Friday, October 30, 2009
If I had any time, this would be my costume: a woman pulling it out of her ass. (So what if this is swirling more out of her vagina than anywhere else? As long as it comes from somewhere I'll take it.)
Fuck it. I realize the cool thing to do here would be to complain about a house full of kids amped up on sugar, but you know what? I'm excited. Sticky finger spiders and kids who do not yet know how to truly cackle. My house comes prefab with cobwebs and all that's left to make is the cupcakes!
Happy Halloween, my treats. May you find sticks of gum and clean shiny pennies nestled in the spookiest of bare-limbed trees.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Don't quite know if I'm coming or going. How much harder can I beat this photo to death(awesome though it may be)? The thing is I've been freelancing again. Which sounds as if I have been freebasing, though truth be told I don't even know how to spell it let alone do it. Freebasing? Hyphen or no? Can one use it as a verb? Do people even freebase anymore or did that go down with the death of Andy Gibb and the passing of the celluloid torch from Spike Lee to Spike Jonze, Spike tv only a hiccup in between?
Who the fuck cares? It's hard, this working and parenting and living and lo--I do believe that story's been told a few times so as to be hackneyed. And so I will just say this: you guys, sometimes the Universe (and yes, I did capitalize Universe) gives you what you want. And in so doing you find that it is also what you need. And apparently I both wanted and needed The 1986 Crystal Light National Aerobic Championship. Watch and I believe you will find that it fills you up somewhere deep inside, as well:
So there's that. In the world. And there's me laughing and cooking dinner: ravioli stuffed with chicken, sundried tomatoes and mushrooms, though I detest mushrooms and sundried tomatoes and truly only tolerate chicken. And then there's this, the kind of thing that makes me want to lick the walls if it meant I could hold on.When 6-year-old Elena Desserich found out she was going to die from pediatric brain cancer she started writing notes to her younger sister so that she’d know something about her big sister after she was gone. What Elena’s parent’s didn’t realize was that Elena was leaving notes for them as well, and started finding them everywhere after she passed.
“They told us at the very beginning that she had 135 days to live,” Keith Desserich said. Though her parents didn’t want her to know the severity of her cancer, they feel that she must have known what was happening.
The tumor slowly took away her ability to talk. But Elena was still able to write.
After Elena passed away, her parents discovered that their daughter had left a message behind for them — a lot of messages, actually.
“We started to pull out notes and they would be in between CDs or between books on our bookshelf,” Keith Desserich said. Then the couple started finding them everywhere. “We started to collect them and they would all say ‘I love you Mom, Dad and Grace.’ We kept finding them, and still to this day, we keep finding them,” Keith Desserich said. “Literally, there are hundreds of notes that we found."
I don't know, you guys. You might think I'm crazy to post a video of spandexed men aerobicizing along with the story of a family remembering a girl. But the world is going by so fast and I have to go to work now, Zoey says she doesn't want to be a leopard anymore but a butterfly, plus she insists that one of the teachers at pre-school is a man even though she's not, the Bay Bridge closed, the day Indian Summer still, a scratch on my bumper that I know was not there yesterday. Sometimes this is it, all the time really, take what you will but the beauty of the world lies in the details like God or the devil, all of it hackneyed and hyphened and worthy of capitalization. I-Love-You, I say, and I mean it. There is so much and this is it, all of it, split seams all twisted torqued, sheared and Thursday.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
And I don't even like fish. But this painting, there is something about it that I love: the oil, the abandon, the unclaimed hand grasping the inside of the reclining woman's elbow. And why is it named Sprouting Potatoes anyway? I fear that even in releasing this pic from my computer it will haunt me still.
And then this: The Way We Were. Completely and unapologetically unrelated to Sprouting Potatoes except for the mere fact that all of this exists in the same world of Wednesday on repeat; it is this type of sheer absurdism that keeps me going, the meaninglessness of life, art and Ian Ziering.
