Guess what? Somebody accepted my essay "Sandstorms and Miniskirts" for publication! It'll be available Feb 7th, so I'll post the URL here when it is. I'm so happy because I feel validated. I feel like the universe threw me a bone. Not a gross cow shin marrow bone like I cook for Darling Dog, but a juicy chocolate bone with peanut butter filling that has no calories carbs or fat grams and won't give me another gallstone. God, I love to write so much, and now I feel a little bit good enough. Not entirely good enough, but, you know, time stamped and validated.
Also, I got highlights because I am going with Delta Hotel to a fancy dinner this weekend. It's not as good as the ball. For one thing, it's only semi-formal. For another, I can't get drunk because my actions could potentially cost Delta Hotel his job and then I would not be allowed to get pedicures anymore and my feet would turn to horns. Lastly, the ball is filled with young hot Marines. That's basically self explanatory. Despite those few things, this work dinner is pretty fun. We went last year and had a blast. Oh no, wait, we had a blast at the afterparty. And I was drunk.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Thursday, January 12, 2006
The Sun WIll Come Out...Tomorrow
Q. What's worse than enough estrogen to give an entire island full of concave chested eunics boobs and a set of hips ?
A. Three daughters to share em with (the hormones, not the eunics)
Boy oh boy was today a crappy day. The only highlight was when Tiara the SuperNurse came over and told me it's a good thing my immune systems so sh*t hot.
As many of you know, I have the grace of a backwards-kneed, brain-damaged 22 hour old fruit fly. So, naturally, when I took the girls sledding the other day my left thigh found the only spear tipped tree stub for a five mile radius. My jeans were thick and tight enough to blunt the impaling, but I ended up with a bruise from my knee to my hip, and that's no exageration for once. I hobbled around the back yard for a while howling and drooling, but no one seemed to care so I stopped and kept on sledding. Anyway, it's two weeks later. I won't get into gross detail. If you really want to know what happened, you can ask, but it was HORRIBLE. Delta Hotel said, "You need to see a doctor. This is the worst thing you have ever done to yourself. This is worse than the time you cut off your thumb." Just a bruise, I thought.
Back to today. Tiarra came over for a delicious cup of afternoon coffee. I mentioned my bruise, and she insisted on seeing it. So, I rolled up my pants and showed her. That's when she said it.
"Good thing you have a healthy immune system Didi. See that? It's a horrible disgusting cord of mangled artery and guts and if you weren't so healthy you would have gotten gangrene and rotted away from the thigh on out." That's not quite verbatim, but she did send me into a hypochondrial panic attack. Then she told me that sometimes when you get gangrene body parts fall off. If you happen to be Jewish, they bury the body part in a graveyard with it's own headstone. Can anyone out there verify that one for me?
Anyway. I'm off to soothe myself with some books on how to get your kids to stop whining and talking back. Self-help and parenting books make me feel proactive and therefore, better.
A. Three daughters to share em with (the hormones, not the eunics)
Boy oh boy was today a crappy day. The only highlight was when Tiara the SuperNurse came over and told me it's a good thing my immune systems so sh*t hot.
As many of you know, I have the grace of a backwards-kneed, brain-damaged 22 hour old fruit fly. So, naturally, when I took the girls sledding the other day my left thigh found the only spear tipped tree stub for a five mile radius. My jeans were thick and tight enough to blunt the impaling, but I ended up with a bruise from my knee to my hip, and that's no exageration for once. I hobbled around the back yard for a while howling and drooling, but no one seemed to care so I stopped and kept on sledding. Anyway, it's two weeks later. I won't get into gross detail. If you really want to know what happened, you can ask, but it was HORRIBLE. Delta Hotel said, "You need to see a doctor. This is the worst thing you have ever done to yourself. This is worse than the time you cut off your thumb." Just a bruise, I thought.
Back to today. Tiarra came over for a delicious cup of afternoon coffee. I mentioned my bruise, and she insisted on seeing it. So, I rolled up my pants and showed her. That's when she said it.
"Good thing you have a healthy immune system Didi. See that? It's a horrible disgusting cord of mangled artery and guts and if you weren't so healthy you would have gotten gangrene and rotted away from the thigh on out." That's not quite verbatim, but she did send me into a hypochondrial panic attack. Then she told me that sometimes when you get gangrene body parts fall off. If you happen to be Jewish, they bury the body part in a graveyard with it's own headstone. Can anyone out there verify that one for me?
Anyway. I'm off to soothe myself with some books on how to get your kids to stop whining and talking back. Self-help and parenting books make me feel proactive and therefore, better.
Sunday, January 08, 2006
Trust
One of the greatest feelings in the world is when your child shows you a great truth.
Ya-Ya has been having these horrible nightmares this last week, about stone angels with eyes that watch her. That's freakin creepy. Tonight, while I was tucking her in, she asked me why she's so afraid to be alone. "Alone alone?" I asked, "like lonely with not a friend in the world, or just of being in a place by yourself?" (A key in parenting is to always KNOW what question you are answering. Answering can rapidly become a slippery slope if not handled with oven mits. Besides, being an expert on fear, I wanted to make sure I was dealing with the correct subcategory.) "Just alone by myself. Like in my room." So, I administered my dissertion on the primeval herd instinct and the logic of banding together at night in your cave so that no one should fall prey to a saber-toothed tiger. And since the saber-toothed tigers are extinct, there's nothing to worry about. Fear is healthy, I told her, and it's also controllable. I moved into a discussion about trusting in a higher power and believing in the best possible outcome because when you don't believe in a miracle you shut the door on one. And courage is being afraid but keeping on anyway. WHen you're afraid, I told her, think about Tom Brady or how you felt on Christmas. I am paraphrasing for the sake of brevity, but it really came out of mouth splendidly. The last ting I told her was to trust me, that I would protect her. A few minutes later, the importance of what we talked about settled in. Having someone trust you is an AWESOME responsibility. I stepped onto the deck into the frosty air and I wasn't even afraid of the coyotes or sex offenders or dead boys in mirrors or the girl in The Ring. Ya-Ya had empowered me with her trust, and she reminded me to trust. It's when we isolate ourselves and take the weight of the world for our own burden that we close the door on possibility and open the door to fear. Fear takes up precious space that could be spent having fun and it gives you bad dreams about creepy stone angel eyes. And I like stone angels way too much to risk having bad dreams about them.
