, lined. The pockets were the best though. They kind of curved up and made a belt loop. Two pockets, two belt loops (look, it was the 70's). Even had a zipper! I made precise stitches and had to redo the zipper about a hundred times. But the finished product was perfect. It was the only thing I ever made In Home Ec that was REAL. The only thing that was slightly acceptable. I might have worn it once. But, I loved that dress. It said something to me about being able to do something regular.

So, I looked in every closet. Good lord, it had been in that second spare room closet two weeks before. I had even thought about taking it home then. But I hadn't. I looked in the other two closets too. No dress. I asked my mom where it was. Just looking for it, I said. I wanted to see it. I thought I'd take it home. No flipping dress. Hmmmm, where could that dress be? My mom, standing in the kitchen, said, oh, I think I took a bag of stuff to Goodwill last week, I'm sorry it must have been in there.

Oh My God. It was the one thing I ever sewed to completion in my whole life. I MADE that damn dress and my mom gave it to Goodwill?????? What the fuck? I became incensed. I got in my car and drove around PHOENIX to all the Goodwills looking for that dress. I spent an entire Saturday driving from mini-mall to mini-mall. Yes, 30 Goodwill stores, me running through them riffling through the racks. Where's my dress, I wanted to scream to everyone. No dress.

I was livid the entire weekend. How could my mother give ONE bag to Goodwill and include my handmade polyester, hideous dress? I needed that dress. I don't know why. I could not let it go that entire weekend. I alternated between bitter anger and the silent treatment. It made me sick to my stomach that she had given it away. I said mean things like, "There are a lot of clothes you could have given away and you chose MY DRESS. THAT I MADE BY HAND? I"LL NEVER SEW ANOTHER DRESS IN MY LIFE AND YOU GAVE IT AWAY??!!" I had to go home early. I even cried about that stupid dress.

Why have I held on to that? Why are there things we have such a hard time letting go of? It's not like it was a catastrophe. It was just a dress.

A few months later she sent me a card for my birthday and it said, "Happy Birthday! We love you. Dad played nine holes of golf today and I went out to lunch with Barbara and Carol....(two more paragraphs). Sorry about the dress. Love, mom." I kept that card. I needed to know she was sorry. I needed to know that she acknowledged that she was wrong. My mom had never said the words "I'm sorry" to me, not because she wouldn't, but because she never really did anything to me to be sorry about. I also keep that card because it gives me a little perspective, thinking about how, if that's the worst thing my mom ever did to me, I should feel pretty damn good.

I am still a baby about it though, and it still gives me a tweak when I think about it. I know it might have ended up as the rag some guy uses to wipe the oil off the dipstick of his car, thrown onto an old shelf in some garage. But I try to make myself just let it go by envisioning some 12 year old girl wearing my handmade dress and loving it. I try to think about how she might put folded notes from her best friend Cynthia in the pockets. How she might wear a silly macrame belt and smile as she threads it through the belt loops, amazed at how they are ACTUALLY PART OF THE POCKETS. I know she has no idea it's handmade or that it was the only thing I ever sewed. That's the thing that makes me feel better, imagining her just wearing it, all carefree and twelve.

#30 (file, again, under drivel)

Well, this is the 30th day in a row of blogging. It's been fun (not really) and tiring (really). It's been good in that I needed to write and I have. I've continued writing, often, after I've finished the blog for the day. It makes me think more. It makes me take the whole blog process less seriously. Okay, it really has been fun. Will I write more from now on? I don't know. I do find it helpful to give myself assignments and goals. So, we'll see.

You may think this picture is of the beautiful trees silhouetted against the equally beautiful night sky. Wrong. It is of my neighbors having their Christmas lights up already. See, there, in the lower left corner. Christmas lights. WTF? Although, truthfully, that is exactly something I would do if it wasn't so far down on my "to do" list. I'd probably put them up the day after Halloween and take them down in February. I'll be lucky to get them up by December 15th. Of course, I'll have help so they might make it up by the 1st. I am not a commercial Christmas person, although I do love the getting and giving of the presents. Are there really people who don't like getting presents?!?! What is wrong with those people? I would like to recieve a present for many more holidays than just Christmas and birthdays! But that's not why I love Christmas. I love the tv shows, like The Grinch and A Charlie Brown Christmas. I love the food and the baking and the decorating. I love the thought and the kindness and the happiness that permeates the whole season. Bring it on, baby! And really, presents are never wrong.

Some other drivel.....

Extreme Home Make-Over. I love that show. Love Ty. They do such a nice thing (I sound like I'm seventy). Jay and I get teary over it every Sunday (yes, we watched it tonight).

Going to work at 7:00 am. It's really okay. It's nice being up early and being done by noon. Thought it would be harder. Okay, I've only done it one day. I'll get back to you.

Good neighbors are underrated. I love my neighbors. Walking Stan just for fun. Coming over to borrow an egg. Stopping by with a beer, or checking to see if I have a good bottle of wine open. Watering plants when I'm gone. They are the best.

Checks. Does anyone use checks anymore besides me? Remember when it was so great to get cool checks? Now, pay on the Internet. So many things are obsolete. Checks. Camera film (I have four rolls and don't know what to do with it). That's all I can think of right now but I know that tons of other things are going the way of checks and camera film.

I'm not blogging tomorrow. I'm painting a table instead. But I'll be back in a few days with pictures or stories or poetry assignments. I have no idea how many people read this, as my blog doesn't really beg for comments, but I know quite a few of you and I do appreciate it. There is something about writing for an audience that makes writing more fun for me. Thanks.

Thank you, God, for this good life and forgive us if we do
not love it enough.
--Garrison Keillor

#29 (file under catching up)

The reason why my blogs are so flipping superficial lately is because it's hard to write every day especially when you're REALLY busy. I would say that out of the last 26 days of blogging, maybe three posts are ones I would want to read if I was the reader not the writer. But, it's been all about the writing commitment, not the content so much. And, other things, some still superficial, some not, are going on. So, here is a quick catch-up.

I have a JOB and it's going well. I am a Starbucks barista and it's very fun. I like the people I work with and the benefits are outrageous! I had several moments of inferior caste related panic attacks but I got over them. It's a part-time, full benefits, flexible, fun experience, during which I make a little money. Yay!

I started painting furniture again. Well, I think tomorrow I paint, the last couple days I've been dremeling and contemplating. But I am making things. I've started working on hats again and very soon I'm going to learn how to throw pots.

And speaking of pots, I have B in my life now. The good man in my life that throws pots, is amazingly nice to my son, and makes me laugh. This is the best. It is fun and it is great. It is effortless.

I'm teaching school and it's almost Christmas break. I have a poetry class next semester. I think it's been good to have a semester off from poetry. I've redone my syllabus and spent time NOT thinking about poetry which is good. And if, I mean WHEN, you write a sonnet, per yesterdays post, you may submit it in my comments and you could win a prize.

Even though my life is better, it's still got enough weirdness to make it mine. I have chickens that lay blue eggs and my garage is now an art studio and my car never stays clean even when I clean it every day.

I looked at my post from one year ago and my life was really hard. My mom was dying, I was in a horrible relationship, and my creativity was about nil. I looked at that post, called Bridges, and I could remember that internal feeling so well. But it's not the feeling I have anymore. I still think about my mom every day. She was the best mom. I had this very ideal childhood, mostly because of the love of my parents, and then in my adulthood, went through some years of shit (yeah, some of it my own making). Now, I'm in a place I wasn't sure I'd get to. If you go to that post, from a year ago today, there's a picture of me wearing this coat and smiling so big you can almost hear me laugh. That's where I am. Now. Whew.

# 28...file under writing assignment

I think all y'all need to write a sonnet.

Here's the info and rules. When the letters, such as (A, or (E, at the end of a line are the same, that means the last word in those lines rhyme. You're just going to have to wing it a bit. Come on. Do it. I've even provided a few examples I wrote...

