Christmas '07

… from my point of view, was as close to perfect as I’ve ever experienced and it was because my holiday preparations were as far from “perfect” as imaginable -- even for me. I had my husband and children (the prodigals), brother and sister-in-law and a guest of my son’s who couldn’t get to his family’s for the holiday.

My daughter had a flight delay in NY that meant she didn’t arrive until a day later than planned. To say she was disappointed would be an understatement. She practically lives for coming back home and was devastated to lose a day. She doesn’t handle disappointment well (and she’s an actress -- whoa) and, when she called me ranting and sobbing from LaGuardia, I half expected to hear her get tasered by security. She was ready to strangle the Delta agent who she says was got up like Mimi from “Drew Carey” complete with reindeer antlers and lots of blue eye shadow. The poor, festive woman was trying to console her with, “Oh, don’t cry honey. We’ll get you there by Christmas Eve, Christmas day at the latest.” That sent Laura over the edge. “But I only have three days as it is! You ridiculous bitch!” Add to all that, she only had enough cash to get her to the airport (my daughter is brilliant but not exactly practical when it comes to money). She managed to get back to her apartment only by giving a cabbie a check for $60 at around midnight. She had a shuttle booked to pick her up again at 2:30 a.m. for her 6 a.m. flight and spent the 2 and a half hours scraping up change from around the apartment to pay for it. By noon, Christmas Eve, she was home again in her dearly loved Arkansas.

In between cooking, Dan, Laura and I went and saw “Sweeney Todd.” I loved it, every second of it. I got totally lost in it and when it was over had to remind myself where I was and that it was Christmas Eve. On the way home we stopped at the liquor store where my son works, and Laura had us wait outside while she surprised Chase. She slipped in unnoticed, as they were very busy, got a bottle of vermouth and walked up to the counter where Chase was. She set the bottle down and waited for Chase to look up. Dan and I were hanging around on the sidewalk peeking through the window and getting strange looks from departing customers. Chase finally glanced up and was totally surprised. We walked in as he came around to counter to hug her. He came home after work and spent the night. I continued cooking, but not too much, and listening to my family.

Christmas day started late as we were all up very late the night before. We opened gifts by playing Trivial Pursuit which was a fun way to stretch it out. You had to correctly answer a TP question to open a present which meant Dan’s gifts got opened first, mine last. Chase’s friend, John, arrived during the afternoon and I cooked. Christmas came for me when I was loading up the dishwasher (again) and beginning to resent everyone else for not helping. I stopped and looked over at the kitchen table -- at Laura, Chase, and John playing dominoes with the set I’d given Chase, laughing and ribbing each other, Dan in the recliner fiddling with the translator I’d given him and I felt such joy and gratitude to have them all. It didn’t matter what happened after that, how I screwed up (and I did) the day was perfect.

Even when we took Laura to the airport on the 27th, I wasn’t sad. Something told me she wasn’t leaving, even though the Delta website said her flights were on time. Lo and behold her flight out of LR was delayed making it impossible to make her connection in Atlanta. We happily rebooked her for the next morning and she got to have one more night to see friends she thought she wouldn’t. We left her at the airport this morning and she is in Atlanta now and experiencing more delays but she will probably get back to NY tonight.

The year that was:
http://youtube.com/watch?v=PuS-dD3sIzw

Organization is not conducive to creativity

Overall, I’m doing better on Christmas this year. I bought the fresh (appropriate size) wreath for my front door on Dec. 7th, my tree is up and decorated and some gifts have been purchased. I know that compared to a lot of folks, I’m way behind. If I am compared to me last year, however, I’m way ahead of the game. Last year, everything was such an ordeal – take, for example, my horrendous 2006 wreath:

December 18, 2006

Know what happens when you wait until Dec. 16th to buy your fresh Christmas wreath? You end up with one of the two remaining ginormous, dried-out wreaths from Lakewood Gardens. Even though they gave it to me for half price, it was still expensive. Installed on the front door, it touches the doorknob. You cannot close the door from the inside because it’s impossible the shove the branches back outside.

So what happens is:

Doorbell
Cursing
Open door
Me: “Well hello, (inconsiderate neighbor bearing gift) do come in. Could you wait here just a second?”
Run to open the kitchen door (the one with sleigh bells attached to the doorknob) and push button to raise garage door.
Zip past assh, er, neighbor to close front wreath from the outside.
Run around to garage scooping up pissed off cat that I forgot was in the garage and is starting to slink towards freedom.
Come in through kitchen door trying to protect face and throat from cat (effing sleigh bells).
Me: Dropping cat, “pant…pant…wheeze…egg nog?”
Asshole: “Nice wreath.”

Gosh, after reading that again, this Christmas seems pretty boring. Come to think of it, my family got a kick out of my incompetence last year. It was such a terrible year that by the time Christmas came around, we’d decided to just embrace the lunacy (but Erni wriggled free).

Disturbing Trend

Anybody else notice the proliferation of inane “greeters” stationed next to the entrances of businesses? It’s my theory that this all began with churches, specifically, elderly Sunday school classes. The logic’s the same for both church and the secular, really. They are hoping that by appearing welcoming, people will return – and bring money. Being as we've now entered the "hap, happiest time of the year," I expect that we shoppers will be forced to navigate an obstacle course of bell ringers, greeters, sample trolls, etc. when most of us just want to get our shit and go home.

