all of it was made for you and me|
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|Saturday, December 23rd, 2006|
|Parker Posey Ruins Christmas
Superman returns wasn't good. What's worse, I didn't realize Parker Posey was in it. Parker Posey reminds me that she's a big honking movie star, and I'm... not. And I'm in my PJ's blowing off a little holiday mixer because I just can't smile and talk about my kid anymore. So we rented movies and made a little booze and frozen food picnic. That's what I've been doing. Laming out and not making movies like Parker Posey.
We both went to North Carolina School of the Arts. I don't think she was asked back either, but neither was Debbie Allen or Thomas Hulce or countless others who went on to make big. Me excluded. When I first met her, I said, "you'll have to be a star with a name like Parker Posey" to which she replied, "yeah." We both overplayed Walk on the Wildside and the Cure and the Voilent Femmes, and we both kissed the lip wall with manic red or pink passion lip stick. But her lips her full and billowing and mine were thin, weak, Scottish and blotchy.
In the cafeteria, Parker and Dacia could put a whole juice glass in their mouths to the enjoyment of the college boys.
Parker russled up even more attention with her gross out sandwiches. She'd let people add whatever they wanted (no spit, shit, or gizz) and she'd take two bites. And she'd really do it. I'd add watermelon and miked down all bran and tuna fish. A crowd would gather. I wasn't as much impressed as I was awed with disgust. It still gives me shivers.
What the hell is the point of all this? The movie sucked. But I mean, damn.
|Thursday, December 21st, 2006|
Stella's mother had wide finger nails with the cuticles clipped and tidy and filed low. A shiney coat of sea shell pink lay never chipping on the nail surface, blending remarkably with her pink fingers and well moisturized hands. Stella's mother was putting ice cream in bowls for Stella, PR, and PR's friend Nobby. You'd guess "Nobby" came from his pine-tree knotted knees, but his name was Robert and then Robby was turned to Nobby by his baby brother Eric.
Stella was impatient with her mother. Although they had an ice cream scooper and a glass of hot water sat on the countertop, Stella's mother made ice cream scooping seem so inconvenient.
She splayed her hands to keep them from all that cold and stickiness. When a piece of butter pecan wouldn't plop with the rest of the scoop, Stella's mother used only one finger to coax it from the scoop into the bowl. Then she licked it clean with lips pushed out. All the time, the boys watched the bowls for evenness, for scoop fairness. Stella watched her mother wondering how on God's green earth she could be related to someone like this. How could there possibly be a connection?
|Wednesday, December 20th, 2006|
|I guess these blurbs are what I want to get out
When Stella left town--was driven away in the packed sedan filled with dorm room temptations such as matching pillows and quilt, complimentary striped curtain, coffee maker--Tico was sitting in the Metro Cafe sipping a whiskey and staring out the large front window at all the nothing happening in the street. All the nothing that would never happen again.
He was thinking of Stella's mother and that fat pompous sous-cheeked father smug in their cushy chairs in the front room of their house telling him he was getting off easy. Stella's mother was holding his letters, his fucking private letters, opened and exposed and dirty now. Now he was dirty and old and all his feelings reduced only to his dick and it wasn't like that, goddamnet, he said to these people.
"What was it like?" the mother tipped her head like a bird, wiggle wiggle the worm. "What was it like then?"
"Do you know how old our daughter is young man?" the father spat through his highball. And there it was. If he'd said her name, said Stella, then there was maybe a chance to regain footing. They could share her. She might have been possible. The letters shook in Stella's mother's hand . In her other hand she looked at her drink sweating beads rolling down the sides of the glass, folding under the curse of the base, forming one large drop on the rug.
Tico stared at the stain on the corner of a light blue woven violet spindled and twisted with all the other violets and vines twisting across the floor to where his two feel pressed side by side like things trapped.
"Don," Stella's mother broke the silence, "hand me that cocktail napkin." She pointed with the glass that held two fingers apart for him to slip the napkin between. Which he did.
Tico realized he was god-awful thirsty, and they hadn't offered him a thing. He realized he was now very thirsty, and, staring down at his lapped hands, he felt very black, too, and trapped.
|Saturday, December 16th, 2006|
|Find me on your floor
Blocked the sun with a blanket,
Two rubber bands,
Slow into shadow
Reached through the smoke rings
to grab the ankle's tendon
his fingers like pincers--
Floor moans, he pulls
He breathes through his nose like
sssssssss, like a breezed willow.