Happy Hump Day.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
But I digress from the rocks. Sailing stones. They are called sailing stones, as if the hard side of a stone creates lift across dried up old river beds when in fact the force behind their movement is not entirely understood. Some think it's the severe temperature changes, the ground heating up and then freezing at night moving the stones over the crag like an inch-worm.
Wind, ice, mud, blah blah blah. Here I am talking about the how when that is what interests me least. Sometimes I like a good mystery as much as a deep tragedy, the way it makes my heart sing with wonder. We have ruined so many of our mysteries, crop circles now in the shape of Stewie from The Family Guy.
Sliding rocks and snail trails, a geological phenomenon in which speed is an unknown variable, long dusty trails signifying time of some sort. Everything an unknown but the movement, which is how I like it, an identifiable sea-change in philosophical thought or a disambiguation, both just as likely.
I was about to compare my life to a sliding stone, this last year when I have felt nothing if not stationary, even sedimentary, and yet behind me a striated track, a deep groove. But I know the how there, the why, and it is more like a crop circle in the shape of Stewie from The Family Guy than anything else. And so I will just tell you this instead: if I ever have another kid and it's a boy Bryan wants to name him Dolomite, like the rock. Not John or Mike or even Feldspar but Dolomite, giggle, embarrassed: dope.
Monday, October 26, 2009
I mean, right? (Certainly somewhere someone had the cajones to toss a computer monitor over a cubicle wall? Although really--did they all have to be white men wearing bad ties??)
T-minus 5 days to Halloween, 6 if you're gunning for Day of the Dead. Happy Monday, people, Monday indeed.
Friday, October 23, 2009
You gotta make the moment last
Just kickin' down the cobblestones
Lookin' for fun and
Got no deeds to do
No promises to keep
I'm dappled and drowsy and ready to sleep
Let the morningtime drop all its petals on me...
Life, I love you*
All is groovy____________________
*Well, whaddya' know? Zoe[y] means life in Greek.
See you on the flip side.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Over the years I have bought the bottled belief of beauty on the average of once a month. This is clearly not so much mathematical as it is hyperbolic, but let's say I have been hoping since I was 13 and reading Seventeen. I am now 37: 24 years x 12 months = 288 and maybe each flicker of faith cost $30, so if you're keeping up with my English major math here that means I have spent roughly $8,640 on wishes, not withstanding whimsy and the years spent spackling my face with fat dots of Oxy 10 each night. (In which case let's tack on $2500--I used that shit like water. Except I don't like water. Circular, non?)
If you're anything like me you went into a fugue state when looking at those numbers (personally, I was thinking about Jason Bateman, no idea why, but I do like his nose). Just know this number: Twice. Lightening has struck twice in my life forcing me to believe that it is still out there, a packaged something so perfect my life will be forever changed. The first time I was 16 and oily (see: Oxy 10). Somehow I found papier poudrés and never looked back, my once shiny skin forever matte. And now all these years and $8,640 later I believe I have struck gold again, this time a bit more costly, but awesome nonetheless. Ready for this? Deep breath. Clarisonic. I am not getting paid for this. I am not getting paid for anything these days, much less this. Clarisonic. You guys, I was having the worst skin problems, a combination of dry and pimply, red and flaky. I tried everything: avocado and salicylic acid, vitamin c serums, clay masks, plain soap, pretty soap, soaps with peppermint, placenta and the sloughed off skin cells of ten year old supermodels. None of it worked until I tried Clarisonic.
Why am I devoting a whole post to this? I don't know. Not much is going on unless you're into balloons and boys and health care reform. I guess I think of you as my girlfriends (and a few smatterings of my guy friends--I know you're out there!) and this is something I would tell my girlfriends. Clarisonic--I mean, we're all beautiful with or without smooth skin, blah blah blah, please tell me you hate line dancing, too.
Anyhoo, that's that. What about you? Do you believe? How much have you spent? And what are the products and/or secrets that keep you coming back to The Church of Our Lady Pretty Please?
And speaking of ghosts, one more shot of latter day Linds. Because I am fascinated, transfixed, and simply cannot look away.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
I already have a ficus, but am still in need of the following:
leather vest with floral applique (child's)
white vest (also seems to be child's, possibly suede)
forehead dangly jewel
redwood burl? Is that what that is?
