A completely unsurprizing bit, from me, painfully edited.
Umbillicus
Sunday, May 14, 2006
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Cards
My family played cards, a lot. Euchre, Rummy, 500, Pedro, the quartet games, bidding and dealing, suits, partners and trumps, no betting. Rummy was played with a big old Oatmeal box filled with rubber washers, parceled out and collected back in at the end of the evening. As soon as I was old enough to play adequately, I was expected to join in.
Mostly, I actually enjoyed getting good at these games of strategy and luck, judgement and cooperation. I knew the rules. Stories of amazing hands, daring wins or ridiculous failures, were de rigeur. And if I kept my ears open, I heard hints of family secrets.
I was compared to my older brothers a lot. Not in the sense of "Why aren't you more like Dave?" More in the sense of "You have that same silly laugh, like when Dave is really touched." Or, "You sounded just like Bill when you said that." At home, this came from my mother. In the card evenings, aunts, uncles and granny would play this on me as well. How much I looked like one or the other, or was smart or funny like them. I took this all in with intense curiosity, and a bit of pride, because I adored those two boys, even as they baffled and frustrated me. I clamored for their attention, and sometimes got it. After they moved out and away, while I was still very young, I fantasized about them coming back to take me out of that house, out of school, out of my increasingly oppressive life, and enforced card games.When I was tired and didn't feel like dealing with adults, I had a habit of throwing games, although it would be thrown back at me if I was caught - and the excoriation would start in the car on the way home. That's when I heard from my father about how I was selfish like them, thoughtless and ungrateful. How he knew I would hate him, too, and treat him like crap, like they did.
The comparisons continued, and both compliments and condemnations were phrased in the form of a genetics proof. My mother would make a point of telling me how much I really was like my father, which was both why we should, and why we didn't get along. My father would fail to insult me by comparing me to my beloved aunt. The game became a bad habit, joyless and pointless, but hard to stop playing. I reacted against being like the father I so hated, but I could also see the faults of the family members I loved. I was fascinated with and repelled by the genetics I was dealt, and pondered what I got from whom and how.
I have come to accept that I am a lot of my father. I scrounge, nothing makes me happier than finding a perfectly good lamp/tv stand/chair in the recycle room. He loved to walk the alley and find bits of board that might be useful someday. I have his temper, although I train mine like a strong dog, to be safe around children. I have his black going grey hair, and I dye mine like he did. But I do not hide that I dye it, nor am I embarrassed to admit as much. I can lie straight faced, but only when necessary, to protect. Not just for the hell of it, as he would say he had a cold if he needed to skip something because he had a headache - puzzling lies that covered perfectly good excuses. I get his migraines, and his tendency to depression and despair.
My cousin, who I have recently gotten to know because I live near her for the first time, is an unexpected connection. I feel a similarity, a resonance, in her. I do look like my brothers. But I am also very like my friends, who share stunning similarities with me. D in particular. So much so that one of his friends asked, after first meeting me, him how he'd "Found a Female D****?" I remind new cow-orkers of other people that they know. So?
I am myself. I am all of the DNA gathered in my cells, the people who taught me and tested me, the hand I was dealt. And I am the unique game that I play out with those around me. I pour myself out and make my wager every day, and gather myself back in, to try again tomorrow. I avoid cheaters, but when I have no choice, I play as well as I can.
I still have a soft spot for Jokers.
Mostly, I actually enjoyed getting good at these games of strategy and luck, judgement and cooperation. I knew the rules. Stories of amazing hands, daring wins or ridiculous failures, were de rigeur. And if I kept my ears open, I heard hints of family secrets.
I was compared to my older brothers a lot. Not in the sense of "Why aren't you more like Dave?" More in the sense of "You have that same silly laugh, like when Dave is really touched." Or, "You sounded just like Bill when you said that." At home, this came from my mother. In the card evenings, aunts, uncles and granny would play this on me as well. How much I looked like one or the other, or was smart or funny like them. I took this all in with intense curiosity, and a bit of pride, because I adored those two boys, even as they baffled and frustrated me. I clamored for their attention, and sometimes got it. After they moved out and away, while I was still very young, I fantasized about them coming back to take me out of that house, out of school, out of my increasingly oppressive life, and enforced card games.When I was tired and didn't feel like dealing with adults, I had a habit of throwing games, although it would be thrown back at me if I was caught - and the excoriation would start in the car on the way home. That's when I heard from my father about how I was selfish like them, thoughtless and ungrateful. How he knew I would hate him, too, and treat him like crap, like they did.
The comparisons continued, and both compliments and condemnations were phrased in the form of a genetics proof. My mother would make a point of telling me how much I really was like my father, which was both why we should, and why we didn't get along. My father would fail to insult me by comparing me to my beloved aunt. The game became a bad habit, joyless and pointless, but hard to stop playing. I reacted against being like the father I so hated, but I could also see the faults of the family members I loved. I was fascinated with and repelled by the genetics I was dealt, and pondered what I got from whom and how.
I have come to accept that I am a lot of my father. I scrounge, nothing makes me happier than finding a perfectly good lamp/tv stand/chair in the recycle room. He loved to walk the alley and find bits of board that might be useful someday. I have his temper, although I train mine like a strong dog, to be safe around children. I have his black going grey hair, and I dye mine like he did. But I do not hide that I dye it, nor am I embarrassed to admit as much. I can lie straight faced, but only when necessary, to protect. Not just for the hell of it, as he would say he had a cold if he needed to skip something because he had a headache - puzzling lies that covered perfectly good excuses. I get his migraines, and his tendency to depression and despair.
My cousin, who I have recently gotten to know because I live near her for the first time, is an unexpected connection. I feel a similarity, a resonance, in her. I do look like my brothers. But I am also very like my friends, who share stunning similarities with me. D in particular. So much so that one of his friends asked, after first meeting me, him how he'd "Found a Female D****?" I remind new cow-orkers of other people that they know. So?
I am myself. I am all of the DNA gathered in my cells, the people who taught me and tested me, the hand I was dealt. And I am the unique game that I play out with those around me. I pour myself out and make my wager every day, and gather myself back in, to try again tomorrow. I avoid cheaters, but when I have no choice, I play as well as I can.
I still have a soft spot for Jokers.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Move
I had my own room, the only girl, the last child by 9 years. It was converted from a bathroom. When my brothers moved out, I got their room, and stuffed it with my brother's left behinds, which I treasured. I went through phases of collecting, like TV Guide covers. Eventually outgrowing and purging the crap. I never kept old school projects, with the sole exception of a paper mache whale. My 'own room' was an assumed essential quality of life.
I moved from my parent's house to Kalkaska for four months, a job, a failure. Back to their house until I reclaimed my scholarship and found an apartment to live near school, bad roommates and all. Still beat living under rigid long outgrown rules. Then another crappy apartment, other bad roommates. Then an apartment with the not-yet-ex. A move across the country. A move to a rented house while I was away in training. I voiced no opinion since I expected to move out first.
When I escaped from the ex, a medium box of childhood stuff and my Army gear was about all I had. Some clothes, not that I had much at that point. A single futon frame and a foam mat. I lived in friends' basement room for the two weeks it took me to find an apartment. The new place was bare, and I had my small piles stacked around the edges. Within two months, I would be back to two duffle bags and shifting at the whim of the US government.
I have moved more times than I can count. The long painful process of picking through and discarding or packing everything I own has been a constant theme of my life. Accumulating and thinning, examining and starting all over.
I could put in one medium box items I have had since childhood. High school yearbooks, (3), Raggedy Ann, a small decorative chest - a gift from my brother. A few small odds, mostly in those drawers of the sort : "That may be useful, so I will keep it." Most of my Christmas ornaments - which belonged to parents, grandparents, and elderly neighbors who gave them to the only family in the street with children, when they were no longer interested in putting up a tree. I wound up with most of the survivors. Adding a number of my own over the years.
D went through a similar series, from parents house to crap apartments with varying degrees of tolerable roommates. Then a room in a rooming house where he was afraid to actually sleep. I proposed, he said no. Although he wanted to spend his life with me, he was not keen on the wedding thing. So, he moved in, and the place filled with stuff, and we adjusted. It took time, and a yes, a very tiny wedding. I yearned for my own room, still. Another move to a new, huge apartment, several guests would visit in the back bedroom, and second bathroom. It was a shiny new place, badly built, with "issues." We had medical bills, we moved to an older, cheaper, and (not obviously) better place.
We lived in that well maintained, cozy two bedroom apartment for five years, then moved across country, shedding crap at an amazing rate. Then a large one bedroom for a year, a benefit of the traveling agency, accumulating items for useful reasons. Only to take a studio for solid financial and quality of life issues, and paring down again. Only to find out it was going condo, and at luxury prices. A third move in three years, and I have lost the ability to actually feel the annoyance, though it is there. Still, a better location, better rent, an actual bedroom again.
Somewhere along the journey, I stopped missing having my own room. Our lives slide along together, I do not need the space, because I am given privacy, without asking. We do not need more stuff, because we have each other.
Anyone need a glass lemon juicer?
I moved from my parent's house to Kalkaska for four months, a job, a failure. Back to their house until I reclaimed my scholarship and found an apartment to live near school, bad roommates and all. Still beat living under rigid long outgrown rules. Then another crappy apartment, other bad roommates. Then an apartment with the not-yet-ex. A move across the country. A move to a rented house while I was away in training. I voiced no opinion since I expected to move out first.
When I escaped from the ex, a medium box of childhood stuff and my Army gear was about all I had. Some clothes, not that I had much at that point. A single futon frame and a foam mat. I lived in friends' basement room for the two weeks it took me to find an apartment. The new place was bare, and I had my small piles stacked around the edges. Within two months, I would be back to two duffle bags and shifting at the whim of the US government.
I have moved more times than I can count. The long painful process of picking through and discarding or packing everything I own has been a constant theme of my life. Accumulating and thinning, examining and starting all over.
