As is only too obvious, the Blog Bully is really not on top of his game. As such, I am a slacker. So this is me trying to do the right thing even when no one's looking (or whatever that Rule to Live By is). I'm going to warn you, however, that trying to be a good little blogger for its own sake means that there may well be no actual content. This will not stand in my way. Indeed, I can very easily continue to write sentences about nothing whatsoever for longish paragraphs at a time. I've been writing to online strangers for YEARS, so I've got the chops. But let's see if I can't rummage around in the untidy drawers of my brain and come up with something. Something more, that is.
1. Once a year, I hold a weekend meeting with s group of student playwrights to do a table reading of their plays. Whenever this event rolls around, I buy too many snacks. Far too many snacks. (The faculty room is now lousy with surplus hummus and cocoa-almond spread.) Deep down I must fear that teenagers in a room without snacks will go feral and turn on me. They probably wouldn't. Probably.
2. My previously mentioned imaginary friend Gideon Defoe attended the Oscars since The Pirates! was nominated. I actually enjoy the Oscars, unlike many people, but I enjoyed nothing so much as I enjoy this picture of Gideon looking at Charlize Theron with extreme anxiety.
3. For reasons that elude me, whenever I am in my office, I am cold enough to have blue fingers while I am also sweating in a "never buy anything that requires dry cleaning again" manner. Blue fingers and damp armpits. Equally unpleasant and seemingly impossible to achieve simultaneously. And yet. Every day. Only in my office, however. Vive the weekend.
What? I told you I had nothing to say. Can you be surprised it's come to armpits? I think not. The good news is that I know when it's time to wrap it up.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Friday, February 22, 2013
Chemistry
This morning while I was brushing my teeth, this image came to mind. I am sitting at a bar table across from some man. Between us, outlined in a slightly silvery light that in a certain kind of movie translates as "invisible", is a smallish heap of very tiny winged creatures, all of whom are curled up adorably, piled upon one another and deeply asleep--these are our collective pheromones.
And there, in brief, you have both a summary of last night and the inherent problem with online dating.
And there, in brief, you have both a summary of last night and the inherent problem with online dating.
Thursday, February 21, 2013
Bzzzzzz
I am about to embark on a novel called The Death of Bees. That is, I'm going to read it, not write it. Don't get excited. Among other things, it seems someone is already using the title, so writing it would be a waste of time.
Here's my concern. I have already read: The Secret Life of Bees, Bee Season and Little Bee, three novels with radically different plots that I nevertheless freely confuse. Is there really room in my buzzing brain for more bee books?
Stay tuned.
Here's my concern. I have already read: The Secret Life of Bees, Bee Season and Little Bee, three novels with radically different plots that I nevertheless freely confuse. Is there really room in my buzzing brain for more bee books?
Stay tuned.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Brought to you by reading brain
Every time I mention the plot of something I've seen to my mother, she archly remarks that I could be writing a great deal if I were didn't watch so many movies. This infuriates me, largely because it is infuriating. I also think it's false. However, tonight, as I was sitting [I was going to say "quietly" which I suppose is true in that I was very quiet, but it also suggests an atmosphere of quiet, which is decidedly not the case. The Upstairs Baby is crashing around up there in an unprecedented manner, which is not to say that I have not been expecting and dreading it. My most indulgent fantasy is not the one in which I find lasting love; it is the one in which no one lives above me. However, let us not let the Upstairs Baby thwart us in the middle of a perfectly good epiphany.]
Ahem. I was sitting here quietly, reading a book, when I felt an actual impulse to get up and write something. So, perhaps giving my brain a chance not to be stuffed with sitcoms and similar is to give it the opportunity to...wait. There's a term for it. Think. That's it. This is not to say that every time I read a book I feel like leaping up and writing one. On the contrary. Usually, I feel like doing nothing more extraordinary than continuing to read the book. However, I do notice a difference in reading brain versus watching brain. There is an expansiveness in the former that can bode nothing but good. Books. I recommend them.
Last week, the Festival of Wellness was in full swing and I was out and about every night save one. As a result, I have been rather exhausted and have gone to bed at 9:30pm the last two nights, but, just for fun, let's pretend I'm heartier than that. On the whole, I had a lovely time, though there were a couple of downsides. For one, my mother and I had to face the hard fact that we really don't care for authentic Indian food. We are regretful, but find that it is simply too spicy. Way too spicy. We have not yet reached the point where we have said this out loud to others, but there it is. If you have some Americanized chicken tikka masala, I'll happily join you. Otherwise, I'll just have a side of naan. Plain naan. (Which, now that I think about it, was also not available on the menu.) Another not so great thing, is that I had a convivial dinner with a man who fancied me, but actually, based on more recent evidence, I guess didn't? This has really only just occurred to me. Best change the subject.
The very best thing I did was attend Sunday Suppers. By merely buying a ticket, I was given access to a dinner party in a nearby garage. Indeed. A long table with a white cloth and flower arrangements, a delicious five-course meal, and 29 other people whom I had never met. In a garage. (Thank God. Dinners are usually outside, I believe, but it's winter. Even in California.) For me, that made for a unique Sunday. I was the only person to attend alone, but most other diners had the chance to meet 26-28 lovely new people, so it was an adventure for us all. I had the great good fortune to sit in immediate proximity to people I liked enormously. Plus, there was no avocado or mayonnaise involved with the meal. A triumph all around. Did I mention it was delicious? It was delicious. And the people were charming? They were charming.
