Next Door the TV's Flashing Blue Frames on the Wall

Here is a picture of an old pick-up truck.

A friend of mine just recently signed up for one of those on-line dating things. I don't think I could ever do that. Not that I think they're bad, but they would just be bad for me. There are so many parts of it that stress me out - you have to do some self-promotion, you have to leave your house to meet the person, you have to have an uncomfortable conversation where you (and when I say you, I mean me) would inevitably get really loud and out of nowhere say something like, "He, he. I have really ugly feet. Hee, hee. HA!", and then you have to watch the poor man run out of the building through the wall leaving the imprint of his body like on the cartoons.

My friend has had no luck with the on-line dating service. She is beautiful and smart and creative and funny as hell. I'm not sure what she put on her profile, but so far the kind of men who've answered it, are guys who listed shooting guns, drinking beer and playing pool as their favorite sports. There's nothing wrong with that in general, but those men would just not be right for my friend. She said she thinks she'll check out another site that is supposed to attract more creative/"funkier in a good way" types. She asked me if I thought I would ever be interested in signing up to that site as well. I told her that I decided to subscribe to HBO instead. She laughed, but I was only partially kidding.

Here is a list of why HBO is better for me than subscribing to an on-line dating service:

1) I like to watch.

2.) I don't have to leave my house.

3.) The cable company tries to woo me. I don't have to woo it. I have all the power.

4.) With On-Demand I get what I want, when I want it. I can demand the same thing all the time, or mix it up with several other things and no one's feelings get hurt. I can also fast forward if something's annoying and taking too long, or rewind if I wasn't quite satisfied the first time around.

5.) HBO will never tell me I'm not enough for it, but it may end up being too much for me in a year when this special deal runs out.

6.) HBO will only insult my intelligence if I let it.

7.) I find HBO very attractive.

8.) HBO is good in bed.

So, for the next year anyway, I'm committed to it.

Where Do We Go? How Do We Follow?

Here is a view from the bridge on Evans Street.

Well kids, I'm having a hard time thinking of anything to say. Not that that's ever stopped me before, but tonight I can't even muster enough imagination to serve you that steaming pile of crap I normally dish out each and every day. So, what I'm going to do, is write down observations about three different men I saw this week.

We have a new guy working in our office. At first I wasn't sure how he'd work out. We're all pretty weird and we crack a lot of stupid jokes. I don't think any normal person would last very long here. Today I asked the new guy if he had any plans for the weekend and he said, " I don't know. You'll have to call my wife." I like a guy who's not afraid to admit who the real boss is. I think he'll fit in just fine.

The other day I ran into my crush guy. He said, "Hey, Churlita. How are you? Can you believe how warm it is outside today?" And in my head I heard, " Hey Churlita. I am so hot for you. Do you want to spend the rest of your life with me starting today?"

On Sunday, Stinky and I were in the grocery store and we saw a guy talking on one of those cell phones with the cordless headset thingy. He had to be at least my age, but he kept saying "Mom. I know. Mother, I'm sorry. I know..."into his phone. Stinky and I were laughing at the old guy trying to be all cool talking on his handsfree phone, but sounding like a junior high girl.

My friend K. happened by and said, "Did you see the guy talking on his phone? Isn't he just killing you?"

"Yeah. Stinky and I were just cracking up about how he's fighting with his mom."

"So, do you want to follow him around the store and make fun of him with me?" K. asked.

"Oh Mom, can we?" Stinky was so cute and hopeful. I hated to disappoint her, and if I had been there by myself, I would totally have gone running off to follow the poseur guy. But every once in a while, I actually try to rise above my immaturity in front of my kids. So, I restrained myself and we didn't go around acting like thirteen year old girls in order to make fun of the handsfree guy for acting like a thirteen year old girl. Aren't you proud of me?

Don't Turn Your Back on Me Baby

Well, I hope you all voted. Right now things look pretty good, but I remember another time about six years ago when I thought that, and when I woke-up, I was faced with a different reality. So, I'll wait until tomorrow to get excited, if there is indeed reason to be excited.

I voted today after a bit of initial annoyance and drama. A while back, a young guy came to my door and persuaded me to use a mail-in ballot. I was against it, because I'm bad about remembering to mail shit, I don't like to encourage people to come knocking at my door by doing what they ask, and frankly, I like the process of voting at the polls. It reminds me of being a kid and going with my mom when they actually had the little curtained rooms. I would stand just outside and ask her bothersome questions through the drapes until she finished.

This kid told me that it was much safer to vote by mail. There was less chance of the kind of problems that occurred in Florida a while back. He made it seem that if I didn't vote by mail, that I could be responsible for another George W. So, I said, okay. I didn't want to tempt bringing any more of that on us again.

A few weeks later, I got a letter telling me that the ballot they sent me was bad. I have no idea what that meant, but they also called it invalid and wrong. I was afraid to open it, for fear that I would unleash some kind of virus or anthrax into my house. So, what I did instead, was ignore it. I didn't even want to vote by mail in the first place, and now it entailed more "dealing with" than I could handle amongst all the other things I had to remember like, what time to pick each daughter up from their various activities, and what their friends' (who all look alike to me) are named, and that I have to feed and dress myself.