I could put in one medium box items I have had since childhood. High school yearbooks, (3), Raggedy Ann, a small decorative chest - a gift from my brother. A few small odds, mostly in those drawers of the sort : "That may be useful, so I will keep it." Most of my Christmas ornaments - which belonged to parents, grandparents, and elderly neighbors who gave them to the only family in the street with children, when they were no longer interested in putting up a tree. I wound up with most of the survivors. Adding a number of my own over the years.
D went through a similar series, from parents house to crap apartments with varying degrees of tolerable roommates. Then a room in a rooming house where he was afraid to actually sleep. I proposed, he said no. Although he wanted to spend his life with me, he was not keen on the wedding thing. So, he moved in, and the place filled with stuff, and we adjusted. It took time, and a yes, a very tiny wedding. I yearned for my own room, still. Another move to a new, huge apartment, several guests would visit in the back bedroom, and second bathroom. It was a shiny new place, badly built, with "issues." We had medical bills, we moved to an older, cheaper, and (not obviously) better place.
We lived in that well maintained, cozy two bedroom apartment for five years, then moved across country, shedding crap at an amazing rate. Then a large one bedroom for a year, a benefit of the traveling agency, accumulating items for useful reasons. Only to take a studio for solid financial and quality of life issues, and paring down again. Only to find out it was going condo, and at luxury prices. A third move in three years, and I have lost the ability to actually feel the annoyance, though it is there. Still, a better location, better rent, an actual bedroom again.
Somewhere along the journey, I stopped missing having my own room. Our lives slide along together, I do not need the space, because I am given privacy, without asking. We do not need more stuff, because we have each other.
Anyone need a glass lemon juicer?
Saturday, May 06, 2006
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Satire
I cannot make this a political site, I just can't.
But, please, if you feel that being liberal minded is an honorable position, and that many frightening actions are happening at the upper levels, thank Stephen.
But, please, if you feel that being liberal minded is an honorable position, and that many frightening actions are happening at the upper levels, thank Stephen.
Window (Photo)
Of course, he is not allowed in the kitchen window, since to get there he must paw the sink and counter. Still. Aw.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Dream
My essays have dried up, temporarily. They are lurking in my back-brain, wordless and busy-leave-us-alone-would-you? So I try to squeeze out what is left in the open tube, trying to make it last until the move, so I won't have to move more stuff. This month may be about making do with what I have not yet packed, and knowing I will find it again in the new place as the boxes are opened.
I point you toward
Chaos
And
Toys
I dreamed I was in the OR. Only it was all of wood, ancient place, smoothed and gleaming wood. I walked around to find supplies, and realized, though I had worked there before, that there was a nearby door to the outside, and it was a green and warm spring day. The air smelled fresh and sweet, and I promised myself I would go out the next chance I got.
I returned to the OR, and the case had finished. I thought it would be about 10 AM, but it was actually 4PM, and nothing else to follow, so I could take a break, or go home. I was delighted that the day had gone so quickly.
An old friend, W, picked me up, to drive me somewhere. I didn't know where, but I trusted him, and enjoyed talking with him as we drove. He picked up his wife, who began to ask questions about what I was doing these days. I said I was being sent to Europe with the Army Guard. She told me I would need a few large trunks to move all my stuff. I told her no, I would only be bringing two duffle bags. Then realized, they would also have to issue me all new gear, since I had turned all the old stuff in years ago. She asked me if I would go as an officer, and I said, no, then they could get me again and never let me go. I would go as an enlisted.
I awoke, convinced I would have to go to war, but only really concerned about the logistics. And feeling sad I had lost contact with W. And that having a door in the OR that lead directly outside was hardly good architecture. And that a large black cat was asleep on my foot.
I point you toward
Chaos
And
Toys
I dreamed I was in the OR. Only it was all of wood, ancient place, smoothed and gleaming wood. I walked around to find supplies, and realized, though I had worked there before, that there was a nearby door to the outside, and it was a green and warm spring day. The air smelled fresh and sweet, and I promised myself I would go out the next chance I got.
I returned to the OR, and the case had finished. I thought it would be about 10 AM, but it was actually 4PM, and nothing else to follow, so I could take a break, or go home. I was delighted that the day had gone so quickly.
An old friend, W, picked me up, to drive me somewhere. I didn't know where, but I trusted him, and enjoyed talking with him as we drove. He picked up his wife, who began to ask questions about what I was doing these days. I said I was being sent to Europe with the Army Guard. She told me I would need a few large trunks to move all my stuff. I told her no, I would only be bringing two duffle bags. Then realized, they would also have to issue me all new gear, since I had turned all the old stuff in years ago. She asked me if I would go as an officer, and I said, no, then they could get me again and never let me go. I would go as an enlisted.
I awoke, convinced I would have to go to war, but only really concerned about the logistics. And feeling sad I had lost contact with W. And that having a door in the OR that lead directly outside was hardly good architecture. And that a large black cat was asleep on my foot.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Advice
I am one of those people who gives advice. In part, because it is my job. Although, I will hand scissors and pens so that they can be immediately used, which confuses most folks, the job mostly bleeds off the excess tendency to meddle, to offer unwanted help. I have a weakness for advice columns. Not to follow their advice, but to be nosy. Which is much of why I watch COPS! I can, actually, defend it, as lessons in dealing with difficult people - and I have learned much from the show. But really, it's just prurient entertainment. I spend time talking to the perps, "No, no, just stay there and be calm. Now, see, that cop knows you're lying, just shut up. Don't make armed people nervous." And they never listen to me. As I would expect. Which is why I watch. With my friends, I try not to imply any imperative in my suggestions.
So, let me share with you some really good advice. Not the usual stuff like, Don't smoke, floss your teeth, wear seatbelts. All good, but everyone knows it already. No, I mean the stuff I didn't know when I heard it, and have not heard it very often.
Ibuprofin (Advil, Motrin) has a maximum effective dosage of 800 MG per 6 hours. Exceeding this will not help more with the pain, but will increase the risk of bad side effects. And taking the stuff daily over weeks could well give you a headache, and you will need to wean off of it. It is not a good drug to commit suicide with, you will wind up alive and looking very stupid. (As a strange girl I went most of the way through Basic with found out.)
Keep your bellybutton clean. If you are taken in for emergency surgery, much of it today is laparoscopic, and they use the navel as a reliable anatomical landmark. We will make fun of you if it has more than a day's worth of lint. And if it is very encrusted, it increases your risk of infection.
Smoking is highly associated with bladder cancers, which are often misdiagnosed for years as bladder infections, leaving them a lot of time to grow well.
A bit of cayenne in a hot drink, like tea or cocoa, does wonders for a sore throat. A paste of it will heal up cuts and scrapes. Just go easy, and don't leave it on for more than an hour, and be careful not to get it in eyes. Which means, don't use it for kids.
Vanilla, even the cheap artificial kind, will take the smell of fresh paint out of a room. Just a small dish, or saucer of it, will work very well. A boon to my childhood, when the house was painted all the time, and I was ill from the fumes often.
Wheat germ, eaten daily, works as well as the commercial bulk fibers, but tends to cause less gas. Good in muffins and with cream of wheat.
Try to be positive in speech, rather than not negative. Amazing what it does for the attitude.
If you get a tattoo, that gel ice is great for taking out the pain, as well as the subsequent itch. Those gel ices can be stored in the freezer, and I earnestly tell you, for muscle pain, Ice is your Friend.
Avoid contempt, it poisons any relationship it touches. Even if it is your idiot boss. Contempt never allows change, and only elicits disdain. Bemused frustration is sufficient, and leaves wiggle room for improvement. Don't feed anger, by the same token. It is insatiable and will devour lives. Let it pass through like air through a net.
Call your friends, keep contact with them, even if you are busy. Especially if you are busy.
Elope.
Buzz all your hair off at least once in your life.
Rubbing alcohol in a spray bottle works great for flying insects. Well, badly for them.
No, you don't have to.
So, let me share with you some really good advice. Not the usual stuff like, Don't smoke, floss your teeth, wear seatbelts. All good, but everyone knows it already. No, I mean the stuff I didn't know when I heard it, and have not heard it very often.
Ibuprofin (Advil, Motrin) has a maximum effective dosage of 800 MG per 6 hours. Exceeding this will not help more with the pain, but will increase the risk of bad side effects. And taking the stuff daily over weeks could well give you a headache, and you will need to wean off of it. It is not a good drug to commit suicide with, you will wind up alive and looking very stupid. (As a strange girl I went most of the way through Basic with found out.)
Keep your bellybutton clean. If you are taken in for emergency surgery, much of it today is laparoscopic, and they use the navel as a reliable anatomical landmark. We will make fun of you if it has more than a day's worth of lint. And if it is very encrusted, it increases your risk of infection.
Smoking is highly associated with bladder cancers, which are often misdiagnosed for years as bladder infections, leaving them a lot of time to grow well.
A bit of cayenne in a hot drink, like tea or cocoa, does wonders for a sore throat. A paste of it will heal up cuts and scrapes. Just go easy, and don't leave it on for more than an hour, and be careful not to get it in eyes. Which means, don't use it for kids.
Vanilla, even the cheap artificial kind, will take the smell of fresh paint out of a room. Just a small dish, or saucer of it, will work very well. A boon to my childhood, when the house was painted all the time, and I was ill from the fumes often.
Wheat germ, eaten daily, works as well as the commercial bulk fibers, but tends to cause less gas. Good in muffins and with cream of wheat.
Try to be positive in speech, rather than not negative. Amazing what it does for the attitude.
If you get a tattoo, that gel ice is great for taking out the pain, as well as the subsequent itch. Those gel ices can be stored in the freezer, and I earnestly tell you, for muscle pain, Ice is your Friend.
Avoid contempt, it poisons any relationship it touches. Even if it is your idiot boss. Contempt never allows change, and only elicits disdain. Bemused frustration is sufficient, and leaves wiggle room for improvement. Don't feed anger, by the same token. It is insatiable and will devour lives. Let it pass through like air through a net.