I loved it.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go roll a small neighbor in bubble wrap.
Ahem. I was sitting here quietly, reading a book, when I felt an actual impulse to get up and write something. So, perhaps giving my brain a chance not to be stuffed with sitcoms and similar is to give it the opportunity to...wait. There's a term for it. Think. That's it. This is not to say that every time I read a book I feel like leaping up and writing one. On the contrary. Usually, I feel like doing nothing more extraordinary than continuing to read the book. However, I do notice a difference in reading brain versus watching brain. There is an expansiveness in the former that can bode nothing but good. Books. I recommend them.
Last week, the Festival of Wellness was in full swing and I was out and about every night save one. As a result, I have been rather exhausted and have gone to bed at 9:30pm the last two nights, but, just for fun, let's pretend I'm heartier than that. On the whole, I had a lovely time, though there were a couple of downsides. For one, my mother and I had to face the hard fact that we really don't care for authentic Indian food. We are regretful, but find that it is simply too spicy. Way too spicy. We have not yet reached the point where we have said this out loud to others, but there it is. If you have some Americanized chicken tikka masala, I'll happily join you. Otherwise, I'll just have a side of naan. Plain naan. (Which, now that I think about it, was also not available on the menu.) Another not so great thing, is that I had a convivial dinner with a man who fancied me, but actually, based on more recent evidence, I guess didn't? This has really only just occurred to me. Best change the subject.
The very best thing I did was attend Sunday Suppers. By merely buying a ticket, I was given access to a dinner party in a nearby garage. Indeed. A long table with a white cloth and flower arrangements, a delicious five-course meal, and 29 other people whom I had never met. In a garage. (Thank God. Dinners are usually outside, I believe, but it's winter. Even in California.) For me, that made for a unique Sunday. I was the only person to attend alone, but most other diners had the chance to meet 26-28 lovely new people, so it was an adventure for us all. I had the great good fortune to sit in immediate proximity to people I liked enormously. Plus, there was no avocado or mayonnaise involved with the meal. A triumph all around. Did I mention it was delicious? It was delicious. And the people were charming? They were charming.
I loved it.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go roll a small neighbor in bubble wrap.
Monday, February 11, 2013
Um...thanks?
As seems now to be traditional, there are little valentine hearts with messages posted all over the school. I happened upon one that said "I wish I could tell you that you're smart."
Is this a wistful would-be compliment from a shy admirer, or a snide put-down? We'll never know.
Is this a wistful would-be compliment from a shy admirer, or a snide put-down? We'll never know.
Monday, February 04, 2013
House cleaning
A couple months ago I had a plumber come out to take a look at my very sluggish bathtub drain. He left no word, but I did discover a Rastafarian wig's worth of my own hair in the wastepaper basket, so, um, I guess I know what the problem was there. I have learned a valuable lesson and put a makeshift hair-catching device over the drain.
More recently then, when I noticed that my bathroom sink gurgled piteously long after I'd turned off the faucet left the room, I assumed there was another nest of hair to blame, but sinks are less intimidating that bathtubs, so I thought I'd try to sort it out myself. I got a three-dollar plastic stick at the hardware store specifically designed for pulling disgusting things out of your drain. And it did, just not hair. More like sludge. And then the stick got stuck, leaving me with a slow drain now filled not only with sludge but also a long plastic stick.
I had been told by several people that the stopper in one's bathroom sink "just unscrews" if you want to take it out. This did not prove to be strictly true, alas. However, I was feeling handy, so I looked it up online and learned how to loosen a nut and disengage a pivot rod. (Yep. A pivot rod.) Having done so, I was able to remove the stopper, free the stick, and have full access to the sludge, a further description of which I shall spare you, except to say that a plastic stick was not what was required to address it.
Having de-sludged as much of the drain as I could reach, I felt, I'll admit it, probably prouder of myself than was entirely warranted by the situation, but hey, previously, I'd never even heard of a pivot rod. That's when I discovered that releasing a drain stopper is at least 60% easier than replacing a bathroom stopper. Oh, the swearing. Oh, the long-armed contorting. Oh, the ultimate total failure to reattach the accursed nut. To sum up, I started out with a gurgly drain and ended up with a sink that essentially had a large uncovered hole in the drainpipe. In other words, a mostly unusable sink. Nice.
Fortunately, I have many friends who are way more competent than I am. (I recommend this strategy.) Many of these friends not only have tools, but know how to use them. One of these friends came home with me on a lunchtime field trip and between the two of us my (sludge-free) drain is now fully functional. In my defense, I will say that it turns out to be way easier with two people than one. You have to be able to look down the drain to line up a couple of things, while also being under the sink tightening those same things. This, for most normal people is not physically possible. So, I feel like slightly less of a loser, a thing I enjoy.
Bolstered by this flash of handiness, I took it upon myself to finally wash the weird soot-based tags that have been accumulating on the front of the house. I don't totally get what this is. Graffiti tags that are achieved (thankfully) not with ink or paint, but with the charred end of something? It's not as easy to get off as it sounds, but I was out there with my scrub brush and soapy water feeling very virtuous indeed. I am a renter, people. A mere renter. In a building I share with others. I will be keeping an eye out for my commendation from the mayor.
