Art is a hammer
There is nothing wrong with me
that some attention cannot solve
Why I need attention so much
Is the hammer used against my art
Inspiration may come sleeting
But the result is still black ice
Invisible, dangerous, imagined or real
There is no music in my head
Or in my heart
That hasn't arrived from
Someone else's life, love, pain
That hasn't been expressed
In the words of some writer
Who at least managed to string
Sentences together
In a real story
Perhaps because my story isn't told
I have no ending to arrive at
Success, money, travel, change
Things I do not foresee
Even true love eludes me
No balcony scenes, no sonnets
No roses or suicide attempts
Many empty words, echoing
Art is a hammer
I don't have
Still writing as though
I was fourteen
heartbroken
lonely
Melodramatic
Forgetting all that I have
Comfort
Books
Family
Knowledge
Forgetting because I don't have
Your attention
You are not part of my toolbox
Like art
You elude my abilities
Whether I need you or not
Whether the nail exists
Or has purpose
10 September 2012
02 January 2010
2010
I just realized that I am starting off the new year and I'm NOT sick.
This is either a great sign or I've just jinxed myself.
Hmmmm . . . .
This is either a great sign or I've just jinxed myself.
Hmmmm . . . .
21 August 2009
I Hate People
Dear gods, today I got this link:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/08/20/yes-she-can-59-of-huffpos_n_264411.html
Is this really a problem? Why do the comments contain such vitriol and argument? Did I really have to spend 5 minutes reading this so-called article and getting steamed over the comments?
Life is too farking short for this shite. Because the gods know that the next terrorist attack will come from a Macy's cell pissed that she wasn't wearing capri's. Or perhaps the economy will further tank because of all the people losing their appetite over something so trite and ridiculous. Or maybe that's just my appetite.
To the 41% that believe they have the right to dress anyone other than their dollies, this is why I hate you.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/08/20/yes-she-can-59-of-huffpos_n_264411.html
Is this really a problem? Why do the comments contain such vitriol and argument? Did I really have to spend 5 minutes reading this so-called article and getting steamed over the comments?
Life is too farking short for this shite. Because the gods know that the next terrorist attack will come from a Macy's cell pissed that she wasn't wearing capri's. Or perhaps the economy will further tank because of all the people losing their appetite over something so trite and ridiculous. Or maybe that's just my appetite.
To the 41% that believe they have the right to dress anyone other than their dollies, this is why I hate you.
12 January 2009
School's Out . . . un, In
So I'm taking an online Literature class (yeah, totally useful), but since I'm the dork that will take classes until the end of time, without gaining a degree, I'm excited.
I had to write an "Introduction" of myself for the other students and the teacher.
This is my first draft, which of course, just proves I do not make friends easily.
I had to write an "Introduction" of myself for the other students and the teacher.
This is my first draft, which of course, just proves I do not make friends easily.
Good day all. My name is [xxx], and briefly, I like sarcasm, crosswords, dark beer, and watching my 1-year-old fall down. I have an addiction to adjectives, and tend to ramble (my alter-ego is a cruel editor). I'm from everywhere, and may have magical powers.yeah. that's me.
I am trepidatious about taking a literature class, being the first to admit that while I love to read, and write, I am adverse to over-analysing. Yet I thrill to the challenge of different perspectives, applying cultural mores to fiction, and the opportunity to share.
I believe that this class will satiate my love and fascination of varying cultures. I have a fondness for history, often rereading Larry Gonick's Cartoon History of the Universe, which is wry, well-research, and hilarious.
I am taking this course online due to time and place constraints, having also had only positive experiences with English courses online. Plus, I do so love to wear comfy clothes and have a cuppa while reading, researching, and writing, so it's win-win for me.
I do look forward to becoming acquainted with everyone, doubtless exposing the fact that while my written word often seems to come from a stuffy 65-year-old British man, I am usually found to be channeling an immature foul-mouthed bar wench, or so my husband tells me.
04 January 2009
It's not a trend . . .
So whilst avoiding housework I hit one of my favorite blogs and read this:
BernThis.Com
I thought I'd share an episode of my B&N life:
Working at the Information Counter at Barnes and Noble provided an unparalleled experience at sadly information-lacking customers and opportunities to practice subtle mocking. Alas, I left the bookstore world having failed at the subtle part.
Yes, it's all true. It happened more than once. I never did manage to help those poor readers. I did however get the enviable job of sorting new books and creating tasteful displays.
Maybe now it's becoming clearer why I should not have customer service jobs.
BernThis.Com
I thought I'd share an episode of my B&N life:
Working at the Information Counter at Barnes and Noble provided an unparalleled experience at sadly information-lacking customers and opportunities to practice subtle mocking. Alas, I left the bookstore world having failed at the subtle part.
Soon-to-be-irate Customer: I need you to help me find a book.STBIC innocently follows me to the automotive section.
Moi: Sure, what's the title or author?
STBIC: Oh, I don't know. It was on the morning show. Awhile ago. It's blue.
Moi: Blue?
STBIC: Yeah. Blue cover. It was on the morning show.
Moi: Er, which morning show?
STBIC: On channel 11? In the morning? Can't you look it up?
Moi: Um, do you know what the book is about?
STBIC: It's about a girl. And her life, and stuff. It's blue.
Moi: (heroically not sighing heavily) Okay, was it a biography? Or fiction?
STBIC: Well, I don't know. Don't you have a list? Or look it up on your computer there. Jeez . . .
Moi: Hmmm, well, come with me. Maybe you'll recognize it.
Moi: Here is the Kelley Blue Book. Is this what you wanted?STBIC innocently follows me to the art section.
STBIC: What? Noooo. Wha . . . it was on the morning show!
Moi: Oh, hee hee, silly me. Follow me, please.
Moi: Here is a blue book. Is this what you wanted?STBIC follows me to the religious section ("But, no, no, it's about a girl!"), the teen section (huge sigh "No, no, I . . . it was . . . the morning show . . ."), the notebooks and frivolties section, and finally back to the Information desk.
STBIC: Why . . . Wha . . . nooooo. It's, it's about a girl. And a swimming pool.
Moi: Oops. Oh, now I think I got it. Follow me.
Moi: Well, I sure am sorry I couldn't help you. Gee, I feel terrible. Let me call the manager.At this point my manager, who knew me oh-too-well, looked at me sideways. He seemed to be trying to impress upon me the lack of my customer service ability, but I countered with a roll of the eyes that knocked over a stack of magazines and dislocated my left shoulder.
IC: (no longer soon-to-be) Well, fine. I guess I should have . . .
Moi: Yesssssss?
IC: I guess I should have just asked the manager first.
Moi: Huh. Okay. Groovy, here he is.
Manager: So, how can I help you?
IC: I'm looking for a book, from the morning show, . . it's, uh, it's blue.
Manager: Uh, right. Do you know the author or anything about it?
IC: It was on the morning show, . . . awhile ago . . . about a swimming pool. I think Oprah liked it.
Manager: Could it be this book here on the bestsellers kiosk? The one right next to the Information desk? The one that has been on ALL the morning shows?
IC: That's it! Wow! Thank you so much!
Moi: Huh.
Yes, it's all true. It happened more than once. I never did manage to help those poor readers. I did however get the enviable job of sorting new books and creating tasteful displays.
Maybe now it's becoming clearer why I should not have customer service jobs.
10 November 2008
Too Early?
So here's what I want for Christmas:
1 - 12 hours to act the fool (like I did before the Nibblet)
2 - the Pessimist Mug
3 - the body I had when I was 26 years old
4 - did I say 12 hours, let's make it 18 hours
5 - the friends/friendships I had a year ago
6 - a digital projector
7 - a bit of wall to project on
8 - a new tattoo
9 - 3 extra hours every day
10 - did I say 18 hours?
11 - the ability to stop time, and/or a small wallet with limitless supplies of cash
12 - a better . . . shite, that thing that you can use to think of things, um, to remind yourself about that thing that happened . . . um, you use it to remember things . . . damn
1 - 12 hours to act the fool (like I did before the Nibblet)
2 - the Pessimist Mug
3 - the body I had when I was 26 years old
4 - did I say 12 hours, let's make it 18 hours
5 - the friends/friendships I had a year ago
6 - a digital projector
7 - a bit of wall to project on
8 - a new tattoo
9 - 3 extra hours every day
10 - did I say 18 hours?