Bird Sonnet


You hold the still warm body of the quail (A
in one hand, its feathers rustle in the wind, (B
(now, in death, a speckled bag of bone and tail) (A
and with a knife in your other hand, tend (B
to the legs, snapping them off at the joint (C
then do the same with each soft wing, breaking (D
off that delicate flat plate of flight at the point (C
of attachment. Then with the knife, making (D
one long slit from end to end, you tug and pull (E
the tight costume of skin and plume away (F
from what it held inside. Scoop the gullet, full (E
of seeds, remove the bile and liver, rinse, then lay (F
the knife aside and feel the rising heat (G
as it roasts over flame, then eat the tender meat (G

Tucson Sonnet

I bought two pair of shoes on the way back (A
from your place. I felt seasoned and raw, tight (B
like a piece of meat all tough and sinew white. (B
I blew by the outlet mall on that racetrack (A
of a highway and thought about the awful lack (A
of shoes in my closet and lost sight (B
of you, of time and money, lost even the right (B
reasoning of my mother’s voice saying, “crack (A

those lousy credit cards in half.” Later, then, (C
the shoes tucked in the trunk, blasting through the heat (D
of the desert, I watched tire after tire shed (E
its rubber onto the road like sunburnt skin. (C
Blowout after blowout as two hot things meet, (D
exploding at the touch, and you, back in my head. (E

Job Interview Sonnet

Okay, here’s me a couple years ago. (A
“I’d like a job doing something for (B
a worthwhile cause, the health department or (B
maybe at the library. I don’t know (A
if I have the skills for anything (C
actually. Could I get the job where (D
I enter hand made blankets at the fair? (D
I would sit at home and sew and sing (C
and take time out on Tuesdays to make (E
peanut butter cookies. I would also call (F
the job of gathering eggs from a small (F
hen house in the country one I would take (E

in a second. Or anything where I (G
end up wading in tide pools.....” Oh, they sigh. (G


Things to remember...
14 lines
rhyme scheme
Go with that for now.

Just do it.

#27 (file under Vegas memories)

Just a picture, the story is from yesterday.....

Day 26

No pictures yet, just a story.

My son and his friend M are in the same class at school. Their teacher asked the class on Friday if anyone had big plans for the holiday. Some kids were going to see relatives over the long weekend. Some kids were going on family vacations. Jay and M excitedly told the class about the Vegas trip. "are you going with your families?" their teacher asked. "no, just our moms" the boys said. "What in the world are you two going to do in Vegas? she asked.

Well, Monday night the four of us were walking down the strip. A woman in a bluish long jacket and high heels was standing out in the parking lot of one of the "free shows here" and "four tee-shirts for $10" strip malls. Jackie, M's mom, was taking pictures and wandered over to the woman. She had a pink feathery plume sticking about four feet high as a hat. Very "show girlie." She was quite pretty under all the make-up, and was just chatting away with anyone who would walk over. She told Jackie that she accepts tips, and, she would love to take a picture with the boys. The boys stood next to her, and she took their hands and placed them behind her. Then, she smiled, pulled the boys in close, and her nice long jacket flew open and she was pretty much barely dressed. There was a lot of bare skin there! And Jackie got the picture and there's our boys, smiling those 10 year old boy smiles, next to the woman with very little clothing on.

I'm sure that when their teacher asks what they did in Las Vegas, they'll be more than happy to share their experience.

day 25 (file under procrastination)

Just got back from Vegas. I have stories and fun pictures that will have to wait another day. I'm tired (is this a recurring theme?) and I'm going to bed. Teaching and Starbucks are both calling tomorrow. A boy needs to get up for school in the morning. And there's no roulette wheel in my house.

#24 (file under drug of choice)

I'm sitting here in a swanky hotel room, pajamas on, ready to crawl into that cozy bed with the 1200 thread count sheets. My purse is a little lighter, but not empty. I did not buy a time-share. I call it a success. The highlight of the time share was when the salesman, a very nice man named Patrick, was telling me about the benefits of deed ownership, and how I can put that time share in my will. He said something to the affect of, "You can insure that your son will be able to have vacations in five star hotels after you're gone" and I think I belly laughed so loudly I startled several other possible time-share victims. Honey, I thought, you do not know me if you think I'm going to do anything that affords my son future nice vacations. He can foot the bill for his own luxury stays.

I know several people who do not ever need to come to Vegas. I understand. I like hiking too! I like watching the Daily Show with John Stewart and drinking hot tea! I do not NEED to throw money at strangers while a little white ball rolls around a circle of numbers! But once every 12 months, I want to do that! I want to feel that rush as the ball slips suddenly, effortlessly into 17 black. I want to watch as a woman in a red and black get-up, that looks surprisingly like what the flying monkeys wore in the Wizard of Oz, pushes a huge pile of poker chips my way. I don't even mind losing. I'll PAY just to play the game. I love a nice glass of wine, but gambling is my drug of choice during my once a year Vegas jaunt.

I have pictures I'll post soon. A couple good stories. And officially it's the 11th (yes, I was out gambling too late) so I did sort of miss my 10 of November post (although, I vaguely remember a rule from my youth that said that it wasn't the next day until you had slept, so I'm going to invoke that here).
Goodnight.

Day 23 (on the road)

We're heading out to Vegas. I'm blogging now so that tonight, when I win FIFTY BILLION DOLLARS and I'm busy choosing which color Prius I'll drive off the lot (one of each, please), I won't feel obsessed with getting to my computer.

I'm going to do a time share presentation. That gives me really cheap rooms. I LOVE doing time share presentations. I really like looking at the model rooms, I like hearing the amazing deals. By the way, a time share presentation goes like this; you go to some resort and in exchange for "something" like a $100 Home Depot card or two nights in Vegas, you listen as someone tries to sell you a time share (which is a vacation, but you kind of "own" the room. Google it!). They are so good at it! You have to stay for at least 90 minutes to get your prize. I'm always very complimentary as I get up, at 89 minutes and 58 seconds, and tell them what a GREAT job they did, and YES it IS a wonderful deal, but I just can't today....can I have my prize now?

So, we're off. Tomorrow, I write from Vegas.

#22 ? (file under salty dog)

I'm taking a night off. That's all, no excuses (however, I am really looking forward to Christmas, and I'm not going to write about it, but soon, very soon, it will be time to unwrap Bumble and Rudolph and Clarice, and the misfit toys and put them out on a table or shelf, and then, THEN, it will be almost Christmas).

And, well, I think grapefruit juice, even with a teeny bit of vodka in it, must be quite good for you.

Entry #21 (File under Wiener Mobile) Hahaha

Jay and B and I went to the First Friday Art Walk tonight (although the name is pretty self explanatory, I'll just say; first Friday of the month, downtown, art everywhere). Highlights....(1)Jay used chopsticks with his Chinese food, (2)saw Maggie, (3)had a homemade peanut butter cup that was yummy, and (4)saw a couple really cool little studios. Oh, wait, the biggest highlight was THE OSCAR MEYER WIENER MOBILE! Yes, in our town, the wiener mobile in the bank parking lot. There was a table in front where you could sign the guest book. There were two helpers in wiener suits and Santa hats(?). We got to go inside and sit in the comfy wiener chairs AND we got to sing the "I Wish I Were an Oscar Meyer Wiener" song and win a, yes, wiener mobile shaped whistle. It was the best part of my whole night. Jay was slightly mortified throughout the experience, but B and I sang that song like we were auditioning for American Idol. It was awesome. The two "hosts" were driving that wiener mobile all over the Southwest. Every day that is their job. They stay in hotels and drive the wiener mobile and listen to folks sing that song. Man, I could just see that thing flying down Highway 40 at about 80 mph. Now THAT'S a job!

Day 20 (file under sleepy)

Conan O'Brian is on the television. That means it's after 11:30 pm. I'm really tired. I used to love to stay up really late. Conan was the start of my tv watching for the evening. There was this show on VH1 called Insomniac Theater that started around 1:30 am that I would catch all the time. I've never had insomnia, I just did my house cleaning at night. Now, I prefer sleep. When I was little, I had this great canopy bed. I believed I was a princess and my parents didn't really discourage that thought. Here's my two nephews, Jerry and Jim, and I, enthroned in the canopy bed, reading Nurse Nancy (I loved that book because there were real band-aids in the back). We loved reading in bed even then. I remember when I lived in L.A., and Suzy and I would START getting ready to go out at 10:00 pm. We would leave the house by 11:00 and stay out until 4:00. That is so crazy to me now. Yes, it was fun. Yes, I'm glad we were there. But man, give me a 8:30 bedtime (for me, not my son) and I am happy. Now, with laptop computers, I can type, check out e-mails, and download music while cozy with tea. (Sarah Silverman is on Conan...if you haven't seen her Matt Damon clip, google her and watch it. You will howl) Plus, there is a stack of books right next to me. I'm reading the last book of that teenage vampire series (Yes, I know), and a book called, How Starbucks Saved my Life, which is really good. So, I suppose.......zzzzzzz

Day 19 (Merely Observations)

The fight scene in Rocky II has far too much visible mouth drool.

The words prosaic and ennui are pretty words that basically mean boring.

Cold as a witch's _ _ _ is one of the most disgusting phrases know to man (IMHO).

Oh, but it is that cold here.