Ya-Ya has been having these horrible nightmares this last week, about stone angels with eyes that watch her. That's freakin creepy. Tonight, while I was tucking her in, she asked me why she's so afraid to be alone. "Alone alone?" I asked, "like lonely with not a friend in the world, or just of being in a place by yourself?" (A key in parenting is to always KNOW what question you are answering. Answering can rapidly become a slippery slope if not handled with oven mits. Besides, being an expert on fear, I wanted to make sure I was dealing with the correct subcategory.) "Just alone by myself. Like in my room." So, I administered my dissertion on the primeval herd instinct and the logic of banding together at night in your cave so that no one should fall prey to a saber-toothed tiger. And since the saber-toothed tigers are extinct, there's nothing to worry about. Fear is healthy, I told her, and it's also controllable. I moved into a discussion about trusting in a higher power and believing in the best possible outcome because when you don't believe in a miracle you shut the door on one. And courage is being afraid but keeping on anyway. WHen you're afraid, I told her, think about Tom Brady or how you felt on Christmas. I am paraphrasing for the sake of brevity, but it really came out of mouth splendidly. The last ting I told her was to trust me, that I would protect her. A few minutes later, the importance of what we talked about settled in. Having someone trust you is an AWESOME responsibility. I stepped onto the deck into the frosty air and I wasn't even afraid of the coyotes or sex offenders or dead boys in mirrors or the girl in The Ring. Ya-Ya had empowered me with her trust, and she reminded me to trust. It's when we isolate ourselves and take the weight of the world for our own burden that we close the door on possibility and open the door to fear. Fear takes up precious space that could be spent having fun and it gives you bad dreams about creepy stone angel eyes. And I like stone angels way too much to risk having bad dreams about them.
Friday, January 06, 2006
Up Your Gas
That title is a double edged sword. It's the name of a magic pill I used to take before formation runs in the USMC so I would be able to keep up. I am inherently slow and lazy. Up your gas kept me in the runs. It also insured that would I vomit on the calves of the person in front of me, something I could accomplish without even breaking stride. I married one of those unfortunate people. Bet you're glad to know that. It also contained ephedra in unscrupulous quantities which should make me eligible for a claim in a class action law suit, only I have no heart problems. I'm just lazy.
The other reason I chose that title for tonight's illustrious entry is that I paid my gas bill today. Up Your Gas loosely rhymes with Shove the Bill up Someone's Ass, which is what I felt like doing. I paid more for one months gas than I pay to drive my SUV in FOUR MONTHS. I also had an energy audit. The auditor became the first human being on the planet earth today to cross the magical threshold into my attic. There was no hidden treasure or skeletons or flowers or dragons up there. There was a vast breeding ground for all the horrible scurrying brown spiders that torture me when I step out, naked and unprotected from the shower. Or reach my hand into the bottom of the laundry separator. There was but one scant, lacy, flimsy little summer shawl layer of insulation. There should be eleven. Thus, I have forked out four hundred dollars to melt the snow off the roof.
The other reason I chose that title for tonight's illustrious entry is that I paid my gas bill today. Up Your Gas loosely rhymes with Shove the Bill up Someone's Ass, which is what I felt like doing. I paid more for one months gas than I pay to drive my SUV in FOUR MONTHS. I also had an energy audit. The auditor became the first human being on the planet earth today to cross the magical threshold into my attic. There was no hidden treasure or skeletons or flowers or dragons up there. There was a vast breeding ground for all the horrible scurrying brown spiders that torture me when I step out, naked and unprotected from the shower. Or reach my hand into the bottom of the laundry separator. There was but one scant, lacy, flimsy little summer shawl layer of insulation. There should be eleven. Thus, I have forked out four hundred dollars to melt the snow off the roof.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Philosophy of War
That's a misleading title. As you may know, the last week and a half-ish have included many things, none of which are school. There is nothing I like better than spending quality time with my girls. Which is how I always anticipate these "breaks". What they are, in reality, is Mommy Exams. I learned something interesting between tests of patience and endurance. Let me tell you a quick story. Maybe you'll think I'm crazy, entirely plausible after as many days in the house with three other females (and a manic-depressive dog) as I've had, but I think I understand the psychology behind the war.
Ya-Ya is my oldest, and she's a big, honkin' healthy specimen of a girl. She's slender but powerful and tall and healthy and full of vim and vigor. Phee-Phee is my middle, and she's exactly the opposite. She's teensy and petite and delicate. But, like a little snake, her fire burns very very hot. (The baby is, oddly enough, a precise balance of the two.) Anyway. Ya-Ya lives right next door to Phee-Phee. One day, out of boredom or whatever, Ya-Ya decided to go into Phee-Phee's room and raise a little hell. She demanded that Phee-Phee give her either stuff or a dollar. Phee-Phee, sitting on her bed combing her new doll's hair, doing the things that she normally does all day, refused. Naturally, Ya-Ya felt put out that her little puny sister should refuse her, and she demanded again, your money or your stuff. So, Phee-Phee sprang off the bed and attacked her, feeling the need to protect her property and her money. Then Ya-Ya physically removed Phee-Phee from her own room and locked the door, essentially occupying a bedroom which was not her own. Meanwhile, the baby sat in the corner and ate play-dough, but that's another story for another day. I kept things fair, hollered at everyone, sent everyone back to her own property, seized the play-dough and continued making lunch. This sort of thing happens from time to time in my house, and I'm sure it's a universal scene in homes where there's enough estrogen to drown an ox. No big deal. But let's say Ya-Ya had nuclear weapons, and Phee-Phee had a white van full of cow manure and Tide. Who has the kind of home-owners policy to cover that?
Naturally I love all my girls, and understand that they each have their own agendas and personalities and rights. I rarely take sides, preferring to reprimand globally, let them calm their little tempers and then do something else in a neutral area like the playroom. Point being, maybe the world needs a great big mommy to give certain leaders a spanking (which I find oddly appealing) and send others to their rooms then set up a nice little game of dress up somewhere in New Zealand. The thought of Dick dressing in a purple fedora for tea has just cheered me immensely.