11 - the ability to stop time, and/or a small wallet with limitless supplies of cash
12 - a better . . . shite, that thing that you can use to think of things, um, to remind yourself about that thing that happened . . . um, you use it to remember things . . . damn
09 November 2008
My NY Times Modern Love
I spent the first twenty-five years of my life avoiding love. Sometimes it was conscious, but most of the time I just didn’t put that much care into my family, my friends, my relationships. I found that there was an advantage to not being heartbroken. My friends poured their woes and aches onto my sturdy unencumbered shoulders, and I was proud to be the logical, clear-minded one. I didn’t understand those “true love” and “end-of-the-world” romances that swept away my friends, removing them, for a time, from my social circles and long nights of freedom.
I spent very little time in relationships, usually ending them when they got complicated or involved making decisions based on what someone else wanted. The few relationships that involved what I simplified into “love” were really more about fitting into the world my friends lived, dating boys who were friends with my friends lovers or significant others. Even losing my virginity involved more planning than emotion, and once the deed was done, well, so was the relationship.
I moved, sometimes across the country, to dissolve complicated arrangements, or to simply avoid the face in the mirror that did not respond to the emotional needs of anyone but itself. It was a selfish existence that did not tax or demand much. Any disasters could be shrugged off after a week of self-pity, or a quick pick-me-up at the local hang-out. I saw the truth about love in the teary faces of my friends and family, as they struggled with loss and dejection. “Why do they do that to themselves?” I often asked myself, being the only one I knew who understood that love was a recipe for heartbreak and sadness. Relationships were futile arrangements between two people who started off just having fun but quickly devolved into demands for time, attention, devotion.
Then I started dating a guy that, seemingly without effort, changed all that. Granted, we were introduced by someone I deeply admired and respected, who could verbally slap me around just as he physically taught his kung-fu students to block and attack. But the guy I was dating was, in my mind, just a boy. Someone to have fun with and go on adventures with and basically treat as I’d treated every boy before. His attitude towards life was the opposite of mine, he lived every moment as if nothing else mattered. There was no planning, no thought about tomorrow, no worries, and certainly no commitment. For eight months we dated, his life not altering much other than to call occasionally, mine to become more and more about what he thought, what he wanted, how to make him want me more. The attraction changed from physical to mental, and I suddenly had no defenses, and worse, no road map.
We broke up after a year. I convinced myself that, once again, I was the wronged party, and therefore had no further responsibilities and that I could sink into self-pity and destructive behavior. We met to have that final breakup conversation, the closure, the “we’ll stay friends” talk that is full of lies. But he refused to play his appointed role, instead telling me that he recognized his faults, that he loved me, and drawing me a picture of that love and what it meant. I sat there, in the late winter sun, reeling from the sudden awareness that, yes Virginia, there is love out there, and it is calling your name. My name was being brought to that table of weakness, fear of rejection, and caring about someone more than myself. This time I embraced it.
Of course it didn’t last. Within weeks we were repeating the same shallow arguments, missed connections, and repeatedly hitting the wall of how different we were.
Even my girlfriends who’d benefited for years from my heart built on rock gave up on me. They recognized all the signs but could not convince me that love had stolen in, made a home, and then burned it down, all inside my iron-clad heart. We broke up again, and I, finally feeling that dreaded wrung-out feeling, that emotional scouring, debased myself in front of all, begging for another chance, crying uncontrollably, getting drunk and maudlin, missing work, refusing all comfort, compassion, and logic.
As most people know, it was awful. It took me years to get over, and on dark, cold nights, I know that I am not over it. The heartbreak that I refused to have had happened, and I could no longer pretend to be better than anyone else. I was feeling that despair that reverberates throughout the body, mostly echoed in every beat of my bruised heart, that came to me every night in my bed, and that woke with me in the morning and accompanied me through every action.
Time heals all, they say, and four years went by. I moved on, as they also say, and finally there was that reunion where we awkwardly chatted and pretended we were soooo much better than before. At least I did. From that meeting we started a conversation, finding that we actually had things to talk about. Our relationship in the past was physical, and then destructively needy, but now we could do the normal friend things, like talk about music, movies, dreams, and goals. Amazingly, and frighteningly, I found that I liked this new man better than I had ever l-o-v-e-d the boy. There was closure and healing in our new relationship, and I was more than willing to take that into my heart. Finally, I thought, I can move beyond that “first love” and now go out and find my “true love”.
The universe has a sick sense of humor, is all I can say. When my new friend came back east to visit we went out with mutual friends, played pool, drank some beers, and had lots of laughs. At the end of the night, he came home with me. I did it because the physical attraction was still there, I liked this person, and because I needed to prove to myself that we could be friends now, without the past. Spare me the snorts of derision. Because, of course, despite precaution, I got pregnant.
Our kung-fu teacher, the one that introduced us, had told me that this world offers you the best and the worst. What you choose is how the world decides what to offer you next. Profound, in a “what-are-you-talking-about” way. When I called my friend with the news that, um, “remember when you spent the night?” and the associated decisions that needed to be made, he was not the guy I had once dated, but my friend, truly and with all his heart. Together we talked over options, and what were not options. With maturity and affection, he left his easy and uncomplicated life, and together we started a difficult and constantly changing one.
It’s been almost two years now. We have the most beautiful, and terrifyingly intelligent, daughter, and we have a love that struggles and grows. What it will ultimately become, well, who knows? I know, now and for the remainder of my life, that I was fortunate in love. As much as it hurt to lose the first flush, I’ve got a concentrated understanding of what it means, what it takes, and what it’s worth. And, I’ve got the man who not only woke up my heart, but gave me the chance to use it.
I spent very little time in relationships, usually ending them when they got complicated or involved making decisions based on what someone else wanted. The few relationships that involved what I simplified into “love” were really more about fitting into the world my friends lived, dating boys who were friends with my friends lovers or significant others. Even losing my virginity involved more planning than emotion, and once the deed was done, well, so was the relationship.
I moved, sometimes across the country, to dissolve complicated arrangements, or to simply avoid the face in the mirror that did not respond to the emotional needs of anyone but itself. It was a selfish existence that did not tax or demand much. Any disasters could be shrugged off after a week of self-pity, or a quick pick-me-up at the local hang-out. I saw the truth about love in the teary faces of my friends and family, as they struggled with loss and dejection. “Why do they do that to themselves?” I often asked myself, being the only one I knew who understood that love was a recipe for heartbreak and sadness. Relationships were futile arrangements between two people who started off just having fun but quickly devolved into demands for time, attention, devotion.
Then I started dating a guy that, seemingly without effort, changed all that. Granted, we were introduced by someone I deeply admired and respected, who could verbally slap me around just as he physically taught his kung-fu students to block and attack. But the guy I was dating was, in my mind, just a boy. Someone to have fun with and go on adventures with and basically treat as I’d treated every boy before. His attitude towards life was the opposite of mine, he lived every moment as if nothing else mattered. There was no planning, no thought about tomorrow, no worries, and certainly no commitment. For eight months we dated, his life not altering much other than to call occasionally, mine to become more and more about what he thought, what he wanted, how to make him want me more. The attraction changed from physical to mental, and I suddenly had no defenses, and worse, no road map.
We broke up after a year. I convinced myself that, once again, I was the wronged party, and therefore had no further responsibilities and that I could sink into self-pity and destructive behavior. We met to have that final breakup conversation, the closure, the “we’ll stay friends” talk that is full of lies. But he refused to play his appointed role, instead telling me that he recognized his faults, that he loved me, and drawing me a picture of that love and what it meant. I sat there, in the late winter sun, reeling from the sudden awareness that, yes Virginia, there is love out there, and it is calling your name. My name was being brought to that table of weakness, fear of rejection, and caring about someone more than myself. This time I embraced it.
Of course it didn’t last. Within weeks we were repeating the same shallow arguments, missed connections, and repeatedly hitting the wall of how different we were.
Even my girlfriends who’d benefited for years from my heart built on rock gave up on me. They recognized all the signs but could not convince me that love had stolen in, made a home, and then burned it down, all inside my iron-clad heart. We broke up again, and I, finally feeling that dreaded wrung-out feeling, that emotional scouring, debased myself in front of all, begging for another chance, crying uncontrollably, getting drunk and maudlin, missing work, refusing all comfort, compassion, and logic.