The cell phones/driving combination will someday be recognized as the true start of the decline of western civilization

Chickens do not lay eggs when they're cold.

A fresh coat of paint makes anything look clean....for a week.

Everyone secretly wants to be in an organization that has a cool handshake.

No matter what ipod or cell phone or computer I get, a better/cheaper/cooler model will be released the next day.

Celebrity mug shots are ALWAYS funny.

Day 18 (file under election)

It's not the election you think. My ten year old was elected to fifth grade class representative today. He was so excited. He wanted to win so bad. This picture is the one that he used for his campagne posters. His slogan....All the way with Jay!Now he gets to meet with the principal, along with each grade's rep, once a month for lunch. He will need to bring the concerns and questions of his class to that meeting. I don't know if he even knows what that means. I'll do whatever I can to help him understand it. It's not a popularity contest (although Jay doesn't really fee like a popular kid), it's a responsibility. And I want him, over time, to really get that. Go Jay!

Oh, and about the Obama thing.....

Yeah baby!

Day 17 (file under my short story)

I wrote a short story. I was getting tired of writing about myself so I thought I'd write about imaginary people. It's from the male perspective, although you might have noticed that a few hundred words in. Or not. I never write stories. Just poems. But this was fun. I cannot comprehend writing a novel though, there are so many words!

The Absence of Light


Picture this first. Two men sitting in the cab of a green pick-up. Plymouth, 1957, chrome on the hood and along the bumper. The hood ornament is a woman with her face stuck out to the sky, like she’s proving something to someone. There is almost a smile on her lips but it’s really more of an “I’ll show you” look. The truck is parked on a little dirt road, tall grass waving around the sides and making scratchy sounds against the steel of the car. The paint on the pick-up is a soft, watered-down color. Like the insides of those bag-worms that hang off the maple trees and get squished by shoes when they fall, or burned in big piles along with the leaves.
The passenger in the truck is my father, Arlie. The man in the drivers seat is his brother, Bus. They both have on white tee-shirts and old jeans. They’re both smoking, my dad; Marlboros, my uncle Bus; Pall Malls. My dad rests his arm on the rolled down window, his thumb hooked into the top groove of the door frame, cigarette between his first and second fingers. Bus keeps his cigarette in his mouth, talking around it.
“ I picked these up at Talleys. I knew you wanted them. I got me a pair too.”
Bus reaches under his seat and pulls out a sack.
“ You didn’t have to get me anything. I didn’t get you anything when you graduated.”
Bus takes the cigarette out of his mouth long enough to spit on the ground. “You were only eleven when I graduated, asshole. Anyway, you still got a month to go. Open the sack.”
Arlie pulls out a pair of waders. The rubber squeaks as it comes stiffly out of the Talley’s sack.
“Waders. Shit, I been wanting these for a year. Thanks Bus. This is sharp.” Arlie opens the door of the cab and steps out, crushing his cigarette on the ground. The air is still and the weeds that had been blowing are suddenly silent, the only noise is the scritch of the waders going up over Arlie’s jeans. The sky is turning plum and the sun hits the chrome as it sets, making Arlie squint as he pulls the suspenders over his shoulders. He doesn’t know he has started a son.

I am the size of a fingernail. The trimmed off part, not the part still stuck to the finger. I am floating in a sea of salt and fluid. Emily Faltz is my mother and she has been throwing up for four days straight. This is an old-fashioned pregnancy test. She is in the kitchen of her parents house. It is the house she goes to bed in every night. The floors in the hallway are made of wood from her grandpa’s farm, when there were trees where the corn is growing now. It is dark wood; walnut, and in a few places the knots have poked out and come loose. Emily’s father fills the holes with little square pieces of wood, sometimes maple or sycamore, and visitors are always surprised by the bright, odd chunks in the middle of the dark floor. The light over the sink separates into rays, shines off Emily’s hair and also reflects off the bottom of the pan she’s scrubbing. The water from the well spatters and breaks, air bubbles forcing through the faucet. She hates doing dishes. Her fingernails are weak and peel apart, and her hands get so dry they crack in the winter. She’s glad winter is done. The radishes and turnips are opening the ground out back, and today she walked home from school with her sweater held in the crook of her arm. After the dishes are done she is going to put on her pale blue dress with the three pearl buttons and meet Arlie at the band shell in the park. Emily puts the pan down on the dishtowel and vomits, as quiet as she can, into the sink.

I’m driving my own car now. My cousin, Larry is in the passenger seat writing dirty words on the side window and Ben is in the back , scooted up between us so he can hear over the engine.
“White, go quail hunting with me next weekend. My dad just gave me his old 22 and I want to go shoot something” Ben is the youngest and looks just like Bus. Larry looks like his dad too only he has two different colored eyes. One blue, with a tinge of yellow, and one brown. His mom, my aunt Pauline, says it’s a mark of good luck but I think it makes him look like a freak.
“I can’t next weekend. I have to help my dad put up his new shed.” I didn’t really. I just didn’t want to go hunting with Ben. He shot our new pointer pup three years ago when he was thirteen, and when I see him with a gun I still want to wrestle him down and thump his head a few times. Everybody calls me White. I was born with the name Mitch, but from the first day of my life I’ve had the blondest, white hair anyone ever saw.
Larry rubs his fist on the window, erasing his words. We’re out for a Friday night with no where to go and a fifth of Jim Beam in the trunk. The sky is going from pale purple to cobalt, and the trees in the west darken into silhouettes. I pull the car over. We’re a couple miles outside of town and the cars are scarce so I just park there, a few feet on the shoulder but at least a door and a tail-light still on the road. The evening air feels like football weather but the season is over. The moon is coming up bright, and pretty soon the trees will be trees again, instead of silhouettes.
“What do you want to do?” I ask, figuring I’ll probably make the decisions anyway. I pick at the loose skin around my knuckle, and wait for Larry or Ben to talk.
“Well, we could go over to the bowling alley.” Larry says. “They’ll serve us a beer and their hamburgers are good.”
“You just want to go see that girl.” Ben pokes Larry in the arm. “The one with the little tiny ears who always wears a ponytail.” Ben turns to me. “She’s bowlegged.”
Larry ignores him, “Let’s drink some of that whiskey and decide”.
There are no headlights shining in either direction as we get out. The trunk light comes on and illuminates our faces peering in at the bottle of Jim Beam. I look over at Ben and his face is a red lantern inside his skin. It’s like I can see the bones pushing out, making his features seem unfamiliar.
“Hey, what’s this action?” Ben holds up my 12 gauge. “Hell, Let’s do some shooting now.” Larry gives me a look and puts his hand on the gun. Everyone in our family wants to high-tail it when Ben picks up a gun.
“Ben, leave it.” Larry picks up the bottle with one hand and pushes the gun back into the trunk with the other. “What say we have a drink and kick up some dust in town”. He grins at Ben and I as he shuts the trunk, the absence of light returning us to ourselves.
Ben takes the bottle and cracks the lid, laughing.

At the Piggly Wiggly, Larry is combing his hair with his fingers. The rear view mirror is turned slightly toward him and when I look over at it out of habit, I see the brown vinyl of the door.
“Hey White, that girl over at the bowling alley, She’s real nice. She let me bowl two games last week for nothing. But don’t talk about it in front of Ben. When I liked that girl in my fourth period English class, he spread it all over and she never looked at me again”. Larry turns my mirror back into position. I reach over and adjust it so I can see the door of the grocery store.
“Well then drop it now, cause here comes Ben.” Ben walks out toward the car with a box of vanilla wafers. We’ve been sitting in the parking lot watching the night pass, swigging a little Jim Beam and deciding what we’re going to do. There are at least four other cars doing the same. Every once in a while we sing to the radio, but only if it’s The Stones or Tom Petty. We’re waiting to begin the Friday night we’ve been waiting all week for.
“Here,” Ben shoves the box of cookies up into the front . “I bought these for all of us. I might try and get me a job in there. I saw James from school. Man, it’s a breeze. He works three nights a week and made enough since last August to put down money on a car.” Ben’s dad gave their beat-up Ford to Larry and now Ben has to save up for his own car.
“What, so you can drive into town and sit in a parking lot”. Larry wants to go see the girl at the bowling alley. “Let’s get out of here.” He opens the window on his side and leans his head out, working on his hair in the outside mirror now. I start up the car, we each take another drink, and I put a vanilla wafer in my mouth.