Actually, it wasn't half as big a deal as I wanted to make it. I went to the auditor's office who told me just to bring the ballot with me to my polling place. Once I got there, it was kind of fun. I had to first write the word, spoiled across it and then I had to tear a corner of the ballot off and then I stuffed both torn parts into three different envelopes after writing the word void across each one. Finally, I had to write down in a book that I surrendered my ballot and sign underneath it. By the end of the process, I was kind of glad that I had signed up for the spoiled mail-in ballot, it was so much more fun and dramatic to do a voodoo ritual before I voted. At this point, it seems like it was pretty effective too. Who knows, maybe next time, I'll bring a special doll and kill a chicken before I head to the polls.

They Just Love to See her Take Them All

Well kids, it's been a while, so I thought I'd do another "over-simplified descriptions of movies I've seen" post. The bad thing is, that most of the movies I've seen have already been out on DVD for sometime now. But the good thing is, that you've probably already seen each movie, so I won't spoil them for you. The other difference is, that I may spend more time on at least one movie, because I'm still trying to digest it.

Bukowski: Born Into This - Bukowski is a bad person. No, wait. He gets all emotional when he reads a poem about one of the whores he went boozing with for a while, so Bukowski can be a good person. Finally, Bukowski is a damaged alcoholic, but his work speaks for itself.

Ladies in Lavender - Surprisingly, this movie is not about lesbians at all, but you can still learn lessons from it. Finding a young man on a beach after a storm and taking care of him is good. Falling in love with the young man when you are Judi Dench's age, is bad.

V for Vendetta - It is bad to be a totalitarian government that controls its people while telling them that it's for their own good. Apparently, it is good to be a guy wearing a creepy mask and controlling a young girl and telling her it's for her own good, as long as you topple said government at the same time. Natalie Portman as a hot bald chick, is good too.

House of D - At first I saw David Duchovny and that was good, but then I don't have any idea what happened because I was so happy to see David Duchovny. Then he left and I'm not sure what happened because I was anxious that David Duchovny wouldn't return. Then they showed him at the end and I have no idea what went on because I was so busy being happy and having my faith in mankind renewed. Oh yeah, I think Robin Williams may also have be in this, but I can't really remember.

Breakfast on Pluto - Cillian Murphy was very pretty and that was good. Then Cillian Murphy was hard to understand because he used a breathy, girly voice and had a strong brogue. Then Cillian Murphy got hurt and that was bad. Then things worked out for the best and that was good.


Me and You and Everyone We Know - Miranda July is quirky and so was this movie. Watching movies like this can be dangerous for me because I think they're real and it jives with the way I want the world to be, but isn't. In real life, the guy would have gotten a restraining order against Miranda July and his youngest son would have met a very different person in the park.

The lesson here, is persistence pays off and that's one lesson I've had a hard time learning. I'm sure you are all tired of hearing how terrified I am of rejection, but it is something I really need to work on. I would have no problem stalking a guy I liked at his workplace, (shut-up) but I would never be able to approach him, let alone hop in his car, let alone go back and talk to him after he asked me to get the hell out of his car. I could also not ask some big-wig gallery owner to call me and say, "Macaroni" into the phone. I liked this movie, because it was much like my life could be if I actually acted on some of the bizarre scenarios in my head.

What's Your Price for Flight?

This is the time of year for all good seniors in high school to apply for college. I'm not going to tell you how, but I have first-hand knowledge about what kinds of things might hurt you and those that could help you in the process. I just thought I'd take a little time out to talk to you about some things I've noticed.

First, I don't know if you all are aware of this, but you've already been labeled for marketing purposes. That's right, you are the Millenium Generation. Like the Boomer's the X'er's and the Y'er's, you have also been studied in order to sell you things better. One of the things marketers are aware of about you, is that because your parents are generally older, better educated, and chose to have less children than their predecessors, they've had more time and inclination to concentrate on you. This has made them more involved and active in your lives. And while their constant meddling has made things easier for you, there is also a downside. Your parents have serious control issues. Sure, they might apply to college for you and take care of all the bullshit you don't want to deal with, but this also means they think they have a say in where you go and what you do once you get there. Resist this. If you're not careful, even after you're eighteen, they will continually throw shit in your face by saying, "If I'm paying for your education, you better believe I'm going to make sure you're doing what you're supposed to be doing." Because you're young enough, I'm sure you'll find ways to get around it. It will just be harder for you than it was for us.

Second, I know you can't help what your parents name you, but last year I noticed that every girl born in 1987 was named Ashley. This year, every girl born in 1988 was named either Brianna or Britney. If this trend continues, will every girl born in 1989 be named Claire or Chloe? If we take that one more year, I'm hoping that the D names for 1990 will be my favorite urban white trash names like Donna, Denise or Delores.*

Third, just so you know, every single one of you writes a variation of the exact same personal statement and it's boring as hell to read. If you're a guy, you found music/football/soccer/skateboarding and it helped you overcome your feelings of isolation after having moved/been sick/been made fun of by the cool kids. If you're a girl, you were overwought by your parents' divorce/grandmother's death/father's hemorrhoid surgery until you discovered the beautiful freedom of expression inherent in dance/cheerleading/soccer. I just think it could help your chances if even one of you found God or wanted to start wearing tights and fighting crime or something, anything else.

