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Archive for April, 2008

 
|| April 30, 2008 || 10:13 am || Comments (1) ||

pblllthththththt.

The fact that sustainability, re-greening and conscious care of our Earth has become a kitschy, faddish endeavor is really, really irksome to me. I just hope some of it sticks with the hipsters that are perpetrating it as such.

Pblllthththththt.

 
|| April 29, 2008 || 9:42 am || Comments (1) ||

get it together, kid

I never wanted to be one of those jackass mothers who had to say things like, “If you don’t put that guitar down, then I am going to go into my studio, get the wire cutters, and snap every string on the grblebdisntfrng thing!” but the boy is failing Latin.

Well, he has a ‘D’, but in our books anything below a ‘B’ is technically failing when you have Great Brains.

He is failing Latin, this gorgeous, tall, hilarious sack of sixteen-year-old mess, and now I have to keep him from two things he adores: Really Smokin’ Girlfriend and Best Friend, Guitar. Because, as you might well know, they are the two main distractions in his life.

Let’s talk about Really Smokin’ Girlfriend, shall we? Suffice it to say she’s smart, funny, very attractive. She’s the first one that has, as yet, even pinged my radar….and a lot of giggly cheerleaders have marched their asses through our home.

Oh, never mind, let’s not talk about it; it gives me palpatations. It’s too early in his life for Sam to be so smitten, though.

 
|| April 27, 2008 || 6:10 pm || Comments (5) ||

our future has been scripted for us

Today Maxim romanced me by placing a twelve-inches-square box on the dining room/kitchen pass-through.

“Twenty-five pounds of rice. Ten bucks.” He tapped the box sagely.

We have a Chinese-made assault rifle and we’re all of the sudden stockpiling rice and beans. I swear the Superiors are gonna be revolutionaries before it’s all said and done.

This week I’m answering e-mails that I’m tardy responding to. Some of them may make it here.

Friday is a half-day at work, but it’s very hectic. We see roughly the same number of patients as we do during a full day, but we go at a breakneck speed, like the last little sprint of before the weekend finish line.

Some days lately I feel like I am tethered to my life or my emotions and I’m being dragged rudely and willy-nilly behind either/or. On Friday last I felt like I was subject to both. Typically I am a pretty exuberant person; on days like I’ve mentioned I’m more stoic so as not to ‘infect’ others with my state of being. So on that particular day I had a pretty shellacked exterior.

The weather was really great and mild coming out of work; everything is in bloom now and that helped, because pulling into my street is an exercise in beauty. I’m singularly lucky in that the Avenue is exactly one block long and fairly gorgeous year-round, but especially so in the fall and spring. So that helped.

I pulled up to my mailbox, as is my custom, and removed its contents. I get excited at the prospect of mail, any mail, because I love surprises. When there is a magazine or thick envelope, I get doubly jazzed, because there are usually no strings attached to those.

I guess you might know by now where this is headed: I got the book last Friday. It touched me so much, your memory of something I find profound, your thinking on my well-being unbenownst to me as I went about my day, the delight of holding a new, uncreased book in my hands (this is one of my favorite! teeny! pleasures! of all time), the arrival of it on a really gut- and soul-grinding day. When I found the postcard tucked next to page one-forty-six, and the tacit reminder of hope wrapped up in the little phrase, “Look where the Christmas Tree hails from”, well….the tears tracked heavy, immediate and silent down my face. This was because you were heeding The Call which we’ve spoken of; you were providing Hope and also Confirmation, because that country feels like a flagging whim, Christmas leaves me buoyed and blissful like no other time and trees are just ‘my thang’.

You hardly know me at all, nor I you, but you recognize me and it is not at all uncomfortable. My faith tells me that the former has to do with God, but my gut tells me that the latter has everything to do with you, with who you are in relation to the world around you.

You are probably one of the nicest people I know. I’m thankful to God for you, beyond just your Basic Thankfulness. It is important to this world of ours that there are people of your ilk in it, shoveling good will against all the ick that is being willfully perpetrated every minute of every day. I bless you, with these words and with my prayers, and I wish abundance to you: In Faith, in Action, in Returns on your precious investments, most of which you probably don’t even realize that you are making.