We have a greeter here at the large medical center where I work. Apparently the prominently marked information desks located close to the entrances are not enough. We need a fat guy sitting outside on a stool, with a portable heater and an entourage of squirrels to make sure Cletus and Lurline know that this here university medical center is just happy as hell to practice on, er, treat them.

My neighborhood Kroger now has a greeter stationed by the door. I don’t understand; it's not like we have any choice -- we gotta buy food. Is it corporate management’s attempt at warmth? Do they honestly think customers will return because there’s an employee with vacant eyes grinning ear-to-ear next to the entrance? (Instead of, say, bagging groceries.) Well, not this customer. I come back hoping to see Mr. Snappy, the homeless guy that takes it upon himself to return all the carts from the parking lot. There’s a happy guy. He’s got a crack bounce to his step and he’s always snapping his fingers to a melody only he can hear.

Ageless rhythms

I got to see Man Man last night and it was a hundred times better than I expected. And, I got to see them in the perfect venue from the perfect vantage point. They performed in a small, stripped-down club that caters to the indie crowd. We were lucky enough to snag a couple of the folding chairs lining the wall. I realized I wouldn’t be able to see a thing if I tried to stand anywhere on the floor, but, I could stand on the chair and not be in anybody’s way. I’m never that lucky.

I must admit I stressed quite a bit over even going. I knew I would be out of my element agewise and was afraid of being perceived as one of those pitiful old bags desperate to hold onto relevance -- trying to be cool. When we arrived, a guy walked up asking for the admission and to see our ID’s, if we were going to drink. My husband had his but I failed to bring mine. The guy says, “I really need to see everybody’s ID.” I said, “Dude, it’s not that dark in here.” He responded with, “Okay, you’re obviously … uh … I mean … over 21.” I said, “Nice save.” We went outside, carrying our drinks with us. One of the managers came out and told us this wasn’t Louisiana and we couldn’t take our drinks outside. So, basically, I got in trouble twice within the first 30 minutes. Then I got over myself. Sure, we were the oldest people there but the many people we talked to seemed genuinely pleased to see somebody, outside of their cohort, that got Man Man.

I didn’t, however, get the opening act. It’s not so much that every song sounded the same. Or that the musical range of the group seemed to consist of three chords. But that the lead vocalist was a whiny bitch about the sound. They fixed the sound. It didn’t help. They seemed to have a devoted core of a half dozen fans that for me, served their purpose. When they cleared out I snagged my primo location from which to view Man Man.

Now, standing on a folding chair is not conducive to much movement. I contented myself to perfecting my head pump (Note to self - next time don’t use hairspray. Kinda ruins the effect.), banging my shoulder blades rhythmically against the wall, and watching the group in front of the stage as they gleefully undulated forward and back -- my son among them.

My perception of the show? Primal rhythms created with an assortment of musical instruments and unexpected objects and vocals that pushed the limits of physicality. All presented in a manner that would put Ringling Bros. to shame. These guys were there to put on a show, to entertain. There was no ego. There was fun. They looked like they were having the time of their lives. And, why shouldn’t they? Why shouldn’t we all.

“I know you need to find
What you thought
you left behind
in a past life.”
Feathers - Man Man

Oh no he di-n't!

I am currently enrolled in a writing course at the local Minnie Me university and I’ve made it a point to never mention any of my classmates or their writing in this blog. Mainly because they all seem to be computer literate and they are all bigger than I am. I don’t think any of them would have a problem with kicking my scrawny ass. Aside from that, they are all decent folk that, like me, only want to learn to write better. We get along well, at least no one’s stormed out in tears -- yet.

It is required that we read our classmates’ work and critique it. This can be extremely nerve wracking for both the reviewer and the writer. Ultimately, the exercise is tremendously useful for both.

We have one student that likes to write Vietnam war stories. Not a genre I would choose to read on my own but hey, if it’s well written, I’m a happy camper (“The Things They Carried” comes to mind). This writer took exception to one classmate after another saying they got bogged down by all the military acronyms contained in his previous story. Some abbreviations were obvious while others defied our attempts at research. We were actually wimping out because the story itself was a rambling, disconnected, pile of suck. We left it to the professor to point that out.

In the current story submitted by this writer, Iwo Jima is mentioned and marked by an asterisk, sort of. This was the mark: @ (that's not the actual mark but the closest I could come given my choices in this format). Hmm, puzzling. Was it a printer turd? I glanced down the page and noticed the same mark next to a footnote. Ah, here’s a first. No one had included a footnote yet. Here, dear reader, is the content of said note:
“If an explanation is needed for Iwo Jima, I would suggest that you stop reading this paper. In fact, I insist you stop reading this paper now, asshole.”

My initial reaction was What the … did he just call me an asshole? Here I am, minding my own business, spending my valuable lunch hour slogging through this fucking 32 page story and this is what I get in return? Insults? I tried to rationalize. Was it his pathetic attempt at humor? Was is rabid patriotism? Because, he couldn’t possibly believe that anyone in that class had never heard of Iwo Jima. Jesus Christ, even if we slept through junior high and high school and Western Civ., there were two major motion pictures released just last year about Iwo Jima. Then I thought about the author, who is the most irksome of assholes. You know, the guy that prefaces his opinions with patronizing, self demeaning bullshit. “I don’t know, I’m just a dumb ol’ boy that prolly doesn’t know half as much as you,” said in a tone that means the exact opposite.