Fourth, I know I already lectured last year's class about the funky e-mail addresses, but you still don't seem to understand that you should not apply to college using an e-mail address with a swear word or the number 69 in it. Honestly, I'm sure your friends think you're all clever and punk rock and shit, but the review commitee doesn't have a sense of humor and possessing that kind of attitude is not highly valued in academia. So, to the guy who's name was William and thought it was funny to apply to college with the word Billdo as part of his e-mail address, trust me, you're not doing yourself any favors.

Okay kids, I think that's enough to get you started. Now, go out and make good decisions...that is, after you spend the next four years smoking pot out of whatever metal objects you can find and buying twenty-one pitchers for your five friends on your twenty-first birthday.

*Because my middle name is one of these urban white trash names, I'm allowed to talk all the shit I want about them.

As Simple as a Kettle, Steady as a Rock

Today I realized that I don't even have one picture of a barn or an outbuilding on this blog yet, so I'm putting this up here, as it has at least two barns and two outbuildings.

Today I went to the Co-op with the express purpose of buying some grated Parmesan cheese. I spent over twenty dollars and still didn't buy the Parmesan. This story I just related right here to you, is exactly why I need to start making lists.

Today I ran my seven mile route. I saw a fuzzy catepillar, a garter snake and possibly the car of the guy I have a crush on drive past me. Nothing helps improve your form like thinking your crush might be watching you run.

Today I snapped at my daughter and I don't normally snap. It stopped us both and we took a minute sizing each other up to figure out how to proceed.

Today my other daughter helped me change my Myspace (it always seems so redundant to write that) background. I've noticed that my attention span is so short, that in order to keep any interest at all in that particular internet site, I have to overhaul it about once a week. I also put my friend Ed's song on, since he's on tour right now.

Today I thought very seriously about finding someone to go out and drink a beer or see a movie with, but then never made the effort. Tonight, while I'm eating Chinese take-out on my couch in my jammies, covered by a gigantic comforter and watching a couple of movies, I am singing the praises of my own indolence.

Because It Was Nothing Like We'd Ever Dreamt

This one here I took on the Summit Street bridge.

The spam in my work e-mail account has been out of control this week. So, November isn't only the write a novel or post every day month, it must also be some kind of promotional spam every e-mail account fifty times a day month as well. And how would one shorten that to make it easier to post on a blogger's sidebar - SpEvEmAFiTiDaMo?

So far, I've counted over ten different ways to spell Viagra in order to get past the filters. (viabgra, vigagra, vilmagrla...) I think it would be more fun if the spammers were a little more creative and tried to shove the letters that spelled out viagra into actual words. They could make new viagra-based words like, viagrable (definition - capable of living, developing or germinating with a huge boner) or viagraduct (definition - a series of spans or arches used to carry a road or railroad over a gigantic erection) or my favorite, Viagra Dolorosa (a difficult course or experience caused by an embarrassing, prolonged, hard-on).

The other bizarre spam e-mails are the ones that have subjects like, "Oratio Recta Old-Maidism" and then when you open it, all it says is, "claim an acuaintance with you-mr. blingey and his sisters." Huh? I don't get it. Was there supposed to be some virus infected attachment embedded in it that our IT people deleted? Or is there some sick fuck out there who is on a crusade to kill office peons slowly and painfully by annoying them to death when they have to stop what they're doing every five minutes to delete nonsensical crap?

I Believe We Can Reach the Morning Light

I had a nightmare last night - a bad one. There was some crazy woman with super-natural powers who kept attacking me. I would fight her off and think she was gone and then she would come back to life from inannimate objects, like a hooded sweatshirt hanging on a chair. At one point in the dream, I saw a guy I work with through some French doors that don't normally exist in my house and I tried to scream, but the scary woman used her powers to stifle me, blind me and pull me back all at the same time. I fought her off again and then opened the door to my house to leave, only to find her standing there, blocking my way. That was when I woke up.

After I was awake, I thought I saw some lights flashing through my blinds. I pulled them back to see if there was a firetruck or an ambulance, but the alley was empty. I then realized that my eyes were causing the flashing sensation, which meant I was getting a migraine. It was three a.m. and I was still really freaked out from the dream. The girls were at their dad's house, so at least I didn't have to worry about them, but the scary woman could still materialize out of the laundry hamper or the computer moniter, so I turned on almost all the lights in my apartment.

I took my migraine pill and tried to go back to sleep. Because I'm a big fat baby, I left the light in the laundry room on all night. You can all thank me for single-handedly fucking up the ozone layer. Better yet, thank the scary lady, maybe she can use her powers for good instead of evil for a change and repair it.

I guess I could analyze my dream, but isn't that the psychological equivalent of asking people if my butt looks too big? I'm sure my crazy is sticking out for all to see right now, and I don't need anyone to describe to me what form it's taking, thank you.

The biggest consequence of my nightmare, was how much it fucked me up today. I didn't get much rest last night, so at work, I had to keep myself from falling asleep by chain-eating "fun sized" Butterfingers and thinking about Emergency! my favorite television show when I was a kid, and most importantly, Ranolph Mantooth:

I took a little nap before Coadster's choir concert tonight, and luckily I sat by my friend Ben during the show. We amused ourselves by exchanging misinterpretations of song lyrics. When they sang a spiritual, what was actually, "We are anchored" sounded like "We are naked" to Ben, and "We are wankered" to me.