Did someone pee more or less into my garage that very night, obliging me to get out the damn soapy water again the next day? Yes. Did I feel as civic-minded and efficient? No. I mostly felt disgusted and furious, not unlike every other time someone has peed on my house.
Lessons:
1. If you need to take your sink stopper out, have a friend standing by. (But do not make them look at the sludge.)
2. Don't pee on other people's houses.
3. Don't write stuff on other people's houses.
4. If you see someone washing pee and/or graffiti off their own house, tell them you sympathize and that they rule. (Optional, but nice.)
More recently then, when I noticed that my bathroom sink gurgled piteously long after I'd turned off the faucet left the room, I assumed there was another nest of hair to blame, but sinks are less intimidating that bathtubs, so I thought I'd try to sort it out myself. I got a three-dollar plastic stick at the hardware store specifically designed for pulling disgusting things out of your drain. And it did, just not hair. More like sludge. And then the stick got stuck, leaving me with a slow drain now filled not only with sludge but also a long plastic stick.
I had been told by several people that the stopper in one's bathroom sink "just unscrews" if you want to take it out. This did not prove to be strictly true, alas. However, I was feeling handy, so I looked it up online and learned how to loosen a nut and disengage a pivot rod. (Yep. A pivot rod.) Having done so, I was able to remove the stopper, free the stick, and have full access to the sludge, a further description of which I shall spare you, except to say that a plastic stick was not what was required to address it.
Having de-sludged as much of the drain as I could reach, I felt, I'll admit it, probably prouder of myself than was entirely warranted by the situation, but hey, previously, I'd never even heard of a pivot rod. That's when I discovered that releasing a drain stopper is at least 60% easier than replacing a bathroom stopper. Oh, the swearing. Oh, the long-armed contorting. Oh, the ultimate total failure to reattach the accursed nut. To sum up, I started out with a gurgly drain and ended up with a sink that essentially had a large uncovered hole in the drainpipe. In other words, a mostly unusable sink. Nice.
Fortunately, I have many friends who are way more competent than I am. (I recommend this strategy.) Many of these friends not only have tools, but know how to use them. One of these friends came home with me on a lunchtime field trip and between the two of us my (sludge-free) drain is now fully functional. In my defense, I will say that it turns out to be way easier with two people than one. You have to be able to look down the drain to line up a couple of things, while also being under the sink tightening those same things. This, for most normal people is not physically possible. So, I feel like slightly less of a loser, a thing I enjoy.
Bolstered by this flash of handiness, I took it upon myself to finally wash the weird soot-based tags that have been accumulating on the front of the house. I don't totally get what this is. Graffiti tags that are achieved (thankfully) not with ink or paint, but with the charred end of something? It's not as easy to get off as it sounds, but I was out there with my scrub brush and soapy water feeling very virtuous indeed. I am a renter, people. A mere renter. In a building I share with others. I will be keeping an eye out for my commendation from the mayor.
Did someone pee more or less into my garage that very night, obliging me to get out the damn soapy water again the next day? Yes. Did I feel as civic-minded and efficient? No. I mostly felt disgusted and furious, not unlike every other time someone has peed on my house.
Lessons:
1. If you need to take your sink stopper out, have a friend standing by. (But do not make them look at the sludge.)
2. Don't pee on other people's houses.
3. Don't write stuff on other people's houses.
4. If you see someone washing pee and/or graffiti off their own house, tell them you sympathize and that they rule. (Optional, but nice.)
Friday, February 01, 2013
New year
Guess what it is? It's February. That's what. And you know what February is? It is the month I slated to herald my own personal new year. I spent January first sick and weeping and then I had surgery a week later. That seemed like such a notably terrible tone to set for a whole year that I decided: Forget you, January. You're not the boss of me.
February, I'm happy to see you.
I feel like I'm back from some long absence. It's so hugely relieving to feel well after being out of commission to varying degrees since September that every day feels a little bit exciting. I've been feeling celebratory. This is jolly, but, also, I've discovered, dangerous. It transpires that "celebratory" means I spend money that I don't necessarily have readily available;* I go out too many school nights in a row; and, interestingly, I keep wearing shoes that hurt my weird broken feet. What can I say? One wishes to dress up a little for the Festival of Wellness. Today, however, I am wearing the Sneakers of Recovery, to make up from the longer-than-it-seemed-in-theory walk to and from the car in the not-so-great-for-walking boots last night.
Last week, a couple days after Porchlight, I took myself on a date (it's vexingly difficult to get anyone else to do it, so I just took matters into my own hands) to Nopa where I had pleasant chats with strangers as well as a very good vegetable tagine. A few days later, I went to a play that made me cry, after which the Blog Bully bought me a fancy cocktail and some brussels sprouts. See? It's been like that.
I've been at the Castro three nights this week seeing dames and hard-boiled guys fall in love and/or kill people. It's been a good time. Tomorrow, I'm going with my [brand new] friend Melissa to the Noir Nightclub, which will briefly allow me to pretend I live in an era better suited to my aesthetic needs (though, obviously, an era in which my feet would have hurt all the time, which is worth bearing in mind).