As most people know, it was awful. It took me years to get over, and on dark, cold nights, I know that I am not over it. The heartbreak that I refused to have had happened, and I could no longer pretend to be better than anyone else. I was feeling that despair that reverberates throughout the body, mostly echoed in every beat of my bruised heart, that came to me every night in my bed, and that woke with me in the morning and accompanied me through every action.
Time heals all, they say, and four years went by. I moved on, as they also say, and finally there was that reunion where we awkwardly chatted and pretended we were soooo much better than before. At least I did. From that meeting we started a conversation, finding that we actually had things to talk about. Our relationship in the past was physical, and then destructively needy, but now we could do the normal friend things, like talk about music, movies, dreams, and goals. Amazingly, and frighteningly, I found that I liked this new man better than I had ever l-o-v-e-d the boy. There was closure and healing in our new relationship, and I was more than willing to take that into my heart. Finally, I thought, I can move beyond that “first love” and now go out and find my “true love”.
The universe has a sick sense of humor, is all I can say. When my new friend came back east to visit we went out with mutual friends, played pool, drank some beers, and had lots of laughs. At the end of the night, he came home with me. I did it because the physical attraction was still there, I liked this person, and because I needed to prove to myself that we could be friends now, without the past. Spare me the snorts of derision. Because, of course, despite precaution, I got pregnant.
Our kung-fu teacher, the one that introduced us, had told me that this world offers you the best and the worst. What you choose is how the world decides what to offer you next. Profound, in a “what-are-you-talking-about” way. When I called my friend with the news that, um, “remember when you spent the night?” and the associated decisions that needed to be made, he was not the guy I had once dated, but my friend, truly and with all his heart. Together we talked over options, and what were not options. With maturity and affection, he left his easy and uncomplicated life, and together we started a difficult and constantly changing one.
It’s been almost two years now. We have the most beautiful, and terrifyingly intelligent, daughter, and we have a love that struggles and grows. What it will ultimately become, well, who knows? I know, now and for the remainder of my life, that I was fortunate in love. As much as it hurt to lose the first flush, I’ve got a concentrated understanding of what it means, what it takes, and what it’s worth. And, I’ve got the man who not only woke up my heart, but gave me the chance to use it.
13 October 2008
Searching for a four leaf clover
I would not call myself superstitious. I wouldn't call myself that, but I carry many odd and contrary beliefs and actions, so much so that I should just cowboy up and admit it.
I throw spilt salt over my left shoulder.
But I revel in walking under ladders and Friday the 13ths.
I always leave a swallow of my drink for Dionysus.
But I grudgingly love the black cat that constantly crosses my path at home.
I believe in the spiritually cleansing properties of sage and sea salt.
But I open umbrellas in the house.
And I think bad things come in threes.
1. Last Monday Indy had a small but traumatizing car accident (traumatizing to our wallets . . . and to the pristine condition of his ridiculously bright yellow car).
2. Friday the Nibblet had a mysterious allergic reaction to something that has lead to special food arrangements, constant back-and-forth with the daycare, expensive specialist doctors, and unending butterflies in my belly (which is large to enough to house several colonies of butterflies).
so that leaves #3, and the third member of the household, which coincidentally is . . . me.
I am absurdly paranoid. I was awake half the night with horrendous fantasies of household accidents, brain aneurysms, broken bones, blue screens of death, and pregnancy.
I'd like to count the fact that my phone died (stupidly and through no fault of my own), but it seems too simple. Even though it led to an epic battle with My Network, but after six days without it, losing all my phone numbers and photos, it ended with a free phone. Of course, I'm now tied to the damned thing again. Still, it happened almost two weeks ago. I figure I have 12 hours left before SOMETHING happens, so . . .
I am currently accepting donations of four leaf clovers, those little squishy ball things you can squeeze (um, not those ones, the other ones), prayers to any and all gods (although perhaps not The Lady), and all good wishes.
Please, no C.O.D.
I throw spilt salt over my left shoulder.
But I revel in walking under ladders and Friday the 13ths.
I always leave a swallow of my drink for Dionysus.
But I grudgingly love the black cat that constantly crosses my path at home.
I believe in the spiritually cleansing properties of sage and sea salt.
But I open umbrellas in the house.
And I think bad things come in threes.
1. Last Monday Indy had a small but traumatizing car accident (traumatizing to our wallets . . . and to the pristine condition of his ridiculously bright yellow car).
2. Friday the Nibblet had a mysterious allergic reaction to something that has lead to special food arrangements, constant back-and-forth with the daycare, expensive specialist doctors, and unending butterflies in my belly (which is large to enough to house several colonies of butterflies).
so that leaves #3, and the third member of the household, which coincidentally is . . . me.
I am absurdly paranoid. I was awake half the night with horrendous fantasies of household accidents, brain aneurysms, broken bones, blue screens of death, and pregnancy.
I'd like to count the fact that my phone died (stupidly and through no fault of my own), but it seems too simple. Even though it led to an epic battle with My Network, but after six days without it, losing all my phone numbers and photos, it ended with a free phone. Of course, I'm now tied to the damned thing again. Still, it happened almost two weeks ago. I figure I have 12 hours left before SOMETHING happens, so . . .
I am currently accepting donations of four leaf clovers, those little squishy ball things you can squeeze (um, not those ones, the other ones), prayers to any and all gods (although perhaps not The Lady), and all good wishes.
Please, no C.O.D.
05 August 2008
10 things
10 things I did not know we would need during the Nibblet's first year
1. 2 large jars of vaseline
2. 25 washcloths
3. ## cases of beer (totally not admitting the real number, ask me my weight instead)
4. baby shoes
5. 32 adults (a million thanks to the 8 babysitters - aka lifesavers)
6. 7 sushi dinners
7. $400 designer shoes (not that I got them . . . ahem)
8. 3 food processors
9. 2 cellphones for the 67 worried phone calls to our moms
10. 36,792,000 heart palpitations
1. 2 large jars of vaseline
2. 25 washcloths
3. ## cases of beer (totally not admitting the real number, ask me my weight instead)
4. baby shoes
5. 32 adults (a million thanks to the 8 babysitters - aka lifesavers)
6. 7 sushi dinners
7. $400 designer shoes (not that I got them . . . ahem)
8. 3 food processors
9. 2 cellphones for the 67 worried phone calls to our moms
10. 36,792,000 heart palpitations
05 July 2008
caught again
damn. I like Death Cab for Cutie.
I should never have gone onto amazon's download page.
I should never have gone onto amazon's download page.
03 July 2008
Word of the Day : Shittastic
you know those days that start out so wonderful? you wake up actually refreshed, and head to work early, not because you have to, but because everything goes smoothly. the drive is easy and it all seems to be going so well. and then it all turns to shite.
today was my day.
a simple work project fell to pieces before I even logged onto my computer. bosses were annoyed. managers on holiday were called in. and were brief to the point of pain. co-workers bounced between helpful and mocking. and in the end, which granted hasn't even arrived yet, stress was high.
I have always thought that I was smart. but it seems almost daily in my current job that I am rivaling Dubya for idiocy. it's killing my ego. and maybe I would be better at this job if I didn't have any outside interests, like, oh I don't know, my man and kid and desperate attempts at having a life.
I feel wrung out and sad and disappointed in myself. it's no way to go through life.
it makes me wonder if I shouldn't quit my job, if only to give them the opportunity to hire someone worth having.
and the poor Nibblet. she has a rash and cries with pain and confusion that the people who love her cause that pain. this is one of the hardest parts of parenthood, hurting the most beloved thing you've ever created because you have to. it's worse than the shots.
I had high hopes for today, and I have an afternoon packed with visitors and responsibilities, and all I want to do is crawl into a bottle of something semi-legal and mind-numbing.
today was my day.
a simple work project fell to pieces before I even logged onto my computer. bosses were annoyed. managers on holiday were called in. and were brief to the point of pain. co-workers bounced between helpful and mocking. and in the end, which granted hasn't even arrived yet, stress was high.
I have always thought that I was smart. but it seems almost daily in my current job that I am rivaling Dubya for idiocy. it's killing my ego. and maybe I would be better at this job if I didn't have any outside interests, like, oh I don't know, my man and kid and desperate attempts at having a life.