Now, I will get ready for bed by putting on some brass knuckles and wrapping num-chuks around my waist, just in case I run into a certain scary bitch who needs a good ass-kicking while I'm sleeping.

Giv'n the Land, If They Lived Righteously

In second grade, I got my picture in the paper for Pioneer Days (I'm the squinty one on the far left). Ironically, I was one of the few Catholics in my school. If you couldn't already tell by the fact that there is one boy to three girls, the pioneers in question, were Mormons.

When I was in fourth grade, I started to wonder if all the Mormon girls had it in for me. Marcia, who lived across the street, delivered me some shattering news.

"You might be interested to know that you didn't get lice by accident, " she said. I contracted a case of head lice the week before and I was so embarrassed that I wouldn't even go into the store with my mom to buy the special shampoo.

"I don't get it."

"Diana Noble brushed your hair with her brush when she knew she had lice. She did it on purpose."

"Why would she do that?" I asked. I didn't believe Marcia since she was usually full of shit.

"Because you're a stinky hippie and you don't take a bath ever and she wanted to show you what happened when you didn't take a bath."

"I take baths, I just have curly hair so it looks like this...And anyway, she had lice first."

"Yeah, but she's Mormon and her family has a lot of kids so they're bound to get it at some point. Besides, her dad's a Bishop and there's a statue of him in the park." Diana Noble's dad was also a teacher at my sister's high school.

"My sister said he's full of himself."

"He's allowed to be, he's a Bishop. Plus, your mom is really old and she's not married and that's bad. You shouldn't be so loud and happy all the time. My mom says that you need to be taken down a notch."

"Why would your mom say that about a kid? My mom would never say that about any of the neighbors."

"That's because she's old. She acts like an older person should, except she should have a husband." The Mormons in our neighborhood were continually sending their brothers, cousins and uncles over to ask my Mom out and to offer us another copy of The Book of Mormon.

"So, your mom hurts you. You said it yourself."

"She doesn't mean it. She tells me she's sorry sometimes. I'm just saying this for your own good. All the other girls from our church think the same thing. You know Linetti? She wants to beat you up and you should be scared because she's big and she's from Tonga. If you don't start acting different, you will have all of us girls to worry about." Just last week, Linetti was my best friend, but she must have given me up for my own good and the good of the Mormon Church.

"Well, maybe all you girls should start worrying about me too."

"Why, would we worry about you? There's only one of you and you're a hippie and a Catholic. You can't hurt us."

"I'm not a hippie. But all of us Catholics know magic and if you don't get those other girls to stop, I'm going to use it on you."

"You don't know magic."

"Yes, I do. We all do. What do you think we do with all those candles and saint statues and incense? We make spells. That's why the Mormons hate us so much. They know we have special powers."

"Nuh uh. You're kidding, right?" Marcia asked.

"No. I'm dead serious. In fact, I'm going home right now to light a candle just for you." I started to walk away and Marcia followed behind me. "You better get going," I warned. "You have to talk to all those girls by tomorrow. I'm bringing my Rosary to school, so if any of them say even one mean thing to me, I'm going to start rubbing the beads and you can tell me if I'm kidding."

I'm not sure what Marcia said to the other girls, I just know that none of them ever offered to brush my hair again.

Ain't Holding Nothing Back

This is a construction site on North Dodge where I played on Sunday afternoon.

So, I observed some things and now I'm going to document them.

1.) It seems like every year I walk to work and wonder why there are so many theater majors hanging-out on campus, and then I remember it's Halloween and all those people are wearing capes as part of their costumes.

2.) I used some lyrics from the song, "Monster Mash" to title my post yesterday and it reminded me of third grade. I had the 45 of "Monster Mash" as well as Cheech and Chong's "Sister Mary Elephant" in my brown suede purse that I swung in circles in front of me seemingly defying gravity. I took my chances and slowed it down and both 45's fell out, smashing on the ground. It was my first, true, Newtonian moment.

3.) This man I work with has had hearing problems from chronic ear infections, but he's a guy, so he also has selective hearing. Since he works with almost all women, he used to tune us all out, until I had a brainstorm. Anytime I really want his attention, I say the word football before my sentence and he can suddenly hear me. It's much like when Stinky was little and everyone thought she might be hard of hearing because she never reacted when people said things like, "Okay, your turn is over, you have to share your shiny, red truck with your cousin now," or "Let's all put away our toys." Then I would demonstrate just how sensitive her hearing was by whispering, "Hey Stinky, do you want a cookie?" and she would run right over to me.

4.) While I was walking home from work today, a guy dressed like the San Diego chicken was by some bike racks poppin' and breakin' to the song, "Brick House". He finally stopped, unlocked his bike and dramatically crossed himself before hopping on his bike and riding it one-handed in order to free his other hand so he could hold his boom box that was still blaring "Brick House". Apparently, it was so important to have his theme song going while he rode, that he would risk his own life. I always knew the San Diego Chicken was dedicated.

5.) November 1st is the 15th anniversary of the Gang Lu shootings. I can't believe it happened so long ago. We were living in Albuquerque, I was pregnant with Coadster at the time, and we were supposed to move back to Iowa City that day. CNN had really confusing coverage of the whole thing, so we didn't figure out what really happened until after we drove back. I know I've already plugged this before, but you should really read Jo Ann Beard's non-fiction story about this, "The Fourth State of Matter". It's in her collection entitled The Boys of My Youth - actually, you should read the whole book, it's very good.