Call your friends, keep contact with them, even if you are busy. Especially if you are busy.
Elope.
Buzz all your hair off at least once in your life.
Rubbing alcohol in a spray bottle works great for flying insects. Well, badly for them.
No, you don't have to.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Three
Three books that have shaken my worldview.
Gone-away Lake. This was the first non-picture book I read. I had been afraid to read so much text, daunted by the lack of colorful illustrations. For my reading level, I resisted reading a long book for a long time. But I plunged in, randomly picking this one from the shelves, and loved it. I became a reader that week.
Hitchhikers Guide to the Universe. Taking absurdity to an almost spiritual level, Douglas Adams broke open my over serious and rule ridden conscience. I finally got the Cosmic Joke.
Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. I had tried to read it, on recommendation, but could not get through the many names and complexities. But there I was in Saudi Arabia, with little to do with my down time, and D coaxed me through his favorite book, and I kept at it. I can still read this one with great pleasure in the richness of the story and the wit of the dialogue and the depth of the insights.
Three movies that make me wish I'd written the script.
Murder My Sweet. Which is kind of cheating, being based on the incomparable smart-ass dialogue of Chandler from Farewell my Lovely. And Dick Powell delivers it so well.
The Big Labowski. The Dude never says anything he hasn't heard someone else say. I know these people. Every character has such a potent voice. Such amazingly particular humor that improves with every pass.
Young Frankenstein. I giggle just thinking about it. "He vasss...... my BVOYFRHIEND!"
Three things I like about myself.
I love my own sense of humor, and ability to come up with that most pointed comment that gets the best laugh occasionally. And making my friends laugh often.
I love my own ruthless nurse competence delivered with calm, kind reassurance.
I love that I can come up with the perfect metaphor so often, the one that elicits understanding, and if I am lucky, a laugh.
Three careers I could have been good at.
I could have been a Muppeteer.
I'd have made a good librarian. I spent so much time as the hands in libraries, I have an instinct for where stuff is. I like finding information for questers. I have never killed anyone for a stupid question. Yet.
I'd have been a good clinical massage therapist, as long as I didn't have to do the business and billing side of it.
Three things I say to myself.
Breathe.
Life is good.
It's quiet... . Too quiet.
Three things I know that I didn't three years ago.
Every stop on the Green Line.
How much the ADHD was effecting D.
How flexible I am, and how far I have come. Being a traveling RN for over a year was so difficult, but I am immensely reassured at my own ability to deal with so much change and challenge, with the Mighty Weapon of Cheerfulness.
Gone-away Lake. This was the first non-picture book I read. I had been afraid to read so much text, daunted by the lack of colorful illustrations. For my reading level, I resisted reading a long book for a long time. But I plunged in, randomly picking this one from the shelves, and loved it. I became a reader that week.
Hitchhikers Guide to the Universe. Taking absurdity to an almost spiritual level, Douglas Adams broke open my over serious and rule ridden conscience. I finally got the Cosmic Joke.
Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. I had tried to read it, on recommendation, but could not get through the many names and complexities. But there I was in Saudi Arabia, with little to do with my down time, and D coaxed me through his favorite book, and I kept at it. I can still read this one with great pleasure in the richness of the story and the wit of the dialogue and the depth of the insights.
Three movies that make me wish I'd written the script.
Murder My Sweet. Which is kind of cheating, being based on the incomparable smart-ass dialogue of Chandler from Farewell my Lovely. And Dick Powell delivers it so well.
The Big Labowski. The Dude never says anything he hasn't heard someone else say. I know these people. Every character has such a potent voice. Such amazingly particular humor that improves with every pass.
Young Frankenstein. I giggle just thinking about it. "He vasss...... my BVOYFRHIEND!"
Three things I like about myself.
I love my own sense of humor, and ability to come up with that most pointed comment that gets the best laugh occasionally. And making my friends laugh often.
I love my own ruthless nurse competence delivered with calm, kind reassurance.
I love that I can come up with the perfect metaphor so often, the one that elicits understanding, and if I am lucky, a laugh.
Three careers I could have been good at.
I could have been a Muppeteer.
I'd have made a good librarian. I spent so much time as the hands in libraries, I have an instinct for where stuff is. I like finding information for questers. I have never killed anyone for a stupid question. Yet.
I'd have been a good clinical massage therapist, as long as I didn't have to do the business and billing side of it.
Three things I say to myself.
Breathe.
Life is good.
It's quiet... . Too quiet.
Three things I know that I didn't three years ago.
Every stop on the Green Line.
How much the ADHD was effecting D.
How flexible I am, and how far I have come. Being a traveling RN for over a year was so difficult, but I am immensely reassured at my own ability to deal with so much change and challenge, with the Mighty Weapon of Cheerfulness.
Friday, April 21, 2006
Swear
I endured growing up under the authority of an angry man with a foul mouth. I was called all kinds of intentionally demeaning names. I heard the whole curse vocabulary of this father every time he got angry. There was the usual assortment, including racial slurs, and then there were the combinations that were conflated inventions. If I could hear it today, I might find it grimly amusing, in a mocking vein. Even then, as the target, after spending some time researching the meanings, I could appreciate and ridicule his stupidity and muddle. Small comfort. I took it all too seriously when he goddamned me to hell, and it cut deep when he called me a selfish brat. When he called me a son of a bitch, I hated it, but it rather rolled off the mark.
But my mother's reaction, to interrupt and correct him, excoriate his use of vulgarity, never worked. The violent opposite, as far as I could see. And by the time I was ten and checking the Scatological Dictionary at the library, she had been hearing him swear for well over twenty years without changing his habitual mouth.
Knowing my mother's extreme, and largely irrational, aversion, to any word impolite, made me hold my tongue very tightly indeed. She vocally and bitterly complained about any off color language in movies, and I could feel her cringe if a swear word came out in a social situation where she would never utter a reproach. She would not allow me so much as Crap, or even darn, if said with any real anger. My frustrations and any sign of it were not tolerated. I heard her say Hell once, and Damn once. I was shocked.
.
Mr. Novak talked about swearing, in ninth grade.
"These are powerful words, not bad ones. And as such, you have to treat them carefully. Obscenity is for obscene situations. Swearing is a reaction to powerful feelings. Control these words, it's not wrong to use them in the right conditions. It is wrong to use them all the time for everything, it takes the power out of them."
I'd begun to practice the words, swearing silently when alone and inside my head. This touched me, and relieved me of a great deal of guilt about learning the words. I vowed to know what they meant, and to use them consciously, and with intent.
By the time I was in college, I had gathered a reasonable vocabulary, though I still used cursing with some embarrassment. Nothing like a bunch of theater students to practice shouting out rude names. Except, of course, for Army folks. Obscene words for an obscene situation. I found myself, at 26, rather proudly in possession of quite the potty mouth. Partly because of the great flexibility of the f-word. (Fanfuckintastic, for instance.) My language became turbo charged and potent, surrounded by constant swearing. I think I needed it. I hated the choices I'd made, I hated what my life was becoming, I needed those toxic words to kill off the old assumptions, the old habits and fears.
And when I started toward nursing, working with elderly folks in a nursing home? That took some steely control to keep my language presentable, and not to shock nor dismay, nor get myself fired. After one of my Guard weekends, it was damn near impossible. I allowed myself "Shit," being knee deep in it. I know shit. I defend my right to say it. Being surrounded by very religious minded cow-orkers, I had to keep myself in clean words. I gained control over my own exclamations. I still do not swear at work, with one exception. (See above.) Well, and bugger, but that is because most Americans don't know what it means. I don't say it around our Brit surgeon.
My father, for all his years of practice, swore badly. I swear well. I acknowledge this inheritance, the anger, the hurt. But I grew my own cuss collection. I never use the term sonofabitch. I will never swear at anyone, nor damn anyone to anywhere. Color and culture are not fair targets.
The goddamnedpigshit fuckwits are.
But my mother's reaction, to interrupt and correct him, excoriate his use of vulgarity, never worked. The violent opposite, as far as I could see. And by the time I was ten and checking the Scatological Dictionary at the library, she had been hearing him swear for well over twenty years without changing his habitual mouth.
Knowing my mother's extreme, and largely irrational, aversion, to any word impolite, made me hold my tongue very tightly indeed. She vocally and bitterly complained about any off color language in movies, and I could feel her cringe if a swear word came out in a social situation where she would never utter a reproach. She would not allow me so much as Crap, or even darn, if said with any real anger. My frustrations and any sign of it were not tolerated. I heard her say Hell once, and Damn once. I was shocked.
.
Mr. Novak talked about swearing, in ninth grade.
"These are powerful words, not bad ones. And as such, you have to treat them carefully. Obscenity is for obscene situations. Swearing is a reaction to powerful feelings. Control these words, it's not wrong to use them in the right conditions. It is wrong to use them all the time for everything, it takes the power out of them."
I'd begun to practice the words, swearing silently when alone and inside my head. This touched me, and relieved me of a great deal of guilt about learning the words. I vowed to know what they meant, and to use them consciously, and with intent.
By the time I was in college, I had gathered a reasonable vocabulary, though I still used cursing with some embarrassment. Nothing like a bunch of theater students to practice shouting out rude names. Except, of course, for Army folks. Obscene words for an obscene situation. I found myself, at 26, rather proudly in possession of quite the potty mouth. Partly because of the great flexibility of the f-word. (Fanfuckintastic, for instance.) My language became turbo charged and potent, surrounded by constant swearing. I think I needed it. I hated the choices I'd made, I hated what my life was becoming, I needed those toxic words to kill off the old assumptions, the old habits and fears.
And when I started toward nursing, working with elderly folks in a nursing home? That took some steely control to keep my language presentable, and not to shock nor dismay, nor get myself fired. After one of my Guard weekends, it was damn near impossible. I allowed myself "Shit," being knee deep in it. I know shit. I defend my right to say it. Being surrounded by very religious minded cow-orkers, I had to keep myself in clean words. I gained control over my own exclamations. I still do not swear at work, with one exception. (See above.) Well, and bugger, but that is because most Americans don't know what it means. I don't say it around our Brit surgeon.