So, I did as the author suggested and I quit reading. Why the heck should I waste my time on work done by someone that holds his audience in such disdain? I’m not sure what I’m going to say when it comes my turn to critique the story. I’ve got a feeling I’m not the only one that was offended, so my bet is that another classmate will unload on him before they get to me. If the guy has any brains at all, he’ll apologize to us at the beginning of the class.

Fear has ruined Halloween

The Halloweens of my childhood were so much better than my kids’. We were turned loose to trick or treat all over town. I think I went to only one Halloween carnival my entire childhood and I thought it was really lame. I wanted to get out of there with my friends and go trick or treating.

I remember Buck and Beth sneaking eggs out of the house.

I remember me and Bill sorting our loot when Buck and Beth would come home, howling, covered with broken eggs and putting us in stitches telling us what happened.


I remember how cold it always was and not wanting to put a coat over my costume.


I remember Buck as a teenager putting together elaborate schemes to scare the shit out of trick or treaters.


I remember the times he played “Spooky” over and over again by the door.


I remember the rivalry between me and Bill on who could collect the most candy.


I remember that my friend Gail’s mom always gave out homemade popcorn balls. Some house in every neighborhood gave out caramel apples and word spread like wildfire. Some asshole would give out coffee candy. Rumors of needles and razor blades abounded. My feet would be soaking wet. My skinny arms sticking out of my coat sleeves (because I would be wearing last year’s coat) would be freezing.


And I was free, after dark, with a bunch of other kids, knocking on strangers doors and receiving candy.





A few of my favorite Halloween quotes:





'Tis now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out
Contagion to this world.~William Shakespeare

One need not be a chamber to be haunted;
One need not be a house;
The brain has corridors surpassing
Material place.~Emily Dickinson

Where there is no imagination there is no horror. ~Arthur Conan Doyle, Sr.

There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls. ~George Carlin

Shadows of a thousand years rise again unseen,
Voices whisper in the trees,
"Tonight is Halloween!"~Dexter Kozen

Backward, turn backward,
O Time, in your flight
make me a child again
just for to-night!~Elizabeth Akers Allen

Clothes make a statement. Costumes tell a story. ~Mason Cooley

Just like a ghost, you've been a-hauntin' my dreams,
So I'll propose on Halloween.
Love is kinda crazy with a spooky little girl like you.~Classics IV

Acting is like a Halloween mask that you put on. ~River Phoenix

The dream reveals the reality which conception lags behind. That is the horror of life—the terror of art.~One of the best quotes by Franz Kafka

I know'd it, know'd it,
Indeed I know'd it brother
I know'd it - Weeee!
Dem bones gonna rise again.- Anonymous Early American Ballad

THE HORROR ... the horror ...

Dear God in heaven. This morning, as I was getting ready for work, I had my TV on and tuned to a local morning program. The station has been running ads for haunted houses, and Halloween supplies. This morning I actually had chills run down my spine when I heard the music accompanying a local commercial. It was heart-stopping …

it was nausea inducing …

it was …

it was …

gasp …

“Deck the Halls.”

Incoming!

You know, every now and then circumstances converge to create incidents that are comic theatre at its very best. If you’re really lucky you get to witness one of these sidewalk improvisations. I was that fortunate person yesterday.

After another stimulating day of cataslacking at the medical center library, I clocked out and walked outside toward the parking deck. My path takes me along a sidewalk bordered on the right by a shoulder height brick wall and on the left by perfectly spaced, sickly Willow oaks. I noticed a squirrel on the wall and was amazed at how close he let me get before doing a lazy squirrel hop along the flat crest of the wall. He stayed about 3 feet in front of me.

I was mildly interested because we don’t see squirrels around here often. The last time we had a family of the critters in our corner of the campus, it was wiped out in one day by a hawk -- so much for animals killing only for food. Like an avian serial killer, that raptor picked them off one-by-one, sadistically displaying his victims, splayed out on tree branches outside numerous windows of our building.

So, as I was walking along with the squirrel on point, a doctor passed me on the left. Everything was cool until the squirrel ran out of wall. Now this squirrel had several options when it came to the end of the wall:
1. Stop.
2. Run down the other side of the wall into the chancellor’s garden.
3. Run down the sidewalk side of the wall and do the squirrel equivalent of dodge ball like they do in the middle of the street when confronted by a car.
4. Leap from the wall to a tree on the other side of the walkway.
If you picked number 4, you’ve read my blogs before.

The squirrel leaps, grabbing desperately for any branch. It manages to grip the end of a spindly low-hanging branch and swings toward the trunk. Freeze frame. Remember the doc that passed me? Well, he’s now dead even with tarzan squirrel. Resume action. The doctor is walking along, lost in thought, oblivious to his surroundings. I’m more interested because the squirrel’s now committed and I’m wondering how he’s gonna get out of the situation. In a split second I discovered squirrel reflexes are fast but they have their limits. The doc didn’t have a chance. One second he’s walking along, minding his own business. The next he’s smacked upside the head with a branchful of squirrel. I swear the rodent had hold of one of the poor guy’s nostrils as the branch swung back. It took me about .000001 seconds to process what I’d just witnessed and react. Another pedestrian was next to me and in unison we said, “Whoa. Dude!” The guy next to me said, “Did you see that?” I responded with, “Did that guy just get bitch slapped by a squirrel?” We then proceeded to laugh our asses off all the way to the parking deck while the doc kept looking over his shoulder at us. He was not amused. I keep replaying the event in my head -- in slow motion, complete with a high pitched tarzan yell.

The urban jungle … sinister … unpredictable … inhabited by kamikaze rodents.