Coming up, there's Mud and Blood, a cool show that I saw in October, but plan to see again next week. You could go tomorrow if you want. A story with a band and at least one handsome man in a hat? I like that. The lovely Katy Stephan will be singing her very own songs at the Rite Spot on the 5th. Octavio Solis, a brilliant playwright and one of the kindest men I've ever met, has a new play at The Magic. Also, apparently there's a football game on Sunday, a thing I care about not at all, so my friend and I are going to go see a movie which, as far as I can tell, is a zombie love story. I'm generally not so interested in zombies, but I do enjoy love stories. And not watching football. When you're not lying around with a hideous illness or dulled by painkillers, there's a lot to do, is what I'm saying.
Hi, February. Happy New Year.
*That fiscal cliff and its resultant tax changes have left me a hundred bucks a month poorer, which, A) if you are me, is considerable and B) extra considerable if you're still paying for your accursed oral surgery. Boo.
February, I'm happy to see you.
I feel like I'm back from some long absence. It's so hugely relieving to feel well after being out of commission to varying degrees since September that every day feels a little bit exciting. I've been feeling celebratory. This is jolly, but, also, I've discovered, dangerous. It transpires that "celebratory" means I spend money that I don't necessarily have readily available;* I go out too many school nights in a row; and, interestingly, I keep wearing shoes that hurt my weird broken feet. What can I say? One wishes to dress up a little for the Festival of Wellness. Today, however, I am wearing the Sneakers of Recovery, to make up from the longer-than-it-seemed-in-theory walk to and from the car in the not-so-great-for-walking boots last night.
Last week, a couple days after Porchlight, I took myself on a date (it's vexingly difficult to get anyone else to do it, so I just took matters into my own hands) to Nopa where I had pleasant chats with strangers as well as a very good vegetable tagine. A few days later, I went to a play that made me cry, after which the Blog Bully bought me a fancy cocktail and some brussels sprouts. See? It's been like that.
I've been at the Castro three nights this week seeing dames and hard-boiled guys fall in love and/or kill people. It's been a good time. Tomorrow, I'm going with my [brand new] friend Melissa to the Noir Nightclub, which will briefly allow me to pretend I live in an era better suited to my aesthetic needs (though, obviously, an era in which my feet would have hurt all the time, which is worth bearing in mind).
Coming up, there's Mud and Blood, a cool show that I saw in October, but plan to see again next week. You could go tomorrow if you want. A story with a band and at least one handsome man in a hat? I like that. The lovely Katy Stephan will be singing her very own songs at the Rite Spot on the 5th. Octavio Solis, a brilliant playwright and one of the kindest men I've ever met, has a new play at The Magic. Also, apparently there's a football game on Sunday, a thing I care about not at all, so my friend and I are going to go see a movie which, as far as I can tell, is a zombie love story. I'm generally not so interested in zombies, but I do enjoy love stories. And not watching football. When you're not lying around with a hideous illness or dulled by painkillers, there's a lot to do, is what I'm saying.
Hi, February. Happy New Year.
*That fiscal cliff and its resultant tax changes have left me a hundred bucks a month poorer, which, A) if you are me, is considerable and B) extra considerable if you're still paying for your accursed oral surgery. Boo.
Sunday, January 27, 2013
A partial list, I'm sure
Very stupid things I've done in the immediate past:
1. Bought (and opened and generally rendered unreturnable) a laundry bag, even though I already have a laundry bag.
2. Walked right into a spam scam. RIGHT INTO IT.
3. Did a load of laundry without soap.
4. Misread a song title as "Si Tu Doris Parker" when it is, in fact, "Si Tu Dois Partir."
5. Believed (again, still) that the project of online dating would result in something other than bruised feelings and an overarching sense of futility. Yay!
If one of you writes that as-yet-unwritten song, "Si Tu Doris Parker," you'll let me know, right? I'm very interested in hearing that song. Also, I'm growing increasingly suspicious that I need glasses. You'll want to stay tuned for the resulting "I feel silly in glasses" crisis.
1. Bought (and opened and generally rendered unreturnable) a laundry bag, even though I already have a laundry bag.
2. Walked right into a spam scam. RIGHT INTO IT.
3. Did a load of laundry without soap.
4. Misread a song title as "Si Tu Doris Parker" when it is, in fact, "Si Tu Dois Partir."
5. Believed (again, still) that the project of online dating would result in something other than bruised feelings and an overarching sense of futility. Yay!
If one of you writes that as-yet-unwritten song, "Si Tu Doris Parker," you'll let me know, right? I'm very interested in hearing that song. Also, I'm growing increasingly suspicious that I need glasses. You'll want to stay tuned for the resulting "I feel silly in glasses" crisis.
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Looking up
So far today I got:
1. Eight, uninterrupted hours of sleep. This has not happened in many thrashy, coughy nights and I am so thrilled to be restored to rest that I could just kiss you.
2. Two--TWO!--real letters in my mailbox. Letters that actually must have arrived yesterday, but my mailbox is so stupid that the good stuff often sinks down to the bottom while the ridiculous newspaper circulars get stuffed into the top where I have to rip and wrestle them free with two hands, only to recycle them immediately. But on my way past this morning, I glimpsed another crumpled advertising postcard and when I reached in to grab it, I unearthed two slim envelopes with my address penned in the recognizable handwriting of people I love.
3. A glimpse of five elderly Asian ladies on the tennis court in Dolores Park, well bundled and doing slow and deliberate calisthenics. I need to befriend some elderly Asian ladies to instill in me a commitment to exercise. Nothing else has worked.