I am lucky, so lucky, –and proud in a way I cannot explain– to call you friend, regardless of the newness or as-yet-to-be-found depth of that term.

Namaste,

Elizabeth

 
|| April 22, 2008 || 11:44 pm || Comments (1) ||

Because my feet are bare.

What I love is when a commercial tells me what I need in that exact language, i.e. “What you need is…”, and I’m able to answer back to it and say, “No, what I really need right about now is some warm kneesocks.”

(The heather grey ones are dirty, so I put on the black ones with the coral-colored stitching across the toes.)

The insomnia has been at bay for a long time now. ‘A long time’ being close to five weeks. ‘Insomnia’ meaning the kind that keeps me up at all costs, the kind that is not polite enough to acknowledge things like exhaustion or a necessary early wake-up. The toss-and-turn-and-wake-suddenly variety pretty much stays with me; I guess it is less fickle than the brand that wants me wide awake and cranking on all gears. Misery loves company, is what I’m told…and hardcore insomnia is indeed miserable.

Personifying a thing: It’s one of my most nimble gifts as a woman of the writery persuasion.

This world is big and full of ancient things. Sometimes those things get stuck fast in my barely-adequate brain. Like the Sadness. I’m always rushing after beauty, digging up songs and paintings and new shoes and smiling children, always turning over the leaves that cover them so that I can bring them here to you like a hopeful dog: “Look! Look what I found to distract us!”

But the Sadness in the world is so big and imposing and omnipresent and it seems to find me, to overrun me and crowd out what little of worth I have to give to you, to anyone. Some people can smell it on me for miles off, and it’s those people that I avoid like the plague, because they tend to either be people hell bent on being mean to someone they sniff a weakness in, or they are (far worse) intent on Fixing somebody. The former causes a fight. The latter causes me embarrassment.

“My kind of broke don’t need your kind of fixing.” I said that to somebody one time, and maybe saying it made it true, I don’t know. What I do know is that I should pen a watery, insistent blues song that has that little sentence at its heart.

The world is noisy on nights like these, but noisy in a low-hum kind of way, and it seems as if I can sense the tears of a thousand sets of eyes, feel the burning of knees and knees and knees laid too long to floor in supplication, hearing all the while the insistent keening of hearts that want even while begging release of their burdens. It’s not so much the awareness of all these things, I don’t guess; it’s more the hapless tendency to compulsively put them on, to wear them as if they were mine and I need to take responsibility over them. That’s what keeps me lying, hand resting in the curve of my bare waist, awake and trying to figure out what penance I could possibly perform so that I’ll be allowed the tender bliss of dreamless slumber just one more time.

I wish there were answers better than my own.

 
|| April 22, 2008 || 11:12 am || Comments (4) ||

UN. FAIR. (and totally predictable)

So, right about the time my tags were due for renewal, Tess tells me about how Brandy (who, you may recall, is The Hottest Lesbian In DeKalb County) has been driving with an expired license plate since two-thousand. THAT IS EIGHT YEARS, YOU PEOPLE, or darn near thereabouts. I remarked that I might just let my own tag renewal slide and see what happened.

We had this conversation around the beginning of October. That would be –for my fellow mathtards among you– a scant six months ago. Six months which, in the phenomenal cosmic scheme of things, is barely a mitochondrial-size block of minutes. Less than that, really, but I don’t want to boggle your minds with the infinitesimalness of time and space and all that lot. We are just here to navelgaze, not blow up craniums. Yes? Yesss.

Here is where I tell you that Brandy drives –every. single. workday.– approximately fifty minutes to and then from her job. She’s never gotten so much as pulled over for her EIGHT YEARS-EXPIRED tags, much less ticketed for them.