“Well, do you want to go in or not?” I shout this over the noise coming out of the bowling alley. We’re standing at the entrance, looking in through the glass doors that swing either in or out, both with effort. Ben has a mouthful of vanilla wafers and every time he talks, crumbs fly out at Larry and I. We’re just drunk enough to find this funny.
“Yeh, let’s play one. There’s nothing else to do.” Larry is still trying to hide why we’re here. Ben opens the door and we are blasted by the sound of pins falling against pins and the heavy sound of the balls crashing into the floor. The carpet is greenish yellow with a pattern of thick, reddish circles and random cigarette burns that mesh together and spiral down the whole length of the building. The smell of wax and sweat and smoke hits us as loud as the noise.
We leave Ben looking for an open lane and make our way to the shoe rental booth. I look over at Larry. He’s sporting one well-combed head of hair and his funny, two-toned eyes are moving quickly over the cashiers. I don’t see any girl in a pony-tail but Larry continues up to one of the other girls. “Excuse me, I, uh, think I left my wallet here last week. Caroline was working. Is she here? She might have noticed it”. Larry asks in a voice that is his, but different.
“No, she’s not working tonight”. The girl hollers down to a man in a red shirt with a name badge on. “Hey, Steve, anyone turn in a wallet?”
Steve shakes his head and continues writing down sizes of shoes. We turn and find Ben standing behind us. “Okay, I know, we’re leaving”. He smiles like he knows everything about everything, and we follow him out the door.

The lights at the Piggly Wiggly are still on even though they’re closed. As we pull through the parking lot we can see Ben’s friend James stacking paper sacks at the end of each check-out. Larry is stretched out in the back seat, asleep, his head smacking against the window whenever we go over a bump.
“How come Larry doesn’t want me to know he’s goofy for that girl at the bowling alley?” Ben breaks the silence that had settled over us for the ride back out to their house.
“Because of that time before when you told the whole school he liked Robin. You know, she never talked to him after that. It’s not a big deal. That girl at the bowling alley, she’s just a girl. Larry can go see her next week.” I didn’t figure it would hurt to be straight with Ben. He knew when we were standing by the shoe booth anyway.
“That was last year. I’m not gonna be a geek about it. I might give Larry a hard time but I’m not gonna go blab about it like I did before. It’s like the damn guns. You’re all afraid I’m gonna kill somebody. That was three years ago.” Ben shakes his head and turns his face to the window. The moon is on it’s downward slope, and the trees we passed earlier are silhouettes again. Larry’s head bounces around on the side arm-rest of the back seat, grunting out a snore every once in a while. I can’t say anything to Ben. It’s funny how with some people, you can’t seem to forget the stupid things. Ben knows it, too.
“Shit White, You guys got to see all my mistakes. You two made yours while I was too young to even know how dumb you could be”. Ben laughs it off but he’s right.

The porch light is on for me when I get home. I let myself in, turn off the light and walk down the hall with the funny, pale blocks of wood. There is a soft blue glow coming from my parents room.
“Goodnight Mitch,” my mother says. I can see my father watching TV.
“Goodnight.” I walk past them and start up the stairs.
“Mitch, let’s do a little fishing this weekend.” My dad calls after me.
“I can’t, I’m going hunting with Ben. The next weekend, okay?” I hear my dad say something to my mom and then, “The next weekend sounds fine.”
The stairs are old, and groan as I walk them. The moon has set and before I get to my room, my parents have turned off their television. I have to feel for the door, and when I find it, I just stand in the doorway. The whole house is pitch black. No noises, no shadows. I can almost see in the dark.

day 16 (file under do it)

Time is passing. This thought occurs to me on a regular basis. It's the thought that made me start this blog. And that thought seems to be a permanent neon light in my foggier-by-the-day brain. Jay and a couple of his buddies went trick or treating Friday night. By themselves. It was the first year I didn't go. They headed out into the dark night, dressed in black with frightful masks and weapons of torture. Time is passing. Pretty soon, they'll be going to parties on Halloween, having a beer, taking a girl to a scary movie. I saw all those cute little fairies and princesses out there, all those Elmos and tiny Ironmen and wanted, for just a minute, Jay to be THERE again.


Time. Is. Passing. For instance, here's me and my dad, BBQing some years back. Check out that BBQ. Check out my dad's socks. I can still remember that driveway. We moved from that house when I was three, but I still can see the living room, where I used to watch Loony Tunes while my mom ironed clothes, and the back yard where I got in trouble once for peeling a hard boiled egg on the back steps. It's goofy what we remember. So much time has passed, and really, it's the blink of an eye.

So, let me just be a little reminder, Time is passing, do some of the things you've always wanted to do. Because it will pass no matter what you do, so do what you can to make your dreams real. Take life a little less seriously. Have babies so you can dress them up silly when they're three and take them trick or treating. Open your own business because you've always wanted to make candles shaped like sporting equipment. Take the Amtrak to Chicago because you read about a great art exhibit at the Museum of Contemporary Art Chicago.

Or maybe just one time, get the frappicino instead of the plain coffee. With an extra shot of espresso.

Time is the coin of your life. It is the only coin you have
and only you can determine how it will be spent. Be careful
lest you let other people spend it for you.
--Carl Sandburg

Day 15, file under Four of my Favorites

You may not be responsible for being down, but you must be
responsible for getting up.
--Jesse Jackson

Perhaps no person can be a poet, or can even enjoy poetry,
without a certain unsoundness of mind.
--Thomas Babington Macauley (1800-1859) English politician

Somehow we must learn not only to meet sorrow with courage,
which is comparatively easy, but with serenity, which is
more difficult, being not a single act but a way of living.
--Daisy Newman (1904-1990) Quaker writer

If you can't be a good example -- then you'll just have to be a
horrible warning.
-Catherine-

Day 14, (Day of the Dead, filed)

It's Halloween. I'm not going to tell you about the
Day of the Dead, although I recommend checking out the site. But I will tell you why I celebrate it now.

Five years ago on October 28, my sister called from Phoenix to tell me that I needed to get down there. Immediately. My dad had fluid in his lungs and was in the hospital. I was working at the wine store I owned. I grabbed Jay, who was five, and closed the big sliding metal mesh door to the store. I drove to my house like a banshee, packed a bag, and got on the road. As I packed, I did a weird thing. I threw in a black dress.

Jay and I had just been down at my parent's place the weekend before. They lived in a retirement facility, and had a small two bedroom apartment. We would stay with them two weekends a month; the two I didn't work at the store. My mom was already pretty memory sick. She would pile boxes up in front of the door at night because she thought people were going to come in. She even saw them at times and she would tell me about them later. The last time she was at my house in Flagstaff, she looked out the kitchen window and said, "Jill, look at that big white dog in the front yard." I looked out and just saw my yard. I said, "Where mom? I don't see it." My mom gave me this exasperated look and pointed, "It's right there." I put down the dish I was drying and walked outside. Man, I looked everywhere for that damn white dog.

So, we had been down to see them. Came home Sunday night. Got the call Wednesday. My sister, on the phone, had said it wasn't a life or death matter. It was just a concern. She called me back to say it would probably be fine, they just needed to deal with the lung issue and he would probably be fine. I drove like a crazy person to Phoenix. But her voice was frantic. The fear she felt came through the phone and splintered out inside my head like tempered glass, cracking.

At the hospital he looked pretty bad. Tiny. Tubes everywhere. But he could talk. We talked a bit, but it was hard for him. He seemed okay. He looked at me once, right before we were going to leave for the night and said, very clear suddenly, "So, when do we dance?" And he smiled.

We came back the next morning early, stayed at the hospital all day. My brother flew in from Kansas. My niece and her kids drove in from California. We milled around in the waiting room as only two of us could go in at a time to see him. He got better, then he got worse, then he got better again. It was the day before Halloween. We had three kids who needed costumes and candy sacks. We went to department stores, wandering up and down aisles saying, "well, do you want to be a vampire or a ninja," thinking, "is my dad going to die?"

That night, as my mom, my sister, Jay and I were walking down the hallway; you know, the wide, speckled linoleum floor, the dim lights shining out from the rooms as you passed by, the low sounds of relatives and patients, I heard my dad holler, "Jill!." I ran back to his room. "What dad?" I asked. "He looked at me and said, "Take care of your mother." "I will dad. I'll take care of mom." And then my dad slept.

On the 31st, we again spent most of the day at the hospital. My nephew was trying to get there but having flight trouble. My brother stayed at the hospital all day. We went back and fourth, making mac and cheese for the kids, trying on costumes, sitting with my dad. Sometimes he seemed so much better. He would open his eyes and talk to one of us. More family was flying in and would be there later that night. We felt okay. Optimistic. Unsure. Sad.

Occasionally I thought about my black dress in the suitcase.