My father, for all his years of practice, swore badly. I swear well. I acknowledge this inheritance, the anger, the hurt. But I grew my own cuss collection. I never use the term sonofabitch. I will never swear at anyone, nor damn anyone to anywhere. Color and culture are not fair targets.
The goddamnedpigshit fuckwits are.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Monday, April 17, 2006
Abecedary
A is for Anonymous aching angel denouncing anger and anxiously awaiting answers.
B is for black brown hair, blues and bellydance, books and brooks.
C is for Catholic and catholic and cynic, clarity, clay and chocolate.
D is for dancing, dithering, doorknobs attacking.
E is for emotion and empathy and emptiness.
F is for fish flying and falling fortuitously, for friendships lost and found.
G is for grass stained and grateful and goofy and goobered.
H is for hopeful and happy and hiccups.
I is for instinct and itchy feet and ice.
J is for journeys and jobs, joints and joy.
K is for kisses, knees and knowledge.
L is for laughter and livers and love.
M is for muscles, music and mysteries.
N is for nuzzling and nothingness and North.
O is for opa! and orange peel flames, obligations and openings.
P is for purple and plainness and parades,
Q is for quizzical and quickness and queries.
R is for random ridiculous reasons.
S is for surgery, silly solutions and saving graces.
T is for theater, trains, tea and tabula rasa.
U is for uniform, and ugliness, unveiled and undercut.
V is for victory, voracious curiosity, variety varied.
W is for words wound wildly in wind.
X is for x-rays, and examination and exultation and extenuating circumstances.
Y is for yes, and yards of bright fabric.
Z is for sleeping.
B is for black brown hair, blues and bellydance, books and brooks.
C is for Catholic and catholic and cynic, clarity, clay and chocolate.
D is for dancing, dithering, doorknobs attacking.
E is for emotion and empathy and emptiness.
F is for fish flying and falling fortuitously, for friendships lost and found.
G is for grass stained and grateful and goofy and goobered.
H is for hopeful and happy and hiccups.
I is for instinct and itchy feet and ice.
J is for journeys and jobs, joints and joy.
K is for kisses, knees and knowledge.
L is for laughter and livers and love.
M is for muscles, music and mysteries.
N is for nuzzling and nothingness and North.
O is for opa! and orange peel flames, obligations and openings.
P is for purple and plainness and parades,
Q is for quizzical and quickness and queries.
R is for random ridiculous reasons.
S is for surgery, silly solutions and saving graces.
T is for theater, trains, tea and tabula rasa.
U is for uniform, and ugliness, unveiled and undercut.
V is for victory, voracious curiosity, variety varied.
W is for words wound wildly in wind.
X is for x-rays, and examination and exultation and extenuating circumstances.
Y is for yes, and yards of bright fabric.
Z is for sleeping.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Talk
When I got back from Gulf War I, I was having a hard time. Reality adjustment. It felt very amorphous at the time, and even more so now. I went to see a counselor at the VA. She was kind, but had not been in the military at all, and I found myself explaining all kinds of largely irrelevant details. Later, I found myself chatting with a counselor in a vet center where D was working as a work study. This went much better, felt more like swapping stories, fluid and easy. The language was there, so the distress I was having trouble defining, nonetheless communicating, hove into view. He talked with me for almost three hours, and at the end, I had the clarity to deal on my own. A tough old Vietnam Vet, with an understanding ear for a vaguely stressed National Guard weekender back from a footnote war. But he didn't see me that way, and I am deeply grateful.
Yesterday, I worked with a rep, and I assume he did some kind of military service. An offhand remark, a proper response. It's like I'm in some weird secret society, having done even my little bit of military service. Perhaps because I do not blow it up, never pretend more experience than I had, I am allowed in. I know how to talk to soldiers, even reluctant part time ones.
That kind of shorthand learned in similar circumstances gives a background of ease. I knew I would never marry anyone who had not done some kind of military service, needing to explain so many little reactions and in jokes would have been exhausting every moment of every day. Less so 15 years on, as other life changes have overlaid them. But I know why D removes his hat at the same moment I do when we go into a building. When a dish is heard to drop, we say Airborn. I straighten his collars, he adjusts my hat. The shirts in the closet face right. We see an actor in a movie and I say,
"Remember that guy?" Meaning Sgt. Hull, and D says,
"Yeah."
And we do. And probably a hundred other small actions germinated there, that we are no longer conscious of.
It came to me then, that the pervasive subtle racism, as opposed to the self conscious and overt bigotry, is in part, the same mechanism. It's just hard, all the time, to have to translate, never assume, never flow, in daily conversation. So much less work to interact with those for whom a look transmits a completely understood message- with all implications a thousand words would require to get the gist across for an outsider. I'm still dealing with Boston speech, where door and drawer are pronounced identically. I feel this overwhelming ache to be around others like myself, even though I have no idea who they would be. It's important, it's enriching, but tiring, and we are a lazy species.
And putting everyone through the Army is not the answer. To quote D,
"The Army is an Idiot."
I know what he means.
Yesterday, I worked with a rep, and I assume he did some kind of military service. An offhand remark, a proper response. It's like I'm in some weird secret society, having done even my little bit of military service. Perhaps because I do not blow it up, never pretend more experience than I had, I am allowed in. I know how to talk to soldiers, even reluctant part time ones.
That kind of shorthand learned in similar circumstances gives a background of ease. I knew I would never marry anyone who had not done some kind of military service, needing to explain so many little reactions and in jokes would have been exhausting every moment of every day. Less so 15 years on, as other life changes have overlaid them. But I know why D removes his hat at the same moment I do when we go into a building. When a dish is heard to drop, we say Airborn. I straighten his collars, he adjusts my hat. The shirts in the closet face right. We see an actor in a movie and I say,
"Remember that guy?" Meaning Sgt. Hull, and D says,
"Yeah."
And we do. And probably a hundred other small actions germinated there, that we are no longer conscious of.
It came to me then, that the pervasive subtle racism, as opposed to the self conscious and overt bigotry, is in part, the same mechanism. It's just hard, all the time, to have to translate, never assume, never flow, in daily conversation. So much less work to interact with those for whom a look transmits a completely understood message- with all implications a thousand words would require to get the gist across for an outsider. I'm still dealing with Boston speech, where door and drawer are pronounced identically. I feel this overwhelming ache to be around others like myself, even though I have no idea who they would be. It's important, it's enriching, but tiring, and we are a lazy species.
And putting everyone through the Army is not the answer. To quote D,
"The Army is an Idiot."
I know what he means.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Undercurrent (Photo)
This is one of those photos that says a lot more than it seems to.
Sister-in-law, myself (birthday), Uncle M (father's brother) and his (second wife) Aunt A, Aunt E (mother's sister, standing) and her husband Uncle E(standing). My mom standing, hands on shoulders of her mum. Picture taken by (?) ( I may have cropped out my father and my brother (not the one married to SIL) took the picture. Picture of Last Supper and ubiquitous '70's sunburst clock on wall. White bread stack, potatoes, baked chicken, mayonaise, and ballerina cake on table.
I once made fun of my D's new very suburban and mormon in-laws for serving an entire meal that was orange. I think this kind of meal is why I noticed.
If you just love the kitsch of it all, try the Gallery of Regrettable Food.
Friday, April 07, 2006
Jacket (Photo)
This is what happens when we don't hang up fleece jackets. Not being tidy people, this is inevitable.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Here
I do not exactly know where my genetic material comes from. Oh, I know who my biological parents are, no doubt in my mind on that. I know the previous generation of my family, no big mystery there. Beyond them lie long and tangled lines of subsistence farmers and immigrants, unknown, and I suspect, unknowable. I never asked much when I was younger, and they were still alive. It was, and is, a family of 'not talking about it.' "It" being anything at all really. I do not even know the names to start to look, even if I were willing to look.
Which I am not. I worked at a local history/genealogical library, shelving material, for several years in college. Dusty old stuff, microfilm, maps, daguerreotypes and other early photographs, newspapers from the previous century, a whole wall of books about Lincoln. So many books on one (geographical) subject that the first two Dewey numbers were omitted, being redundant. All of which, honestly, I do find interesting. The majority of genealogists I wanted to hit with a large atlas. The handful of historians and a few amusing and pleasant genealogists could not defray the cost of the nasty ones. When the requests came down for more rolls of microfilm than could be looked at in a week, all urgently needed immediately, I yelled at them - from the safety of the sub-basement, "Who cares! They are all DEAD! And they were probably idiots just like you!"
I often wondered at the familiar names of strips of farms on a framed map near the always-breaking microfilm machines. But that was the side of the family I didn't much like anyway. It felt too hypocritical to look for family I would not have wanted to know. I don't care what their names are, what kinds of work they did. They were all poor, they are all dead. This is my inheritance. I take no blame, no credit, I have only my own life and I am satisfied.
On the local news last night was information on getting genetic testing, to map the path of my ancestors. I wanted it. Then felt guilty. I am not on speaking terms with my immediate family, but I want to know my ancestors? Yes, I do. I want to know if my meager evidence suggesting I have native genes as well as Old World ones is accurate. (The impressive family noses, the straight black-brown hair, the inability to handle alcohol, despite being Irish and French.) I have seen girls in French Impressionist paintings that are clearly cousins, Bouguereau painted my genes. I want to know the path taken, the streams flowing through, the obscure story. We all come from a handful of mothers many thousands of generations ago. The record of love and rape is mapped in our DNA, our mitochondria, expressed in our noses and appendices.
I have always liked maps. I want one that accurately says "You are here."