If you have any of these items and will not be needing them, please let me know. Subsequently (or consequently, is there a difference?) if this is your family and you are open to adopting me, I come with my own ficus.
Happy Hump Day,
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
At some point--I don't know when--I grew up. Or out of it. Perhaps it was standing in the way back row of the chorus in Annie Get Your Gun when I realized that no matter how high up I threw my arms the audience still wouldn't see me, that stripes and plaids simply don't match in a world loud with so many people. And so I stopped wearing velour, bonnets, and when I finally did get boobs I pulled a too-large shirt out with my fingers at the hem so that no one would see and hunched my shoulders but not too much because I had read Deenie. I mean, god! Can you imagine? A tube top? Gross! I baked cakes from Duncan Hines.
(And then came the years when I tried to reclaim the pattern, my early 20's with the pleather pants and platform shoes and the pleather pants. Oh god, did I mention the pleather pants? Life's too short to wear white socks! I once not-so-famously was never quoted as saying, only I still matched striped sock to striped sock, and a few years later came the anxiety meds.)
As I write this I am wearing jeans and a grey turtleneck sweater. Black bra, undies, inexplicable green socks but only because I am wearing boots and you cannot see them and I slept in them--the socks--and I am lazy. Cute sweater, a girl at the grocery store told me this morning, and it is cute, if you like grey. And I do because why not? Why wouldn't I? Who doesn't like grey after all?
She doesn't, that's who. Zoey. She doesn't like grey, or matching. She doesn't like her pale pink shirt, only the fuschia one; she likes headbands and wings, the color yellow, fairy dust, Chapstick, masks, tails, clickety clack shoes and her Shrinky Dink necklace. She doesn't get why she can't wear her heart pajamas over her pants to school. She really doesn't like being shushed.
Monday, October 19, 2009
And so it is that I don't have much time to write today. There are pillows to be fluffed, dishes to be washed, Barbie hair to be braided and I rully rully have to remember to set the Tivo to record "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown." Apropos of surely something I will tell you of a quote I read in a book last night that I love, "Life was unendurable, and yet everywhere it was endured." There once was a French geologist who confined himself to a dark cave for 45 days, though when he emerged he found it had actually been 61, the brain's inclination for distortion linked to movement as it is. Time flies! No matter what, and before I know it the rain will stop and Zoey's childhood will be over.
Image found here.
Friday, October 16, 2009
I employed every trick in my arsenal of IT technical prowess, i.e. I pulled out the little pluggie thing that connects the camera to the laptop and blew on it a few times. No dice. So Happy Friday from this-- who is that anyway? Flash Gordon? Hercules? Phil Spector wearing a page boy wig? Anyone?
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Anyhoo, here is what I am thinking: Nothing. So let's look at some pretty pictures, shall we? I love love love this:
And this. You may have to click on image to enlarge, and for that I am truly sorry. Apropos of nothing but the upcoming holiday, this, though I have never been a fan of Judy Garland:
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
First off: Clockwork Kid. Equal parts awesome and oh no. I mean, my eyes! MY EYES! Seriously. Have I ever told you about my silicone implants? Not of the breasticular variety but in my eyes. Turns out my tear ducts are too large causing my eyes to dry out, hence I have silicone implants plugging my tear ducts. (The very thought of Clockwork Orange makes me want to spackle vaseline straight into my too dry eyes.) GAH.
Then this. Whatever this is. Sea mucus? *shudder* Is there a worse word than mucus? I mean, aside from cunt or turd or moist? Mucus. (She emitted a moist turd of mucus from her cunt = the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog of words that just should not exist.) Well, thanks to climate change, jello-like sheets of disease-carrying mucus are spreading across the ocean killing sea life, and this marine mucilage may also be fatal to humans. IT'S THE BLOB PEOPLE! (Freud would be proud: I accidentally wrote IT'S THE BLOG PEOPLE! And then I went on to wish it was a penis.)