My ankle still caught,
the whole foot now turned sideways,
crushing bone on sanded boards.
His palm heavy: all his weight there.
Heat from his flushed face,
My dropsy throat
The thick room, the muscles rip.
The pull, the weight
the sagging blanket, heavy,
one band snaps, the blanket falls with a whom,
with a roar and the sunlight screams--
We are trapped.
|Wednesday, March 22nd, 2006|
|My baby has worms!
Oh yeah, I gave her some rice last night. Shew!
When at Gorilla Baby Warehouse, I saw a whole bunch of the same frocks on the clearance rack. They were white with red cherries and little diaper covers to match. Yippee! I thought. When I took one off the rack, the stitching on the front of the dress read, "Sweet Cherry." AHHHHHH!!!!! I screamed and threw it down. Visions of icky old men tickling under Charlotte's chin saying, "My. You are a sweet cherry." Boy was that a bad marketing choice.
C is enjoying her new bilingual book. She's eating it. She's also pushing it around the living floor as she attempts to crawl. I love watching her when she doesn't think anyone is. She's so busy.
Today I saw a bitch and her sagging nipples were about 8 inches long. She looked haggered and worn out. Do I look like that? No, don't answer, please.
This They Might Be Giants kids album is fucking with my head...
|Saturday, March 18th, 2006|
First of all, I left my yoga mat in Joe's car where he chain smokes, so I raced back inside to wash it off. I grabbed the closest cleaning product I could find: tub and tile. The smoke and eucalyptus scent combined to form, oddly, home fries. So there I was in down dog with an empty stomach trying to free my mind, and I couldn't stop thinking of breakfast. Home fries and eggs. Home fries and an omlete. Home fries and pancakes. Home fries with ketsup and sour cream.
I have a little crush on my yoga instructor, and I was upset to find a substitute in her place. I'm like a second grader when it comes to substitutes. I feel hot and panicky. "What's going to happen?" I worry. This gal apparantly took a few classes from my yoga instructor because she did the exact routine right down to the same phrases and little jokes. It was unnerving. Who was this impostor? She would say, "Possibly someday..." just like my yoga instructor said. (as in "Possibly someday in this pose you can kiss your own ass.") She was a little too chipper, grinning a lot and scanning the room.
There are the regular cast of characters that I share my Saturdays with. There is the weird hard core lady who always goes to the same spot in the front corner. She arrives in red shoes and a cropped black coat with a red boa collar. She has one of those extra long torsos atop very short legs. She does extra things in her poses like binding. When I first heard of binding, it made me uncomfortable. The instuctor says, "Some people like to bind in this pose." It sounds creepy. Like catching the old dude coming out of the "over 18" room at the video store. Torso likes to bind. She does all sorts of things that the rest of us aren't doing. And she never talks or looks at anyone in the eyes. She's in a constant state of zombie zen.
Today I happened behind the Stinker. I mean, this chick stinks like a meat-eating hippie. If it weren't for the pleasant odor of home fries wafting from my mat, I would have been sick right out. Also, Mom was on the other side of me to counter balance the stench. This Mom is up and attem and ready for yoga class. Her hair and nails are done and she has on her lipstick and daytime perfume. When we do spinal twists, I can stare unashamed at her feet which are nice. The toes have rosy little balls on the back and the nails are like mica. The bones on the top of her feet and thin and strong. Mom feels comfortable to be beside.
There's this other chic who has all kinds of outfits. I don't know if they are yoga outfits from some yoga store or if they are just casual fitting street clothes. Probably yoga clothes. Someone once pointed out the Nia instructor at my gym who wears all kinds of "put together" outfits. She designs them and sells them. That's a little awkward. It's like at one of those outdoor events when the cloggers come out and young and old are wearing the same checkered skirt and pant outfits. It's too embarrassing to watch.