The Ghouls All Came From Their Humble Abodes

By the time you read this, it will probably be Halloween. So, happy creep fest one and all. Stinky is still going trick-or-treating, but Coadster and I are going to stay home and pass out candy and watch more scary movies. Coadster wanted me to see if I could rent the first Halloween, but I told her I'd tried previous years, and it was nowhere to be found. We'll check the guide to see if we can find it on TV, but I'm sure we'll be able to find something sufficiently scary, preferably from the seventies.


The scariest thing about this picture, is the Dirty Dancing album cover on Stinky's bedroom wall.

On Saturday night, Stinky went to a Halloween party with some of her girlfriends. I know I've commented on this before, but the preparation that goes into getting ready for these fetes astounds me. I'm sure some of my low-maintenance is due to not having been allowed to partake in all the dances and dates and stuff that most girls attended in high school. Until I had teenage daughters, I had no idea that it could take a group of girls almost two hours and three different houses to get ready for a party.

First Stinky and her friends went to one girl's house so her older sister could do their hair, then they came to our house so my ex-husband could come over and apply their make-up. I suppose that's one good thing about having an actor for a father, you will always have the best make-up of any of your friends. Finally, I drove all the girls to the last girl's house so they could put on their matching witch costumes. I couldn't think of more appropriate costumes for a group of thirteen year old girls - unless they wanted to all go as hormones.

Coadster has never been big on costumes, so she usually goes as something that needs explaining from her - "I'm walking around with a pretend cell phone stuck to my ear, because I'm going as a college student for Halloween." Stinky, on the other hand, is all about dressing up and puts a lot of thought into it. In general, she likes to look pretty. She's been a fairy godmother, Selena, a prom queen and a go-go dancer.

The year this picture was taken, Coady was obsessed with X-Men comic books and wanted to be Storm. It was before the movies came out, so finding a Storm costume was extremely challenging. We finally bought one the day before Halloween and it was the best $10 we ever spent. The foam hair really transformed her. We had to watch her closely, because she was so ready to kick someone's ass. Luckily, people were generous with the candy that year.

The year this was taken was the only time Stinky didn't try to look really cute. I think she was happy to settle for wearing a wedding gown covered in fake blood and sporting horrible teeth. She wanted to be a dead bride and I was really surprised that she didn't get sent home from school for scaring all the other second graders with this costume.

After my ex-husband picked the girls up around 10:30 on Saturday night, they went for their annual drive through downtown Iowa City to check out all the college kids' costumes. The stand-out this year was a girl who was (half) dressed as a fire fighter. All she wore was a fire hat, a pair of white tights and a coat so short it left her genitalia unprotected and vulnerable with just a little, opaque nylon between them and the outside world. When I asked Coadster what she thought was up with that costume she said, "Maybe she lost the rest of it in a fire."

October, and the Leaves Are Stripped Bare of All They Wear

We are getting to the ugly end of Fall here. I cut Hibernation Weekend 2006 short because the weather defied me and got really nice and so I went out to play. I ran my seven mile route and while I was running, I noticed all kinds of shit that absolutely had to be photographed. So, I went back and took me some pictures. I'm not too worried about missing the last part of my festival of dormancy - I'm sure in the next few months, every weekend will be Hibernation Weekend.

The main thing I felt compelled to document was this barn on North Scott (Road/Street/Place/Drive/Vista?). Every year they dress this place up with all kinds of creepy Halloween stuff. I think this giant, inflatable spider was supposed to be frightening, but then it appears to have had a seizure and now I just feel bad for it.

This little window here had to be my favorite. the green goblin is sufficiently scary and the gigantic rats gnawing on the severed foot was a really nice touch.

The hand on a stick just cracked me up. It seemed more like something that should be deep fat fried and served at the zombie State Fair.

I discovered the most disturbing thing of all when I was getting ready to leave. They actually staked this real dead raccoon to the ground with its own blood smeared on it. After seeing it, I was kind of glad the girls were too tired to come with me.

The fright didn't end just because I went home either. Oh no it didn't. Stinky and I carved pumpkins tonight. Coadster was so tired from getting up at 5:30 on Saturday morning to support her cross country teamates as they won state in Fort Dodge and then waking up around 6 this morning to participate in Kinnick Stadium clean-up to raise funds for high school athletic teams, that she went to bed at 7 pm. Or else, she was smart and knew better than to get too close to Stinky when she had a knife in her hand.

I Got a Date With the Night

We're on day two of Hibernation Weekend 2006 and it is going very, very well so far. It's been a perfect weekend for it because there's a home game and it's daylight savings time so I'm afraid to go downtown and I have another whole hour to piddle away and wonder what I did.

It's not like I haven't left my house at all - there were several trips taking the girls to and from their different events and running and tonight I ran to the noodle house to pick-up some take-out pasta for Coadster and I to eat while we watched movies apparently written for twelve year olds - I finally had to drink a beer to get through Just Friends. I may also break my shut-in vows tomorrow if the temperature actually breaks the sixty degree mark.