4. The last parking place on the desired block.
5. Two compliments on my outfit.
And yesterday, in the good mail I did manage to find, in a teeny envelope within the larger one, I got a gold star. It's nice to have a friend who rewards you for sticking to hard resolutions.
I don't know, but I think 2013 is starting to come together for me. Here's hoping you can say the same.
1. Eight, uninterrupted hours of sleep. This has not happened in many thrashy, coughy nights and I am so thrilled to be restored to rest that I could just kiss you.
2. Two--TWO!--real letters in my mailbox. Letters that actually must have arrived yesterday, but my mailbox is so stupid that the good stuff often sinks down to the bottom while the ridiculous newspaper circulars get stuffed into the top where I have to rip and wrestle them free with two hands, only to recycle them immediately. But on my way past this morning, I glimpsed another crumpled advertising postcard and when I reached in to grab it, I unearthed two slim envelopes with my address penned in the recognizable handwriting of people I love.
3. A glimpse of five elderly Asian ladies on the tennis court in Dolores Park, well bundled and doing slow and deliberate calisthenics. I need to befriend some elderly Asian ladies to instill in me a commitment to exercise. Nothing else has worked.
4. The last parking place on the desired block.
5. Two compliments on my outfit.
And yesterday, in the good mail I did manage to find, in a teeny envelope within the larger one, I got a gold star. It's nice to have a friend who rewards you for sticking to hard resolutions.
I don't know, but I think 2013 is starting to come together for me. Here's hoping you can say the same.
Monday, January 21, 2013
A dream
It only just occurred to me as I turned off my light last night that President Obama's second inauguration coincides with Martin Luther King Day.
A hopeful sign, indeed.
A hopeful sign, indeed.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
2013
Here is a surprising confession: yesterday, I felt quite cheerful. I wouldn't mention it, except that I have not been feeling cheerful for rather a long while and it made a nice change. I spent the day blue-fingered and generally freezing (and please, dwellers of other lands, I know it is colder where you live and Californians discussing winter sparks great mirth and/or derisive snorting for you and your family and when you come here, you persist in wearing shorts because it is so balmy, etc. etc. I understand that cold is relative. However, I am still cold much of the time. I'm not kidding about the blue fingers. I hereby decree that I am allowed both to live in San Francisco and to be cold. At the same time. Thank you.) but when I left work around 7:30pm, there was a very crisp sliver of moon in a cloudless sky and it seemed benevolent. Upon my arrival at home (a place where there is a very reliable heater, praise be), I did some dishes (I am hoping the new year will prove to be a tidy one) and then settled in to watch the latest episode of "Downton Abbey" which I had somehow forgotten to watch the day before. If you are me, the revelation of a forgotten, unwatched "Downton Abbey" is akin to finding crumpled twenty-dollar bill in the pocket of your recently laundered jeans. This, along with tea and some small, delicious cupcakes made my the inimitable Katy Stephan, made me feel for the first time in weeks, like maybe everything is looking up, after all.
I had planned for my Christmas vacation to be a veritable festival of cocktails and treats and cinema excursions. Instead, I had the plague. No need to go on about it; after all, you're familiar with being sick, but it was a particularly miserable and lingering affair, not at all conducive to holiday jollity. Then, approximately two days after achieving near-wellness, I had surgery and went back to bed. Sigh.
Still. Happily, the kidney stone is no more. And soon, I hope, the remaining pain will also be awarded the past tense. And then--hoo boy--will I ever be a champagne-drinking social butterfly.
The afternoon of New Year's Eve, I finally felt well enough to go to a movie at last. After poring over my options, I chose Les Miserables. Now then. I am a girl who likes a musical, but somehow I had never actually seen this one. Frankly, that seems impossible to me, yet it is true. Ultimately, I think film is a very bad way to be introduced to it. I didn't know it was one of those opera-style shows where the singing just doesn't quit. That doesn't bother me onstage, but it turns out it bugs the hell out of me on screen. I became an eye-rolly snorter. No one wants to sit next to that girl. Sorry, everyone. I was really shocked by how much I didn't enjoy it. Before the revolution even got into full swing I thought, "Okay fine. Those two will get together. That one will die. I'm done here." And, people, I left. I almost never leave a movie. It felt quite rebellious. I think there was still a full hour to go. I tromped back to the parking garage where I had very begrudginly parked my car only because the movie was too long for the two-hour street parking limit. That damn garage charged me $10 which may be commonplace, but which made me absolutely furious. All in all, going to a movie I didn't like and didn't see all of cost me $20. Grrrr.
All of that may be why I enjoyed this so very much. There's a little mp3 clip that I invite you to listen to.
Edited 4/1/13 to add: Better yet, this. This is exactly my experience. A couple days later I found the antidote: Lincoln. Oh, how I loved it. If people in the 1800's actually spoke anything like that, I am truly sorry for the anemic state of the modern vernacular. But then, what I experienced may not be the conversation acrobatics of a bygone era; it may simply have been the conversational acrobatics of Tony Kushner. In which case, Tony Kushner, I thank you most humbly.
I had planned for my Christmas vacation to be a veritable festival of cocktails and treats and cinema excursions. Instead, I had the plague. No need to go on about it; after all, you're familiar with being sick, but it was a particularly miserable and lingering affair, not at all conducive to holiday jollity. Then, approximately two days after achieving near-wellness, I had surgery and went back to bed. Sigh.