Ya-Ya is my oldest, and she's a big, honkin' healthy specimen of a girl. She's slender but powerful and tall and healthy and full of vim and vigor. Phee-Phee is my middle, and she's exactly the opposite. She's teensy and petite and delicate. But, like a little snake, her fire burns very very hot. (The baby is, oddly enough, a precise balance of the two.) Anyway. Ya-Ya lives right next door to Phee-Phee. One day, out of boredom or whatever, Ya-Ya decided to go into Phee-Phee's room and raise a little hell. She demanded that Phee-Phee give her either stuff or a dollar. Phee-Phee, sitting on her bed combing her new doll's hair, doing the things that she normally does all day, refused. Naturally, Ya-Ya felt put out that her little puny sister should refuse her, and she demanded again, your money or your stuff. So, Phee-Phee sprang off the bed and attacked her, feeling the need to protect her property and her money. Then Ya-Ya physically removed Phee-Phee from her own room and locked the door, essentially occupying a bedroom which was not her own. Meanwhile, the baby sat in the corner and ate play-dough, but that's another story for another day. I kept things fair, hollered at everyone, sent everyone back to her own property, seized the play-dough and continued making lunch. This sort of thing happens from time to time in my house, and I'm sure it's a universal scene in homes where there's enough estrogen to drown an ox. No big deal. But let's say Ya-Ya had nuclear weapons, and Phee-Phee had a white van full of cow manure and Tide. Who has the kind of home-owners policy to cover that?
Naturally I love all my girls, and understand that they each have their own agendas and personalities and rights. I rarely take sides, preferring to reprimand globally, let them calm their little tempers and then do something else in a neutral area like the playroom. Point being, maybe the world needs a great big mommy to give certain leaders a spanking (which I find oddly appealing) and send others to their rooms then set up a nice little game of dress up somewhere in New Zealand. The thought of Dick dressing in a purple fedora for tea has just cheered me immensely.
Friday, December 30, 2005
Days of Wonder
Some strange things have been going on.
First of all, Delta hOtel read my blog. This is unusual because Delta Hotel dislikes reading so much that often he will clench his eyes shut while driving on the interstate to avoid accidentally reading the road signs. This is why we sometimes end up in Canada. Just kidding. However, I can only say nice things about Delta Hotel now that he knows how to find this blog. Delta says I am not allowed to talk about his "business" anymore because it belongs to him and he said so. That's actually fine by me, I'm tired of it anyway.
You might remember back in October when somebody stealthily crept up to my big orange pumpkin and painted it all black except for the letters B-O-O. That was the first incident in a string of unsolved curiosities.
The other day somebody who goes by the name "Dr. Jekyll" commented on an entry. Usually I can figure out who people are...but I have asked everyone I can think of and no one will admit to being Dr. Jekyll. Who are you Doctor of Mystery??? COme forth I beseech you!
And lastly, I have been in the trenches of motherhood for over nine years now. I have written, transcribed, helped write and proofread roughly twenty letters to the big man at the North Pole. I would call myself experienced in the art of Santa Letter Writing. Yet today something entirely unprecedented occurred. Santa wrote back. A letter arrived addressed to Ya-Ya in the fanciest most Ben Franklin-est hand writing I've ever seen, postmarked from the freaking North Pole, covered in sparkly little stickers, telling Ya-Ya about the weather, the elves, the reindeer and Mrs. Claus. This was no form letter, someone wrote it! Someone interjected "ho ho ho," from time to time, signed Santa's name, addressed it to Ya-Ya PERSONALLY and paid 37 cents to deliver it. Can you believe it? There really IS a Santa!!! sigh...
First of all, Delta hOtel read my blog. This is unusual because Delta Hotel dislikes reading so much that often he will clench his eyes shut while driving on the interstate to avoid accidentally reading the road signs. This is why we sometimes end up in Canada. Just kidding. However, I can only say nice things about Delta Hotel now that he knows how to find this blog. Delta says I am not allowed to talk about his "business" anymore because it belongs to him and he said so. That's actually fine by me, I'm tired of it anyway.
You might remember back in October when somebody stealthily crept up to my big orange pumpkin and painted it all black except for the letters B-O-O. That was the first incident in a string of unsolved curiosities.
The other day somebody who goes by the name "Dr. Jekyll" commented on an entry. Usually I can figure out who people are...but I have asked everyone I can think of and no one will admit to being Dr. Jekyll. Who are you Doctor of Mystery??? COme forth I beseech you!
And lastly, I have been in the trenches of motherhood for over nine years now. I have written, transcribed, helped write and proofread roughly twenty letters to the big man at the North Pole. I would call myself experienced in the art of Santa Letter Writing. Yet today something entirely unprecedented occurred. Santa wrote back. A letter arrived addressed to Ya-Ya in the fanciest most Ben Franklin-est hand writing I've ever seen, postmarked from the freaking North Pole, covered in sparkly little stickers, telling Ya-Ya about the weather, the elves, the reindeer and Mrs. Claus. This was no form letter, someone wrote it! Someone interjected "ho ho ho," from time to time, signed Santa's name, addressed it to Ya-Ya PERSONALLY and paid 37 cents to deliver it. Can you believe it? There really IS a Santa!!! sigh...
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Determined not to be outdone
by her older sister, Phee-Phee has spiked a fever of 103. Well, you won that one, Phee-Phee.
Monday, December 26, 2005
What Happened?
We tread upon the grounds that the very first rebellious colonists marched, conspired, ambushed and eventually triumphed on over 200 years ago. We live but a crows flight from the very harbor that once masqueraded as the worlds largest cup of tea.
We, if only by geographical association, are offspring of this nations original freedom fighters. Tonight I watched a show on PBS where some Concord Militia stole a brass cannon from the British and hid it over on Colonel Barrett's farm, provoking the Shot Heard Round the World, the kickoff for the Revolutionary War. It's said that the armory guard from whom the cannon was stolen proclaimed upon finding the armory empty "These people'll steal the teeth out of your head while you're there to watch!" He was talking about us. What happened to our fire since then?
Let's start at the top. There used to be a time when honor was payment enough for the position of statesman. Now the leaders of the nation are so rich and well paid by taxes they're virtually parliament. We all know the percentage we pay in taxes today is higher than the percentage of taxes that fueled the fires of the American Militia.