By this point in my little yarn you must surely know that I was the proud recipient of a ticket for not having those shiny little oh-eight stickers. It seems that all teh stars were lined up in the exact opposite of the configuration known as ‘My Favor’, because the cop that issued the citation was one of the three or four I don’t know well (or even at all). The most rich part of the joke is that I was approximately one-point-five blocks from my very lovely and cozy home, which I’d had to leave at nine-thirty on a Saturday morning to take Scout to rehearsals. Just one more reason, folk, for me to not be out of bed before eleven ay emm on a Saturday, any Saturday. Publisher’s Clearinghouse? Please leave the gigantic check taped to the front door, or come back after I’ve gotten my customary Saturday morning brunchy Bee Ell Tee from Subway.

I immediately picked up my phone and dialed BOTH Brandy and Tessa’s numbers, being slightly shouty into their voice mails and professing hatred for their guts. This is because Brandy is STILL getting away with that business, and because Tess is the one who told me that story in the first place, tempting my definite and pronounced Socially Defiant Side to do ill all in the name of “Hm. Let’s just seeeee.

The best part of it all is that upon calling the appropriate office to find out the cost of the fine, I was informed that said fine would be a scant six dollars more than just buying my fucking tag stickers in the first place. So my tag is costing me double for the year of our Lord, two-thousand and eight. So very fun(nish). I have a friend in teh magistrate’s office, and she might be able to assist me in getting the ticket remanded to file if I show up with my tags updated appropriately.

I want the courts to kiss my ass on this one, because this endeavor was done in the name of scientific experimentation. Next time, oh next time, I should SURELY be held to my punishment, because then it will be all due to my stupidity in not honoring the laws of the universe that I’ve become acquainted with on this go-round.

Right?

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

This morning Tess embarked on a long-winded explanation of how she ended up with tampons that are not her usual brand. About the time I was growing impatient with hearing that damnable story (“WHY ARE YOU TELLING ME ALL THIS, SHIT??”…I was typing; I have no patience when I’m typing) she whipped out the point of the tale in the form of physical evidence. Witness:

motivational pon
:: motivational pon ::

In case you can’t read it (and you likely can’t, as the lens on my camera’s phone is some kind of ass, let me tell you), it says ‘be passionate’. This is done in innocuous, lowercase letters so as not to appear bossy or sommat. Some chucklehead at Playtex thought this would be a good idea, and I’m betting that someone was male. I can’t believe that even one female that is employed with that partiklar male didn’t have the stones to stand up and say, “Look. This is stupid on a completely new level, and it may just get you shot, or even mocked by a female blogger who is so stone-age that she is still mortified by the notion of tampon ads on television some twenty-five years after she saw her first one.”

I think that if you MUST, if you ABSOLUTELY MUST write a motivational message on a tampon wrapper, it should be something like, ‘be stabby’, which is consistent with affirming the overall menstrual state of mind and body, as well as serving to make a girl not feel so fucking bad about being dragged along behind specific hormones that are entirely out of her control.

Really, though, if the Playtex Tampon Poepels were smart, they’d skip all the pepspeak-feelgood hooha and come out with a tampon whose wrapper is soaked in liquid klonopin and could be sucked on in states of emotional and hormonal emergency.

This is why I’m a Kotex girl. They are comfortable, reliable, and they don’t try to put a positive spin on large (but apparently disposable) chunks of my uterus falling out of my body like clockwork every month. Way to go, Kotex, good job! And your packaging is perfect; don’t ever change.

 
|| April 21, 2008 || 10:40 am || Comments (2) ||

more brain squiggles

(sometimes I think tiny, morbid thoughts when I am screwing up, like, “What if, when I am hitting the control-comma key combo instead of the shift-comma key combo as I was supposed to be doing to open that tag, someone somewhere is forced to suffer some physically painful injustice as a result?” I guess thinking things like that tends to make me a better typist. I think. Maybe.

Or maybe my high school typing teacher, the Immaculate Mrs. –in Mississippi pronounced ‘MIZ-ruhz’– Hughes, with her creamy cocoa skin and her forties pin-up* hair, did a royal number on me in class, somehow sneakily connecting proper striking of the keys with Negative Reinforcement and I just wasn’t psychologically strong enough to fend it off.)