Which I am not. I worked at a local history/genealogical library, shelving material, for several years in college. Dusty old stuff, microfilm, maps, daguerreotypes and other early photographs, newspapers from the previous century, a whole wall of books about Lincoln. So many books on one (geographical) subject that the first two Dewey numbers were omitted, being redundant. All of which, honestly, I do find interesting. The majority of genealogists I wanted to hit with a large atlas. The handful of historians and a few amusing and pleasant genealogists could not defray the cost of the nasty ones. When the requests came down for more rolls of microfilm than could be looked at in a week, all urgently needed immediately, I yelled at them - from the safety of the sub-basement, "Who cares! They are all DEAD! And they were probably idiots just like you!"
I often wondered at the familiar names of strips of farms on a framed map near the always-breaking microfilm machines. But that was the side of the family I didn't much like anyway. It felt too hypocritical to look for family I would not have wanted to know. I don't care what their names are, what kinds of work they did. They were all poor, they are all dead. This is my inheritance. I take no blame, no credit, I have only my own life and I am satisfied.
On the local news last night was information on getting genetic testing, to map the path of my ancestors. I wanted it. Then felt guilty. I am not on speaking terms with my immediate family, but I want to know my ancestors? Yes, I do. I want to know if my meager evidence suggesting I have native genes as well as Old World ones is accurate. (The impressive family noses, the straight black-brown hair, the inability to handle alcohol, despite being Irish and French.) I have seen girls in French Impressionist paintings that are clearly cousins, Bouguereau painted my genes. I want to know the path taken, the streams flowing through, the obscure story. We all come from a handful of mothers many thousands of generations ago. The record of love and rape is mapped in our DNA, our mitochondria, expressed in our noses and appendices.
I have always liked maps. I want one that accurately says "You are here."
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Beer (Photo)
Sleep and muscle relaxant. Much better now, thanks for all the sympathy.
Slept through the night from infancy. Without sleep, I'm a flaming wreck.
Stroh's
Once, long ago, in fictional dystopia called The Narrows, I struggled up out of the mud of dark and dull urbanity. Neither Princess nor street Urchin, neither destitute nor middle class, I had neither the advantage of money, nor the charity of poverty. I ate sufficient, mediocre, malnourishing food, and had a creaking but not leaking roof over my head, and wore cheaply unfashionable clothing. I had a solid education, without sports or music, save for a nun playing a record of meaningful pop music, and expecting us to write profound responses to it. I drank the milk my mother wanted to have had in her childhood. And the City rumbled and belched around me.
But this sovereignty held a secret, since debased, long gone now. There were men toiling to create a beverage of such flavor, such subtle bitter undertow, and gentle magical properties, as to bring penitent tears to the unholy. I had come of age, and was found by an apprentice-master, She Who Taught Me About Stroh's. She thought she was teaching me about Tea, and I certainly love and know much of the properties of Tea. But the secret teaching, the real message inadvertently disclosed was that of the golden liquid, Beer. And not the tawdry, street corner whores of that juice of joy. No, this was meant not for shameful drunkenness and debauchery. This was ambrosia, food for gods. Gods not for the wretched poor, nor for the pretentious nobility - who needed the sweetness of wine, or the potent numbing of usquebaugh. No, for gods who knew neither luxury nor squalor. For the godless in between.
As I sadly foreshadowed, Stroh's is gone now, although the name lives on, a grotesque zombie, a degenerate bastard heir. But its spirit soared, escaped and scattered a thousand seeds to the winds of the universe, to grow in the bramble of arcane laws and unlikely cracks in the sidewalks. And heavenly brew flowed forth, foaming onto the happy and discerning tongues of acolytes of the Brewers Who Really Care.
Amen.
But this sovereignty held a secret, since debased, long gone now. There were men toiling to create a beverage of such flavor, such subtle bitter undertow, and gentle magical properties, as to bring penitent tears to the unholy. I had come of age, and was found by an apprentice-master, She Who Taught Me About Stroh's. She thought she was teaching me about Tea, and I certainly love and know much of the properties of Tea. But the secret teaching, the real message inadvertently disclosed was that of the golden liquid, Beer. And not the tawdry, street corner whores of that juice of joy. No, this was meant not for shameful drunkenness and debauchery. This was ambrosia, food for gods. Gods not for the wretched poor, nor for the pretentious nobility - who needed the sweetness of wine, or the potent numbing of usquebaugh. No, for gods who knew neither luxury nor squalor. For the godless in between.
As I sadly foreshadowed, Stroh's is gone now, although the name lives on, a grotesque zombie, a degenerate bastard heir. But its spirit soared, escaped and scattered a thousand seeds to the winds of the universe, to grow in the bramble of arcane laws and unlikely cracks in the sidewalks. And heavenly brew flowed forth, foaming onto the happy and discerning tongues of acolytes of the Brewers Who Really Care.
Amen.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Limerick
Or, why I don't write poetry, but my defences are all down the drain.
I was ordered to work a night shift,
like a bicycle off in a skiff
so I haven't much sleep
and my thoughts do they creep
in search of a comfortable drift.
I was ordered to work a night shift,
like a bicycle off in a skiff
so I haven't much sleep
and my thoughts do they creep
in search of a comfortable drift.
Monday, March 27, 2006
Friday, March 24, 2006
Muffin
Whew, I almost titled this Sp*m. Which might have drawn some unwelcome visitors. Udge (One of the best named blogs)
scattered a meme, and, since I am scrambling for easy blog material this week, here goes.
Who is the last person you high-fived?
A nurse who appreciated a snotty thing I said to a surgeon.
"And you effect the rotation of the earth, as well."
If you were drafted into a war would you survive?
Well, I did. And yes, even if I were in a more active role, I would. It's a disturbingly comforting bit of knowledge. I'm a survivor and a good shot.
Do you sleep with the tv on?
Have done. Often it keeps me awake, or I wake when it is still going. Mixed bag really.
Have you ever drunk milk out of the carton?
Yuck. I hate milk, would never drink it out of carton, nor the more up-to-date plastic bottle. But I have eaten peanut butter out of the jar, not even always with a spoon. Same for Nutella, which is part of why I don't share it.
Have you ever won a spelling bee?
Just the small ones in class, but those regularly.
Have you ever been stung by a bee?
No, but the idea terrifies me unreasonably. I thought I did once at a big 4th of July fireworks downtown, but it was just a lit cigarette I put my hand back on. Kept picking up ice dumped from coolers, to cool the burn.
How fast can you type?
Not too fast, but not bad. But I can't do any kind of accuracy. Doing Nanowrimo certainly improved it, but typos are rich for me.
Are you afraid of the dark?
I get spooked, still, occasionally. This was a huge fear for me, but I got over it after a sitting in the snow by a lake at night once. So beautiful, I could not continue the fear.
Have you ever made out at a drive in?
Never been to a drive in. Have made out in a few cars. And a bus.
When did you last chose a bath rather than a shower?
Last week. If I have time, and the room isn't too cold. I love hot baths.
Do you knock on wood?
No, strangely, because I used to. Not much wood around at work, and I hate the cliche of knocking on my own head.
Do you floss daily.
Well, every other day at least, yes. But then I also brush the cat's teeth, does that count?
Can you hula hoop?
Yeah, not great though. I bellydance.
Are you good at keeping secrets?
I am excellent with confidences. I resist even hearing 'secrets'.
What do you want for Christmas?
An MS or two behind D's name.
Do you know the muffin man?
Lived on Drury Lane? Died years ago.
Do you talk in your sleep?
Not for years, so I am told. I wouldn't know, I'm always asleep for it.
Who wrote the book of love?
John Gottman. Real research-based map of how real love works.
Have you ever flown a kite?
Many times. Seriously want to go fly our two kites as soon as the weather is tolerable.
Do you wish on fallen lashes?
No, that always seemed weird to me. I knew a woman who compulsively pulled hers out.
Do you consider yourself successful?
I love and am loved. Yes.
Have you ever asked for a pony?
Only as a metaphor for wanting something expensive and impractical.
Plans for tomorrow?
Sleeping in. Maybe the farmers' market. Vacuuming. Make a list for the move.
Can you juggle?
No, I've tried. I just can't get beyond two balls with one hand, about 4-5 catches and that is the absolute max. Can't play an instrument either. But I can dance, and sing a bit, so I call it good.
Missing someone now?
Oh, Moira, I would be there for her last trimester. More friends than I can list here that I would love to gather around, and just chat.
Last time you said "I love you"?
Just now.
Last time you meant it.
Every time. I am not shy about this, I love my friends and they know it.
How often do you drink?
About 4-5 times a week I have one beer. About once every six months, I have two beers in day. Seems to keep my chronic anxiety in check, with few side effects.
How are you feeling today?
Pretty good, if tired after shoving all 40 hours into 4 days in a row. Regaining my energy slowly. Did pretty good at work, which always makes me feel more positive.
What do you say too much?
"Sure."
Have you ever been expelled from school?
No, I am meticulous at not getting caught. I was a goody-goody right through to high school graduation. I knew how expensive parochial school was, and I valued it. I waited to be adventurous until I was in college, away from parental rules. And paying for it myself.
What are you looking forward to?
Being moved. Friends visiting this summer.
Have you ever crawled through a window?
Oh, sure. Parent's house when the keys were locked in. Going out on roofs.
Have you ever eaten dog food?
No, but I had pork patties and Vienna Sausage from MRE's, neither of which is as good as dog food.
Can you handle the truth?
Naked and unvarnished and ungarnished. I consider it my proof of courage, the test of my soul.
Do you like green eggs and ham?
I do not like green eggs and ham, but I have liked reconstituted eggs and spam.
Any cool scars?
Left shin, from moving a concrete downspout when I was about 4, with neighbor kids. Above my right clavicle, from an argument with a stainless steel door at work. Near that, one from a lipoma removal. Four tattoos. Oh, and my chicken pox scar over my eyebrow in exactly the same place D has his.
scattered a meme, and, since I am scrambling for easy blog material this week, here goes.
Who is the last person you high-fived?
A nurse who appreciated a snotty thing I said to a surgeon.
"And you effect the rotation of the earth, as well."
If you were drafted into a war would you survive?