That portrait lies forgotten on the psychiatrist’s desk for a few days until one day another patient recognizes that face and says that the man has often visited him in his dreams. He also claims he has never seen that man in his waking life.
The psychiatrist decides to send the portrait to some of his colleagues that have patients with recurrent dreams. Within a few months, four patients recognize the man as a frequent presence in their own dreams. All the patients refer to him as THIS MAN.
From January 2006 until today, at least 2000 people have claimed they have seen this man in their dreams, in many cities all over the world: Los Angeles, Berlin, Sao Paulo, Tehran, Beijing, Rome, Barcelona, Stockholm, Paris, New Dehli, Moskow etc.
But not to worry. Out of the Associated Press this week came a story titled, "Mayans: The world won't end in 2012, so please stop asking us about it."
Happy Hump Day.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
A family sits at the dinner table eating tomato soup, biscuits and artichokes. ZOEY, a three year old girl opts out of tomato soup and artichokes, choosing instead to eat a biscuit and one tiny tip-of-her-front-teeth-only bite of a chicken nugget in a bid for an après dinner course of candy corn. ME, a 37 year old mother, does not think so young lady.
Image from here.
Monday, October 12, 2009
The air seemed to warp around us, a quick snap like the tip of a bullwhip, my misplaced I love you not just an audible phenomenon but something seen, a wave, a blip, and we paused there he and I, me sitting in my car, him teetering there on his terrible knees in the gravel. And then he turned, pivoted really which I imagine must have hurt. So I started my car and drove away slowly, backed away really but in Drive going forward.
Bye, I love you. I love you, good night. 'Mkay, I love you. I am an automatic I love you-er, saying it countless times during the day to my parents, to Bryan; I practically speak in I love you's to Zoey. (If I said I love you? in a certain tone she would totally know that what I was asking is if she wanted a pb&j.) It has become a salutation, an acknowledgment, a sign off, a disfluency in the pattern of my speech, like um or uh, well, yeah. Because I do: love them when I see them, when I leave, love them in between bites of a sandwich.
Then the other day as I was talking to my friend Erin I said it again. Talk to you later, bye, I love you. Only she is not my mom or my dad, not Bryan, not Zoey, and so we both giggled and I said sorry and we hung up.
Which got me thinking: Why did I giggle? Apologize? I have known her forever, she is a good friend and here's the thing--I do love her. Why does it feel so funny to say that?
I have another friend, let's call her Rosalie because that is her name. And I hope she doesn't mind me outing her but she is an I love you-er of friends. Good seeing you, she says, I love you, the differences in our upbringings forever apparent in the way we hug each other good bye. (I am an uptight WASP, no matter the fact that my parents moved to San Francisco in 1971.) And so the words stand out to me when said by a friend, hangs there in space, kind of like when you get one of those floaters in your eye? And it's there all fuzzy like a thread somewhere in your periphery, maybe you keep darting your eye over to look at it but then it's gone. I love you. Only I want to see it because I know it's there, something refractive in my eye's vitreous humor. (No giggling.) I love you. I think I'm going to start saying it to my friends. Or at the very least start with baby steps by writing it first. I love you. Erin, Rosalie. Amber, Ana, Chree. You are all fabulous friends and awesome women. Oh god, did I forget anyone? Because what could be wrong with saying I love you? As many types of love as there are hellos and goodbyes. I love you, really, I do. All of you. Except maybe not the mechanic, that was an accident. Although I am sure he is a fine man, keeps his plants watered and remembers his grandchildren's birthdays, I do not love him. (Yet.)
Friday, October 9, 2009
(In what was probably the rookiest of rook-mom manuevers I bought Zoey's Halloween costume back in August. Because she had to have it. Of course now that costume is so August, and everyday it is something different. By the time we get to the 31st she just might go as a man with a mustache dressed as My Pretty Pony covered in the mold that fell from the hole in her dolphin toy and into the bathtub, which should be pretty easy considering we already own most of the components.)