Is it just my computer, or has blogger been acting like a total asshole lately? At first he seems like he's going to be all nice and then when I try to post something, he gives me an error message just to fuck with me and make me repost the same thing 50 times waiting for a different answer from him. Don't worry Mr. Blogger-Fuck, I am nothing if not persistent, but I don't know why it's so funny for you to frustrate me like that.

My last item tonight is that I'm participating in that NaBloPoMo thing from Fussy's blog. Instead of making November the month to try to write a novel, Fussy has made it a little more realistic. She's having a contest to see if people can write a post a day during November. I might be able to write a novel during the month of November, but I would need a team of twenty editors working every day for the next ten years to clean it up and make it readable. I've decided to take the easy way out. I write almost every day anyway, except for certain weekend days where I skip because I'm too tired or too busy or I have a house full of teenage girls and they've rattled my brain so much that I can only wite in text message speak. So, there maybe a couple of days this month where I post only word, but don't worry, I'll make it a good one like turgid, onanism, or spooge.

On the First Part of the Journey, I Was Looking at All the Life

On Friday night we found ourselves in a shack of a bar where a bad Country and Western band played John Fogerty songs. It was the first time Kevin had taken his motorcycle out since the accident and he was drinking to calm his nerves. He had been driving down a logging road when the road underneath him just disappeared. The roads around here were tricky like that. The loggers would build them to reach the area they were clear-cutting and after they were done, they would sometimes doze over the road or else a bridge might simply deteriorate. You had to be really careful driving up here. This time out, Kevin decided to go to bars located solely on Highway 101 where it was safer.

It was so much easier hanging out and boozing it up with Kevin now that we knew nothing romantic would ever come of it. I had first seen pictures of him at the training academy during a slideshow presentation about trail building in the backcountry in King’s Canyon. I thought he was beautiful back then. It was the first time I had realized that I was attracted to a physical type. He was tall and lanky with dark curly hair and blue eyes and a self-deprecating smile. It just so happened, that he worked on the Salmon Restoration Project and would be my boss for the next nine months. I tried to woo him when I first met him, but he wasn’t biting. I eventually got over him and started dating someone else.

After we were better acquainted, I was glad that our initial flirtation didn’t take. Although I was physically attracted to him, our personality differences would surely have driven us both crazy. He had been a strong Christian at one point in his life, and though he was reformed, he still couldn’t get over some of the teachings. Which isn’t to say that he didn’t still party and have casual sex, he would just beat himself up about it later and judge other people for exhibiting similar behavior. I found that tedious about him and I’m sure he thought me a little too harsh for his tastes as well. We made great friends, however. I encouraged him to relax and paint and act like an idiot from time to time and he got me thinking about my future and other practical matters.

By the time we left the bar, Kevin had had quite a bit to drink. (he needed it to calm himself, remember) He expressed regret over not dating me when he had the chance. I didn’t take him too seriously. Even at nineteen, I was very aware of how pretty I got after everyone else was drunk.

The sky was clear that night, but it was still hard to see the stars through the Redwoods towering over us. Out on the road, Kevin turned his headlight off and we flew down the highway in the dark, with only the overwhelming pine smell and the trees fencing us in on both sides of the road as witnesses. Being so young, it felt completely natural to taunt our own dumb luck.

On this Friday afternoon, as I sit in my cubicle staring at the words on my computer screen and watching them turn into bold, but broken lines, I happily anticipate going home and putting my pajamas on by eight o’clock. I still remember (mostly) how I used to spend my weekend nights and I don’t feel like I’m missing much. Now, I’m just glad that I don’t have to worry about traveling on roads that could suddenly open up underneath me.

Those Who Feel Me Near, Pull the Blinds and Change Their Minds

Here are some random observations I've Made Today:

1.)
Railroad tracks are inherently lonely.

Railroad tracks set to the backdrop of an October sunset can turn me all Emo.

2.) When I am very tired, I mean really, really tired and I am forced to sit in a cubicle doing tedious processing kinds of tasks, I can feel like I did when I used to eat acid. My head gets all itchy and I keep seeing sudden movements in my peripheral vision. It's almost painful to sit at my desk amongst the beige and the more beige. Then the cheesy internet radio station I listen to at work because I need something that showcases songs I know all the words to in order to stay awake, plays David Bowie's "Cat People (Putting Out Fire)" and in my exhaustion haze, I am certain that he is quite pointedly singing that song for me and I am extremely grateful.

3.) When I am sleep deprived, I can be forgetful about just how adorable I am when I'm crabby and spaced-out. Coadster, who is sometimes so much like me that I want to write her a twenty page apology letter, isn't always the best sleeper either. After I see her adorable, sleep deprived, crabby, spaciness mirrored back to me, I vow to go to bed at eight every night whether the shit gets done in my house or not.

4.) The man sitting next to me at Coadster's orchestra concert tonight, smelled exactly like my grandmother. He was rugged and swarthy so I thought it odd that he was wearing old lady perfume. I'm not sure if I find that disturbing, or kind of hot.

5.) I could be wrong, but I have a feeling that I'm a smidge pre-menstrual right now.

Kicking in Chairs and Knocking Down Tables

I didn’t really want to move to San Francisco at first. I had lived in the Redwoods and then in the San Bernadino Mountains and the city scared me. The problem was that we couldn’t work at the ski resort anymore. It was a bad winter for snow and they were cutting jobs. When Neal’s mom called to see if we’d housesit while she went to Paris to study, he talked me into it. His powerful argument was that we didn’t have anywhere else to go.