The New Shows are Here! The New Shows are Here!

Out of desperation (work avoidance), I tuned in NBC Monday night and watched two of their new Fall shows. The first was “Chuck,” which, although based on a ridiculous premise, was fun. It’s about a computer geek that’s part of the “Nerd Herd” that works at a thinly disguised Best Buy. (Those ad people at Best Buy are ingenious – all the exposure, none of the advertising dollars.) Chuck is a lovable, socially awkward goof played by doe-eyed Zachary Levi. The producers think that by giving the adorable Mr. Levi a bad haircut and dorky wardrobe, people will think he’s just an average-looking guy. It doesn’t take much imagination to see that Zachary Levi is a hunk. I really wish network primetime would sack up and cast normal-looking people in leads. The side kick, Morgan (Joshua Gomez), is the character I find most entertaining mainly because he’s funny as shit. He’s got some great lines and delivers them believably. It’s not so much the line, line, line, punchline formula. The writers here have come up with good, funny dialogue between Chuck and Morgan.

Back to the stupid premise, Chuck has this old college buddy that became a CIA agent. He also becomes dead in the first scene. His final act, as he lies bleeding on a rooftop staring down the barrel of one of the evildoers, is to send his old computer game playmate, Chuck, an email. The email contains images encrypted with all the secrets of all the terrorists everywhere. We don’t know who they are or where they’re from, but by God they’re terrorists and NBC figures that’s enough explanation for most Americans. When Chuck opens it, all the images flash, and voila, Chuck now has the secrets in his head. Dead guy’s lover/fellow spy, tracks down Chuck, and manages to destroy instead of steal his computer (while dressed like a ninja) leaving our hero as the only known source of every dastardly plan the terrorists have ever thought up and a hard-on for sizzling hot spygirl. Just in case you’re blind, NBC makes sure there are plenty of underwear clad spygirl scenes. No explanation about how the hell Chuck’s biological memory is now encrypted with this artificial intelligence. The fact that Chuck’s magic memory would have a short shelf life is totally ignored. I mean, terrorists are always coming up with new plots. It’s what they do, right? Spygirl develops a soft spot for Chuck and prevents a rival NSA agent from blowing him away after she realizes Chuck has all the diabolical schemes of the suspiciously swarthy terrorists stowed in his noggin. Unintentional hilarity ensues as Chuck seems to upload the appropriate plot for the given situation and using good old nerd gumption defuses a bomb intended for a general that is in the middle of delivering a speech in a packed hotel ballroom. That nobody in the ballroom notices the three people gathered around a food trolley located in the exact center of the room that contains a bright red bomb complete with wires, digital timer and flashing lights, is not addressed.

So, it appears that in the world of “Chuck” we could all be dead or assimilated if it weren’t for loveable computer nerds with flash drive memories and ridiculously good looking CIA agents (in stiletto boots).

The second premiere I watched was “Journeyman.” Think “Quantum Leap” meets The Time Traveler’s Wife. First episode was disappointing but I will watch again hoping that Kevin McKidd’s talent will be able to sell the premise as well as Scott Bakula’s did for “Quantum Leap.” Something I found annoying is that they made Kevin McKidd American. The actor is British and I found his voice disturbingly flat as he spoke with an American accent. Overall, my reaction to the show was “meh.”

“Dirty Sexy Money”

I liked this one mainly because I like the lead actor – Peter Krause. Of course Donald Sutherland and Jill Clayburgh add legitimacy to the program. My biggest gripe is that the characters of the Darling children were too cliche. Hopefully this was because the writers were trying to introduce these characters to the audience as quickly as possible and they will add nuance to the personalities as the series progresses.

Long beautiful "Hair!"

Labor Day has never been a big deal for me. Just a long summer weekend – not a real holiday. This year was the exception. My husband and I went to New York to see our daughter in an off off Broadway production of “Hair!” When Hair made its debut in 1967, I was 11 years old. I heard the songs on the radio and, of course, the nude scene was big news back then. I knew it was about hippies and pictured it as one protest scene after another. I saw the movie probably no more than 5 years ago.

Since my daughter’s involvement with this production, I’ve been educated. I learned the history, looked up the lyrics, listened to the soundtrack. Heck, we even sent our daughter a box of clothes and stuff for the cast. (Laura is the costume designer as well as playing Chrissy.) We didn’t arrive in NY until too late to see the Saturday show but met up with Laura and many of the cast, after, for drinks. I already knew most of the cast because they were also students at Neighborhood Playhouse when my daughter attended. The new cast members were every bit as friendly, and well, just as sweet as they could be. I was struck by the energy emanating from the group. These people had just finished a long, physically demanding performance and they didn’t seem exhausted, quite the opposite. They were stoked.

The show we attended was 7:00, Sunday. We met up with friends who’d seen the original production about 4 times. I was the only one that hadn’t seen it on stage. I was amazed. How the hell did these kids manage to capture the spirit of a culture that existed at least 15 years before they were born? As a member of the audience that was alive during that era, I was reminded of the naiveté my friends and I shared during the late 60’s and early 70’s. We all wanted to go to Haight-Asbury (even though I wasn’t exactly sure where it was) thinking we could just show up and be adopted into this benign community and be free. When upset about how our parents were smothering us and demanding that we conform to their ideals, the common retort (sometimes even spoken aloud) was, “Up the ol’ hole, I’m off to Frisco.” All those memories and, more amazingly, feelings returned as I watched these talented actors. I was really impressed with the staging and choreography, especially “Going Down,” and a short Kama Sutra scene between “Air” and “I Got Life.” Of course the highlight for me was my daughter’s song, “Frank Mills.” I forget to breathe sometimes when I watch her perform and this was one of those times. Her father cried. Poor Laura, it’s pretty bad when the quality of your performance is based on how wet your father’s face is or how blue your mother has turned. I think she’s shooting for making me pass out.