We took the kids trick or treating. The night was warm and smelled like Phoenix always smells to me; mesquite and olive trees. We laughed at times, admired costumes and didn't stop thinking about dad. Somehow we all went to bed and slept.

The next morning, the phone rang at 6:00 am. It was one of the nurses. She said dad had taken a turn for the worse. We all jumped in cars and drove like crazy. I ran from the moment I shut the car door. Through the parking lot, into the lobby, down the hall and into the elevator. Out the elevator, down the hall and into my dad's room. He was already gone. The days blurred. At some point, I wore my black dress.

So anyway, you get through things you don't imagine you will. You keep going. I felt indescribably bad. I felt like the only thing that would ever make me feel good again was if my dad would just CALL me on the phone and say, "Hey, I'm okay here. Things are good." But he never did.

Over time I started to feel better. I still cried in my car every time "A Hundred Years to Live" by Five for Fighting came on. I still missed my dad all time. I still wondered EVERY DAMN DAY where he went. I still wanted to call him in the morning to see if he'd finished the jumble, and I still missed his call at night to see if my doors were locked. But I grew into his dying. I knew it wasn't against the natural progression of things. He'd lived a great, long life and been a good man. And still, I just wanted to talk to him one more time.

But I discovered Dia De Los Muertos. The Day of the Dead. It was the day he died. It was the ritual I needed. It was a belief I'd always had but just never knew the specifics. So, now, on the anniversary of his dying, I have a day to honor him. To feed him. To communicate with him. I usually make zucchini bread, which he loved, and I also have okra. I have Day of the Dead figurines (one is a golfer for him!) and candles on an altar during the month of October. I write him a letter. I talk to him. It makes me feel better. I imagine him looking through a window, tangible. This year, for the first time, I see my mom in that window too. I smile every time the phone rings.

Day 13 (file under BOO of course)

Jay and I carved pumpkins last night. My pumpkin is the same every year. Triangle eyes and nose, big honking grin. Jay drew his face on. He wanted scary eyes, scary nose, and scary mouth. I cut out the pieces. That big pumpkin was about four inches thick! Mine is already molding on the lid. I see those pumpkins that are works of art and I can tell you right now, that ain't me. I want it done. I love the rituals of life, I'm just busy. I also always roast pumpkin seeds. It sounds so good. I slather 'em in olive oil, salt them up real cook, and bake them for 45 minutes. They smell good. But they shred apart and stick in your teeth. It's kind of like eating sharp, brittle cardboard. Yuuummmmm. I'll have some more of that please. So, they usually sit in a Ziplock bag for a couple days, then I burn them on November first (Day of the Dead) in case my dad or mom wants to try them. My mom would never go for it, it would get so stuck in her dental work. She never would eat sesame seed buns because of that - seeds in the dentures. My dad would have a few, might even like them. So, along with a couple loaves of zucchini bread and some okra, I stick it all in the fire pit.

Tomorrow, a little history about Day of the Dead.

number 12 (file under fruit flies)

I am trying so hard not to write about politics.
Not hard enough I guess.....

In Case You Weren't Scared Enough: Palin on "Fruit Fly Research"
Huffington Post

Today, we are blogging from Durham, North Carolina, where we are trying to do our humble bit to help elect Barack Obama. On Friday, Sarah Palin gave us yet another reason to feel good about what we're doing here.

We are far from the first people to comment on this subject -- even within the Huffington Post -- so we'll keep it brief. But Palin's mockery of "fruit fly research" during her October 24th speech on special-needs children was so misconceived, so offensive, so aggressively stupid, and so dangerous that we felt we had to comment.

Here's the excerpt from the speech:

"Where does a lot of that earmark money end up, anyway? [...] You've heard about, um, these -- some of these pet projects they really don't make a whole lot of sense, and sometimes these dollars they go to projects having little or nothing to do with the public good. Things like fruit fly research in Paris, France. I kid you not!"

It's hard to know where to begin deconstructing this statement. This was a speech on autism, and Palin's critics have pounced on the fact that a recent study of Drosophila fruit flies showed that a protein called neurexin is essential for proper neurological function -- a discovery with clear implications for autism research.

Awkward! But this critique merely scrapes icing off the cake.

Fruit flies are more than just the occasional vehicles for research relevant to human disabilities. They are literally the foundation of modern genetics, the original model organism that has enabled us to discover so much of what we know about heredity, genome structure, congenital disorders, and (yes) evolution. So for Palin to state that "fruit fly research" has "little or nothing to do with the public good" is not just wrong -- it's mind-boggling.

What else does this blunder say about Palin and her candidacy? Many people have used it as just another opportunity to call her a dummy, since anyone who has stayed awake through even a portion of a high-school-level biology class knows what fruit flies are good for. But leave that aside for a second. Watch the clip. Listen to the tone of her voice as she sneers the words "fruit fly research." Check out the disdain and incredulity on her face. How would science, basic or applied, fare under President Palin?

We have other questions. Who wrote this speech? Was he or she as ignorant as Palin about the central role that fruit flies have played in the last century of biomedical research? Or was this a calculated slight to science and scientists -- a coded way of saying, "We don't care what you know or what you think"? We find it odd that, of all the examples of dubious expenditures of public funds, the speechwriters alighted on this one.

Whatever the explanation, it scares us. Everyone who has suffered, either personally or indirectly, from an inherited illness, and anyone whose life has been lengthened or enriched by modern medicine, should channel Palin's flip comment when they stand in the voting booth on November 4th.

Day 11 (thank god no filing)

I started my new job today. I'm a Starbucks girl now. Here's the deal, in a nutshell. I LIKE it. It's fun and the people are nice. I get to, no, I HAVE to, talk to customers, be enthusiastic, and smile. I can do those things. It also brought up some unexpected things. I am a service person now. I am the server...the servant. I am not the princess sitting at a table reading a good book with a sweater on and a double tall latte warm and yummy in my hand. I am not spending the morning casually sipping coffee and munching on a tiny vanilla scone, ready to go home and clean (my favorite) or paint (my other favorite) or write (my other favorite). My training buddy, who just got hired also, was 17 years old three days ago. Just had a birthday yesterday...the big eighteen. She's nice and excited and she could be my daughter. I take out the trash and clean the restrooms. I wear a uniform. I even pick up trash bags wrong and spill wet coffee grounds all over myself. I am humbled oh employment god, have mercy on me. So, that stuff surfaced. The "shouldn't I have a well paying CAREER?! by now" stuff. The "everyone thinks I'm an idiot" stuff. The "I'll never amount to anything" stuff.

But, and the but here is a good one, I have perks at this job. I don't have to file anything, learn difficult computer programs, review escrows or enter data. I'll get full medical benefits. Free pound of coffee every week. 401K. Paid vacation. FLEXIBILITY. Part time (20 hours a week). Yeah, I can STILL have days where I clean or paint or write. I have to keep my mind on the reality that this job does not define me. I define me. One thing I realized during that month I worked at Remax....I am much more efficient with my time when I have a job. I could spend 8 hours not getting shit done when I had all the time in the world, but when I only had one day off a week, I scheduled that day and got things DONE, baby. They give me the time off to teach my class, and it's okie-dokie with them that I have to leave at a certain time to pick my son up from school. The people, both customers and fellow Starbucks employees, are truly nice. And you know, the uniform is really kinda cute, even well-dressed, for this girl. Oh shoot, I can still be a princess!! Who am I kidding? It's not the job, it's the attitude.

Day 10 (file under music)

Music is so cool and mysterious. I've been to a million concerts. I love radio play. I also love albums. I have a record player! One thing I've loved about the blog world and myspace is that I get introduced to new music. I now listen to Morphine, Interpol, Arcade Fire, and the American Analog Set. I'd never listened to those bands before. I also listen to music I was slightly familiar with but not so much, like Shawn Mullins. B and I went to his concert the other night and he was awesome.

When I was in eighth grade, I had six 45 rpm records that I played every night when I was going to sleep, Witchy Woman, The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, Love Will Keep us Together, Green-Eyed Lady, Bennie and the Jets, and Rock On. I did not live in a very musical house (it was Kansas and mt parents were older so I heard more talk radio and hog belly prices than anything else).

The first song I ever really loved was George Harrison's, My Sweet Lord. It was about the time of Concert for Bangladesh, and I was really young and I remember one of my babysitters taking me to a HEADSHOP, although I had no idea what that even was. There were beads hanging from doorways and incense burning and George was singing from the stereo. I'll never forget that. It made me FEEL something good. I was so young that I missed the fun of that whole decade, but I would have been there 100% had I been a few years older. Loved that song ever since.