Still. Happily, the kidney stone is no more. And soon, I hope, the remaining pain will also be awarded the past tense. And then--hoo boy--will I ever be a champagne-drinking social butterfly.
The afternoon of New Year's Eve, I finally felt well enough to go to a movie at last. After poring over my options, I chose Les Miserables. Now then. I am a girl who likes a musical, but somehow I had never actually seen this one. Frankly, that seems impossible to me, yet it is true. Ultimately, I think film is a very bad way to be introduced to it. I didn't know it was one of those opera-style shows where the singing just doesn't quit. That doesn't bother me onstage, but it turns out it bugs the hell out of me on screen. I became an eye-rolly snorter. No one wants to sit next to that girl. Sorry, everyone. I was really shocked by how much I didn't enjoy it. Before the revolution even got into full swing I thought, "Okay fine. Those two will get together. That one will die. I'm done here." And, people, I left. I almost never leave a movie. It felt quite rebellious. I think there was still a full hour to go. I tromped back to the parking garage where I had very begrudginly parked my car only because the movie was too long for the two-hour street parking limit. That damn garage charged me $10 which may be commonplace, but which made me absolutely furious. All in all, going to a movie I didn't like and didn't see all of cost me $20. Grrrr.
All of that may be why I enjoyed this so very much. There's a little mp3 clip that I invite you to listen to.
Edited 4/1/13 to add: Better yet, this. This is exactly my experience. A couple days later I found the antidote: Lincoln. Oh, how I loved it. If people in the 1800's actually spoke anything like that, I am truly sorry for the anemic state of the modern vernacular. But then, what I experienced may not be the conversation acrobatics of a bygone era; it may simply have been the conversational acrobatics of Tony Kushner. In which case, Tony Kushner, I thank you most humbly.
Monday, January 14, 2013
Bright new tomorrow
I am not dead. Have I been sick since seemingly the dawn of time? Oh, yes. And yet, I am coming round, people. I am almost back. Tomorrow, in fact, I will try to actually write things for your edification and amusement.
In the meantime, let it be known that I'll be at Porchlight for the aptly-themed, brand new year of storytelling next Monday, January 21. I guess I should specify that I'm going to be telling a story. "I'll be at Porchlight" is often the case, but usually I'm in the audience. Not that I wouldn't want you to say hi if we were both there, but, you know, it's kind of a bigger deal that I'm performing. To me, anyway.
Phew. That was hard. I'm totally out of practice communicating with other humans. Though I do talk to myself aloud quite a lot, it's not quite the same. Hi.
In the meantime, let it be known that I'll be at Porchlight for the aptly-themed, brand new year of storytelling next Monday, January 21. I guess I should specify that I'm going to be telling a story. "I'll be at Porchlight" is often the case, but usually I'm in the audience. Not that I wouldn't want you to say hi if we were both there, but, you know, it's kind of a bigger deal that I'm performing. To me, anyway.
Phew. That was hard. I'm totally out of practice communicating with other humans. Though I do talk to myself aloud quite a lot, it's not quite the same. Hi.
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Another
Frankly, when we started out, no one thought our union would last more than a couple of weeks, but today my kidney stone and I are celebrating our two-month anniversary. It's almost better than Christmas.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Cultural signifiers
1. I think it would be good if I could eradicate from my personal repertoire flashing two thumbs up at people. I do this strangely often, but never well. Despite the enthusiasm that presumably sparks the action, I lack follow through and often forget to actually employ the critical thumb part of the thing, leaving me with my two puny fists raised toward someone in a baffling, albeit cheerful salute. The whole thing lacks dignity.
2. My French friend tells me he was watching "Breaking Bad." There was a scene in which Jesse Pinkman and his cohort were greeting each other. "What up, biotch?" they said. Unfamiliar with this charming form of address, my friend heard, "What up, brioche?" and was briefly hopeful that French pastry was taking American slang by storm. Would that it were.
2. My French friend tells me he was watching "Breaking Bad." There was a scene in which Jesse Pinkman and his cohort were greeting each other. "What up, biotch?" they said. Unfamiliar with this charming form of address, my friend heard, "What up, brioche?" and was briefly hopeful that French pastry was taking American slang by storm. Would that it were.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Marry Christmas
Last night, I went to Evany and Marco's Christmas party. This is not all that unusual. I've gone to Evany and Marco's Christmas party for years. I used to go to it when they lived in an apartment in another town, before they had a child and bought a house. There has been the phrase "Evany and Marco" for a long time. For me, there has been "Evany" for even longer. (I've mentioned her before, for sure.) Almost forever, really. There were parties in other apartments. There were other pre-Marco boyfriends, but I don't even remember their names. And, can we just be frank? I'm pretty sure they were nowhere near as good-looking as Marco. Marco has many excellent qualities, which would be well worth enumerating, but he is also a hell of a handsome guy. It is impossible not to notice this.
Last night's party seemed to be sort of dialed up a notch: more crowded than its predecessors, no child or dog in evidence, a taco truck in the driveway, balloons filling the hallway, paper pom-poms festooning the ceiling, catering help in the kitchen, Evany in a shimmering cocktail dress along with gold shoes with butterflies in her hair, Marco in a suit. But the TV with the yule log was, as is traditional, blazing in the back room. All the usual guests were in evidence. So not so very different, maybe?
Except that, yes. Different. Historic, in fact.