Maybe our lazy attitude comes from low stakes. We're paying for the Big Dig over and over and over again. There's scandal. Some guys get fired, new ones get hired, we all shake our heads and call it a days work. But what if we took a cue from Early America and set the embezzlers in stocks on the Zakum Bridge? I wonder how much embezzling would get done then? Now, before you call the union presidents and organize a strike, I don't really mean that. But lack of consequences could be a motivating factor in greed. And for bad manners. What if the punishment for road rage was wearing a 17" Goodyear around your neck for a month? Or overdue library books resulted in the wearing of a scarlet capital L? (I'd have a freaking scarlet tattoo BTW)
Back to my original question. What happened to that irrepressible American spirit? Maybe it got a house and cable and a drive-thru burger. Maybe it's settled, content, with no reason to protest because it has a roof and food and clothes. Maybe the risk of revolution is to great to take American Spirit off the path of least resistance.
With the gross balance of the world's resources resting on American soil, I doubt if this'll change. The need to grow has to be bigger than the comfort of staying the same.
Sunday, December 25, 2005
Just Finished
Watching Polar Express. I have a passionate LOVE for Tom Hanks, and I have since Splash, so I knew I was honor-bound to love it. I would have loved it anyway. I learned three key lessons.
1. It doesn't matter where the train is going, as long as you get on. Jump in where you are. Don't watch as the train passes you by.
2. Friendship is the greatest gift. A friend will reach out and grab hold of your hand so that you don't get left behind. A friend won't let you get too lost. Even when you find that you haven't mailed a single gift yet and it's Christmas morning, even when you find yourself sucked down the toilet bowl of circumstance, a friend will fish you out. Thanks friends. Without you, I'd be swimming in a sea of shit. Sorry about the gifts....they are in the trunk, ready to go.
3. Believe. If you're awake at 3AM Christmas Morning STILL getting "things" done, and you know you're not gonna get any sleep because "they" will be up at five demanding you witness the miracle Santa has left behind, you're lucky. You got to be magic. It doesn't matter if magic took some wading and sweating, you got to do it. And if you look up to the moon and happen to see a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer in your over-caffeinated acid-flashback delirium, if you believe it to be true, it is. We are all sorcerers of our own perception. Magical.
Christmas, stripped of it's controversy, stirs the embers of faith that might otherwise grow cold.
1. It doesn't matter where the train is going, as long as you get on. Jump in where you are. Don't watch as the train passes you by.
2. Friendship is the greatest gift. A friend will reach out and grab hold of your hand so that you don't get left behind. A friend won't let you get too lost. Even when you find that you haven't mailed a single gift yet and it's Christmas morning, even when you find yourself sucked down the toilet bowl of circumstance, a friend will fish you out. Thanks friends. Without you, I'd be swimming in a sea of shit. Sorry about the gifts....they are in the trunk, ready to go.
3. Believe. If you're awake at 3AM Christmas Morning STILL getting "things" done, and you know you're not gonna get any sleep because "they" will be up at five demanding you witness the miracle Santa has left behind, you're lucky. You got to be magic. It doesn't matter if magic took some wading and sweating, you got to do it. And if you look up to the moon and happen to see a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer in your over-caffeinated acid-flashback delirium, if you believe it to be true, it is. We are all sorcerers of our own perception. Magical.
Christmas, stripped of it's controversy, stirs the embers of faith that might otherwise grow cold.
Friday, December 23, 2005
Hmmph
We made our annual pilgrimage to the Fatima Shrine tonight, to see the lights and freeze ourselves from our toenails to our cerebrospinal fluid, waddle around with stunned looks on our slushy faces then defrost with hot chocolate and coffee that's only redeeming quality is it's heat. But it wasn't really cold enough for that, so I did some thinking instead. I thought about Delta Hotel, Monks, Ellie and organized religion.
Delta Hotel's in rough shape. Actually, I'm convinced that Delta Hotel has gone on a Delta Hiatus and some strange robotic decoy has landed to act as his placeholder lest I forget what he looks like. My darling friend OHM came with us and at one point, I was so transfixed by my thoughts that, though I could see her lips and eyebrows moving I could not register her words, just a Peanuts-esque garble of noise which, with my luck, was something really important like tonight's MassMillions numbers or why ketchup is sometimes spelled catsup.
Delta Hotel's melancholy spread like spilled grease. I started feeling sorry for the monks who work so hard to put up what must be a hundred million Christmas lights each year. I looked up to a giant oak tree where a fully illuminated angel was perched, bestowing electric blessings on all who passed under her. I passed the moving (illuminated) moose and reindeer herd. The full color wise men, the archways and garlands and piped in music. I thought about how ironic Christmas is, with it's mixed heritage, and these little monks out there working their gnarled arthritic fingers in the cold, constructing this great big pagan display for all of us who travel to their monastery once a year for the lights. Then I noticed that some of the big, old fashioned, nuke-your-eye-sockets-if-they-short light strands had failed. I wanted to go over there and fix them or at least find a monk and hug him, but they were all busy serving hot beverages, directing traffic in their little outfits and generally being nice and monk-ish. There's these two caves, under the mound with the giant crucifix. The left cave shows Jesus lying dead in Mary's arms, and the right shows the nativity scene. The beginning and the end, two isolated moments in time.
We rounded the bend to my favorite scene, Our Lady of Fatima appearing in gleaming white marble to three genuflecting children, all swathed in delicate garlands and surrounded by votives. Nearby stands the angel of peace, and nearer still one of two candle sheds. This is where I light the candle for my soul-sister's daughter, Ellie, who died at thirteen months, three years ago on Dec 17th. Ya-Ya lit the candle tonight and we prayed for Ellie, but mostly for the people she left behind because December is colder for them than for most of us.
After that, I thought some more about religion, organized and spontaneous. There was a little poem on the wall of the cafeteria. I can't remember it well enough to quote, but the gist was this: My name is I am. To live in the past is painful, my name is not I was. To live in the future is frightening, my name is not I will be. To live in the moment is beautiful, my name is I am. I watched my littlest delight in her own purple boots crunching the snow under her feet, and the melancholy slid away.