I didn’t know it, but, Nathan Lane sat behind me. I wonder what he thought of the show. Was he there scoping out new talent or does he just like “Hair”?

Okay, okay, the nude scene. All my friends and family asked me, “Are they gonna do the nude scene? How do you feel about that?” Well, truthfully, it bothered me when I first realized my daughter would be naked on stage. Then I just put it out of my mind. I told my friends I would look at the other side of the stage. What really happened was that as soon as the nude cast emerged from beneath the parachute silk, I located Laura and was momentarily spellbound. I then looked to the other side of the stage. But you know what? The memory I will always have of this scene is the image of my breathtakingly beautiful, fearless daughter.

Know where I can pick up an imagination cheap?

According to W.P. Kinsella, "Writing is ability, imagination, passion, and stamina. Ability is being able to write complete sentences with clear, straightforward, standard English, which eliminates 70% of everyone who wants to write. Imagination is having a story to tell, which eliminates another 20%..." I made it into the top 30% -- woohoo. I am seriously screwed.

I attended my first fiction writing class last night which I enjoyed in a licking a 9-volt battery kind of way. My classmates are very smart, very articulate, and very talented (the bastards). We were given a sheet of paper printed with several first lines from short stories and told to pick two lines that appealed to us. The two I chose were: "Understand that your cat is a whore and cannot help you," and "Early in the morning on the first anniversary of the day her family survived, the mother woke." We were then told to write a paragraph using one of the sentences we chose as the first line and the other choice as the last line. Fuck me. Okay fine, I somehow managed to slap some bullshit between those two sentences in a somewhat coherent manner. I even had time to revise because other students were taking a lot of time with this. The professor finally called time and asked if anyone would like to read their paragraphs. You betcha! Those students that wrote for so long -- effing brilliant. Made what I wrote look like "Dick, Jane, and Sally had a wreck and hate their cat, Spot. The end."

We have until September 18th (3 weeks) to turn in our first story. Two students turned their's in last night, of course. I've begun four stories; does that count?

That's entertainment.

Yep, some days you're the dark crystal and some days you're the Podling. I swear to God, there are days I feel like my computer at work is sucking the essence right out of me.

I'm a movie whore. I admit it. I also love live theatre but don't get the opportunity to attend often enough. The best play I ever saw (outside of my daughter's) was "Dance of Death" starring Sir Ian McKellan and Frances De La Tour. I was fortunate enough to see it at the Lyric Theatre in London back in '03. I so admire English actors in that even though they may be successful in movies; they regularly return to the stage to hone their skills. American actors -- not so much. I saw poor Julianne Moore acting opposite Bill Nighy in "The Vertical Hour" last November on Broadway and Mr. Nighy mopped the floor with her.

My favorite movie at the moment is "Secret Life of Words" with Tim Robbins, Sarah Polley and the remarkable Julie Christie. It's a beautifully acted, quiet film that affected me deeply.

So, maybe your thinking that I'm an entertainment snob. Well, guess what. I also live and breathe a (Jesus, I can't believe I'm admitting this) soap opera. "Days of Our Lives" to be specific. But, I'm choosy about that too. I only watch episodes with Stephen Nichols and Mary Beth Evans aka Steve and Kayla. Thanks to the internet I know when they will be on. Hey, they're out there turning the crap that's been written for them into gold day after day after day with little time for rehearsal. It's the closest thing you'll see to live theatre on TV. I gotta hand it to them. And, at least the soaps are employing actors (that is when they aren't casting models) unlike all the reality show crap. Johnny Depp got his start on a soap as did Meg Ryan, Julianne Moore, George Clooney, Halle Barry, Jimmy Smits, Heath Ledger, Morgan Freeman, the list goes on and on.

Therefore, I amend my initial statement. I'm a movie, theatre, television whore. An equal opportunity slut, if you will.

Introspection ain't for sissies

I’m beginning to question my admittedly dark sense of humor. I really cannot set boundaries for myself where comedy is concerned. You know how some people say, “Years from now, we’ll look back on this and laugh.”? Well for me, “years from now” is usually about ten minutes. (30 seconds if it involves somebody falling down.)

I come by this trait honestly. My brothers and sister are the same way. We barely made it through the funeral arrangements for our father – that is how despicable we are. The priest was quite at a loss. Don’t get me wrong, we all love Daddy and miss him terribly, but there’s just something in our wiring that wrings the comedy out of just about any situation.