Well, I did. And yes, even if I were in a more active role, I would. It's a disturbingly comforting bit of knowledge. I'm a survivor and a good shot.
Do you sleep with the tv on?
Have done. Often it keeps me awake, or I wake when it is still going. Mixed bag really.
Have you ever drunk milk out of the carton?
Yuck. I hate milk, would never drink it out of carton, nor the more up-to-date plastic bottle. But I have eaten peanut butter out of the jar, not even always with a spoon. Same for Nutella, which is part of why I don't share it.
Have you ever won a spelling bee?
Just the small ones in class, but those regularly.
Have you ever been stung by a bee?
No, but the idea terrifies me unreasonably. I thought I did once at a big 4th of July fireworks downtown, but it was just a lit cigarette I put my hand back on. Kept picking up ice dumped from coolers, to cool the burn.
How fast can you type?
Not too fast, but not bad. But I can't do any kind of accuracy. Doing Nanowrimo certainly improved it, but typos are rich for me.
Are you afraid of the dark?
I get spooked, still, occasionally. This was a huge fear for me, but I got over it after a sitting in the snow by a lake at night once. So beautiful, I could not continue the fear.
Have you ever made out at a drive in?
Never been to a drive in. Have made out in a few cars. And a bus.
When did you last chose a bath rather than a shower?
Last week. If I have time, and the room isn't too cold. I love hot baths.
Do you knock on wood?
No, strangely, because I used to. Not much wood around at work, and I hate the cliche of knocking on my own head.
Do you floss daily.
Well, every other day at least, yes. But then I also brush the cat's teeth, does that count?
Can you hula hoop?
Yeah, not great though. I bellydance.
Are you good at keeping secrets?
I am excellent with confidences. I resist even hearing 'secrets'.
What do you want for Christmas?
An MS or two behind D's name.
Do you know the muffin man?
Lived on Drury Lane? Died years ago.
Do you talk in your sleep?
Not for years, so I am told. I wouldn't know, I'm always asleep for it.
Who wrote the book of love?
John Gottman. Real research-based map of how real love works.
Have you ever flown a kite?
Many times. Seriously want to go fly our two kites as soon as the weather is tolerable.
Do you wish on fallen lashes?
No, that always seemed weird to me. I knew a woman who compulsively pulled hers out.
Do you consider yourself successful?
I love and am loved. Yes.
Have you ever asked for a pony?
Only as a metaphor for wanting something expensive and impractical.
Plans for tomorrow?
Sleeping in. Maybe the farmers' market. Vacuuming. Make a list for the move.
Can you juggle?
No, I've tried. I just can't get beyond two balls with one hand, about 4-5 catches and that is the absolute max. Can't play an instrument either. But I can dance, and sing a bit, so I call it good.
Missing someone now?
Oh, Moira, I would be there for her last trimester. More friends than I can list here that I would love to gather around, and just chat.
Last time you said "I love you"?
Just now.
Last time you meant it.
Every time. I am not shy about this, I love my friends and they know it.
How often do you drink?
About 4-5 times a week I have one beer. About once every six months, I have two beers in day. Seems to keep my chronic anxiety in check, with few side effects.
How are you feeling today?
Pretty good, if tired after shoving all 40 hours into 4 days in a row. Regaining my energy slowly. Did pretty good at work, which always makes me feel more positive.
What do you say too much?
"Sure."
Have you ever been expelled from school?
No, I am meticulous at not getting caught. I was a goody-goody right through to high school graduation. I knew how expensive parochial school was, and I valued it. I waited to be adventurous until I was in college, away from parental rules. And paying for it myself.
What are you looking forward to?
Being moved. Friends visiting this summer.
Have you ever crawled through a window?
Oh, sure. Parent's house when the keys were locked in. Going out on roofs.
Have you ever eaten dog food?
No, but I had pork patties and Vienna Sausage from MRE's, neither of which is as good as dog food.
Can you handle the truth?
Naked and unvarnished and ungarnished. I consider it my proof of courage, the test of my soul.
Do you like green eggs and ham?
I do not like green eggs and ham, but I have liked reconstituted eggs and spam.
Any cool scars?
Left shin, from moving a concrete downspout when I was about 4, with neighbor kids. Above my right clavicle, from an argument with a stainless steel door at work. Near that, one from a lipoma removal. Four tattoos. Oh, and my chicken pox scar over my eyebrow in exactly the same place D has his.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Poop
We got a gift from our new apartment managers. Pretzels, a roll of toilet paper, soap. Very appropriate. It had a straw-like plastic ribbon, and I thought Moby would like to chase it. I wasn't going to just let him have it. But I tied it to the doorknob, and puttered in the kitchen. Moby came in rubbing my shins with his head. Then I noticed him at the ribbon. Not chasing. Eating. About 12-18 inches of it, gone. I was a bit worried. I got more worried. When D got home, he called the vet for advice. He was told this is not uncommon at this time of year, what with plastic Easter grass, in the feline diet, according to the MSPCA. Advised to watch for constipation over 24-48 hours. Diarrhea, blood, vomiting, protruding ribbon, what I would expect, as a nurse. Not that I have ever had to extract ribbon from a human rectum, I have seen other foreign objects, and understand the general rules. I once loved watching Emergency Vets.
I worked my usual ten hours today. I periodically email back and forth with D, my job being intermittent hurry-up, and wait. Well, D writes that Moby had been scratching in the litter box, and had not had a poop in the 24 hours since the ribbon ingestion. So he called the animal hospital, and they suggested he come in. He sent me an email, he was taking him in, while I was at work, and included the address. I figured out how to get there, picturing D in a waiting room while they did surgery to remove the obstruction. I ran out, I caught the train, worried and planned, tried to stay calm. Realized how responsible I feel for this small life, how much Moby means to us, and to me. I ran those last blocks, the light fading, still uncertain what I was going to find, or if D was already home, and worried that I was not home.
It's a beautiful old building, that reminded me of my ancient grade school. I was helped, frantic and fighting back tears. Kindly, helpfully, told D and Moby were finished with the vet. Finally, we figured out that they'd just left. And that Moby was fine, x-ray done, and D in a cab home with him. Some confusion calling me a cab, same name to same address within five minutes. I was so relieved, he was fine, Moby was fine, all that mattered. The cab driver was remarkably not terrifying, especially for a Boston cabbie. I hurried home, I ran in, to find D and Moby standing by the door in the hall. D lost his keys. He'd only been waiting about five minutes.
Says Moby kept looking up at him, as if to say "Well? Open the door. You are the one with the thumbs."
Let the boys in, made dinner, and all is well now.
I was cranky with D for going in so soon, for panicking, for the stress on Moby, for the expense right now. And instantly regretted it. He was the one on the ground. If Moby had gotten seriously ill, and he had not, we would be broken. He did the right thing. Moby is family. He is included in our love, has joined in. Just as I regret going to the ER after my choking, D does not. Because he could not have dealt with the perhaps, had he not insisted on my being checked. Same thing. I once sat for four hours while they pieced together his elbow, trying to comfort myself that it was his arm, and not, as it could so easily have been, his head. And it helped less than I hoped.
When those you love are in peril, normal, rational thought, is not entirely reliable. It does not cover all the unaskable questions.
I worked my usual ten hours today. I periodically email back and forth with D, my job being intermittent hurry-up, and wait. Well, D writes that Moby had been scratching in the litter box, and had not had a poop in the 24 hours since the ribbon ingestion. So he called the animal hospital, and they suggested he come in. He sent me an email, he was taking him in, while I was at work, and included the address. I figured out how to get there, picturing D in a waiting room while they did surgery to remove the obstruction. I ran out, I caught the train, worried and planned, tried to stay calm. Realized how responsible I feel for this small life, how much Moby means to us, and to me. I ran those last blocks, the light fading, still uncertain what I was going to find, or if D was already home, and worried that I was not home.
It's a beautiful old building, that reminded me of my ancient grade school. I was helped, frantic and fighting back tears. Kindly, helpfully, told D and Moby were finished with the vet. Finally, we figured out that they'd just left. And that Moby was fine, x-ray done, and D in a cab home with him. Some confusion calling me a cab, same name to same address within five minutes. I was so relieved, he was fine, Moby was fine, all that mattered. The cab driver was remarkably not terrifying, especially for a Boston cabbie. I hurried home, I ran in, to find D and Moby standing by the door in the hall. D lost his keys. He'd only been waiting about five minutes.
Says Moby kept looking up at him, as if to say "Well? Open the door. You are the one with the thumbs."
Let the boys in, made dinner, and all is well now.
I was cranky with D for going in so soon, for panicking, for the stress on Moby, for the expense right now. And instantly regretted it. He was the one on the ground. If Moby had gotten seriously ill, and he had not, we would be broken. He did the right thing. Moby is family. He is included in our love, has joined in. Just as I regret going to the ER after my choking, D does not. Because he could not have dealt with the perhaps, had he not insisted on my being checked. Same thing. I once sat for four hours while they pieced together his elbow, trying to comfort myself that it was his arm, and not, as it could so easily have been, his head. And it helped less than I hoped.
When those you love are in peril, normal, rational thought, is not entirely reliable. It does not cover all the unaskable questions.
Monday, March 20, 2006
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Goose (Photo)
"There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen. You can even get a full glass of beer at a cocktail lounge."
Raymond Chandler, "Red Wind."
It was actually a cold, lake effect wind. I went out looking for an apartment, and found a near perfect one. While battling a lingering virus, hormones, and a rare migraine aura. (Very pretty with bright glowing pulsating lights in an inverted C in my lower right visual field.) My new friend, my rental agent, not only drove me to my place to get my meds, and would have gladly have put it off another day, she also dropped me back home, and picked up D to finish the process.
She and I took pictures of this over accessorized goose.
The owl is stone.
There were snow flurries. Hard, bitter, persistent winds.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
House (Photo)
The Dutch House at 20 Netherland Rd, Brookline. On the National Historic Register. We just happened upon it. Seems it was once a Pub, 1793(?) Now a private home.