Delta Hotel's in rough shape. Actually, I'm convinced that Delta Hotel has gone on a Delta Hiatus and some strange robotic decoy has landed to act as his placeholder lest I forget what he looks like. My darling friend OHM came with us and at one point, I was so transfixed by my thoughts that, though I could see her lips and eyebrows moving I could not register her words, just a Peanuts-esque garble of noise which, with my luck, was something really important like tonight's MassMillions numbers or why ketchup is sometimes spelled catsup.
Delta Hotel's melancholy spread like spilled grease. I started feeling sorry for the monks who work so hard to put up what must be a hundred million Christmas lights each year. I looked up to a giant oak tree where a fully illuminated angel was perched, bestowing electric blessings on all who passed under her. I passed the moving (illuminated) moose and reindeer herd. The full color wise men, the archways and garlands and piped in music. I thought about how ironic Christmas is, with it's mixed heritage, and these little monks out there working their gnarled arthritic fingers in the cold, constructing this great big pagan display for all of us who travel to their monastery once a year for the lights. Then I noticed that some of the big, old fashioned, nuke-your-eye-sockets-if-they-short light strands had failed. I wanted to go over there and fix them or at least find a monk and hug him, but they were all busy serving hot beverages, directing traffic in their little outfits and generally being nice and monk-ish. There's these two caves, under the mound with the giant crucifix. The left cave shows Jesus lying dead in Mary's arms, and the right shows the nativity scene. The beginning and the end, two isolated moments in time.
We rounded the bend to my favorite scene, Our Lady of Fatima appearing in gleaming white marble to three genuflecting children, all swathed in delicate garlands and surrounded by votives. Nearby stands the angel of peace, and nearer still one of two candle sheds. This is where I light the candle for my soul-sister's daughter, Ellie, who died at thirteen months, three years ago on Dec 17th. Ya-Ya lit the candle tonight and we prayed for Ellie, but mostly for the people she left behind because December is colder for them than for most of us.
After that, I thought some more about religion, organized and spontaneous. There was a little poem on the wall of the cafeteria. I can't remember it well enough to quote, but the gist was this: My name is I am. To live in the past is painful, my name is not I was. To live in the future is frightening, my name is not I will be. To live in the moment is beautiful, my name is I am. I watched my littlest delight in her own purple boots crunching the snow under her feet, and the melancholy slid away.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
I wanted to write yesterday
but before I knew it, the day was over. Har har.
Been some strange days. First the entire premise of my life has been altered by finding out a juicy family secret. Again, I can't tell till my Mammie says it's ok.
Then, I had a dream that a spider bit me on the left shoulder and I went to my friend TeeArr who is supernurse, and she said I was suffering from necrosis. I actually dreamed the freaking word necrosis. When I woke up, my shoulder was killing me so I called TeeArr and said "What in God's name is Necrosis and what sorcery have you performed upon me in my sleep you heathen viper?!" not really, I made that up. I didn't even call her till a few days later, but guess what?? Necrosis means....this whoa. To make it even STRANGER STILL... that night...I FELL DOWN and hurt my left elbow, which turned black (like necrosis - AHA) and then my shoulder hurt. So, if you can connect the dots like I can, you now realize that I predicted the future and am , beyond the shadow of a doubt, psychic. With a huge psychic vocabulary.
Now for the icing. The silky silver icing. My own Christmas miracle. After all this crap from Delta Hotel the past few months about Iraq, and believe me, it was crap.
***DIGRESSION AHEAD - I used every argument you could conceive of to get him to stay, and he refuted every argument with every justification you can imagine. We even went to therapy. Finally, when I realized one of us was gonna have to lose, I ceded. Not because I am a loser (duh, I'm a freaking psychic, people) but because out of the two of us, I can deal with losing better than he can. After regressing to my terrible two's for a couple of days, I did my best to soothe him that everything would be fine. A year's just a drop in the bucket. I pledged my unwavering support (with my fingers crossed behind my back) and I assured him we'd be fine. I'd learn how to run the snowblower. I'd figure out how to start the woodstove. I'd refrain from cutting off appendages. (See what I mean about me being a better loser? If he had lost, he'd have been sucking his thumb huddled in the corner of the couch.) -END DIGRESSION ***
Anyway, he went to check back in to his unit today, got all the way to the SgtMaj. That man, the final beating heart between my Delta Hotel and hot desert sand, that blessed savior of an angel Marine told Delta Hotel to go home. Family's more important than that war in Iraq, he said. Can you imagine that? It wasn't meant to be after all. If I had forced him to stay, he'd have resented me. If he'd chosen to stay on his own, he'd have hated himself. I guess you could say a higher power made the final call and that suits me just fine. Serendipity.
Been some strange days. First the entire premise of my life has been altered by finding out a juicy family secret. Again, I can't tell till my Mammie says it's ok.
Then, I had a dream that a spider bit me on the left shoulder and I went to my friend TeeArr who is supernurse, and she said I was suffering from necrosis. I actually dreamed the freaking word necrosis. When I woke up, my shoulder was killing me so I called TeeArr and said "What in God's name is Necrosis and what sorcery have you performed upon me in my sleep you heathen viper?!" not really, I made that up. I didn't even call her till a few days later, but guess what?? Necrosis means....this whoa. To make it even STRANGER STILL... that night...I FELL DOWN and hurt my left elbow, which turned black (like necrosis - AHA) and then my shoulder hurt. So, if you can connect the dots like I can, you now realize that I predicted the future and am , beyond the shadow of a doubt, psychic. With a huge psychic vocabulary.
Now for the icing. The silky silver icing. My own Christmas miracle. After all this crap from Delta Hotel the past few months about Iraq, and believe me, it was crap.