I had the pooey scared out of me about 3 weeks ago when my daughter in New York had a medical emergency. She passed out while substitute teaching a ballet class for inner city kids. She busted her chin open and had to go to the ER for stitches. They also ran a battery of tests to try to diagnose the cause of her fainting. She was upset, we were worried, boyfriend was distraught, etc. Turns out, there was no reason for the faint. They called it vasovagal syncope which sounds lethal so I looked it up online and the entry was: Vasovagal syncope (fainting). Apparently the danger posed by vasovagal syncope is hurting yourself when you hit the floor, or sidewalk, or stairs …

Okay, so last week. My daughter, being of my blood, made a crack about my appearance in a photo I posted in this blog. She remarked that my arm looked fake and jeeringly called me “Wax Arm Mom.” That’s all I needed. I immediately shot off a postcard to her that was a 50’s era black and white photo of three little angelic ballerinas and their equally angelic, young teacher. Above each little tutu’ed cherub I drew a thought balloon. The first one said, “Man, this new sub really blows.” The second one said “Well at least this one’s conscious,” while the third was used to symbolize the trauma inflicted on the poor little kids in my daughter’s class and said “Find a happy place. Find a happy place. Find a happy place…”

What kind of mother am I? To make fun of my own daughter’s unfortunate incapacitation. God … I suck! Self realization’s a bitch. Now that I’ve recognized this flaw in my character, I’ll change. Right? NOT BLOODY LIKELY!!! I direct your attention, dear reader, to my new slogan, located in the upper right corner of this page. I got it off a bumper sticker.

Musical reawakening

For years I had virtually no interest in popular music. I was content to listen to whatever my husband was playing -- usually Jimmy Buffet and James Taylor -- which was fine. My brother is a blues musician and I love his music also. My son plays guitar and writes songs that are, to me, visceral.
Then I was given an iPod by my daughter and I rediscovered the thrill of music that spoke to me or took me back to a time when life was waiting. I started by sampling what my kids were listening to and came across groups that just blew me away. Man Man comes to mind. I came home one day and my son was listening to something upstairs that stopped me in my tracks. I went upstairs to find him downloading Man Man and was blown away by the no rules blend of sounds. They use all sorts of instruments, from accordion to cutlery thrown into metal bowls. And the vocalist has this rough, almost gutteral voice backed up by high-pitched child-like singers. I hear something new everytime I listen.
I pick up on songs now that I would have ignored not so very long ago. My favorite at the moment is "Johnny Appleseed" by Joe Strummer and the Mescalaros. It is the opening song for "John from Cincinnati," an HBO series. HBO always has great music for their series'. "Johnny Appleseed" has a 60's retro sound with the political lyrics of disenchanted youth.
I also am amazed at the great music coming out of Arkansas. Who knew? There's Benjamin del Shreve, Latture, Evanescence, Lucero, Delarosa, Official Version, The Boswells and more that I can't think of now. Oh, and of course, there's my brother's band, N2Blues.

Tiggerbutt Returns

After being missing for over 24 hours, our cat, Tiggerbutt, came home. We were all very worried about him because he's an indoor cat. Our last cat, Ziggy, was an indoor/outdoor cat who came and went as she pleased. She lived to be 19 so I don't think it hurt her any. We've been afraid to let Tiggerbutt out because we figured he'd get his ass kicked by the monster tom that lives in the storm drain in our back yard.

We walked the neighborhood after work yesterday as it dawned on us that unless the cat was out in the open, or up on somebody's porch; we'd never see him. We went home all dejected thinking he was gone for good.

We left the garage door up last night in case he should wander by and recognize his old hangout. (The closed garage is the closest he comes to the outside world.) My husband got up around 1:00 a.m., went downstairs and looked out into the garage and, lo and behold, there was Tiggerbutt! I was sound asleep when I felt hubby plop down on my side of the bed. I didn't respond thinking, "Hey, I'm sleeping here!" He plopped down again. I remained still thinking maybe the old bear trick would work and he would lose interest. Then he said my name loudly. Shit. I opened my eyes and he was sitting there holding the cat. All was once again right with the world. The cat's all lovey now but spooks easily. I hope he relaxes soon 'cuz I don't want him to be a tweaky cat.

"But the cat came back the very next day,

The cat came back, we thought he was a goner

But the cat came back; it just couldn't stay away."

-Harry S. Miller

Why is Northwest Airlines still in business?

I wanna go home! I am stuck in Memphis because my Northworst flight out of Savannah was an hour late. I missed my 2:45 connection and am now supposed to get out of here around 7:15. To borrow from Mario Cantone (and meaning no disrespect to the hearing impaired) FUCK NORTHWEST!!!!! SMELLY, SMELLY ASSHOLE, ASSHOLE, ASSHOLE, SMELLY, SMELLY ASSHOLE, ASSHOLE! (insert sign language).

Jebus Christ! If I get out of here tonight it will be a freakin’ miracle. My husband is monitoring my new flight online and just called to tell me that it is also delayed and my new departure time is 8:30.

I’m sitting in one of two smoking establishments in the Memphis Airport - The Blues Spot. I’m on my second glass of Cabernet. Can’t hear airport announcements in here, plenty of blues but no airport announcements. My husband will keep me apprised of flight developments.

The flight here from Savannah was horrendous. The cabin was so cold my nipples are still sore. When the jet jumped into the air my cell phone jumped out of my pocket and slid all the way to the back of the cabin to the wall underneath the last seats. The asshole pilot never turned off the seat belt light so I finally just got up when I saw the beverage cart starting down the aisle and retrieved my cell phone, constantly aware of the sidelong glances I was getting from the other passengers and flight attendant. I guess somebody crawling under the last seats of a plane would look a little suspicious. When I unwrapped from the cheap-ass NW blanket to get up, I discovered that my khaki capris were covered in navy blue fuzz.