In other news of the week Zoey asked me to marry her. We were cuddling in the living room when she put her hands on my face and said, "Mama, let's marry eachother." I said yes. When I asked her how we get married she pulled me up and held my hands as we danced in a circle which is what they do at the end of every Disney princess movie so it makes perfect sense. (We are registered at The Land of Nod.) I am pretty sure Happily Ever After comes next.
And lastly, this. Because I have watched this 13 second video approximately 170,000 times since I found it last Monday which means that in the last week I have spent 36,833 minutes or a little over 613 hours which equals 25.578703 days so basically I spent all of Wednesday and then some watching a baby deer come through a cat door.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
We live in a time without true meaning. Homemade pie! boasts the menu at the chain restaurant, and when somebody says that they could care less it means that they actually DO care. It's confusing, like the other night on The Rachel Zoe Project when Rachel said she literally died, she literally vomited, she literally felt like a cow about to moo, and yet--there she was, at the end of the show, alive. Seemingly not a cow that had either vomited or mooed and I was more than a little disappointed. Who knew? Back when I was having terrible panic attacks my dad told me not to believe everything I thought and he was right. Still, the airbrushing can fuck a girl up, this knowing that nothing is really real and then some. Arbitrary objectivism, noses that shrink to a cute button over cocktails. Can't a girl just buy a pair of jeans without her head falling off?
Apparently not, which is why I am going to show this video to Zoey every morning after she watches The Backyardigans. (She must know that in reality Uniqua is a drab shade of puce.)
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
First off, this lady. I dunno' why this picture makes me happy but it does. The fact that her hair is still dry and that dimple in her elbow? I have a bad tattoo on my ankle of a dolphin--don't get me started. Perhaps I should add this randomly confident lady to the mix?
And this, yes this. If Bryan and I ever design and actually build our own house I am totally insisting on a staircase bookshelf. Even if it's a one story ranch house with nowhere to go but horizontal. This is awesome.
Narwhals. Somehow I stumbled upon this picture and it was like a revelation. Narwhals! It's easy to forget that they actually exist, but here they are: like a wet fairy tale. Narwhals! Maybe I can add a horn onto my bad dolphin tattoo with the soon-to-be-lady riding astride it, a narwhal. It will become my battlecry, rage, rage against the dying of the light. Narwhals! Like Wolverines in that movie Red Dawn. Or maybe not. Just an idea.
Happy Hump Day, my friends.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
I am so in love with this video it's not even funny.
Actually it's really funny. Like thank you funny. I so-totally-needed-that funny. Friday at 5pm on a Tuesday funny.
I've typed the word funny so many times now it looks funny. Funny funny.
Friday, October 2, 2009
It means love letter, and for years now I have been meaning to incorporate the phrase into my life somehow, but it's like a joke that I always forget to tell. Love letter. I am the worst joke teller ever, giggling before I get to the punch line, apologizing for captivity.
(At the bottom of the menu at this restaurant are the words Anoush ella! I find that I cannot forget these words smushed as they are next to the list of desserts. Rosewater infused pudding with pistachios. Like a song whose lyrics suffer the fate of an ear worm. Anoush ella! I think it must be said with an exclamation point, Armenian for may it be sweet.)
Dates and nuts rolled in phyllo, served warm.
Happy Friday (may it be).
Thursday, October 1, 2009
(I hate when he licks me, my shoulder, my cheek. But it's a love lick, he says, knowing how I hate. Don't fucking lick me, I say and rub at my skin with his shirt.)
Other times he works in his office, throwing hazelnuts at me there in the living room. I find them when I move the couch, the coffee table, traces of him everywhere rolling across the hardwood floor. (Most times we exist, he and I, in things that are found beneath furniture.)
When we sleep he snores. Grey sounds fecund from his chest, and I have learned to kick him with each inhale so that he thinks he woke himself up. Susannah, how old am I? he asked last night, and when I told him he kissed me. Thank you, for a minute I thought I was 38. Sometimes he burns like a coin between my palms filling everything.
***Something about this image says love to me (not lust). I was told that my grandmother was not allowed to eat bananas in public, or maybe ever.***