***DIGRESSION AHEAD - I used every argument you could conceive of to get him to stay, and he refuted every argument with every justification you can imagine. We even went to therapy. Finally, when I realized one of us was gonna have to lose, I ceded. Not because I am a loser (duh, I'm a freaking psychic, people) but because out of the two of us, I can deal with losing better than he can. After regressing to my terrible two's for a couple of days, I did my best to soothe him that everything would be fine. A year's just a drop in the bucket. I pledged my unwavering support (with my fingers crossed behind my back) and I assured him we'd be fine. I'd learn how to run the snowblower. I'd figure out how to start the woodstove. I'd refrain from cutting off appendages. (See what I mean about me being a better loser? If he had lost, he'd have been sucking his thumb huddled in the corner of the couch.) -END DIGRESSION ***
Anyway, he went to check back in to his unit today, got all the way to the SgtMaj. That man, the final beating heart between my Delta Hotel and hot desert sand, that blessed savior of an angel Marine told Delta Hotel to go home. Family's more important than that war in Iraq, he said. Can you imagine that? It wasn't meant to be after all. If I had forced him to stay, he'd have resented me. If he'd chosen to stay on his own, he'd have hated himself. I guess you could say a higher power made the final call and that suits me just fine. Serendipity.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
My little Ya-Ya has a fever of 101. She's my oldest and has the immune system of a sturdy old tank. She never breaks down. I remember when she was little, she had a fever that left her skin dry, hot and a little too robust for any mother's comfort. It was "only" 104, so the emergency room at Camp LeJeune, where we were living at the time, wouldn't admit her. I rememebr how panicked I was that she would erupt into febrile seizures. I'm way more laid back about fevers now. Just this past summer, my temp. raged to 105.7. Looking back, I guess I should have gone to the doctor, but at the time I just kept telling myself brain damage wouldn't kick in till 106. Then I spent the next week seeing shadows of invisible people in all the mirrors.
Monday, December 19, 2005
Happy, Merry (Fill in the blank)
Today I heard about the great big debate about Happy Holidays v. Merry Christmas. Fanatacism over the appropriateness of two measly little cliched words of good cheer is, frankly, not at the top of my list. And I am a born and bred fanatic. I'm fine with Happy Holidays. Predictably, Delta Hotel thinks I am jumping on the PC bandwagon. But here's the thing, the holidays kick off for me on the 27th of August (Phee Phee's birthday) and end on January 2d. That leaves, um, like eleven or so holidays not even counting solstice, kwaanza, chanukah or yule. I guess you could count the January holidays...then on to Valentines Day, anyhow. The point is, Happy Holidays simply saves you from saying "Happy Labor Day, birthday, congrats the kids are back in school, Happy Halloween, Columbus Day, Marine Corps Birthday, Veterans Day, Thanksgiving, Kwaanza, Yule, Solstice, Chanukah, Merry Christmas, Happy New year and whatever else I left out." That sort of nonsense would eat up time that could be better spent wondering about other modern quandaries like same sex marriage, Avian flu, Canadian terrorists and who lobotomized the president.
I guess what it boils down to is this: winter = holidays, holidays = parties, parties = fun, lawsuit over words = not fun. So save it for February when we've got nothing else to do.
I guess what it boils down to is this: winter = holidays, holidays = parties, parties = fun, lawsuit over words = not fun. So save it for February when we've got nothing else to do.
Sunday, December 18, 2005
Even in the Midst
Of the most profound suckiness, it is entirely possible to glean a sliver of happiness. It's easier, however, when your almost-stepfather happens to be a former NE Patriot with lifetime clubhouse tickets and a notion to take you to a game. I'm supposing that all of you who read this are more football-savvy than I am, considering I've only truly understood the mystery of the first down for about two years now. And it is a mystery. In fact, I might digress to mention that it could be the holy grail which bridges communications between mars and venus. More on that another time.
***PARDON THE INTERUPTION BUT I MUST WARN YOU - DUBYA IS BLARING THROUGH THE SPEAKERS OF MY TV IN LIEU OF DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES WHICH MEANS I AM, AS I WRITE, BECOMING STUPIDER.***
I can't even remember what I was writing. Sometimes you have to just think poor Dubya. Not that I'd pass up the oppurtunity to throw flaming shit-bags at him or anything, but really he's just like a big old dumb monkey. Sorry monkeys.
Anyway, what was I saying? Oh yes, the subculture of Gillette Stadium.
Wait a minute, here's what I am gathering.
1. We went to war for no apparant reason, but we are winning. How is that? What is the prize? Me and Dub, we don't know. I bet Dickie knows. Oh well. I guess there's comfort in knowing we're winning. I hope it's chocolate.
2. We are rebuilding Iraq. That's nice. Kind of like a great big game of pickup sticks. WHat fun! Maybe I will try this. I think tommorow I shall drop SCUD missiles on my neighber JLO. Then we will have a grand ole time rebuilding her house. I shall draw up the plans now! I think I would like her house to be more of a cottage and more of a purply color.
3. There is a road in Iraq called "Victory" and it leads to home. It must be hard to find because some of them guys have spent eighteen months trying to get to it. I wonder if the Big Dig guys built it.
4. Dubya says I shouldn't despair and I shouldn't give up on this fight for freedom. Hmm. Dubya just quoted Longfellow. Surely that one came from his wife. He said that God isn't dead and peace on earth will prevail. That's nice. I wonder how much fighting we'll have to do to achieve peace. I guess it's like wondering how many quarter pounders I'd have to eat to flush the cholesterol out of my arteries.
Dubya is being very sneaky. He's telling me he understands that the issue of creating more problems is a big one. This is a departure from his usual bravado, but I smell a rat. I've used this very tactic on Delta Hotel. I call it my Pacifier tactic and it usually goes something like this: "I know you really want (fill in the blank here) and you're right. That really is important. If you could just bear with me here and (wash the dishes; bathe the offspring; make the lunch; rub my shoulders - circle one or more) I will have plenty of time to devote to whatever it is you need." But that's usually a lie. I usually let him fall asleep on the couch and then I get what I want plus I don't have to do anything extra. Maybe Laura taught him this.
Anyway, as usual listening to the wizard has left my brain cells aching. I must go soak my head. I will write more about my great day at Gillette later.
***PARDON THE INTERUPTION BUT I MUST WARN YOU - DUBYA IS BLARING THROUGH THE SPEAKERS OF MY TV IN LIEU OF DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES WHICH MEANS I AM, AS I WRITE, BECOMING STUPIDER.***
I can't even remember what I was writing. Sometimes you have to just think poor Dubya. Not that I'd pass up the oppurtunity to throw flaming shit-bags at him or anything, but really he's just like a big old dumb monkey. Sorry monkeys.
Anyway, what was I saying? Oh yes, the subculture of Gillette Stadium.
Wait a minute, here's what I am gathering.
1. We went to war for no apparant reason, but we are winning. How is that? What is the prize? Me and Dub, we don't know. I bet Dickie knows. Oh well. I guess there's comfort in knowing we're winning. I hope it's chocolate.