I ordered coffee which was blessedly hot. Unfortunately, we hit a nasty pocket of turbulence right after the beverage service. I lucked out but most the other passengers didn’t. The poor guy across from me got a whole can of Pepsi in his lap. There was no heads up from the sorry ass flight crew. I’ve flown a lot and other crews would warn you of the slightest bit of turbulence. We continued to hit patches of turbulence and never heard from the flight crew. In fact, we never heard a word from those bastards. No ETA, nuthin. I guess they were too busy trying to figure a way to keep us on the tarmac long enough to miss our connections.

I finally took my life in my hands and went to the bathroom knowing I would need to haul ass to get to my gate if I had any chance to make my connection. Thankfully there was no turbulence while I was in there but I thought I would pass out from the smell. I’ve used vault toilets that smelled better. When I finally got off the plane, I had to run over to another concourse to my gate. The gate agent looked like somebody had just run over her dog - repeatedly. She said the flight was gone and that she saw my flight was at the gate but couldn’t hold the flight for me. Her expression said, “Kill me, please.” She gave me a $10 food voucher, and a boarding pass for the next flight and sent me on my way. And, here I am camped out in The Blues Note and praying I get home tonight. FUCK NORTHWEST!!!! SMELLY, SMELLY DOUCHEBAG, DOUCHEBAG, DOUCHEBAG, SMELLY, SMELLY DOUCHEBAG, DOUCHEBAG!
A new wave a passengers just showed up to satisfy their nicotine joneses. Oh shit, somebody just asked to borrow my matches and I’m sure saw my screen. Oh well, at least he was polite. I think my server has gone home.

I am now at my gate a mere 2 and a half hours early. This concourse is all Northwest and everybody in here, passengers and gate agents alike, wears the expression of the walking wounded. Nothing over the intercom but announcements of delayed flights and subsequent gate changes. Good Lord, you'd think this was January and we were in the middle of a blizzard. Is there a hurricane I don't know about? Did the Yellowstone Calderra finally erupt?

Joe warned me that Northwest wasn't reliable. But did I listen? Nooooo.

Update: I just learned from a fellow stranded traveler that the reason for the delays is that about 150 Northwest pilots walked out today. I guess that'll do it. Oh, and I hate kids with those sneakers that have roller skates in them. I'm just not sure if it's because they zip in front of me as I'm trudging my tired ass down the concourse or because I'm jealous.

Lazy day on St. Simons

It's raining here and everybody's asleep. My sister-in-law and the dog in one bedroom, brother-in-law in another and I'm here in the guest room catching up on computer stuff. I've been here since Thursday and the time has just flown by. They're the best hosts - even the dog.

I've had a relaxing time talking, eating out, shopping. We toured Jeckyll Island yesterday. The place has a fascinating history as a millionaire's club during the first half of the 20th century. Morgan, Rockefeller, all the titans of the early 1900's before there was income tax. Jeckyll Island was founded as a hunting club for an exclusive brotherhood of millionaires. They built "cottages" there of 5000-6000 square feet and and had a club house that was actually a resort hotel. Formal dinners every night, everybody brought 6 or 7 servants with them. The servants had their own dormitories. The place is dripping with southern charm as thick as the spanish moss dripping from the centuries old live oaks.

I leave tomorrow and will be sorry to go.

"I just vomit a little."

There's no place like home. There's no place like home ... click, click, click. (Or in my case, wearing Chacos ... thunk, thunk, thunk.) This is my mantra while in my old hometown of West Memphis, Arkansee. Just across the mighty Missisip from Memphis lies a cesspool of a delta town that I am convinced was built on top of an Indian burial ground. I think, for good measure, the drunken founders of the burg dug up all the bodies and used them as fill for the levies. I'd list all of the atrocities that have taken place there in my lifetime but it's just too long. Let's just say that my being stalked by a pedophile was not high on the police department's priority list when I was a kid. "Somebody's been making obscene phone calls to your 10 year old and parks outside her school, you say? Sorry, we got our hands full with today's murders. Don't even get me started on traffic control for the dog track." This, in a town of 16,000.

So, I go back there once a month to do chores for my Austrian step mother. I never see anybody I went to school with when I'm there. School being the operative word here because anybody with an 8th grade education got the hell out of there.

The chores this weekend were taking down and washing all the curtains, washing windows, driving the stepmother all over creation, and choking down her cooking. "I make balls, dey really good. Dey already cooked, I just vomit a little." I will try to describe the balls. They are dumplings filled with minced meat and enclosed in a gooey shell composed of mashed bedaydas and egg. The balls are floating in a brown grabie. (The words in italics are what I call "Erni-isms" and my attempt at describing my stepmother's accent. Good luck figuring them out - we're still trying. Here's a freebie, vomit=warm it.) I made the mistake of asking what was in them. "Just meat I tryin to use up - a little beef, some ham, oh, and bologna. There someting else, I don member what." I'm thinking squirrel. Before I know it, she's dumped two of the lethal tennis balls on my plate. "You need more grabie?" The filling was the color of raw liver due, no doubt, to the artificial coloring in the bologna. I thought that I could at least have one of the homegrown demaydas on the counter, but no, she insisted I eat one from the frijator. Now every good Southerner knows you don't put tomatoes in the refrigerator because it ruins the tomatoey goodness. You let 'em rot on the window sill before you do that. "You want some murcal vip for you demaydas?" I figured it couldn't hurt them any more so I said, "Yes, please." As luck would have it she had to get the Miracle Whip from the refrigerator in the store room. I used the opportunity to chop up one of my dumplings and toss it into the cats' litter box (conveniently located right next to the kitchen table). "You like dem balls?" I responded it was the best ball I ever ate but just didn't have room for two. The cats were really pissed. "What is this shit in our litter box?" (Okay, I made that last part up. There's no way I could have gotten away with tossing anything in that litterbox. Erni knows when her cats are even thinking about taking a dump and practically holds the litter scooper under their ass. Apparently, examining feces is a Bavarian thing. Ever seen a German toilet? The litterbox is next to the kitchen table, though. I didn't make that up. I once suggested moving the litterbox to the bathroom and she was totally repulsed. Cats defecating in a box next to you while you eat, on the other hand, is completely acceptable.)