Then, there was America; Sister Golden Hair, and then Fleetwood Mac. After high school, I started going to concerts with my girlfriends, driving from Topeka to Kansas City, telling my mom we were spending the night at a friend's house. Man, how in the world did we ever make it home some of those nights?! But music was always loud and always playing.

My music was never the same music my parents listened to, though. That's what I love about music now. Jay's first concert was when he was three and I took him to Jethro Tull (with ear plugs). Two years ago we saw Nickleback. When we turn on the radio, more times than not, we sing to the same songs. Music now is more a bonding experience than a dividing one, like it was with my parents. Thank god...Jay and are going to have enough to argue about.

Day 9 (file under Stan & Barney)

Stan and Barney are a couple old guys. They are fairly new friends, having only roomed together since July. Stan is pretty excited about Barney, and Barney couldn't really give a crap. They sleep on the sofa in near proximity, they try on a regular basis to eat each other's food. But Barney really has very little to do with Stan, and Stan would love to run about the house indulging in a friendly game of chase. Today, Barney got a cat door put in so he can mosey into the garage to use the facilities. The door on it is taped up so Barney can get used to it. Stan is so sad about this new development. Everyone gets to hang out in that garage except Stan, who looks pitiful and must lie on the floor gazing wistfully through the tiny door, the tiny door that he cannot even fit his big fat head through. Hahahaha. I think I stood in the garage and laughed at him off and on all day. Poor Stan. And I'm sure Barney's going to want to go BACK in the house through that little door, what with that monsters head in the way.

Day 8 (file under employment)

One thing I haven't written about lately is my job status. In a nutshell, I really don't want to work. I would prefer to get up in the morning, have a nice rich steaming cup of coffee, read the paper and take a shower. Next, get the child to school. Then, driving home from the school, experience the absolute joy of deciding what to do next. Hmmmmm, I think I'll clean for an hour (I LOVE housework), then I'll write for a bit. I'll putter around the house for the next hour, listening to NPR or The White Stripes or Theory of a Deadman or some other radio hoo-ha. I'll water plants and take care of animals. Then, I'll paint a table, or clean some more. I might head out to target or wander about the yard, looking for good rocks or leaves or bird nests. Write some more, check e-mail, rearrange some furniture. Think about dinner. There. That's the day I want.

Well, reality sure bitch slapped me!!! I have to work. Yes, I need to produce an income. And no one will pay me for the above mentioned day. Damn.

It's not like I've never worked before. I've had jobs!!! I spent some of my youth waitressing. I managed a coffee shop in Los Gatos, and taught kindergarten in a small private school. I've driven an ice cream truck and worked retail. Here in Flagstaff I worked for City Hall as a clerk typist (YUUUCCCKKKK!). I've also had several of my own businesses, the most successful and enjoyable being owning a wine shop for seven years. I've taught school at the community college level for 8 years. And I've usually had at least two jobs at a time. Then I took a couple years off. One to finish my book, then a second year to have my year of opus. Man, did I get spoiled. And poor. I got poor. So, these last few months I've been searching for the right fit.

I found it. This coming Tuesday I start work at Starbucks. Whooo - hoo! I am truly excited. I worked at Remax Realty for a month or so. It wasn't a bad job. The two guys I worked for were really nice. But things slowed down. It really wasn't me. I would get a huge tension knot from typing in all that data and reviewing escrows. Now, I get to chat with folks. I get to be the queen of customer service and make COFFEE. I even love that I have to wear a uniform. The bonus.....a free pound of coffee a week. I am so up for this.

Day 7 augh! (file under "The Dog Ate My Blog")

I took a mulligan. Or something like that. A mulligan, for you non-golfers, is when you flub a tee-off shot and take another one with no penalty. You're only allowed ONE per 18 holes of golf. Actually, among serious golfers, you don't even get one. BUT, I did completely forget about blog world yesterday, and since I committed to writing once a day for a month, I decided to just take a mulligan.

Today, I am here to talk to you about eggs and chickens. I have a friend who has chickens in her back yard (crazy), and there are things I'm curious about. I've been at her house when she gets the eggs and here's my question; how do those eggs get out of those chickens all dry and clean? I don't believe there is pathway out of the body, chicken or otherwise, that is actually dry and clean. But the eggs are so smooth and goop free. I just don't understand that. Another thing is that the eggs, once cracked, look different. The yolks are yellower. The shells are harder. Oh, and the colors are cool. The eggs are bluish-green, or shades of brown. No white ones. And they're so warm when you pull them out of the coop. The whole thing is such an amazing concept!! A tiny food factory on two spindly legs, producing this protein laden feast! Those chickens are cool too. Clucking about, scratching in the dirt, running wildly for no apparent reason. They peck at my ring or the grommets on my jeans. And, it does not hurt. Not to digress, but I used to have a fear of getting hit in the back of the head by a Frisbee (I went to a lot of concerts, and when I lived in California I spent time at the beach. Whatever.). Finally, in Santa Monica one day when Suzy and I were at the beach, it happened. A Frisbee comes flying through the air and beans me right on the back of the head. It didn't even hurt (hard head?). And all those years I'd been afraid of it...even dreaded it. It's like that with pecking chickens. It doesn't hurt at all.

There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle. -- Albert Einstein

Day six (file under someone else's short story)

It's really cold here. Winter is coming. Some people read and some don't. I think some people don't read only because they don't have reading material around the house. They don't have bookcases filled with books filled with short stories. I think there are emotions that rarely get felt. They're either buried somewhere or just not evoked by anything on a regular basis. We all have this common THING. This history of kindness or cruelty, tenderness or abuse. On either side of the line, I think we can at least imagine what it is to stand on the other side. This might be a stretch, but I think literature often is able to evoke those emotions, without us having to actually go through the experience. There is such a universal component to many stories, and it's that core that enables us to empathize, sympathize and see the familiar in others. I may be wearing my rose colored glasses (I have several pairs) but I really believe that we all would choose good over bad. I just read this short story. It's really short. It's kinda poetic. I wanted to share it.


What Happened During the Ice Storm
by Jim Heynen
One winter there was a freezing rain. How beautiful! people said when things outside started to shine with ice. But the freezing rain kept coming. Tree branches glistened like glass. Then broke like glass. Ice thickened on the windows until everything outside blurred. Farmers moved their livestock into the barns, and most animals were safe. But not the pheasants. Their eyes froze shut.
Some farmers went ice-skating down the gravel roads with clubs to harvest the pheasants that sat helplessly in the roadside ditches. The boys went out into the freezing rain to find pheasants too. They saw dark spots along a fence. Pheasants, all right. Five or six of them. The boys slid their feet along slowly, trying not to break the ice that covered the snow. They slid up close to the pheasants. The pheasants pulled their heads down between their wings. They couldn't tell how
easy it was to see them huddled there. The boys stood still in the icy rain. Their breath came out in slow puffs of steam. The pheasants' breath came out in quick little white puffs. Some of them lifted their heads and turned them from side to side, but they were blindfolded with ice and didn't flush. The boys had not
brought clubs, or sacks, or anything but themselves. They stood over the pheasants, turning their own heads, looking at each other, each expecting the other to do something. To pounce on a pheasant, or to yell Bang! Things around them were shining and dripping with icy rain. The barbed-wire fence. The fence posts. The broken stems of grass. Even the grass seeds. The grass seeds looked like little yolks inside gelatin whites. And the pheasants looked like unborn birds glazed in egg white. Ice was hardening on the boys' caps and coats. Soon they would be covered
with ice too. Then one of the boys said, Shh. He was taking off his coat, the thin layer of ice splintering in flakes as he pulled his arms from the sleeves. But the inside of the coat was dry and warm. He covered two of the crouching pheasants with his coat, rounding the back of it over them like a shell. The other boys did the same. They covered all the helpless pheasants. The small gray hens and the larger brown cocks. Now the boys felt the rain soaking through their shirts and freezing.
They ran across the slippery fields, unsure of their footing, the ice clinging to their skin as they made their way toward the blurry lights of the house.

Copyright © by Holt, Rinehart and Winston. All rights reserved.

That story makes me feel really good. I feel like those boys knew what to do, even after they were given bad examples and even after they set out to do something not so good. It's like they made a different choice, a better choice, and I really like that. That's all.


"The strongest principle of growth lies in human choice."
George Eliot, Daniel Deronda
From Chapter 1, Intention

Day 5 (file under beer)

Well, it's getting to be Guinness season again. How happy am I?!?! I love Guinness, although Sam Adams Cream Stout is similar and very nice. Also, there are a few chocolate stouts that are quite good and actually have a nice chocolate flavor (I just misspelled about half the words I've written so far and was going to leave it that way as a joke but I was afraid no one would get it. You know, writing about beer, drinking beer, forgetting how to spell, stumbling around in the living room, etc).