2. We are rebuilding Iraq. That's nice. Kind of like a great big game of pickup sticks. WHat fun! Maybe I will try this. I think tommorow I shall drop SCUD missiles on my neighber JLO. Then we will have a grand ole time rebuilding her house. I shall draw up the plans now! I think I would like her house to be more of a cottage and more of a purply color.
3. There is a road in Iraq called "Victory" and it leads to home. It must be hard to find because some of them guys have spent eighteen months trying to get to it. I wonder if the Big Dig guys built it.
4. Dubya says I shouldn't despair and I shouldn't give up on this fight for freedom. Hmm. Dubya just quoted Longfellow. Surely that one came from his wife. He said that God isn't dead and peace on earth will prevail. That's nice. I wonder how much fighting we'll have to do to achieve peace. I guess it's like wondering how many quarter pounders I'd have to eat to flush the cholesterol out of my arteries.
Dubya is being very sneaky. He's telling me he understands that the issue of creating more problems is a big one. This is a departure from his usual bravado, but I smell a rat. I've used this very tactic on Delta Hotel. I call it my Pacifier tactic and it usually goes something like this: "I know you really want (fill in the blank here) and you're right. That really is important. If you could just bear with me here and (wash the dishes; bathe the offspring; make the lunch; rub my shoulders - circle one or more) I will have plenty of time to devote to whatever it is you need." But that's usually a lie. I usually let him fall asleep on the couch and then I get what I want plus I don't have to do anything extra. Maybe Laura taught him this.
Anyway, as usual listening to the wizard has left my brain cells aching. I must go soak my head. I will write more about my great day at Gillette later.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
All Is Revealed (Title Shamelessly stolen from FatCharlatan)
A mere two days after the Leader of the Free World has eviscerated all doubt from the minds of rational thinking adults that he is a completely incompetent lunatic by publicly admitting the war is based on a lie, (but we're gonna win it by Gawrsh!) Delta Hotel has commited himself to his own act of lunacy. He has made his choice. In less than two weeks, he will put his ass on a plane to Iraq. By choice. FOr the THIRD F*$KING TIME. How Ironic that me, a woman who has uprooted all shrubbery from her landscape for the unfortunate connotations the word bush conjures, is married to superdickheadman who will apparently go to war for the sake of war. It's almost Shakespearean. So, if I metamorphize (is that a word?) into an evil man-hating, resentful, bitter, angry, shrewlike hag for a little while, please don't hate me. I would never project my feelings on purpose. Also, I may perodically refer to Delta Hotel as That Festering Canker Sore From the Ass of Satan. Just so you have a reference point and all.
I will try not to wallow in self-pity for too long, and I will try harder not to write about it here when I do. I am pretty freaking angry though. Sixteen pairs of boxer shorts - now crotchless - angry to be specific. Delta Hotel is a gambler, and the stakes are very, very high. And I'm quite sure the winnings are not worth the risk.
I will try not to wallow in self-pity for too long, and I will try harder not to write about it here when I do. I am pretty freaking angry though. Sixteen pairs of boxer shorts - now crotchless - angry to be specific. Delta Hotel is a gambler, and the stakes are very, very high. And I'm quite sure the winnings are not worth the risk.
Monday, December 12, 2005
29 years
and I still surprise myself!! Who knew Mike Tyson was my daddy? Or is he my baby's daddy...
| Your Japanese Name Is... |
 |
| Your French Name is: |
 |
| Everything Pizza |
 |
| Your Daddy Is Mike Tyson |
 Why You Love Him: Because he's your baby daddy |
Thursday, December 08, 2005
The Day that will Live in....oops, forgot
Yesterday morning, I woke up to a video Holiday card from Dubya, Mrs. Cheney and the dogs. While..quaint...in theory, there are several disturbing factors at work here.
1. I don't have time to make a video Christmas card of my kids, never mind my freaking dog, and I'm merely Commanding Officer of my own domain. How is it that the leader of the free world has time to chat with dogs in the oval office? Let's see, foreign dignitaries and heads of state, presidential cabinet...Barney the dog!
2. I saw Mrs Cheney, I saw Dubya....who exactly is generalling this war?? Certainly not the curious monkey ...Oh that's right! The man behind the curtain....President Dick..yeehaw Dicky, Ride them boys out!
3. MOST IMPORTANTLY What I found MOST nauseating about the whole charade, DUBYA DELIVERED HIS EXCERCISE IN ECCENTRICITY ON THE DAY OF INFAMY. That fool did not pause his conversation with Barney and his new sister to spare a thought for all the Americans who lost their lives on Pearl Harbor day. Have we forgotten Pearl Harbor Day? Second in gross devastation only to 911? Shall we forget 911 next? How about Beirut Lebanon and the holocaust and the 1st British Invasion and the Trail of Tears? Shall we forget Birmingham?
I am thoroughly offended.
1. I don't have time to make a video Christmas card of my kids, never mind my freaking dog, and I'm merely Commanding Officer of my own domain. How is it that the leader of the free world has time to chat with dogs in the oval office? Let's see, foreign dignitaries and heads of state, presidential cabinet...Barney the dog!
2. I saw Mrs Cheney, I saw Dubya....who exactly is generalling this war?? Certainly not the curious monkey ...Oh that's right! The man behind the curtain....President Dick..yeehaw Dicky, Ride them boys out!
3. MOST IMPORTANTLY What I found MOST nauseating about the whole charade, DUBYA DELIVERED HIS EXCERCISE IN ECCENTRICITY ON THE DAY OF INFAMY. That fool did not pause his conversation with Barney and his new sister to spare a thought for all the Americans who lost their lives on Pearl Harbor day. Have we forgotten Pearl Harbor Day? Second in gross devastation only to 911? Shall we forget 911 next? How about Beirut Lebanon and the holocaust and the 1st British Invasion and the Trail of Tears? Shall we forget Birmingham?
I am thoroughly offended.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Good God Delta Hotel has the endurance of a herd of oxen on phen phen. If we could enter him an a vaccilating contest the way one might enter a hot dog eating contest, we'd be sportin the blue ribbon.
I say,F@#K it, I am just going to rewrite my own future. No more hangin on his kite string. Hold on, gotta take this call, it's Gloria Gaynor...