I feel wrung out and sad and disappointed in myself. it's no way to go through life.
it makes me wonder if I shouldn't quit my job, if only to give them the opportunity to hire someone worth having.
and the poor Nibblet. she has a rash and cries with pain and confusion that the people who love her cause that pain. this is one of the hardest parts of parenthood, hurting the most beloved thing you've ever created because you have to. it's worse than the shots.
I had high hopes for today, and I have an afternoon packed with visitors and responsibilities, and all I want to do is crawl into a bottle of something semi-legal and mind-numbing.
07 May 2008
Sponsored by the Letter "S"
So tonight I caught up on some internet reading, mostly the blog of an outlaw. Her writing really brings into perspective my shallow and petty ruminations. She writes of trouble and pain and about facing personal trials that I don't know I would survive. At least not without preparing a PMS defense for court.
I went out to talk to Indy about it, in general terms, which led to a random and fascinating conversation about family and the way parents can create an atmosphere of failure and competition without even being aware of it. This is on my mind too because of the impending visit of Indy's father and my own spiky relationship with my mum and siblings.
And then, in our tangential way, we started talking about the things we wanted to accomplish, or rather, the things we did not want to become. Indy said, "I don't want to end up all old and wrinkly thinking I shoulda/coulda/woulda." But I think we must all end up with shoulda's at the end. The real question becomes "What could I do now?" or rather, "What will I do?"
We all lose track of things, at least I hope it's not just me. I had plans before I got knocked-up, plans of going to school full-time. I had a fantasy of going to visit the German in London (hereafter referred, lovingly, as Gil) and somehow staying in Europe. Becoming an ex-pat who writes scathing things that end up changing America into a place I want to live.
Of course, I put all that away gladly in exchange for what I have now, but I remember it all. The dreams still float around, popping up on nights when I've lost my temper and punched the wall, or discovered just how hard I can throw a book. I realize that all that traveling, sleeping with inappropriate men in foreign countries, finding lost treasures, and being witty and smart in Parisian cafes, all of that is not going to happen. Instead I love my man, put the dishes away, sleep soundly and safely, and laugh as my kid learns to walk
I look out the window, at Indy and the Nib sitting in a lawn chair, sharing leaves and bottle caps, and I wonder why I am discontent. Most likely because I didn't choose 100% of this life. The Nib chose most of it, the little brat. And we make up the rest as we go. I'm not one of those people that can walk away from my possessions and feather pillows. I don't want to be. But part of me wants to be able to walk out of the house for several hours without responsibility or accountability. Looking like, oh I don't know, someone hot and talented. Looking like danger and a feeling like a new Jones Soda flavor. I want to speak sparks, invigorate idleness, perpetuate politics, and maybe even break a few hearts. I want to feel smart for a few hours, and interesting, and know what's hip with the cool cats.
Ya know, I'm gonna end up eating fish & chips tonight, watching a movie while I crochet, and nudging Indy when he starts to snore. Right now this is a good night. But don't think for a second that other me isn't buzzing in the back of my mind, whispering about stolen cars, stiletto heels, and sipping Syrah on the Seine.
I went out to talk to Indy about it, in general terms, which led to a random and fascinating conversation about family and the way parents can create an atmosphere of failure and competition without even being aware of it. This is on my mind too because of the impending visit of Indy's father and my own spiky relationship with my mum and siblings.
And then, in our tangential way, we started talking about the things we wanted to accomplish, or rather, the things we did not want to become. Indy said, "I don't want to end up all old and wrinkly thinking I shoulda/coulda/woulda." But I think we must all end up with shoulda's at the end. The real question becomes "What could I do now?" or rather, "What will I do?"
We all lose track of things, at least I hope it's not just me. I had plans before I got knocked-up, plans of going to school full-time. I had a fantasy of going to visit the German in London (hereafter referred, lovingly, as Gil) and somehow staying in Europe. Becoming an ex-pat who writes scathing things that end up changing America into a place I want to live.
Of course, I put all that away gladly in exchange for what I have now, but I remember it all. The dreams still float around, popping up on nights when I've lost my temper and punched the wall, or discovered just how hard I can throw a book. I realize that all that traveling, sleeping with inappropriate men in foreign countries, finding lost treasures, and being witty and smart in Parisian cafes, all of that is not going to happen. Instead I love my man, put the dishes away, sleep soundly and safely, and laugh as my kid learns to walk
I look out the window, at Indy and the Nib sitting in a lawn chair, sharing leaves and bottle caps, and I wonder why I am discontent. Most likely because I didn't choose 100% of this life. The Nib chose most of it, the little brat. And we make up the rest as we go. I'm not one of those people that can walk away from my possessions and feather pillows. I don't want to be. But part of me wants to be able to walk out of the house for several hours without responsibility or accountability. Looking like, oh I don't know, someone hot and talented. Looking like danger and a feeling like a new Jones Soda flavor. I want to speak sparks, invigorate idleness, perpetuate politics, and maybe even break a few hearts. I want to feel smart for a few hours, and interesting, and know what's hip with the cool cats.
Ya know, I'm gonna end up eating fish & chips tonight, watching a movie while I crochet, and nudging Indy when he starts to snore. Right now this is a good night. But don't think for a second that other me isn't buzzing in the back of my mind, whispering about stolen cars, stiletto heels, and sipping Syrah on the Seine.
27 April 2008
ARGH
"There is always room for improvement - in my case, that is all the room there is."
I had such grand intentions for this space. I know the internet is wide-open (at least for now) and that I can't really be wasting space, but I still feel like I am. I have so many things to say, but the procrastination and perfectionism get in the way.
I have a friend (at least I consider her a friend) who blogs deeply personal and powerful things. She writes of her inner struggle, her awakening and how it changes her and her life. To top it off it's intertwined with yoga that I can only pretend to dream of, much less imagine doing.
I read a blog by one of my favorite authors, who not only finds time to write her books/memoirs (who has that kind of memory?) and live a dynamic and interesting life, but she blogs regularly about said life and it's always funny and interesting.
I can barely find time to keep up with Fark.com, much less find the words to interest even myself. (and no Duckie, this isn't one of the blogs I promised).
I've been sick this past week, which would be a great excuse if I hadn't been silent for months. It's the first big illness I've had since the Nibblet was born. So I've been wretched and mean and snarky and flying off the handle at the slightest thing. Oh, you want dinner? Well, I hope your appetite survives after I've slammed every pan in the house and broken two plates. Oh, there are no clean clothes? Enjoy the ones I finally managed to do, because I'll be an awful bitch about folding them and then I won't even put them away, just leave them on the bed accusingly. Oh, you're going to be nice and forgiving and helpful? Good luck keeping that up as I snipe and moan and cough very pointedly in your direction.
Gods, I am terrible. I don't even know what I want, I just know that I don't have it. The worst part is that Indy has been an angel, even as he fights off the bubonic plague I'm trying to spread.
The Nibblet is showing her personality, and at eight months old she's already a better person than I am. On my worst day she would sympathy cough with me, curl up on the sofa while I stole naps, and I swear she's been reading to me instead of the other way around. Unfortunately she caught whatever I have (something about proximity between mother & child is fraught with shared germs). I don't know what we have, but we cough and snot and basically make each other miserable. I can't keep up with her schedule - is she hungry? tired? just sick? bored? She comes and pats my face while I cry at the hopelessness of it, and coos at me. At her worst she cries for comfort, and I barely provide it. Bad mother? I'm gonna go with yes.
Indy tries to fulfill desires that change more than Democrats. He cooks, he cleans, he takes care of the Nib, he gives me time to sleep or read or play WOW (what?). He hovers over me, and I curse. He leaves the room and I grouse. He couldn't win if he were George Bush. The fact that he sticks around and put up with me over and over again should prove something to those who doubted this relationship working. Or maybe they just knew me too well.
So I finally get an evening free to write and think deep thoughts, or at least wonder why the fuck Amy Winehouse doesn't fix her shit, and I spend it whinging. Hence the Argh.
Cross your fingers for me, because I do have things to say about the Landmark program, the movie Lions for Lambs, the worst part of being a parent, and the newsflash that I'm strongly certain about who I'm going to vote for in the primaries (I think).
Until another significant moment,
I had such grand intentions for this space. I know the internet is wide-open (at least for now) and that I can't really be wasting space, but I still feel like I am. I have so many things to say, but the procrastination and perfectionism get in the way.