I got a job in Berkley as the assistant manager of a newly opened shoe store on Shattuck Avenue. The pay was shit, but I was already twenty years old and the only jobs I’d ever had were either food service or in the Conservation Corps. It felt so grown-up to dress-up for work and walk down to the J Church and then transfer to the BART every morning. I went out to lunch, and read the Chronicle like all the other adults. Then I came back to work and put up with tons of bullshit from my bosses.

The regional manager was just hanging out until the store was set-up and running. My direct boss was an old school, condescending asshole from Los Angeles named Hank. He called me "Honey" and thought he was smarter than me because he had a penis. Hank wasn’t at the store much. He took money out of the drawer to gamble on the horses and usually left right after lunch for that purpose. While he was around, however, he was unbearable and temperamental. Most of our clientele, as well as the employees were African American and Hank seemed to take great pleasure in telling racist jokes. All of this I experienced to the soundtrack of the ten most popular songs from that winter of 1986, including “Manic Monday”, “Rock Me Amadeus”, “West End Girls” and “Conga”.

Things at home were just as bad. Neal hadn’t even looked for a job. He was back hooking-up with his high school friends and apparently didn’t have time. He took trips to Tahoe to ski and spent most of his days smoking pot and watching videos at his friend Charles’ house.

His mother came back from France after a month because she didn’t like it there. She was full-blown crazy and would leave notes to herself on the fridge that said, “Come soon. Please, come soon.” It was never clear what she was waiting for. On her bad days, she’d keep a rant going for hours about what fuck-ups her children were. No wonder Neal hid out at his friend’s house smoking weed.

I quit my job on a Monday. That weekend, Neal had ditched out to Santa Rosa with a friend. I came home from work to find a dozen roses he bought for me with my own money and a note saying he had to get some space and think about whether he was still in love with me.

He came back on Sunday all apologetic, but I was a mess. I had no money, a shitty job, a boyfriend who wasn’t sure if he was still in love with me and I didn’t want any of it.

At some point, I found clarity in the mire. I could just quit. I’d leave my job and find something in the city. I would stop trying to be the kind of adult I had never understood and go back to waiting tables where the money was better and the bullshit was different, but familiar.

When I put in my notice, the regional manager pulled me aside and tried to guilt me into staying.

“You do know that if you quit, Hank will lose his job. He has a family to support. You are the only one keeping things together for him here. Do you have any idea what will happen once the home office finds out about him taking money from the drawer? They will shit.” And when that didn’t work, he took a different approach. “It’s because of your boyfriend, isn’t it? You’re just freaking out about him. You should dump him and stay here. You’ll be a lot happier in the end.”

I quit anyway and found out that right after I left, the company fired Hank and everyone who had worked under him. I felt bad for my co-workers, but it wasn’t my job to save Hank.

I’d like to say that I broke-up with Neal, but I didn’t for at least another year and a half. I got a job at a nice café on 24th Street in San Francisco and moved in with some of the women I worked with there. I had my own room and best of all, nobody screamed at me through the door.

You Say It's Easy, Just a Natural Thing

I know I already posted this photo on my other blog, but I still haven't painted it, and thats' what I want to talk about tonight. Last Winter I did some research on what kind of painting I wanted to make from it. Now I think I have that down, I need to work on the logistics of completing it.

I've decided to paint the dryers their original 70's alternating harvest gold and autmn rust colors, and then draw Coadster on white paper with black ink, all comic book style and adhere her to the painting.

To that end, my friend S. was nice enough to go on an ink and kick-ass Japanese paper buying expedition to Dick Blick this past Saturday. When Stinky was little, she mistakenly called it Dink Blink and then Dick Blink and I was hesitant to correct her because it was cute and wrong - an adorable combination coming from a four year old. I also didn't want to correct her when she called Jennifer Lopez, Jennifer Lezbo or pepperoni, peckeroni. Don't worry, by the time she went to kindergarten, I fixed it and she dropped her PG rating.

Where was I again? Oh yeah, at Dick Blick, my friend S. helped me figure out what kind of ink and brushes to use and then we went through drawers of paper that was more like fabric and she taught me that I should put my tongue on the paper to make sure it wasn't sticky. But then told me to lick my fingers and touch the paper with them. I'm still not sure if that was a real concern, or if she just thought it would be fun to watch me make an ass out of myself in public - again.

To help me figure out all the possiblities of working with ink, I cooked up a bunch of food and my friend S. and I went to my friend A.'s house on Saturday night. We ate and drank wine and played with ink and paper. I wish I had S. and A.'s drawings because they were a million times better than mine. These two were my experiments after much wine and a full belly.

Down Where Your Paint is Cracking

One of these is my house...

This weekend I was obsessively reading Illiterati's blog, and on it she wrote a post about the fact that it had been six months since the tornado. It threw me for a minute, because I realized that it had been a while since I'd even thought about the storm. That whole first week after, I couldn't believe that I wouldn't be eternally fixated with it and it pissed me off that other people were walking around town laughing and drinking and actually enjoying things like nothing had happened. I can't really remember the day or the week or the month that it ceased being right at the fore of my thoughts.

...And this is my house on drugs.