I say,F@#K it, I am just going to rewrite my own future. No more hangin on his kite string. Hold on, gotta take this call, it's Gloria Gaynor...
Monday, December 05, 2005
Let me explain
I'll start with the moral of the story: be careful what you wish for.
As you may know, Delta Hotel has been 180 lbs of walking stress for me lately. It was only natural that I should crave a spa weekend. And it followed that I should plan it, price it, pack for it, so that at a moments notice I could storm out in a fit of anguish and run away. To a spa vacation. In the Berkshires. At Canyon Ranch. OK, not Canyon Ranch because it's like $1200 a night, but another, more austere but way new age place called Kripalu. Anyway.
Delta Hotel's vacillating got my guts all worked up because apparently my gallbladder created a great big pearl of bile, blocked my ducts and pissed of my pancreas. That's the theory. I DID NOT require surgery, though I was assigned 2 personal surgeons who approached me with bloody scalpels and wicked grins.
These are the things that cause gallstones (BLECH) in someone as youthful as myself 1. Lot's of pregnancies 2. Losing weight too fast (yeah right) 3. STRESS I repeat STRESS 4. fatty foods 5. starving yourself to death because Delta Hotel has STRESSED you out 6. Not enough excercise 7. STRESSSSSSSSS I have an appointment with the surgeon tommorow for an upper GI test.
Back to the moral: Don't just be careful what you wish for, BE SPECIFIC. I got my spa vacation. Not quite the one I was looking for, but it was a restful (read drugged) weekend.
I don't know yet what the real problem is, but if you run in to Delta Hotel, make sure and tell him you think STRESS causes gallbladder insult. Why? Because I'm still trying to wheedle a real spa vacation out of the deal.
As you may know, Delta Hotel has been 180 lbs of walking stress for me lately. It was only natural that I should crave a spa weekend. And it followed that I should plan it, price it, pack for it, so that at a moments notice I could storm out in a fit of anguish and run away. To a spa vacation. In the Berkshires. At Canyon Ranch. OK, not Canyon Ranch because it's like $1200 a night, but another, more austere but way new age place called Kripalu. Anyway.
Delta Hotel's vacillating got my guts all worked up because apparently my gallbladder created a great big pearl of bile, blocked my ducts and pissed of my pancreas. That's the theory. I DID NOT require surgery, though I was assigned 2 personal surgeons who approached me with bloody scalpels and wicked grins.
These are the things that cause gallstones (BLECH) in someone as youthful as myself 1. Lot's of pregnancies 2. Losing weight too fast (yeah right) 3. STRESS I repeat STRESS 4. fatty foods 5. starving yourself to death because Delta Hotel has STRESSED you out 6. Not enough excercise 7. STRESSSSSSSSS I have an appointment with the surgeon tommorow for an upper GI test.
Back to the moral: Don't just be careful what you wish for, BE SPECIFIC. I got my spa vacation. Not quite the one I was looking for, but it was a restful (read drugged) weekend.
I don't know yet what the real problem is, but if you run in to Delta Hotel, make sure and tell him you think STRESS causes gallbladder insult. Why? Because I'm still trying to wheedle a real spa vacation out of the deal.
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeere's Didi
Being in the hospital for three days is no fun. Being in the hospital for three days under the intraveinous influence of diloten and morphine is fun.
OK. Thursday night I went to writing group (holla Niblets) even though I felt like some devil had skewered me by the bellybutton. I was barely home an hour when I was whisked off to the emergency room which, if you didn't know, is a perpetual United Nations convention. First I was checked in by an Irish woman from West VA. My wonderful male nurse in the ER was a very flashy and sophisticated and KIND Pakistani whose sole mission was to keep me comfortable and sedated. He played with my hair, told me stories, arranged my johnnie, kept me comfortably drugged and could stick an IV in less time than I can clear my throat, then I had this great CHinese doctor who might be my personal guardian angel. Each and every time I go to the ER in the middle of the night, this doctor fixes things. He's stitched and soothed us all more than my own doctor has. The on call sugeon was some kind of south american, kind of Rico Suave cool, WAY too young to be a surgeon despite his spectacles, but he seemed competent anyway. So, later my nurse had me admitted to the maternity ward because they have the very best rooms, and my nurse was Russian and she had a very clever sense of humor. "Vhy should I sink you must haff baby to be in maternity vard?" HA! My tech, who took my blood and/or pressure and temp every five seconds was Mexican, the woman who brought me food even though I was on a strict order that no substance should pass my lips was Brazillian. My Surgeon AND Doctor were Indian. Of course, when I told my doctor that the diloten made me want to build a condo out of chocolate in the heart of NYC, she made me switch to demerol, which is not NEARLY as fun. But I digress. THe point is, the grimace of pain is universal. And the healing touch transcends language. We are all human.
OK. Thursday night I went to writing group (holla Niblets) even though I felt like some devil had skewered me by the bellybutton. I was barely home an hour when I was whisked off to the emergency room which, if you didn't know, is a perpetual United Nations convention. First I was checked in by an Irish woman from West VA. My wonderful male nurse in the ER was a very flashy and sophisticated and KIND Pakistani whose sole mission was to keep me comfortable and sedated. He played with my hair, told me stories, arranged my johnnie, kept me comfortably drugged and could stick an IV in less time than I can clear my throat, then I had this great CHinese doctor who might be my personal guardian angel. Each and every time I go to the ER in the middle of the night, this doctor fixes things. He's stitched and soothed us all more than my own doctor has. The on call sugeon was some kind of south american, kind of Rico Suave cool, WAY too young to be a surgeon despite his spectacles, but he seemed competent anyway. So, later my nurse had me admitted to the maternity ward because they have the very best rooms, and my nurse was Russian and she had a very clever sense of humor. "Vhy should I sink you must haff baby to be in maternity vard?" HA! My tech, who took my blood and/or pressure and temp every five seconds was Mexican, the woman who brought me food even though I was on a strict order that no substance should pass my lips was Brazillian. My Surgeon AND Doctor were Indian. Of course, when I told my doctor that the diloten made me want to build a condo out of chocolate in the heart of NYC, she made me switch to demerol, which is not NEARLY as fun. But I digress. THe point is, the grimace of pain is universal. And the healing touch transcends language. We are all human.
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