I have a friend (at least I consider her a friend) who blogs deeply personal and powerful things. She writes of her inner struggle, her awakening and how it changes her and her life. To top it off it's intertwined with yoga that I can only pretend to dream of, much less imagine doing.
I read a blog by one of my favorite authors, who not only finds time to write her books/memoirs (who has that kind of memory?) and live a dynamic and interesting life, but she blogs regularly about said life and it's always funny and interesting.
I can barely find time to keep up with Fark.com, much less find the words to interest even myself. (and no Duckie, this isn't one of the blogs I promised).
I've been sick this past week, which would be a great excuse if I hadn't been silent for months. It's the first big illness I've had since the Nibblet was born. So I've been wretched and mean and snarky and flying off the handle at the slightest thing. Oh, you want dinner? Well, I hope your appetite survives after I've slammed every pan in the house and broken two plates. Oh, there are no clean clothes? Enjoy the ones I finally managed to do, because I'll be an awful bitch about folding them and then I won't even put them away, just leave them on the bed accusingly. Oh, you're going to be nice and forgiving and helpful? Good luck keeping that up as I snipe and moan and cough very pointedly in your direction.
Gods, I am terrible. I don't even know what I want, I just know that I don't have it. The worst part is that Indy has been an angel, even as he fights off the bubonic plague I'm trying to spread.
The Nibblet is showing her personality, and at eight months old she's already a better person than I am. On my worst day she would sympathy cough with me, curl up on the sofa while I stole naps, and I swear she's been reading to me instead of the other way around. Unfortunately she caught whatever I have (something about proximity between mother & child is fraught with shared germs). I don't know what we have, but we cough and snot and basically make each other miserable. I can't keep up with her schedule - is she hungry? tired? just sick? bored? She comes and pats my face while I cry at the hopelessness of it, and coos at me. At her worst she cries for comfort, and I barely provide it. Bad mother? I'm gonna go with yes.
Indy tries to fulfill desires that change more than Democrats. He cooks, he cleans, he takes care of the Nib, he gives me time to sleep or read or play WOW (what?). He hovers over me, and I curse. He leaves the room and I grouse. He couldn't win if he were George Bush. The fact that he sticks around and put up with me over and over again should prove something to those who doubted this relationship working. Or maybe they just knew me too well.
So I finally get an evening free to write and think deep thoughts, or at least wonder why the fuck Amy Winehouse doesn't fix her shit, and I spend it whinging. Hence the Argh.
Cross your fingers for me, because I do have things to say about the Landmark program, the movie Lions for Lambs, the worst part of being a parent, and the newsflash that I'm strongly certain about who I'm going to vote for in the primaries (I think).
Until another significant moment,
14 April 2008
Shallowness
maybe it's just me, but sometimes I think I would sell my soul for a pair of Manolo Blahniks and an opportunity to wear them.
or maybe it's just the spring fashion magazine in the NYTimes.
I don't wear nice clothes (desk job/8mo old), and I don't get out much (desk job pay/8mo old), and I'm not particularly fond of my body right now (hmm, desk job/8mo old), but I do so love to look at fashion and I have a dangerous obsession with high heels. they've always made me feel powerful and sexy.
plus looking at the skeletons the magazines consider beautiful cracks me up. colt legs, flat chests, concave bellies, no ass? this is attractive? plus it appears that junky chic is back in, along with huge glossy red lips. I have as many self-image problems as the next girl, but I've never wanted to look like the Olsen twins, who look like they've been mummified. I do miss the Greta Garbo's, Marilyn's, and Betty Page's - still thin, but with va-voom, if ya know what I mean (wink wink). women that I'd do if I did women.
so, the point I'm getting to is - am I the only shallow enough to considered shoes worth my soul? everyone has their price, right, but I'm starting to wonder if mine is too low . . . .
or maybe it's just the spring fashion magazine in the NYTimes.
I don't wear nice clothes (desk job/8mo old), and I don't get out much (desk job pay/8mo old), and I'm not particularly fond of my body right now (hmm, desk job/8mo old), but I do so love to look at fashion and I have a dangerous obsession with high heels. they've always made me feel powerful and sexy.
plus looking at the skeletons the magazines consider beautiful cracks me up. colt legs, flat chests, concave bellies, no ass? this is attractive? plus it appears that junky chic is back in, along with huge glossy red lips. I have as many self-image problems as the next girl, but I've never wanted to look like the Olsen twins, who look like they've been mummified. I do miss the Greta Garbo's, Marilyn's, and Betty Page's - still thin, but with va-voom, if ya know what I mean (wink wink). women that I'd do if I did women.
so, the point I'm getting to is - am I the only shallow enough to considered shoes worth my soul? everyone has their price, right, but I'm starting to wonder if mine is too low . . . .
03 April 2008
Bobby
I wish that I could meet or just talk to someone who was still interested in politics.
And I don't mean the shite they call politics today. A waste of time, a colossal waste of money, and essentially a waste of thought. I'll ask again, who really wants to be president for the next four years? Do the current candidates know what they face? Do they care? It's become a ridiculous farce of democracy and has degenerated into a popularity contest.
Did the Baby Boomers turn politics into high school? Maybe. It's all been downhill since Nixon. How did that man get elected? I don't know, and I'm not sure I could find someone who could tell me. Even the poli-sci professors seem confused on this point. Perhaps I could find a class that would explain what happened to politics, but I don't know if I have the stomach to really learn.
All I know is that I haven't been moved much by politics since, well, since ever. I was so interested in voting when I was underaged, but when I couldn't vote in 1992, those damned two months shy of my eighteenth, I stopped caring. Well, until Dumbass ran, but if anything it proved that votes don't actually count.
And what happened to the movements? What happened to civil rights? What happened to Americans caring more about Americans than about cash, cheap tabloid fame, or incentive checks? Yeah, I dream rose-colored dreams, but I know more than I care to. I see the inequality. I see the dearth of interest in bettering the people that surround us. I see the laziness, the apathy, the inconsiderate and prejudice biases.
Amazingly I still think politics could change that. That there is a way to have a government that actually is of and for the people. Who are those people? Admittedly a lot that I don't care to know. Perhaps it is a government of the people and I'm such a stranger in my own land that I would willing leave it. But it is all I know, and somewhere I am a patriot. Somewhere I think that it's worth saving. But as Eddie Izzard so perfectly pointed out, America is the modern Rome. And we can all see where that ended up. People on scooters.
I just wish I could talk to someone, seriously, about politics. Not about young black dude versus strident white woman versus old conservative veteran. None of them actually do much for me. I hate their petty arguments, their smiling back-stabbing, their pointless plans for war. I can't believe they are all so oblivious about the immigration issues (idiots). I want Chris Rock. I want Kevin Kline. I want this person who still remembers what real life is like. Someone who wipes their own ass. The first candidate who can look me straight in the eye and discuss two-ply against lotion-infused is probably gonna get my vote.
On a different note: did anyone know that Emelio Estavez wrote and directed "Bobby"? Wha?? I missed that issue of People magazine. Good on ya, Em.
And I don't mean the shite they call politics today. A waste of time, a colossal waste of money, and essentially a waste of thought. I'll ask again, who really wants to be president for the next four years? Do the current candidates know what they face? Do they care? It's become a ridiculous farce of democracy and has degenerated into a popularity contest.
Did the Baby Boomers turn politics into high school? Maybe. It's all been downhill since Nixon. How did that man get elected? I don't know, and I'm not sure I could find someone who could tell me. Even the poli-sci professors seem confused on this point. Perhaps I could find a class that would explain what happened to politics, but I don't know if I have the stomach to really learn.
All I know is that I haven't been moved much by politics since, well, since ever. I was so interested in voting when I was underaged, but when I couldn't vote in 1992, those damned two months shy of my eighteenth, I stopped caring. Well, until Dumbass ran, but if anything it proved that votes don't actually count.
And what happened to the movements? What happened to civil rights? What happened to Americans caring more about Americans than about cash, cheap tabloid fame, or incentive checks? Yeah, I dream rose-colored dreams, but I know more than I care to. I see the inequality. I see the dearth of interest in bettering the people that surround us. I see the laziness, the apathy, the inconsiderate and prejudice biases.