Guinness goes with everything. Gruyere cheese (I'm having some now), chocolate, cheese, cheese (did I mention I'm having some now?), and chocolate. Yum. Guinness is so thick and rich and yummy, and here's an interesting fact, the bubbles go down instead of up. That's enough reason to drink Guinness. Drink Guinness and watch the bubbles. You WILL have fun. Here are some more interesting facts about my favorite fall beer.....


The old advertising slogan "Guinness is Good for You" may be true after all, according to researchers.

A pint of the black stuff a day may work as well as an aspirin to prevent heart clots that raise the risk of heart attacks.
Drinking lager does not yield the same benefits, experts from University of Wisconsin told a conference in the US.

Guinness was told to stop using this slogan decades ago - and the firm still makes no health claims for the drink.
The Wisconsin team tested the health-giving properties of stout against lager by giving it to dogs who had narrowed arteries similar to those in heart disease.
They found that those given the Guinness had reduced clotting activity in their blood, but not those given lager.
Clotting is important for patients who are at risk of a heart attack because they have hardened arteries.
A heart attack is triggered when a clot lodges in one of these arteries supplying the heart.
Many patients are prescribed low-dose aspirin as this cuts the ability of the blood to form these dangerous clots.
The researchers told a meeting of the American Heart Association in Orlando, Florida, that the most benefit they saw was from 24 fluid ounces of Guinness - just over a pint - taken at mealtimes.
They believe that "antioxidant compounds" in the Guinness, similar to those found in certain fruits and vegetables, are responsible for the health benefits because they slow down the deposit of harmful cholesterol on the artery walls.
The original campaign in the 1920s stemmed from market research - when people told the company that they felt good after their pint, the slogan was born.
In England, post-operative patients used to be given Guinness, as were blood donors, based on the belief that it was high in iron.
Pregnant women and nursing mothers were at one stage advised to drink Guinness - the present advice is against this."


And another point I'd like to make is this....

Is GUINNESS® fattening? How many calories does it contain?

GUINNESS® ? Fattening? It’s an urban myth. GUINNESS® is no more fattening or calorific than any other beer of similar alcohol strength. Similarly, GUINNESS® contains no fat, but it does contain protein, sugar, carbohydrates and alcohol. The alcohol accounts for 65-75% of the calorific content irrespective of the beer in question.

* GUINNESS® DRAUGHT - 196 CALORIES PER PINT
* Semi-skimmed milk - 260 CALORIES PER PINT
* Orange juice - 220 CALORIES PER PINT

Pint-for-pint, GUINNESS® Draught actually has fewer calories than most other premium beers and lagers. So now you know.


Hooray!!! Hooray!!!

And, added bonus, there's a rocket widget inside the Guinness draught (just writing that sentence felt cool).


In the late 1980s Guinness pioneered the original spherical widget that is used in cans. A ball combining nitrogen and carbon dioxide is pressurized in the can. When the can is opened, the gas is released. Once the Guinness is poured, it assumes its characteristic half-inch head.

For the bottled version of the product, the widget is shaped like a rocket to keep it oriented correctly. The gas is released from the bottom of the widget. The majority of the gas is released when the bottle is first opened, then smaller amounts give the head a boost every time the bottle is tilted. The theory is that a head remains on the beer, inside the bottle, right down to the last sip.

"The new widget looks like a rocket," says Joe Bergin of Guinness Technical Support and Innovation, the division responsible for R&D, based in Dublin, Ireland. "It even has fins, for safety, to make sure the widget stays in the bottle." While the canned draught Guinness uses liquid nitrogen to create its head, the bottle uses gaseous nitrogen. The widget revolution reflects the pains Guinness will take to ensure product consistency, but many Guinness drinkers are fanatics.

Fanatics!? Pleeeease.

Day 4 (file under stupid mom tricks)

So, last year, on the day of my son's parent/teacher conference, I decided to clean out the garage. I worked and worked. Man, that garage looked better. My conference was scheduled at 4:00. I picked Jay up at 3:00 and went home and kept working on the garage. At 5:15 I went, AUUGGGGHHHHH, and jumped in the car and drove like a crazy person to the school. Of course I had missed the conference. It wasn't because of illness or accident or an emergency. It wasn't a fire or spontaneous combustion. It was because, although I thought about it at NOON, it had left my brain by 3:45.

Jump ahead to today. Jay's conference was scheduled for 4:15, the same time his sport practice would be over. I thought about that conference at 10:00 this morning. Again at 2:00. At 4:10 I thought to myself, "I have to go pick up Jay" I looked around the kitchen and couldn't find my shoes. So I thought, "Oh well, I'll just go through the drive-through and have him run out to the car" COMPLETELY having forgotten the conference. I pull up, WITH MY SOCKS ON, and he doesn't come out. Man, I get frustrated. "Where are you?!" I'm thinking as I sit there waiting. I see his teacher and him in the hall, then they go into his class. I park the car, get out in my socks and walk in. His teacher looks at me and smiles, "Are you ready to talk for a few minutes? We weren't sure if you were going to make it" The puzzle that is my mind suddenly fits together. THE CONFERENCE. I smile, walk in the classroom. "Sorry I'm a bit late" I steal a glance at the clock. 4:22. Damn. Jay looks at my feet. "How come..." he starts. I am a twit. I smile and say, "Oh, I was running late and wanted to get here for your conference so I just hopped in the car. I thought my shoes were in the back seat and when I got here, they weren't. Sorry." At this moment, Jay's teacher looked at my feet, then at hers, "Yeah, I just wore these slipper type things today" she said, pointing to her moccasins (Thank you).

Next year, I am SO there on time.

Day 3 (file under truth)

I need all of you to know about this great website.....

snopes.com

They get to the bottom of any rumor and tell you the facts. They are totally NOT affiliated with any political party, in fact, politics is just one of about a hundred headings on their site (sports, entertainment, financial, Disney, etc). It is a great site for finding out the truth, although you might be disappointed when you find out, no, Obama is NOT a radical Muslim.

I am not going to get political (although I did vote today....early voting rocks!) but I have to educate the masses on this one thing. If you're sending out, or if you receive, a "factual" e-mail about either candidate, or if you heard a rumor about Bruce Willis dating Drew Barrymore (I made that up), or if you just think that we never really went to the moon but filmed the landing in Studio 7 at Universal Studios, go to snopes.com.

And please, have the common sense to check out what the real truth is before sending off uneducated, fear-based, e-mails.

Day 2, (file under drivel)

Things that made me happy today.....


* Buying a ring made out of colored wire and beads from the little neighbor girls.

* Sleeping in, reading the paper, and watching SNL snippets on the computer with B.

* Changing out the kitchen faucet ALL BY MYSELF (except for the goo application and the tightening of the thingey).

* The following article.....

AP – Retired General Colin L. Powell, one of the country's most respected Republicans, stunned both parties on Sunday by strongly endorsing Sen. Barack Obama (D-Ill.) for president on NBC's "Meet the Press" and laying out a blistering, detailed critique of the modern GOP.

Powell said the election of Obama would "electrify the world."

"I think he is a transformational figure," Powell said. "He is a new generation coming ... onto the world stage and on the American stage. And for that reason, I'll be voting for Senator Barack Obama."

As a key reason, Powell said: "I would have difficulty with two more conservative appointments to the Supreme Court, but that's what we'd be looking at in a McCain administration."

Powell, once considered likely to be the nation's first African-American presidential nominee, said his decision was not about race.

Moderator Tom Brokaw said: "There will be some ... who will say this is an African-American, distinguished American supporting another African-American because of race."

Powell, who last year gave Republican John McCain's campaign the maximum $2,300, replied: "If I had only had that in mind, I could have done this six, eight, 10 months ago. I really have been going back and forth between somebody I have the highest respect and regard for, John McCain and somebody I was getting to know, Barack Obama. And it was only in the last couple of months that I settled on this."

"I can't deny that it will be a historic event when an African-American becomes president," Powell continued, speaking live in the studio. "And should that happen, all Americans should be proud — not just African-American, but all Americans — that we have reached this point in our national history where such a thing could happen. It would also not only electrify the country, but electrify the world."


And one thing that made me laugh out loud......

*

November

I have so much to say.

I am filled with words. They are buzzing about like a full hive, bumbling into various folds of skin and battling my thick skull.

I have performance anxiety.