Because in the middle of this party, Evany and Marco got married.
photo by Brian Mello
I have never been to a surprise wedding before, let alone the surprise wedding of two people who--for years--have already been joined by a conjunction in my mind and by their child and their home and their life together. Two people whom I thought had long since decided to forego this particular formality. But now, having been to just such a surprise wedding, I can tell you that the rightness of it is nearly breathtaking.
Evany talked about Marco's extraordinary generosity. She said that he brought out in her the best possible version of herself. She said that when she comes home in the evening she's excited to see him. Marco said that, before Evany, he had always seen love as a supplement, not as a completion. Now he gets it. He said he misses her right away whenever she leaves.
photo by Jill Stauffer
I cried. Obviously. Then we all drank champagne and our friends were married. Marco came out and changed the "e" in on the Merry Christmas banner to an "a." And then we danced, as was only fitting.
That the happy couple could make such tributes to each other eight years into their union is extremely affirming. I want, more than I can say, to find just that with someone. While it is--oof--lonely not to have yet found it, it is greatly encouraging to know that it is not a thing I only imagined to be possible. Indeed, it's right there in my friends' living room. I'm holding out for it, people.
Marry Christmas.
photo by Jill Stauffer
Evany and Marco, long may you reign. I love you crazy kids.
Last night's party seemed to be sort of dialed up a notch: more crowded than its predecessors, no child or dog in evidence, a taco truck in the driveway, balloons filling the hallway, paper pom-poms festooning the ceiling, catering help in the kitchen, Evany in a shimmering cocktail dress along with gold shoes with butterflies in her hair, Marco in a suit. But the TV with the yule log was, as is traditional, blazing in the back room. All the usual guests were in evidence. So not so very different, maybe?
Except that, yes. Different. Historic, in fact.
Because in the middle of this party, Evany and Marco got married.
I have never been to a surprise wedding before, let alone the surprise wedding of two people who--for years--have already been joined by a conjunction in my mind and by their child and their home and their life together. Two people whom I thought had long since decided to forego this particular formality. But now, having been to just such a surprise wedding, I can tell you that the rightness of it is nearly breathtaking.
Evany talked about Marco's extraordinary generosity. She said that he brought out in her the best possible version of herself. She said that when she comes home in the evening she's excited to see him. Marco said that, before Evany, he had always seen love as a supplement, not as a completion. Now he gets it. He said he misses her right away whenever she leaves.
I cried. Obviously. Then we all drank champagne and our friends were married. Marco came out and changed the "e" in on the Merry Christmas banner to an "a." And then we danced, as was only fitting.
That the happy couple could make such tributes to each other eight years into their union is extremely affirming. I want, more than I can say, to find just that with someone. While it is--oof--lonely not to have yet found it, it is greatly encouraging to know that it is not a thing I only imagined to be possible. Indeed, it's right there in my friends' living room. I'm holding out for it, people.
Marry Christmas.
Evany and Marco, long may you reign. I love you crazy kids.
Friday, December 14, 2012
Thursday, December 13, 2012
What? Oh. Not that.
To be added to a long list of misunderstandings.
As I have surely mentioned, I am currently fruitlessly engaged in the project of online dating (as seems more or less always to be the case). The site I'm using bases its "matches" on users' responses to a vast number of questions, of which I have answered less than a hundred, but of which there may well be thousands. Yesterday I happened upon this statement, requiring a yes/no response. "I enjoy animated nudity."
I puzzled over this for quite some time, imagining it to refer to some preference for a frolicsome approach to nakedness rather than, perhaps, being naked and just lying around. Then I thought it might be trying to politely address the level of vigor one might desire in one's sexual collaborations. But then, there are many other questions that address that very issue with, if anything, disconcerting frankness, so why would they suddenly be coy? It finally dawned on me that the question referred to uh...sexy comic books? X-rated cartoons? Something? I'm sure there's some approved term for those, but I have no idea what it might be. So I guess maybe I'm a "no" on that one. Having sorted that out, I'm sure to be united with my future spouse shortly.
Then this morning on NPR, I heard part of a series about people doing community-service oriented jobs. I heard the introduction as, "Today we will hear from an emotional Management Counselor working to help women transition from prison back into society." I thought that it seemed reasonable that that sort of work might make someone emotional, but also thought it strange that they mentioned it. "Well," I reasoned, "Maybe she cried through the whole interview or something." Only well into the segment did I realize that Oh, wait! It's Emotional-Management Counselor. Not emotional Management Counselor.
As I have surely mentioned, I am currently fruitlessly engaged in the project of online dating (as seems more or less always to be the case). The site I'm using bases its "matches" on users' responses to a vast number of questions, of which I have answered less than a hundred, but of which there may well be thousands. Yesterday I happened upon this statement, requiring a yes/no response. "I enjoy animated nudity."
I puzzled over this for quite some time, imagining it to refer to some preference for a frolicsome approach to nakedness rather than, perhaps, being naked and just lying around. Then I thought it might be trying to politely address the level of vigor one might desire in one's sexual collaborations. But then, there are many other questions that address that very issue with, if anything, disconcerting frankness, so why would they suddenly be coy? It finally dawned on me that the question referred to uh...sexy comic books? X-rated cartoons? Something? I'm sure there's some approved term for those, but I have no idea what it might be. So I guess maybe I'm a "no" on that one. Having sorted that out, I'm sure to be united with my future spouse shortly.