Amazingly I still think politics could change that. That there is a way to have a government that actually is of and for the people. Who are those people? Admittedly a lot that I don't care to know. Perhaps it is a government of the people and I'm such a stranger in my own land that I would willing leave it. But it is all I know, and somewhere I am a patriot. Somewhere I think that it's worth saving. But as Eddie Izzard so perfectly pointed out, America is the modern Rome. And we can all see where that ended up. People on scooters.
I just wish I could talk to someone, seriously, about politics. Not about young black dude versus strident white woman versus old conservative veteran. None of them actually do much for me. I hate their petty arguments, their smiling back-stabbing, their pointless plans for war. I can't believe they are all so oblivious about the immigration issues (idiots). I want Chris Rock. I want Kevin Kline. I want this person who still remembers what real life is like. Someone who wipes their own ass. The first candidate who can look me straight in the eye and discuss two-ply against lotion-infused is probably gonna get my vote.
On a different note: did anyone know that Emelio Estavez wrote and directed "Bobby"? Wha?? I missed that issue of People magazine. Good on ya, Em.
26 December 2007
In Sickness and in Snot
I'm not a real holiday person. Add to the general stress (let's just say the shopping fairy passed me by) of family, food, and guilt, the fact that I have an entirely NEW family and you could guess that I am not really in my element this year.
So with the new kid came the renewal of my long ago relationship with Indy. There are a ton of new relatives (grandma's and uncles and aunts, oh my). The cards will be late (estimated arrival time . . . . May 2009). The gifts were few (we're poor, plus we just went to Florida). (What? We had to go to a wedding. All our money was spent on gas and hotels. It's not like we had fun or anything.) We squeaked by paying rent and the bills (whew). We've been eating ramen and toast for three days now. And to make it a real holiday . . . all three of us are sick. And the cat just sneezed on my leg.
I don't like being sick. Well, who does, I know, I know, but I really don't like it. I want to be lazy on my schedule, not because my weak old fat body decided to shut down. And I have less failure alarms than Chernobyl. I'm coasting along, sorry for Indy and the Nibblet, who had both started being snuffly and grumpy on Thursday, zooming around the house trying to clean up and prep for our meager holiday. I spent our last $40 on stocking stuffers, made the treats to give to all our friends, and even managed to get some work done. Then came Sunday.
Today has been the worst actually. I think I cried in my sleep last night from sinus pain. And why am I such a wuss now? I think the epidural completely spoiled me. Now I can't take any pain without whimpering and looking for the anesthesiologists. Yesterday the entire clan had the smoky deep radio voices, which made for a very Barry White Christmas. Today the Nibblet has no voice and just squeaks like a dolphin. It's cute and heartbreaking at the same time. I'm red-nosed, sniffly, and liable to snap. I did manage to do the laundry, change the bedding, do all the dishes, and work for four hours, but the rest of the day has been an endless "oh-my-head-my-nose-my-throat-waah-wah-waaaah".
Except it sounded like "om-by-heb-by-noths-by-troak-
waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah-waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah-
waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah"
So, anyway. Being sick (and messing around on Myspace and finding a long lost) reminded me of something a friend said to me that was pretty profound. He said, "Live your life as if you are sick."
Well, I say friend, but he was really more of a coworker. A Buddhist monk. A 19-year-old Buddhist monk. With full sleeves. And dreadlocks. And ginormous holes in his ears. Who drank like a . . . werl, actually like the rest of us. Weird.
But to the point. He meant eat like you do when your sick or getting over being sick. Healthy foods. And to be moderate with alcohol and sweets. Not to smoke or stay up ridiculously late. To get plenty of rest and take care of your body. To spend equal time working and resting.
I'm a huge proponent of moderation (at least in thought, ahem). And living as though I was conscious of my health and well-being is a fantastic idea.
I only bring it up so that . . . werl, so I can be mocked later I suppose. What I really want, being a tv-child and demanding instant gratification from the world, is a pill that increases my determination and focus. Something that will make me exercise, find time to eat right, chill out a bit every day, and maybe even use the new things I learn. While I am one of the great procrastinators, I do get things done. Just not personal things. Or healthy things.
I have to hand it to Indy. He's totally unfazed by my new horrendousness. About every three hours I have been apologizing for leaving him with the Nibblet or yelling at the dishes or grousing about my face, blah blah blah. He laughs it off and goes back to WOW. Just another damned wonderful aspect of his personality I'll never live up to.
Time for more resting. I've discovered the joys of 30 Rock (damn you, Duckie) - so if you need me I'll be prone on the sofa, clutching my box of tissues and laughing hoarsely. But if you persist in bugging me, I'll cough on you.
So with the new kid came the renewal of my long ago relationship with Indy. There are a ton of new relatives (grandma's and uncles and aunts, oh my). The cards will be late (estimated arrival time . . . . May 2009). The gifts were few (we're poor, plus we just went to Florida). (What? We had to go to a wedding. All our money was spent on gas and hotels. It's not like we had fun or anything.) We squeaked by paying rent and the bills (whew). We've been eating ramen and toast for three days now. And to make it a real holiday . . . all three of us are sick. And the cat just sneezed on my leg.
I don't like being sick. Well, who does, I know, I know, but I really don't like it. I want to be lazy on my schedule, not because my weak old fat body decided to shut down. And I have less failure alarms than Chernobyl. I'm coasting along, sorry for Indy and the Nibblet, who had both started being snuffly and grumpy on Thursday, zooming around the house trying to clean up and prep for our meager holiday. I spent our last $40 on stocking stuffers, made the treats to give to all our friends, and even managed to get some work done. Then came Sunday.
Today has been the worst actually. I think I cried in my sleep last night from sinus pain. And why am I such a wuss now? I think the epidural completely spoiled me. Now I can't take any pain without whimpering and looking for the anesthesiologists. Yesterday the entire clan had the smoky deep radio voices, which made for a very Barry White Christmas. Today the Nibblet has no voice and just squeaks like a dolphin. It's cute and heartbreaking at the same time. I'm red-nosed, sniffly, and liable to snap. I did manage to do the laundry, change the bedding, do all the dishes, and work for four hours, but the rest of the day has been an endless "oh-my-head-my-nose-my-throat-waah-wah-waaaah".
Except it sounded like "om-by-heb-by-noths-by-troak-
waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah-waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah-
waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah"
So, anyway. Being sick (and messing around on Myspace and finding a long lost) reminded me of something a friend said to me that was pretty profound. He said, "Live your life as if you are sick."
Well, I say friend, but he was really more of a coworker. A Buddhist monk. A 19-year-old Buddhist monk. With full sleeves. And dreadlocks. And ginormous holes in his ears. Who drank like a . . . werl, actually like the rest of us. Weird.
But to the point. He meant eat like you do when your sick or getting over being sick. Healthy foods. And to be moderate with alcohol and sweets. Not to smoke or stay up ridiculously late. To get plenty of rest and take care of your body. To spend equal time working and resting.
I'm a huge proponent of moderation (at least in thought, ahem). And living as though I was conscious of my health and well-being is a fantastic idea.
I only bring it up so that . . . werl, so I can be mocked later I suppose. What I really want, being a tv-child and demanding instant gratification from the world, is a pill that increases my determination and focus. Something that will make me exercise, find time to eat right, chill out a bit every day, and maybe even use the new things I learn. While I am one of the great procrastinators, I do get things done. Just not personal things. Or healthy things.
I have to hand it to Indy. He's totally unfazed by my new horrendousness. About every three hours I have been apologizing for leaving him with the Nibblet or yelling at the dishes or grousing about my face, blah blah blah. He laughs it off and goes back to WOW. Just another damned wonderful aspect of his personality I'll never live up to.
Time for more resting. I've discovered the joys of 30 Rock (damn you, Duckie) - so if you need me I'll be prone on the sofa, clutching my box of tissues and laughing hoarsely. But if you persist in bugging me, I'll cough on you.
09 December 2007
Sunday Morning
The Scene: I'm doing dishes, Indy is putting away mushed up green beans, Nibblet is bouncing and full of green bean mush.
The topic of conversation is cranberry "sauce".
Me: So do you like the canned cranberries?
Indy: I prefer to make attack cranberries.
Me: Do you put the orange shit in them and that?
Indy: No, cause if I wanted an orange, I'd eat a frickin' orange. But we've had this discussion before, when you tried to mix something and orange.