Stumbling upon history.
I think I have moving on the brain, and it's a couple of months to go.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Dishes (Photo)
In honor of those who are moving, or will be moving soon, or who are moving two days early.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Body
I loved being carried as a small child. My brothers seemed to enjoy picking me up and moving me around, would go out of their way to pick me up and move me out of the way. They were often the ones to carry me in from the car at night, or swing me around before depositing me in bed. Their male presence, their strength and affection gave me the counter point to my difficult father.
My father was loved by my cousins, because he would get on the floor with the children and play with them. He happily became one of the boys wrestling. I suspect it is his version of affection as the youngest of six boys inadequately supervised by busy parents. He often hurt me in the roughhousing with my brothers. So when I went to sit on him while he was napping, he thought it affection. I was trying to hurt him back. When I hit him, it was to return the pain. Or get back at him for making my mother cry. I learned to be wary of touch, and to draw back. It bothered me that he could not tell the difference.
My most sensual memory of my mother is of her tucking me in bed. She would run her hand over my body, over the blankets. It felt protective and sexual and holy, and my tensions would melt, my mind quieten down, and I would sleep. I could not understand, though I knew enough not to ask, why she avoided certain areas, and this disturbed me.
My Aunt Evelyn was the one I found when I got tired at family gatherings. I would sit beside her and lean into her, rocked to sleep as she gestured and talked and laughed in the conversations around her. She would complain of her arm going to sleep or how heavy I was getting, but only later, only after I was awake again. I knew she took my trust as compliment, as painful honor. She died when I was living across the country, just starting my new job. My grief for her lasted acutely until I was able, years later, to stand at her grave. Not a ceremony common in my family. But once I was there, I was able to finally bestow tears on her, her beloved Ernie beside her. My pain began to lift that day, and the loss began to heal. I can still feel her arms around me when I am very tired.
D and I began our relationship in the context of an Army National Guard unit deployed to the Gulf in 1991. We would talk, a lot, in public areas. There were only public areas. We would lean together, shoulder to shoulder, or back to back. We walked discreetly holding pinkie fingers, because to walk hand in hand in uniform was PDA, an actionable offense against military decorum. But the need to touch was irresistible, a powerful physical attraction between us insisted. I hugged him as he stood at the postal counter (he was one of the postmen for the unit) by putting my chin on his shoulder, leaning in from behind him, my hands demurely by my side. Not like we felt we were fooling anybody, just keeping to the letter of the UCMJ.
Which is all not to say we didn't find privacy for more intimate contact, it just had to be carefully done. Our public conversations were wide ranging, a comedy act, and compared to most of those around us, terribly intellectual. Yes, we actually talked about books that we had actually read. One time, Sgt. Tina Somebodyorother commented that it was good that two smart people could spend all our time talking about Shakespeare and Science and such! We looked at each other in a kind of amazement that she would think that was what we did ALL THE TIME, when we both knew we'd indulged very, very, quietly in graphically sexual contact. We bit our respective lips and nodded and tried not to laugh out loud. Yup, yup, that is exactly what we were doing, talking about astronomy, uh huh.
We still touch each other often, prefer to sit next to each other, hug enthusiastically when we come home, rub cheeks watching a movie. Like drops of water on a counter, our bodies reach out to each other.
My father was loved by my cousins, because he would get on the floor with the children and play with them. He happily became one of the boys wrestling. I suspect it is his version of affection as the youngest of six boys inadequately supervised by busy parents. He often hurt me in the roughhousing with my brothers. So when I went to sit on him while he was napping, he thought it affection. I was trying to hurt him back. When I hit him, it was to return the pain. Or get back at him for making my mother cry. I learned to be wary of touch, and to draw back. It bothered me that he could not tell the difference.
My most sensual memory of my mother is of her tucking me in bed. She would run her hand over my body, over the blankets. It felt protective and sexual and holy, and my tensions would melt, my mind quieten down, and I would sleep. I could not understand, though I knew enough not to ask, why she avoided certain areas, and this disturbed me.
My Aunt Evelyn was the one I found when I got tired at family gatherings. I would sit beside her and lean into her, rocked to sleep as she gestured and talked and laughed in the conversations around her. She would complain of her arm going to sleep or how heavy I was getting, but only later, only after I was awake again. I knew she took my trust as compliment, as painful honor. She died when I was living across the country, just starting my new job. My grief for her lasted acutely until I was able, years later, to stand at her grave. Not a ceremony common in my family. But once I was there, I was able to finally bestow tears on her, her beloved Ernie beside her. My pain began to lift that day, and the loss began to heal. I can still feel her arms around me when I am very tired.
D and I began our relationship in the context of an Army National Guard unit deployed to the Gulf in 1991. We would talk, a lot, in public areas. There were only public areas. We would lean together, shoulder to shoulder, or back to back. We walked discreetly holding pinkie fingers, because to walk hand in hand in uniform was PDA, an actionable offense against military decorum. But the need to touch was irresistible, a powerful physical attraction between us insisted. I hugged him as he stood at the postal counter (he was one of the postmen for the unit) by putting my chin on his shoulder, leaning in from behind him, my hands demurely by my side. Not like we felt we were fooling anybody, just keeping to the letter of the UCMJ.
Which is all not to say we didn't find privacy for more intimate contact, it just had to be carefully done. Our public conversations were wide ranging, a comedy act, and compared to most of those around us, terribly intellectual. Yes, we actually talked about books that we had actually read. One time, Sgt. Tina Somebodyorother commented that it was good that two smart people could spend all our time talking about Shakespeare and Science and such! We looked at each other in a kind of amazement that she would think that was what we did ALL THE TIME, when we both knew we'd indulged very, very, quietly in graphically sexual contact. We bit our respective lips and nodded and tried not to laugh out loud. Yup, yup, that is exactly what we were doing, talking about astronomy, uh huh.
We still touch each other often, prefer to sit next to each other, hug enthusiastically when we come home, rub cheeks watching a movie. Like drops of water on a counter, our bodies reach out to each other.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Sleep
I love sleep. I love that strange drifty feeling when falling asleep happens slowly, and the gravity increases, paralysis sets in warmly. Voices in conversation around fade to nothing, then become loud and crystal clear, but the meaning is indecipherable. Ideas prod at the edges, brilliant images and frightening CGI effects. Then that too fades into deeper, darker dreams and absence.
When I was very small, I slept under a slanted roof in a former bathroom on a small bed. The window was tiny, and high in the wall. I preferred the venetian blinds down and tight to keep the shadows away. The register was a black painted grate that puffed out waves of coal scented heat that seared my face, and light poked through the grill from my brothers' room if they were there studying. I listened to their muted chatter. Bad nights I overheard hateful arguments from downstairs through the conduit. That angry high pitched male voice, swearing and hectoring, the crying of my mother. Often interspersed with the neutral noises of repairs, hammers and thumps.
The fire in the furnace would die down, and the cold would lurk back and sit heavy on my shoulders. I would squidge down to the foot of the bed, bunching the covers around me, as well as Raggedy Anne and my brothers' abandoned bear, and any other stuffed toy I could find. I wanted them at my back as the terrors of the dark closed around me. Skulls and black fish all hid in the low corners. I sang sagas to myself, awake often long, long into the night, until everyone was in bed, and longer. Later I would wake cold and back at the top of the bed, a long puzzle. My mother once complained I had scratched her when she pulled me up, and my frustration was at her interfering with my method for staying warm. She ignored my explanation, it "wasn't right". I figured she deserved the scratch, certain that in my sleep I had fought her, trying to stay cozy. Then felt instantly guilty, as well as still angry.
Summers were oppressive for the heat and sweat, the roar of fans, the itch of mosquito bites and the grit of that pink lotion that helped not at all. I would lay awake and imagine black shadows biting my back and toes.
Much better were the nights at aunts and uncles homes, with lots of cousins. I would be laid in a bed not quite strange, and drift off to raucous laughter and the conversations of Euchre games, or Rummy, or 500.
I graduated nursing school over a decade ago, book-ended with several months of night and evening shifts. I was never any good at night. I'd never pulled an all-nighter. No one in their right mind wants to see me awake at two am. I cannot sleep during the day. When I did work at night, I would get a few hours sleep when I got home, and that was it. I was hallucinating. I lost my sense of humor. I was not safe to drive, nor take care of a patient. This was not going well. So I started to listen to NPR to keep my mind still, allowing me to sleep. Which worked a bit, but had to be turned off or I would wake and start listening to it.
When I got into the OR, I went to day shift, and had to learn how to go to sleep at 9PM. D got several books on tape from the library. Shelby Foote and John LeCarre. Soothing voices, and as I heard them repeatedly, I lost interest in the story, and let the sounds wash over me, but they kept my own scurrying mind quiet. D found it helped him sleep better as well.
And that wonderful sensation of gently falling asleep, to my brain processing talk, returned reassuringly.
When I was very small, I slept under a slanted roof in a former bathroom on a small bed. The window was tiny, and high in the wall. I preferred the venetian blinds down and tight to keep the shadows away. The register was a black painted grate that puffed out waves of coal scented heat that seared my face, and light poked through the grill from my brothers' room if they were there studying. I listened to their muted chatter. Bad nights I overheard hateful arguments from downstairs through the conduit. That angry high pitched male voice, swearing and hectoring, the crying of my mother. Often interspersed with the neutral noises of repairs, hammers and thumps.
The fire in the furnace would die down, and the cold would lurk back and sit heavy on my shoulders. I would squidge down to the foot of the bed, bunching the covers around me, as well as Raggedy Anne and my brothers' abandoned bear, and any other stuffed toy I could find. I wanted them at my back as the terrors of the dark closed around me. Skulls and black fish all hid in the low corners. I sang sagas to myself, awake often long, long into the night, until everyone was in bed, and longer. Later I would wake cold and back at the top of the bed, a long puzzle. My mother once complained I had scratched her when she pulled me up, and my frustration was at her interfering with my method for staying warm. She ignored my explanation, it "wasn't right". I figured she deserved the scratch, certain that in my sleep I had fought her, trying to stay cozy. Then felt instantly guilty, as well as still angry.