In blogging, I have performance anxiety. I think about writing every day, but I don't. So, I decided to just GET OVER IT. I don't really believe in writer's block. Either one writes or one doesn't. I just haven't been writing. But there are slumps. It might be laziness. It might be fear. I have a solution. I found my solution a few years ago when I wasn't writing much poetry. I just decided to write a poem a day. Can't write??? Then write all the time. About nothing. Write bad poems. Write one sentence poems. But just f**king write. Okay, I set out to do it for a year and ended up making it four months. It was HARD to write every day. But after, I wrote more consistently. So, for the month of November I'm going to write every single day. Yes, I know it's a holiday month. Plus, my niece, Ann, is getting married. I could, however, make excuses for EVERY month if I wanted to. So, that's my goal. I work better with goals. Especially ones that I splay out there to everyone. So I can be scolded and reprimanded (wow, maybe I like being scolded and reprimanded). Ehwww.

When I wrote a poem a day, I definitely wrote some shitty poems. And, I wrote some good stuff. Here's one that I liked that came out at 11:57 pm just because I hadn't written that day and I felt OBLIGATED.

How to find out (a recipe poem)

Unfold a checker board
on a plain table
with a cute boy. Have fun,
be ruthless, drink
cold beer and cheer
for yourself
and the boy too.
When it is inevitable you
are going to win and the boy
is seething quietly, turn
the board around, play
his two remaining pieces
against your former seven
(including two kings)
and win still. He will either
be wildly impressed
or hate your guts.
You need to know which
early on.

Not profound. Not really publishable. But I like it. And I wrote, whether I wanted to or not. No excuses. That's really all I want, to keep writing. It's very freeing to write crap and not care. So, of course, you should also see one of the bad ones...

The Copper Creek Mine

Juan took us down
into the mine.
It smelled like rain
and was as dark
as a brown bear.
Juan said
anyway
at the end of
each sentence
and the tunnel got
colder and colder
every hundred feet.
When we walked up
outside of the earth
an hour later,
Juan’s words
still sheltered us
against the bright collapse
of sun and lethargy.


Even I didn't know what the point was. Sun and lethargy?! WTF?

So, I'm going on a November marathon blog. And the rules. You KNOW I love rules. I'm NOT going to write about "writing". THAT will be refreshing. I'm so excited I kind of want to start today.

Shoot! What the heck. I think I will. Yes, I start today, October 18th. One month. I just became totally anxiety ridden. See you tomorrow.

art

watch this

A friend of mine sent me this short film. I thought it was really interesting and I liked it. It's a little graphic in a place or two (I think there's a breast somewhere. Okay, I do not usually consider a "breast" graphic but there are those times that children stand behind you peering over your shoulder, which by the way, makes me CRAZY, but since I don't know your family boundaries on viewing breasts, just thought I'd mention it). It made me happy that people are out there doing unique art. Seeing things like this makes me want to write more poems and paint more furniture, to take classes and read more books, to take more chances. It always makes me think the same thing going to see my mom used to make me think...Live Your Life Now. I have a cool digital camera that I don't even know how to use aside from taking video of Jay playing basketball. Why? Why aren't I being more creative with my resources? Well damn, I guess it's up to me.

Stories

I think I like telling stories best of all. I have a couple tonight.

Once upon a time there was a little girl. That would be me. Well, she wasn't that little, maybe ten years old. Her grandfather, who was kind of crazy and a bit mean, was in a nursing home outside of Halstead, Kansas and the little girl's mom (my mom) wanted to go see her father. Well, felt like she HAD to. It had been planned for a few weeks and the mom, Anna, hadn't been to see her own dad for quite a while. The grandpa's name was Henry, and he had been an ornery cuss, according to Anna's husband, Jay (my dad). He could never keep a job when the girl (now the mom), Anna, was a child; came home bruised up after fights, pushed the girls in the family around. Once, when he had lost several jobs, he decided to raise rabbits to sell, and Anna and her sisters had to kill and skin them because that's all they ate for many months (my mother could never bear to even look at rabbits as long as I knew her). When Anna turned 16, she went to work at Kreskies drugstore in Hutch, and her father, Henry, came by every Friday to pick up her check, which he cashed himself and spent. He didn't believe girls should go to high school, and my mom was the only girl out of three sisters who did go. Anna got a job to get out of the house, and was married to my father by the time she was in 12th grade.

So, anyway, back to the other story. Anna had a child, me, and we got in the car, an Oldsmobile Sedan, on that warm, gold, breezy summer day. My grandpa, who used to rub his whiskery face against mine hard until I would cry, was going to be waiting for us.

We got to Halstead around noon. My mom and dad and I walked into the nursing home, which was a single story building out in the smack middle of a million corn fields. We sat on those cold steel backed, vinyl seated chairs while my dad went up to the front desk to check in. Well, my grandpa was gone. He'd gone into town on a bus that morning at 10:00. Wasn't coming back until 3:00. We'd traveled three hours and he'd forgotten about us, or, as my dad figured, knew we were on our way but left anyhow. We were there though, and we were staying.

First, my dad and I wandered around the corn fields. I remember standing inside the field, and listening to the sound of the stalks swaying and brushing against each other. My dad asked me if I heard that sound, and I knew which sound he meant. I said yes and he said, that's the sound of the wind. I got bored out there and we walked back to the building. We sat outside and after a bit, a boy joined us. He was truly just a boy, maybe 25 years old. He lived in that place. He started picking through the ash can, taking cigarette butts out and trying to smoke them. My dad walked over to him and began talking to him to shift his attention. The boy's words came out slow and blurry. He went back inside at one point and my mother answered the question I asked her with my eyes like this; "He was in a tractor accident. He lives here now. That's why he talks funny. His brain was damaged"

He came back out. It was only 1:00. One hour had passed. The boy asked me a question. I could hardly understand him. He knew. He asked again, slower still. "Will you go to the farm with me?" My dad stood near me and heard the boy too. I didn't know what to say. My dad spoke, "No young man, she needs to go home with her mom and dad" The boy looked at me, then me dad. He said "I have something. I give you a present" He walked off into the yard of the Home. He knelt down and looked at the ground for not more than a minute. He picked something up and came back. He handed me a four leaf clover. Really. I looked down at that clover in my hand. I said thank you. I was kind of sad that I couldn't go to the farm with him, because he had asked and I felt bad that he was in this place filled with old folks and with people like my grandpa. I also remember feeling acutely aware that I wanted to go home with my mom and dad.

The boy went back inside. My dad crawled around in that yard for the next hour looking for another four leaf clover, which he never found. My grandpa showed up a little after 3:00 and just laughed, but not the kind of laugh that makes you feel good. I carried that four leaf clover home with me, held in the palm of my hand for five hours. I put it on a piece of lined notebook paper, covered it with plastic wrap, and taped up all four sides. I still have it. I carry it in my wallet. It's pretty battered, and the clover is stuck down in the corner. During those times when I'm sure I've left my wallet at the library or at Target or at some bar, I don't worry about the money. I worry about that piece of notebook paper with the clover sunk down in the corner.

My second story is about a cat and a dog so I must now introduce B. I don't really know how the people in my life feel about being blogged about. I never really mention any of them by name, except Jay, and he doesn't read my blog. And of course, my parents, but they're cool with it. So, I mention B by initial, but I think about him with an exclamation point.

Jay and I are taking care of B's cat, Barney. Barney is named Barney because he was found in a barn. It's not really true that just Jay and I are taking care of Barney (aka Mr Barnes, Barnstormer, Barney Miller, Barnabus Collins, Barnaliscious, Barneyshmarney, etc, etc), B is here quite a bit so we're, in fact, all taking care of Barnes. Well, Stan the dog was here first. He was under the impression that HE was king. But now Barney and Stan share the couch. They share the bed. They eat each other's food and drink each other's water. There was never a hiss or a growl or a nip. They LOVE each other. But when Stan had a bath, courtesy of B, I could see it. Barney was right there, perched on the side of the tub. Looking a tad smug. Dipping his head down occaisionally to lap up a little bath water. And thinking;
WHAAAHAAHA I AM KING NOW!

I'm including the following quote (which I posted on my blog a year ago also) for a couple reasons...

Jay had to pick out a quote for his 5th grade class. I let him peruse my quotes, all 57 pages of them. After looking at quotes for half an hour, this is the quote he chose, with no help from me. It made me proud. Secondly, I should read this quote every day because sometimes I forget to keep doing the things that make me come alive. Instead I find (like everyone, I'm sure) myself doing the things that make money, or are easy, or contain no fear.
F**k that!

"Don't ask yourself what the world needs - ask yourself what makes you
come alive, and then
go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive."
---Harold Whitman