{So long ago I was making candied orange peel to dip in bittersweet expensive chocolate for him. Bastard}
Me: I was really proud of that achievement. This is why I don't make you sweet stuff.
Indy: Just cause I like my flavors separate.
Me: Bigot.
Indy: Those flavors should know their place.
The topic of conversation is cranberry "sauce".
Me: So do you like the canned cranberries?
Indy: I prefer to make attack cranberries.
Me: Do you put the orange shit in them and that?
Indy: No, cause if I wanted an orange, I'd eat a frickin' orange. But we've had this discussion before, when you tried to mix something and orange.
{So long ago I was making candied orange peel to dip in bittersweet expensive chocolate for him. Bastard}
Me: I was really proud of that achievement. This is why I don't make you sweet stuff.
Indy: Just cause I like my flavors separate.
Me: Bigot.
Indy: Those flavors should know their place.
Saturday Night
The scene: Grocery shopping. Canned vegetable aisle. I'm looking at dried beans, Indy is pushing the cart, the Nibblet is making strangers coo because of her Santa hat.
Indy (to Nibblet): We should feed you black-eyed peas.
Me: Why?
Indy (to Nibblet): So you'll be just like your mom.
Me: What? How am I like black-eyed . . . oh, never mind.
Indy: Bwa ha ha
Indy (to Nibblet): We should feed you black-eyed peas.
Me: Why?
Indy (to Nibblet): So you'll be just like your mom.
Me: What? How am I like black-eyed . . . oh, never mind.
Indy: Bwa ha ha
18 November 2007
Sorry Sophist
I am having a terrible conundrum.
recently, to my general shame, I had to visit a Wal-Mart. I needed new contacts desperately, and their eye exams are, well, cheap. anyway, since having the kid my hips have decided to stop fitting into boy jeans, so I ended up looking at pants too. I had tried the Gap, Target, various thrift stores and a department store that shall remain unnamed (because I can't remember which one it was). none of those stores had anything that wasn't either size 0 or made for grandma's. and no offense, but I'm still under the impression that I'm sorta cool, and I'm a long way from buckling under the pressure to wear pleats. regardless (that's for you Duckie) I ended up buying four pair of pants that are kinda cool, and I don't feel like a mom in them.
normally I would never admit to this. I mean, Wal-Mart is an evil empire kinda store - they destroy local businesses, treat their employees poorly (if ever there was a place that needed a union), and over 70% of their stuff is manufactured in China, so they've drastically reduced employment opportunities in this country.
and then came Friday's Marketplace on NPR. during a special on American business and sustainability they interviewed Wal-Mart's president Lee Scott. and I heard terrible things.
Mr. Scott has some big ideas about sustainability and helping the environment. it goes along with saving money for the company, and of course, in his ideal world people would make one trip to Wal-Mart for all their needs - grocery, household, clothing, medical, etc etc. Wal-Mart just put out an advert talking about compact florescent light bulbs - how they save money and energy. it's what caught my attention, since I work with light geeks. one of these light bulbs can save a person $36 (in a year), but as the advert says, if every Wal-Mart customer bought ONE bulb it would be like taking one million cars off the road. because there are 180 million Wal-Mart shoppers. that's a third of the US population. then they played a clip of Mr. Scott at a company pep rally saying that Wal-Mart would sell 100 million energy efficient compact light bulbs this year. those are some amazing numbers.
add to this the fact that Wal-Mart is the largest private employer in the world, and that 600,000 of its employees have taken a personal sustainability pledge, not only for work but at home, and that they are encouraging their family and friends to also think about waste, energy, and the environment. is the Green party going to get in on this?
in October 2005 Wal-Mart started a sustainability initiative that includes SPENDING $500 million a year to meet some awfully quick goals. for example, within three years (meaning by the end of next year) they plan to have increased the fuel efficiency of their trucks by 25%, reduce store energy use by 30%, and to cut solid waste by 25%. it's better than the fucking Kyoto Protocol, and it's working.
Wal-Mart spent a year with outside consultants working out how they affect the economy and environment. they actual took this information and started doing something about it. they installed motion-detection lighting systems. they're pushing their vendors (all 60,000 of them) to reduce packaging, to meet the goal of a 5% decrease. this small decrease will amount to 213,000 trucks off the roads and save 67 million gallons of diesel fuel . . . a year. they're even investigating the idea of converting trucks to alternative fuels that will run the Detroit to D.C. delivery routes.
so, I'm thinking, huh. look at this evil global company doing something good. encouraging not only their employees but their vendors to get involved. setting goals and achieving them. Wal-Mart is a company that makes money, they REALLY make money, and they don't have to answer to lobbyists or pork-farmers. they don't have to worry about re-election either. so when they set out to do something for the environment it gets done. and they continue to make money. the car companies aren't doing this. the electric companies aren't doing this. I'm not even doing it.
shit. Wal-Mart is turning out to be better for the environment than I am.
I still feel slightly dirty for shopping there.
oh, and three little tidbits to chew on:
1 - Wal-Mart is the biggest seller of organic milk and cotton . . . in the world
2 - remember that a third of the population shops there? well, a 2004 poll of Wal-Mart shoppers showed that 76% were going to vote for Dumbass.
3 - and for you Hillary people - she was on the Board of Directors from 1985-1992.
recently, to my general shame, I had to visit a Wal-Mart. I needed new contacts desperately, and their eye exams are, well, cheap. anyway, since having the kid my hips have decided to stop fitting into boy jeans, so I ended up looking at pants too. I had tried the Gap, Target, various thrift stores and a department store that shall remain unnamed (because I can't remember which one it was). none of those stores had anything that wasn't either size 0 or made for grandma's. and no offense, but I'm still under the impression that I'm sorta cool, and I'm a long way from buckling under the pressure to wear pleats. regardless (that's for you Duckie) I ended up buying four pair of pants that are kinda cool, and I don't feel like a mom in them.
normally I would never admit to this. I mean, Wal-Mart is an evil empire kinda store - they destroy local businesses, treat their employees poorly (if ever there was a place that needed a union), and over 70% of their stuff is manufactured in China, so they've drastically reduced employment opportunities in this country.
and then came Friday's Marketplace on NPR. during a special on American business and sustainability they interviewed Wal-Mart's president Lee Scott. and I heard terrible things.
Mr. Scott has some big ideas about sustainability and helping the environment. it goes along with saving money for the company, and of course, in his ideal world people would make one trip to Wal-Mart for all their needs - grocery, household, clothing, medical, etc etc. Wal-Mart just put out an advert talking about compact florescent light bulbs - how they save money and energy. it's what caught my attention, since I work with light geeks. one of these light bulbs can save a person $36 (in a year), but as the advert says, if every Wal-Mart customer bought ONE bulb it would be like taking one million cars off the road. because there are 180 million Wal-Mart shoppers. that's a third of the US population. then they played a clip of Mr. Scott at a company pep rally saying that Wal-Mart would sell 100 million energy efficient compact light bulbs this year. those are some amazing numbers.
add to this the fact that Wal-Mart is the largest private employer in the world, and that 600,000 of its employees have taken a personal sustainability pledge, not only for work but at home, and that they are encouraging their family and friends to also think about waste, energy, and the environment. is the Green party going to get in on this?
in October 2005 Wal-Mart started a sustainability initiative that includes SPENDING $500 million a year to meet some awfully quick goals. for example, within three years (meaning by the end of next year) they plan to have increased the fuel efficiency of their trucks by 25%, reduce store energy use by 30%, and to cut solid waste by 25%. it's better than the fucking Kyoto Protocol, and it's working.
Wal-Mart spent a year with outside consultants working out how they affect the economy and environment. they actual took this information and started doing something about it. they installed motion-detection lighting systems. they're pushing their vendors (all 60,000 of them) to reduce packaging, to meet the goal of a 5% decrease. this small decrease will amount to 213,000 trucks off the roads and save 67 million gallons of diesel fuel . . . a year. they're even investigating the idea of converting trucks to alternative fuels that will run the Detroit to D.C. delivery routes.
so, I'm thinking, huh. look at this evil global company doing something good. encouraging not only their employees but their vendors to get involved. setting goals and achieving them. Wal-Mart is a company that makes money, they REALLY make money, and they don't have to answer to lobbyists or pork-farmers. they don't have to worry about re-election either. so when they set out to do something for the environment it gets done. and they continue to make money. the car companies aren't doing this. the electric companies aren't doing this. I'm not even doing it.
shit. Wal-Mart is turning out to be better for the environment than I am.