Summers were oppressive for the heat and sweat, the roar of fans, the itch of mosquito bites and the grit of that pink lotion that helped not at all. I would lay awake and imagine black shadows biting my back and toes.
Much better were the nights at aunts and uncles homes, with lots of cousins. I would be laid in a bed not quite strange, and drift off to raucous laughter and the conversations of Euchre games, or Rummy, or 500.
I graduated nursing school over a decade ago, book-ended with several months of night and evening shifts. I was never any good at night. I'd never pulled an all-nighter. No one in their right mind wants to see me awake at two am. I cannot sleep during the day. When I did work at night, I would get a few hours sleep when I got home, and that was it. I was hallucinating. I lost my sense of humor. I was not safe to drive, nor take care of a patient. This was not going well. So I started to listen to NPR to keep my mind still, allowing me to sleep. Which worked a bit, but had to be turned off or I would wake and start listening to it.
When I got into the OR, I went to day shift, and had to learn how to go to sleep at 9PM. D got several books on tape from the library. Shelby Foote and John LeCarre. Soothing voices, and as I heard them repeatedly, I lost interest in the story, and let the sounds wash over me, but they kept my own scurrying mind quiet. D found it helped him sleep better as well.
And that wonderful sensation of gently falling asleep, to my brain processing talk, returned reassuringly.
Kung-fu
There are movies I have wanted to see, knowing, really knowing from the preview that I will love it. I can also tell when I need to avoid a movie, based on the preview. I've seen a lot of movies (4866 rated on Netflix to date). I have essentially seen way too many movies. Nothing like Kevin Murphy, of course, who miraculously manages to still love all films, to my admiration and amazement. It is a rare movie that can get through my wall of 'seen that' and 'so flawed'.
I was uncritical and omnivorous once, easily distracted by shiny things. I grew up not able to see any movie not G rated, or not on the Legion of Decency list of acceptable films. My tastes when given free reign tended toward the risque and foreign, anything not Disney, in essence. I spent my four years in college seeing an average of 4-5 movies a week - in theaters. I went to the movies at the Detroit Institute of Arts from one to three times a week. The WSU film society had noon shows for students for 50¢. The Punch and Judy showed art house and second run movies. The Ren Cen had Tuesday dollar night. The Unitarian Church down the street showed films in series. I saw French and Czech, Polish and Japanese and Russian films. I saw a string of Hitchcock, and Bertrand Blier movies. I saw two a week in my film classes from Professor Spaulding. He loved movies, with all their warts, which he enjoyed dissecting. I have never seen film the same way again.
My tastes and criteria for movies are quirky and unusual, a combination of my training, film and acting, overexposure, and deep attachment to characters. When I have tried to rate movies in online lists, compared to what others like, to get recommendations, it does not jibe. The more I rate, the more wrong the predictions become. I think I confuse the system.
Because I will refuse a movie because a director has betrayed my trust - especially if that director murders a character. I have no qualms about a character dying, or being murdered in a film. But when that character is simply offed for no plot advancing or character defining reason, just for the thrill of it, then I do not give that director another chance. My best example is in the shiny but soulless The English Patient. When the sergeant is gratuitously exploded to no end, at the end, I felt shamelessly manipulated, badly manipulated. I want to be skillfully manipulated when I see a movie.
I hated Ralph Fiennes in that movie, and will never see any movie with him in it again. In Quiz Show he irritated me, in English Patient, I came to loathe him. See, thing is, he ACTS! That showy, self conscious, easy ACTING! that I know to be an Oscar grubbing cheat. It looks like he is doing something grand, but there are no difficult choices made, no subtlety, no heart. It's Special Effects Acting -"See the 'Making of--Ralph Fiennes facial expressions!'"
Please, don't ever ask me to see a Ron Howard or Steven Speilberg movie. Just don't even ask.
I will not see a movie with Julia Roberts in it. I will give anything with Judy Dench, or done by Martin Scorcese, a chance, even if Julia Roberts were in it. I have not liked all Martin Scorcese films. Nor every one of John Sayles. But I will grant them another try. They have earned my trust, and we all make crap at times.
On the other hand, I do not need a movie to be great. It does have to have heart. It does have to be fairly free of gaping plot holes. It has to have a sense of humor, the truth of drama, the point of comedy. That Thing You Do is one of those perfect small movies. Internally consistent, funny, true and with a warm chewy center. Tank Girl is not perfect, but Lori Petty is so charming, and the friendships that develop are genuine, ignoring the silly special effects and the swiss cheesy plot. Nor do I even need that, Plan 9 From Outer Space is utter crap, but done with such energy and wobbly imagination that, given a room full of loudmouths watching it, is a lot of fun, and the good guys win (I think, sorta). It's fine to like bad movies, as long as one is aware that it is bad, but likable anyway.
I just saw Kung Fu Hustle. I knew from the previews I wanted to see it. It has been on our Netflix list for a long time, but D was a bit dubious. We missed it in theaters when it came out, due to the move across country and my own disenchantment with sitting in a theater to see a film. I regret this.
I laughed, I cringed, it was amazing. Difficult to cope with the extreme Tex Avery extreme violence at first, but it was pointed. No one was quite what they seemed, and compassion wins. This was by far the best movie I have seen in years. It is the funniest modern comedy I have seen, with Pixar animation being in the same league. This is a movie that is concentrated movie. Much more than is obvious on first viewing. It is parody and homage and over the top moralizing, CGI and martial arts chorerography, disguising a solid story of courage and decency and responsibility. It is, as all great stories are, a love story.
We may need to own this one, and make friends watch it.
Yes, I do have IMDB bookmarked on my bookmarks bar, since you ask.
I was uncritical and omnivorous once, easily distracted by shiny things. I grew up not able to see any movie not G rated, or not on the Legion of Decency list of acceptable films. My tastes when given free reign tended toward the risque and foreign, anything not Disney, in essence. I spent my four years in college seeing an average of 4-5 movies a week - in theaters. I went to the movies at the Detroit Institute of Arts from one to three times a week. The WSU film society had noon shows for students for 50¢. The Punch and Judy showed art house and second run movies. The Ren Cen had Tuesday dollar night. The Unitarian Church down the street showed films in series. I saw French and Czech, Polish and Japanese and Russian films. I saw a string of Hitchcock, and Bertrand Blier movies. I saw two a week in my film classes from Professor Spaulding. He loved movies, with all their warts, which he enjoyed dissecting. I have never seen film the same way again.
My tastes and criteria for movies are quirky and unusual, a combination of my training, film and acting, overexposure, and deep attachment to characters. When I have tried to rate movies in online lists, compared to what others like, to get recommendations, it does not jibe. The more I rate, the more wrong the predictions become. I think I confuse the system.
Because I will refuse a movie because a director has betrayed my trust - especially if that director murders a character. I have no qualms about a character dying, or being murdered in a film. But when that character is simply offed for no plot advancing or character defining reason, just for the thrill of it, then I do not give that director another chance. My best example is in the shiny but soulless The English Patient. When the sergeant is gratuitously exploded to no end, at the end, I felt shamelessly manipulated, badly manipulated. I want to be skillfully manipulated when I see a movie.
I hated Ralph Fiennes in that movie, and will never see any movie with him in it again. In Quiz Show he irritated me, in English Patient, I came to loathe him. See, thing is, he ACTS! That showy, self conscious, easy ACTING! that I know to be an Oscar grubbing cheat. It looks like he is doing something grand, but there are no difficult choices made, no subtlety, no heart. It's Special Effects Acting -"See the 'Making of--Ralph Fiennes facial expressions!'"
Please, don't ever ask me to see a Ron Howard or Steven Speilberg movie. Just don't even ask.
I will not see a movie with Julia Roberts in it. I will give anything with Judy Dench, or done by Martin Scorcese, a chance, even if Julia Roberts were in it. I have not liked all Martin Scorcese films. Nor every one of John Sayles. But I will grant them another try. They have earned my trust, and we all make crap at times.
On the other hand, I do not need a movie to be great. It does have to have heart. It does have to be fairly free of gaping plot holes. It has to have a sense of humor, the truth of drama, the point of comedy. That Thing You Do is one of those perfect small movies. Internally consistent, funny, true and with a warm chewy center. Tank Girl is not perfect, but Lori Petty is so charming, and the friendships that develop are genuine, ignoring the silly special effects and the swiss cheesy plot. Nor do I even need that, Plan 9 From Outer Space is utter crap, but done with such energy and wobbly imagination that, given a room full of loudmouths watching it, is a lot of fun, and the good guys win (I think, sorta). It's fine to like bad movies, as long as one is aware that it is bad, but likable anyway.
I just saw Kung Fu Hustle. I knew from the previews I wanted to see it. It has been on our Netflix list for a long time, but D was a bit dubious. We missed it in theaters when it came out, due to the move across country and my own disenchantment with sitting in a theater to see a film. I regret this.
I laughed, I cringed, it was amazing. Difficult to cope with the extreme Tex Avery extreme violence at first, but it was pointed. No one was quite what they seemed, and compassion wins. This was by far the best movie I have seen in years. It is the funniest modern comedy I have seen, with Pixar animation being in the same league. This is a movie that is concentrated movie. Much more than is obvious on first viewing. It is parody and homage and over the top moralizing, CGI and martial arts chorerography, disguising a solid story of courage and decency and responsibility. It is, as all great stories are, a love story.
We may need to own this one, and make friends watch it.
Yes, I do have IMDB bookmarked on my bookmarks bar, since you ask.
Famous (Photo)
Oh, he's a gracious celebrity. Will send you a paw print anytime.
He was famous before, he also made
Calling All Pets.
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Juicer (Photo)
This is my lemon juicer. Works really well. Unless I have paper cuts. As with all photos here, click for a larger view.
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