Two girls who set up in the back always show up at the gym together and sometimes they talk during yoga. They don't like the instructor and once when another substitute came, they made all kinds of comments about how they didn't like the real one. This pissed me off because of what I already told you and put those two on my shit list. Besides, they need to diversify a little. They have the same glasses, similar tattoos and toe rings. They both put their dyed dark hair in two pony tails. They don't like the instructor because she practices the kind of yoga where you are moving a lot. Those two just want to lay down on their sleeping bags and chat. If that's what they wanted, why not just have a slumber party? And shut the hell up, I'm concentrating on what to eat when I get home.
|Friday, March 17th, 2006|
|Three Years and Counting
It's the 3rd year anniversary of the Iraq war this month. And the Cat Stevens arrest still sums up how things have been going.
Creepy: my baby monitor just picked up someone being told to pull over pull over pull over. Sometimes I think how wild it would be to have people whispering and talking in the room. Ghosty people. Usually I'm surprised to hear a deafening thumping noise and realize my cat is scratching at his ear mites.
|Playgroup and other mean things on my mind
Playgroup is an interesting thing. You and a bunch of strangers get together and put your babies on someone's questionable floor with a few toys and let them spit and slobber and rip things out of each other's hands. You whip your boobs out and nurse. (More people have seen my naked boob in the past 7 months than in the 5 years I was in college.) There's one lady in my new playgroup who is pretty annoying. She sends emails with her likes and dislikes: "I LOVE to scrapbook! I LOVE sweets!" And uses those lame ass email backgrounds with spinning flowers and bunnies thanking people for coming to the playgroup and saying she thought the group went well. What would not well look like? A fist fight? A good bite? One of the mother's cussing another out? What would the post-group email say? One mom dropped the F-bomb at the group this week, and I've decided she's my favorite.
Also, I asked what the protocol was on grabbing and smootching other people's kids. I can't help it. They are all so chubby and cute and if one passes me, I pick it up and kiss on it. The Fuck lady said I could cuddle her baby Nora. Everyone else looked at me like a molester but mumbled, "sure, fine..." and the like. What the hell? Why is everyone so weird about having their kids snuggled by others? Sad. The annoying lady went on to talk about how she hates to exercise. (As if we couldn't tell.) I asked one lady if she wanted to hike this weekend, and Annoying said, "OH, ask me camping, but you won't get me hiking! I don't know what you see in it! I'll stay at the camp and man the beer! hahaha!" Not my beer. And who asked ya? Then she went on to tell us how much her husband made. She also told her kid on Tuesday to be gentle with Charlotte. "Girls are flowers," she said. I want to vote her off the playground.
Even though it's not as much fun for Lotty, I like hanging out with Pam and Nick. It's more mellow, the conversation superior, and we drink wine at Foxfire and Laurelwood and just about anywhere, actually. Nick isn't too interested in playing with Charlotte. She doesn't run and crash about yet. But he was sad yesterday when we left. He didn't want her to go. He asked if she could come in and let his dad hold her for a while. Shucks.
So, I've got a few folks committed to writing for the spring edition of this little rag. I still have a few things to write. I'm feeling pretty pissy cuz this was suppossed to be a whole new thing: A resource, A training tool! It would be a group effort! And everyone in our group is AWOL. Either that or they have called me to tell me that my ideas for the spring issue aren't really moving it into the category of Resource, but they won't offer any assistance. One lady said she and my X supervisor were putting it in their new grants and spoke just the other day about how it could truly be a resource for teachers. WELL? Want to shed some light for me, sister? Is it a fucking secret? I sure as shit hope I wasn't a pompus asshole like these education annoying people are. Maybe it took quitting and looking in to see how much they actually got on my nerves. Nay. They got on my nerves at the time, too.
Charlotte woke up at 1:30am the other night and wouldn't fall to sleep until my back was in one big muscle knot. I could feel my discs slipping out of place. Finally at 3am, she was toast, but then I was wide awake, but in too much pain to got out on the couch. Instead I lay there and had really juicy thoughts like, "Should I freeze that bologna?" and "Whatever happened to my Tom-Tom Club tape?" and "What was the real name of that kid I made out with in 10th grade who we called Frodo?" Things like that. By morning, I was weeping and feeling sorry for my sleep deprived self. Larry emailed that day to tell me that he was a real hit at the conference for alternative teachers (that I hooked him up with since I leaving) and all the great things he plans to do in that field. Never any acknowledgement that I started the programs and wrote the curriculum that put us in connection with that crowd. Nothing. Then he signed off, "I'm very busy. Lots going on as usual, Larry." Pissed me off. Nothing happening here, Larry! Just raising a kid. What a jackass.