I still feel slightly dirty for shopping there.
oh, and three little tidbits to chew on:
1 - Wal-Mart is the biggest seller of organic milk and cotton . . . in the world
2 - remember that a third of the population shops there? well, a 2004 poll of Wal-Mart shoppers showed that 76% were going to vote for Dumbass.
3 - and for you Hillary people - she was on the Board of Directors from 1985-1992.
16 November 2007
I Heart Mike
todays rant: politics, part 1 of . . . many
can we all just admit that the 2008 winner is screwed?
if ever there was a position for scapegoat this is it. it is astonishing that so many people, both Republican and Democrat, are attempting to gain office. I have to wonder what they want it for. because none of them are going to "fix" America in four years. that dumbass in office now has done his best to make the history books, even if only as the most destructive president ever.
The President That Made America A Third World Country.
well, Dumbass may get that title, but it will probably go to the next president. who has to satisfy a grouchy electorate, fix the economy, deal with the stupidest war since, um, well it probably wins that title actually. plus we have all the issues that are distracting the world - health care, the environment, immigration, gay rights. where education, the veterans, and crime went I don't know. not to mention a foreign policy that doesn't include killing off everyone who steps outside in the Middle East.
there is still a year left before the election, there are debates every week, and if you love celebrity trash and People magazine this is your time. revel in it, because as it goes on I bet we'll start missing Britney and Bradjolina and whoever flashed their coochie this week. I think I'd already miss them, if I weren't so busy trying to pay bills, be a decent mother, and stay awake long enough to see the sunset. and if that were my thing, ahem.
honestly, I don't care what Hillary wears to the debate. I don't care if Romney is a switch-hitter (for gays, against gays, whatever, I'M not voting for him). once again the Democrats are attacking each other, instead of issues or Republicans. at least the Republicans attack each other subtly, instead of in debates. which is probably why they'll win again. Republicans seem to see the big pictures, which is winning the White House, as opposed to the Dems, who want to win, but nicely. so naive.
and I don't care who voted for the war, or tax breaks, or the Kyoto Protocol. I want to know what is in the future, not the past. it never bothered me that Kerry changed his mind. the problem with Dumbass is that he flips a coin to make decisions and then sticks to it. win the war in Iraq? can we agree that this is not going to happen? No Child Left Behind? can we agree that it's Most-Children-Left-On-The-Side?
for the sake of the gods, Schwarzenegger is doing a better job in government.
what frightens me the most is that people still think the president is more than a talking head. it seems to me that Congress and Chaney are the ones in charge. granted we have a pussy Congress right now, but you never know. health care is not going to get sorted out because someone has "a plan". social security and medicare/medicaid are not going to be solved by ignoring them. the economy isn't going to change until the middle class is reestablished. the Middle East? there is no solution that America can offer, it has to come from the people who live there.
and while all this is going on we're ignoring a real live genocide happening all across our tv screens and newspapers. Congress seems more concerned about an Armenian genocide that happened 95 years ago. of course, it is much safer to be irate about something in the past (hence the current political debates) than it is to stand up in front of a gun today.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
right now I'm all about Mike Gravel. he's an old curmudgeon who can actually debate without bringing up hairstyles. he's almost as grouchy as I am, has ideas that might actually squeak through Congress, and is pretty clear-eyed about how fucked up American politics are. granted there's the whole Groucho Marx thing - about not wanting to join any club that will have me. it's hard to trust any politician. none of them are all that willing to discuss how useless they really are. but that's beside the point.
I'm not going to sell Gravel. he's an unknown, and can't even get into the debates. which sucks. you can go check him out at www.gravel2008.us - although it's a pretty sad sight (and site). Ralph Nader writes the intro piece to "Meet Mike Gravel". I'm just waiting for Howard Dean to endorse him. The proverbial nail in the coffin, you understand.
still, I like the old dude. he's got more passion for politics than the rest of the Democrats. Gravel is more interested in government than popularity. and, personally, I think this is the way to go with politics. find the fucker that best represents you and vote for him because he thinks like you, not because he kissed your baby or ate your chili.
and, for the love of the gods, vote, ya big babies. it may make it a little bit more difficult to expatriate, but at least you can fall back on the "Hey, I voted for Nader" when they question you about your patriotism.
Coming Soon: the old cat explains the difference between democracy and republic, and starts throwing things at the electoral college
can we all just admit that the 2008 winner is screwed?
if ever there was a position for scapegoat this is it. it is astonishing that so many people, both Republican and Democrat, are attempting to gain office. I have to wonder what they want it for. because none of them are going to "fix" America in four years. that dumbass in office now has done his best to make the history books, even if only as the most destructive president ever.
The President That Made America A Third World Country.
well, Dumbass may get that title, but it will probably go to the next president. who has to satisfy a grouchy electorate, fix the economy, deal with the stupidest war since, um, well it probably wins that title actually. plus we have all the issues that are distracting the world - health care, the environment, immigration, gay rights. where education, the veterans, and crime went I don't know. not to mention a foreign policy that doesn't include killing off everyone who steps outside in the Middle East.
there is still a year left before the election, there are debates every week, and if you love celebrity trash and People magazine this is your time. revel in it, because as it goes on I bet we'll start missing Britney and Bradjolina and whoever flashed their coochie this week. I think I'd already miss them, if I weren't so busy trying to pay bills, be a decent mother, and stay awake long enough to see the sunset. and if that were my thing, ahem.
honestly, I don't care what Hillary wears to the debate. I don't care if Romney is a switch-hitter (for gays, against gays, whatever, I'M not voting for him). once again the Democrats are attacking each other, instead of issues or Republicans. at least the Republicans attack each other subtly, instead of in debates. which is probably why they'll win again. Republicans seem to see the big pictures, which is winning the White House, as opposed to the Dems, who want to win, but nicely. so naive.
and I don't care who voted for the war, or tax breaks, or the Kyoto Protocol. I want to know what is in the future, not the past. it never bothered me that Kerry changed his mind. the problem with Dumbass is that he flips a coin to make decisions and then sticks to it. win the war in Iraq? can we agree that this is not going to happen? No Child Left Behind? can we agree that it's Most-Children-Left-On-The-Side?
for the sake of the gods, Schwarzenegger is doing a better job in government.
what frightens me the most is that people still think the president is more than a talking head. it seems to me that Congress and Chaney are the ones in charge. granted we have a pussy Congress right now, but you never know. health care is not going to get sorted out because someone has "a plan". social security and medicare/medicaid are not going to be solved by ignoring them. the economy isn't going to change until the middle class is reestablished. the Middle East? there is no solution that America can offer, it has to come from the people who live there.
and while all this is going on we're ignoring a real live genocide happening all across our tv screens and newspapers. Congress seems more concerned about an Armenian genocide that happened 95 years ago. of course, it is much safer to be irate about something in the past (hence the current political debates) than it is to stand up in front of a gun today.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
right now I'm all about Mike Gravel. he's an old curmudgeon who can actually debate without bringing up hairstyles. he's almost as grouchy as I am, has ideas that might actually squeak through Congress, and is pretty clear-eyed about how fucked up American politics are. granted there's the whole Groucho Marx thing - about not wanting to join any club that will have me. it's hard to trust any politician. none of them are all that willing to discuss how useless they really are. but that's beside the point.
I'm not going to sell Gravel. he's an unknown, and can't even get into the debates. which sucks. you can go check him out at www.gravel2008.us - although it's a pretty sad sight (and site). Ralph Nader writes the intro piece to "Meet Mike Gravel". I'm just waiting for Howard Dean to endorse him. The proverbial nail in the coffin, you understand.
still, I like the old dude. he's got more passion for politics than the rest of the Democrats. Gravel is more interested in government than popularity. and, personally, I think this is the way to go with politics. find the fucker that best represents you and vote for him because he thinks like you, not because he kissed your baby or ate your chili.
and, for the love of the gods, vote, ya big babies. it may make it a little bit more difficult to expatriate, but at least you can fall back on the "Hey, I voted for Nader" when they question you about your patriotism.
Coming Soon: the old cat explains the difference between democracy and republic, and starts throwing things at the electoral college
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