So now you're thinking, "How old are you? Just tell the old bat you're ain't eatin' no stinkin' balls." Well, you don't know Erni. She is 4 feet, 10 inches of Nazi certitude. I, on the other hand, am 5 feet 0 inches of conflict avoidance. No wonder we get along so well.

Holy shit! My husband just returned from Walmart and said that somebody got shot and killed in the parking lot earlier. There were about 9 police cars there and the officers were working the crime scene. The bad juju done followed me home!

Owwie

Well, yesterday was certainly nerve-wracking. My daughter called from New York in a cab on her way to the Emergency Room. She had fainted and busted her chin open when she hit the floor. She sounded calm, thank heaven. I concentrated on the immediate problem of the gash on her chin and advised her to request a plastic surgeon do the suturing. That's the best I could do. Pathetic, I know, but I am a coward when I'm faced with the fact that there are things out of my control when it comes to my childrens' safety. So, I shut down emotionally so as to remain calm which probably comes off as cold to my frightened, hurting child. What good would it do anyone for me to lose it? I'm not the panicky sort -- outwardly. What I really wanted, what any mother would want, was to hold her. I cannot describe the helplessness I felt knowing she was so far from me. I was reduced to calling to keep her company while she waited.

I told myself she fainted because of the heat or dehydration or maybe because she could be anemic. Then came news of CT scans to rule out a blood clot. My practical side said wait for the results of the scan before deciding on a course of action. If it weren't for the fact that book club was meeting at my house last night, I would have been a basket case. Preparations kept me occupied while I waited for word. I couldn't tell you anything about our mercifully short discussion. When they left, I called again and we talked for a while. Her roommate was coming to sit with her so that made me feel a little better. I climbed into bed as the hours wore on with the phone clutched to my chest.

She finally called at 1:00 am telling me she'd been released and was on the way home. Nothing on the CT's, no blood clot, just a very sore, tired little girl with five stitches in her chin. I guess I'm glad I waited but God it was hard.

Turns out this gave someone very special to her a chance to prove how much she means to him. I'm confident she will be catered to and loved and that's how it should be right now. I know she loves and needs me, but Mom can't provide the validation of her feelings that she is getting from him. My place is here; his is there and I am grateful for the glimpse into this man's character.

My unofficial job title

My official job title at the medical library at which I'm employed is Cataloging Assistant. Which means I decide which call numbers are put on the labels that are stuck to the spines of our books. Of course that's a simplified job description - there's lots of other stuff involved in the job. But, it's hardly challenging.

To keep from going batshit from the monotony I have appointed myself Morale Officer. But only for a chosen, snarky few that get my "style" of humor. I've branched out to a few employees at our public TV station and the state hospital.

Here are a couple of examples from today's email banter:

From public TV employee that also happens to be part of a large camping group I belong to:

Subject: Throw Away Those Old Tents!https://webmail.uams.edu/exchweb/bin/redir.asp?URL=http://www.hennessyhammock.com/If we all got one of these our campsite would look like an Invasion of the Bodysnatchers remake. Cool huh?

(These things are like tent hammocks that you hang up off the ground)

My response:

I...don't...know. I think I wouldn't be comfortable with my ass swinging in the wind all night. The term "Bear Pinata" comes to mind.

Example 2:

Posted on campus-wide mail was an announcement that the administration had approved the formation of our own Red Hat Society. I forwarded it to my friends with this comment:

Yessiree, we here at *state medical center* have our finger on the pulse of pop culture. I notice male employees are left out. That’s discrimination, isn’t it? Wouldn’t it be funny if only trannies showed up to the first meeting? I mean really flamboyant ones like The Bird Cage. I’d pay to see that.

That led to some back and forth about possible fundraisers to pay for transvestites to show up at the meeting culminating in this response from a coworker:

"Oh, sh*t – I have got to learn not to read your messages while drinking – I got soda in my nose."

Ahhh, my work here is done.

Where did she go?

Yesterday, 10:00 p.m.
My daughter is home. She's been home a week (a minute in Mom-time) and is returning to New York in the morning. We've really only had this one day together - stolen from the library. Migraine was my excuse. We spent the day together watching "Big Love," lunching at Flying Fish, shopping, and taking in a movie - "Ratatoullie." It was a wondrous day of talking about nothing and everything. She's doing what she loves and is beginning to see success. She's happy so I am heartbreakingly happy.

When she comes home for a visit, I spend the days before she arrives in a state of anticipation. And then, a funny thing happens when she finally gets here. It's cliche, I know, but it's like she never left. Everybody and everything falls into place. She and her brother fall back into their hilarious repartee. Her phone will ring incessantly. We laugh more.


She is with her friend now for farewells. We don't know when she will be back home again. She's here now but I feel she's already gone and I am incredibly sad. I'll be devastated for days. Will my children always have such power over me? Dear God, I hope so.

Today, 5:00 a.m.
And, in a whirl, she's gone. Back to New York and her future, taking my heart with her.