If you weren't a regular reader at that time, you can read a post about it here. Most of the people in my neighborhood are close to finishing the clean-up and repair. Luckily we don't live in a historical district, where in order to repair your building, you would have to follow codes for things insurance wouldn't cover in a million years.

Here is my neighbor's house before rehab...

Depending on who they were insured by, some neighbors received more money than others. You can tell who had the the better insurance coverage by the size of each homeowner's rebuilt garage. If you're currently shopping around, it might be worth your while to check out who on our street is building a mini resort in their backyard and then knock on the door and ask for their insurance agent's name.

...And this is the place after its proverbial, twenty-eight day stint.

Even six months later, I still feel the repercussions from the storm. I'm still trying to cover financially and all summer long, the sound of helicopters or tornado sirens could spike my blood pressure close to stroke levels. Once in May, I was walking downtown on my break and someone's car alarm was going off. An international student ran up to me in a panic and asked me if what she was hearing was a tornado siren. A year ago, I would have chuckled and explained to her that it was just a car alarm in a way too patronizing tone. But right after the storm, I understood the fear and explained to her the difference between the sound of a car alarm and a tornado siren. I had to try really, really hard to restrain myself from saying, "Listen, if you even hear a loud noise that may just be someone yelling, don't wait. Break into the nearest building and run down to the basement... And whatever you do, don't take a bath!"

I Can Tell That We Are Gonna Be Friends

Here is a picture of the Bloom County house on Summit Street in case anyone is feeling nostalgic for a certain comic strip.

I finally took the plunge and signed up for Myspace this weekend. I've been hesitant for so many reasons, but a lot of my friends are musicians and it's a good way to keep up with when they'll be playing around town. Plus, it's so quick and easy to send messages, but most importantly, both of my daughters are on Myspace and this way I can check in and possibly get to know some of the 65 year old men they're befriending over the internets.

There are so many observations I have about the whole bizarre process of setting up my profile page. The strangest part for me was trying to garner friends. Collecting friends on Myspace is a bit like cultivating Sea Monkeys. At first you troll around to your friends' sites looking for people you knew a while ago who may have moved and you send in your friend requests. It's fun when people start to respond and your Sea Monkeys are all cute and contained. Then you go to sleep and when you wake up, you see all these new requests from scary men you've never met before with names like Monkey Love and Big Tony and the requesting takes on a life of its own and goes out of control and you feel a little sick for even starting it. But unlike Sea Monkeys, you can just easily delete out all the hairy backed, swinger scum from your inbox and it's so much easier than cleaning the scum out of your fishbowl.

The bigger problem comes with trying to keep the creeps from forming in your Myspace fishbowl at all. At first, I decided to pretend that I was married. All my friends know better and it wouldn't be a total lie if you think about all the things and ideas I feel married to. For instance, I have a deep emotional and spiritual commitment with my American Heritage dictionary and while it will never go anywhere, I also have a really unhealthy relationship with Bad Grammar and I can't seem to quit him no matter how many times he disappoints and embarrasses me in front of my friends.

Now, if you thought saying you were married on your Myspace profile would keep Monkey Love away, you were very, very wrong. It turns out that the creepy guys could care less about your marital status, and to prove it, they will inform you that they too are married or in a relationship - just so you know that you're both on the same philandering page. So, my next plan for staying under the radar of the swingers was to post a little kid picture of me for my profile. Which, in combination with declaring myself married and listing C. W. McCall as one of my favorite musicians, has seemed to lessen the number of creepy requests I've received. I just hope naming John Denver as a favorite as well, won't keep my real friends away.

Images of Broken Light Which Dance Before Me Like a Million Eyes

Hey kids, guess what time it is? That's right. It's time for an old timey photo post. My brother just sent me a link to one of my uncle's sites with some pictures of my grandparents on my dad's side.

This is my grandfather with some neighbor kids. This is the first time I've ever seen a picture of him. I think his name was John. Every man on my dad's side of the family seems to be named, Robert, John or William. My grandpa died when my dad was really young. I have no idea what killed him though.

Here is my grandmother and grandfather. My grandma was a six foot tall red head - that had to be kind of crazy at the beginning of the century. She was from Petaluma and was six months old during the San Francisco earthquake of 1906. Her dad had some money and owned a hotel on Lombard Street in San Francisco that he had to sell to the city so they could build the Golden Gate Bridge on that land.

Here they are again standing next to their really sweet ride. The story goes that my great grandfather didn't like my grandpa and never spoke to my grandmother again after she married him. There is a street in Petaluma named after us because my grandpa built all the houses on it.

Here is my grandma's wedding photo. During the Depression, my Grandpa lost his contracting business and moved the family to Chicago to learn how to be a mortician from his uncle. It was one of the few jobs with any kind of security in the 1930's. After my grandpa died, my grandmother took it over. She was one of the strongest women I've ever met.

By the time I was born, she had broken her hip and was on crutches for the rest of her life. When would act up, she would threaten to hit us with her crutch. Once when I was nineteen, I told my grandma how scared I was when she said that.

"You knew I was kidding, didn't you?" She asked.

"No. I thought you were serious. Why did you think I straightened up so fast?"

"Oh my. You must have thought I was a monster..." But I didn't. My siblings and I didn't have much structure or discipline when we were younger, so our grandmother's more stern and regal presence always seemed so novel.