Then this morning on NPR, I heard part of a series about people doing community-service oriented jobs. I heard the introduction as, "Today we will hear from an emotional Management Counselor working to help women transition from prison back into society." I thought that it seemed reasonable that that sort of work might make someone emotional, but also thought it strange that they mentioned it. "Well," I reasoned, "Maybe she cried through the whole interview or something." Only well into the segment did I realize that Oh, wait! It's Emotional-Management Counselor. Not emotional Management Counselor.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Rock steady
To answer your question, yes. I do still have a kidney stone. Every time you think "Man, I sure am tired of her talking about that." I invite you to think about how tired I am of having it. There. Do you feel duly chastened?
In brighter news, the Human Dermal Product is coming along nicely. My oral surgeon did a great job, as he will be the very first to tell you. If I had anything like the, um, let's call it "self-confidence," of my oral surgeon, I would probably be in charge of the world by now. But then, no one wants a poorly trained namby-pamby in charge of sewing things into their mouth, I suppose. I have been eating apples with gusto.
Yesterday, I went downtown to return some misguided online purchases and I felt rather sentimental about living in a place where my very glamorous Gap cashier, with long hair, flawless makeup, beauty mark, skinny jeans, and chiffon blouse was a youth named Kevin. I hope Kevin gets a fantastic employee discount. Gap clothes should be so lucky as to be chosen by Kevin.
The Banana Republic staff were very friendly, though not one of them shared my feeling that the song playing in the store was the stupidest song ever written. I don't know what this song is called, but I'm going to guess it's "I'm Waiting at the Airport." Do you ever musically narrate your day to yourself? Well, I do. Perhaps I wouldn't if I didn't live alone. However, it's not uncommon that I might sing a little ditty about, say, eating lunch. It would go something like "Hey. You should eat some lunch now." The tune would not be an act of musical genius, but it would pass the time.
That is exactly what "I'm Waiting at the Airport" is like. I don't know who sings it, but he tells us over and over again that he is, indeed, waiting at the airport and then, at some point, in a pretty dramatic plot twist, he sends a text. I tried to share the moment with someone, but, incredibly, no one else seemed stunned or amused by the relentless inanity of this--possibly very popular--song. It was a lonely time. But then, though all I did was return a tee shirt and mock the Banana Republic soundtrack, they presented me with a small complimentary jar of jam.
Christmas magic.
In brighter news, the Human Dermal Product is coming along nicely. My oral surgeon did a great job, as he will be the very first to tell you. If I had anything like the, um, let's call it "self-confidence," of my oral surgeon, I would probably be in charge of the world by now. But then, no one wants a poorly trained namby-pamby in charge of sewing things into their mouth, I suppose. I have been eating apples with gusto.
Yesterday, I went downtown to return some misguided online purchases and I felt rather sentimental about living in a place where my very glamorous Gap cashier, with long hair, flawless makeup, beauty mark, skinny jeans, and chiffon blouse was a youth named Kevin. I hope Kevin gets a fantastic employee discount. Gap clothes should be so lucky as to be chosen by Kevin.
The Banana Republic staff were very friendly, though not one of them shared my feeling that the song playing in the store was the stupidest song ever written. I don't know what this song is called, but I'm going to guess it's "I'm Waiting at the Airport." Do you ever musically narrate your day to yourself? Well, I do. Perhaps I wouldn't if I didn't live alone. However, it's not uncommon that I might sing a little ditty about, say, eating lunch. It would go something like "Hey. You should eat some lunch now." The tune would not be an act of musical genius, but it would pass the time.
That is exactly what "I'm Waiting at the Airport" is like. I don't know who sings it, but he tells us over and over again that he is, indeed, waiting at the airport and then, at some point, in a pretty dramatic plot twist, he sends a text. I tried to share the moment with someone, but, incredibly, no one else seemed stunned or amused by the relentless inanity of this--possibly very popular--song. It was a lonely time. But then, though all I did was return a tee shirt and mock the Banana Republic soundtrack, they presented me with a small complimentary jar of jam.
Christmas magic.
Thursday, December 06, 2012
If they want it, they give you a cup
In the ladies' room near the urology department, I discovered that not one of the toilets been flushed following its last use.
I attribute it to either an over-enthusiasm about urology or a slight misunderstanding of how it works.
I attribute it to either an over-enthusiasm about urology or a slight misunderstanding of how it works.
Wednesday, December 05, 2012
Sudden springtime
As I was driving down Oak Street, there was a car from Tennessee slightly ahead of me in the next lane. I saw a young woman in the passenger seat reach back to throw something out the open rear window. I was getting ready to be all tsk-y about it (no one likes a litterbug) but it proved to be a handful of flower petals. Pink. Possibly from a peony.
She did it three times. The petals fluttered behind their little hatchback and gave the busy street an air of a parade or a spring wedding. It was quite lovely. Then, having finished her work, she reclined her seat all the way back so she could smoke politely, holding her cigarette out the same open, back window.
I think her life might be markedly improved if they got the front window fixed. Maybe Santa is looking into that.
She did it three times. The petals fluttered behind their little hatchback and gave the busy street an air of a parade or a spring wedding. It was quite lovely. Then, having finished her work, she reclined her seat all the way back so she could smoke politely, holding her cigarette out the same open, back window.
I think her life might be markedly improved if they got the front window fixed. Maybe Santa is looking into that.
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