I need to go write, and I hear Lotty stirring.
|Thursday, March 9th, 2006|
|And another thing
What the hell happened to my ass? I knew nursing would help me loose the baby fat, but no one told me I'd end up looking like a 60 year old man. Trying to hang on to my jeans for dear life. Heavens.
|I've tried them both and I think the mushed carrots are better
So now I'm a momma. I quit my job. I'm at home. I just took an editor's contract last Friday, so I convinced my man that I would need to have a laptop so I didn't have to drag the baby the four feet outside to the "home office" (aka: Joe's office where he smokes cigars and tries to pretend he doesn't and plays spades and drinks PBR until 3am). So now I have a laptop and I thought I'd write something here before I got started on that editing stuff.
Life with baby is good if you like poop. And I do. We all do, really. Since it's not cooth to really get down and inspect your own shit, it's a good parent who keeps track of what's coming out of the kid. I get into it. What the hell is that? OH! That's right. Banana's DO have those little black squiggly seeds. You never think of that until you see it the second go round. Once a piece of hot chili came out. Oh, that's why she was so fussy last night! Poop=results. So much better than the nebulous responses of co-workers when you asked questions. Poop gives the hard answers you crave. Poop too thick? Give baby some pears! Poop too runny? Give baby yams! It's so simple I just need to giggle. I mean for the last 10 years I've been struggling to find a career that made any sense. Finally!
I did go to Peanut butter and Ellie's and it made me giddy and frightened. I don't want to talk about it yet.
|Monday, January 17th, 2005|
Oh, my new favorite craving is canned green beans. I can take them cut or french style. No matter the brand. Just as long as they come in the can. I want them every single day. Pass me them green beans, sis.
One of my problems is that I start stressing and all and then I spend about three days feeling like I can't breathe. Or catch my breath. It's odd and it's bothersome. Did I mention that hypochondria scored high on my personality test? My other problem is that I found a post it here at the computer table in Joe's handwriting. It reads: "I want some sugar in my bowl." What the hell does that mean? Is this some kind of code? Oh. Joe just read over my shoulder and told me it was some song from the 30's he heard. That pretty much takes the excitement out of my fantasies.
The MLK conference was great today. We had about 150 people show up from all over: youth, AmeriCorps members, NAACP folks, Project 2050, Power of Hope, Act for Action. At the end we sang this song with chants/vocals from five different religions. It sounded great. So now I'm all filled with peace and love and rise up. Yeah.
Aside from my breathing problem, I was having a "I don't go out anywhere anymore" problem this weekend, too. Being pregnant, sick and tired really puts a damper on the social life. People tell stories on Monday of the fun they had last weekend and I think, "where was my fucking call?" but would I have gone?
|Thursday, January 6th, 2005|
|Tuesday, December 28th, 2004|
|Purple Raindrops and Beavers
In a half an hour, I'm heading into downtown Portland with a bunch of kids to do a scavenger hunt. I only know two out the 25 hunt questions: I know where to find the Portlandia statue and I think I can locate the silver man. Otherwise, I guess my 3 years working downtown didn't pay off cuz I don't know any of this stupid shit. My group will loose. Oh well, I get a free coffee and half a day away from my desk where, as you can witness, I'm working very productively.
In the meantime, I'm sure I'm late on the drawl, but this bad album covers site cracked me up today.http://porktornado.diaryland.com/albumcover.html
|Monday, December 27th, 2004|
|Meat Clown's the One
Last night the people next to the laundry room were smoking up a storm and trying to mask it with cheep room spray. But it was Christmas weed alright. Luckies.
Today we saw the baby again and it was moving and a grooving all over the damn place. What a crazy wacko! It was cute as all get out. It's still sortof hard for me to believe, especially since the ultrasound is just a TV screen, that this thing is actually inside me. I mean, who thought this up? What a trip.
Found out I'm heading to New Mexico for a training in February. That's pretty cool. Then I get to go Long Beach, CA in March. I need to find a place to stay a few extra days and vacation for a while. I can't afford the hotel they put me up in on my own. I need cheep and clean. I'll be all big belly up on the beach, but fuck it. Quit looking if it bothers.
Mom put my kicky-baby happiness in a tail spin tonight when she called then got all quiet and grumpy when I told her (for the 3rd time, I'm sure) that I'd probably name the baby after my dad if it's a boy. I think I'm supposed to hate my dad. Either that or my mom just continues to choose to be part martyr part guilt flinger about a divorce I had absolutely no part in.
Didn't mean to end on a foul note. Maybe I did. Who cares, I have a freezer full of popcycles to keep me happy.
|Friday, December 24th, 2004|
I find out now at 10am, when I'm unshowered and ready to buckle down to playing Beyond Good and Evil and eating corn flakes that I'm charged with making vegi plates and sides for Christmas Eve lunch. Now I have to take a shower and lumber the 1/2 block to Freddys to get the materials. I don't mind participating in these feasts, actually, it's just that I've been asking for a week if I can bring something and received a no. Then there's the church thing. We don't want to go to church. No offense. But if someone told me they had wrestling tickets for tonight, my answer would be the same, but the desire to make me guilty about not going wouldn't exist. Shit! I spent years and years going to every church and synagogue I could ride my bike to trying to find the spirit. Just because people have a born again revelation to go to church in 2004 doesn't mean I'm the one who's missed something all this time.
I don't think I've ever felt this bitter at Christmas before. I think that with people asking me if I'll babtize the Lima Bean, if we'll find a church once the baby is born (families that pray together stay together) has really pissed me off. The worst part is that no one accepts the fact that I'm one of the most spiritual people I know and I DO practice that spirituality, just not in large organized numbers. It is unfortunate that my language of spirituality is NOT allowed at the table.
Alright.I need to go buy some macarroni.
|Thursday, December 23rd, 2004|
Today I cussed out the FedEx costomer service representative. Why am I so evil? It was right after I cussed out the annoying pompus KABOO radio host for being such a liberal jackass. I wanted to kick his theological ass. I also wanted to vomit over the stupid new age protest songs that KABOO always plays. Where do they find this shit? It's just bad music. Just because there's something to say about Bush or hurting wild animals doesn't mean you should put it to music. And I really can't overemphasize how middle age white people with academic accents shouldn't try to rap their protest songs.
In other fastinating news, my key board is fucking nasty.
I decided I should make a list, since lists seem to be where it's at, about things I've learned in 2004. Later I'll make a list of things I'd like to try to do in 2005. First things first:
1. No matter how bad the democracy gets, there are no good new protest songs.
2. If you are physically repulsed by a house, don't try to buy it and fix it. Gut instincts are 99.9% correct.
3. If you co-write something with a colleague, keep a close eyeball on him: he'll try to claim he wrote it all by himself. In other words, be careful of a born again middle manager!
4. Quitting smoking is good for your health.
5. Loving someone with all your might doesn't mean they'll rub your feet on command.
6. The more presents the better.
7. Living on the second floor of an apartment building is better than living on the first floor.
8. The steak at Ken's Place on Hawthorne CAN get you pregnant.
9. Some people just forget to call altogether.
10. Voting is a squirrelly business.
11. Remember John Titor. http://johntitor.strategicbrains.com/
|Wednesday, December 22nd, 2004|
|Making Spirits Bribe
Every time Joe does something to upgrade the computer, it annoys the fuck out of me. Those dumb ass window tabs on the top of the page. What is that? And if my cursor lurches too far to the left, the whole history page leaps in from the beyond. Like when I sit in the car after he has driven, sitting at his computer makes me realize some of our very fundamental differences.
Other than that, I'm trying to keep upbeat about Christmas time because I really do love presents and I want to be kind hearted and not mean spirited. AND, I do believe in Jesus: he's great, his message was great, and so on. But I think it's curious that his birthday took on the pagen solstice by force and now allows for no criticism or question. My boss is the Nativity Nazi because she had to oversee the dismantling of 3 whole countertop Jesus scenes by various secretaries. It was ugly. I didn't even notice them. People put up so much glittery tacky crap I can't tell one cutsie snowy scene from another. Oh no. Here I go again. Grumpy ass bitch. See? There's no way my flavor is sugar sweet.
I've pretty much resigned myself to the fact that my body has been taken over by the alien lima bean. I control nothing. I couldn't breathe at all today, even in Yoga, and I can't figure out why. It was mostly when my head was below my knees or in child's pose so my theory is that my big tits are trying to suffocate me. My original big tit glee has diminished. These things are a real menace. I want my little ones back.
I think I might sneak open a present and try to feel better.