Greetings From Cell Block N2144

Sooooo sorry I haven't posted in a while!  Life takes over, doesn't it?

You know, every time I read an apology like that on someone else's blog I just roll my eyes and think, "Whatever..."  So lets back that up and just pretend I didn't actually apologize and that I am just a lazy jerk.

OK, seriously, folks, I've had the weirdest time lately.  Thanksgiving was OK, nothing too spectacular, and the four days off of work were fairly lovely--lots of sitting around was done, which was nice.  I also got a lot of knitting done!  And even took pictures of it!

Stunned, silent, aren't you?

And then, I don't know, the planets lined up and I decided to be frumpy and unhappy and told my husband that I think I need to move out.  

Huh?  

Do I want  to move out?  Not really. No, I think I can honestly say that I do not want to move out. Well, not today, anyway.  Yesterday, I did.   Apparently I am just insane and was trying to get my husband excited about the fact that I exist, or something.

Of course, that trick never works.  How did he react?  Well, he sort of shrugged and said, "at least this marriage was more fun than the last one..."

Dude...such a wrong answer.

But why do we women do that damsel-in-distress-come-rescue-me-tell-me-that-you-think-I'm-amazing thing?  Why do we inflict these tests upon men and become horrified when they fail miserably?  Would it be better to have never known that he didn't really care one way other the other whether I was in the house at any given minute?  Should I have just continued, acting as if he thought I was fabulous and never worrying if it was true?

Anyway...we have this guy that we go to, one of the many long-suffering medical professionals in our lives, who occasionally consents to listen to us vent about our stupid selves--we'll call him "M".  (What?  "Dr. Doogie" was taken...).  So the hubby finally says, "do you want to talk it over with M?"

Classic girl response:  "No, dear, I want YOU to WANT to talk it over with M.  Duh!"

I know we are from different planets.  I get that.  I am beginning to think that perhaps both sexes are completely bug-nuts, though.  How can you have a conversation like that and be considered sane?  I mean,' hi, I'm going to give you a very carefully worded "threat" like that is an OK thing, and you are going to just sigh and say, "oh, well," because you are going to assume that I am bluffing and take some kind of sick delight in making me suck it up and stick to my word?'

God, we're awful.  So stupid.

Relationships are hard.  They are especially hard when you are someone like me, who expects to be adored, and the whole world says "ho-hum".

Last night, DH and I went to a dinner, which was attended by various singles and couples, and there was one couple there whom we both enjoy very much.  After the dinner, my husband and the other husband had a meeting, so we girls headed for home.  I was sent on my way by my husband in a perfectly pleasant and civil way, and as I walked out to my car, alone, I witnessed the other husband helping his wife on with her coat, and walking her out to her car.  It was so sweet, I could hardly bear it, and even though two seconds earlier it hadn't occurred to me that I would want or need someone to help me on with my coat or walk me to my car, I found myself a little annoyed by the fact that I did not have those things.

Just another clear indication that I am impossible.

So, as it sits, I may be forcing myself out of house and home, all because it never occurred to me that I wasn't wanted.  You know what they say about assumptions....

And Speaking Of Gratitude...

I got "yelled" at the other day at work for using that disgusting American slang phrase "no problem" with customers, and I was advised that it was an unprofessional thing to say. Instead, I should say "you’re welcome".

*sigh*

Not that I ever sit and stew about things when someone feels the need to correct my behavior...

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GAH! What? "No Problem" is slang? Since when? How can a person even suggest such a thing?

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Not obsessive...

After being corrected, I , of course, began to realize just how often I use the phrase, "no problem". Starting with, oh, I dunno...EVERY SINGLE TIME ANYONE EVER THANKED ME FOR ANYTHING, EVER.

It’s just what I say, instead of "You’re welcome."

But I tried–I really, really tried. I tried to say "You’re welcome," and found that the words get caught in my throat:

Me: "Here you go!" (Read: "Ta-Dah!")
They: "Oh, Thank You!"
Me: "Gack!...Sputter!...Gag!"

I have come to the conclusion that the phrase "you’re welcome" goes against everything that is important to me in this world, and undermines the very spirit of giving which it claims to support.

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Not obsessive.

"You’re welcome" screams "Yay me! I have taken myself out of my comfort zone, lowered myself to the very dirt I claim to rise above, and have done someone a huge favor. I am awesome! Awesome!"

Whereas, "No Problem" says exactly what you think: "Really, its no problem. Your request in no way bothered or inconvenience me, and I am happy to help. It is not a problem."

"You’re welcome" has a superiority complex. It rolls its eyes at a cry for assistance, and implies "you owe me" at the end of an uncomfortable exchange.

"No problem" is about as easy as easy-going can get. "No problem" quietly assures you not to worry about it–don’t you have enough to worry about already?

Which would you rather hear?

I’m so glad I have this blog so I don’t have to go off on my boss about stupid crap like the benefits of saying "No problem" over the implied evil of "you’re welcome."

Because I am not obsessive. And I would never do that. (heh...)

Still, "no problem " is not currently allowed, so the sputtering continues at a bank in Northern Minnesota. I find myself staring like a deer in headlights when someone offers me gratitude. I end up saying stupid things like, "Uh...thank YOU for being a customer/being born/wearing that shirt today!" all because I am too set in my ways to say the words you’re and welcometogether at the same time.

Because you are not welcome–it’s no problem.

What if it IS a problem? I still say that it isn’t. Why? Because I don’t like to dwell on the largess of my generosity. Or lack thereof, if that happens to be the case. Say, for example, some selfish asshole keeps returning to the endless fountain of giving, hands outstretched, demanding more, more and more. I’m tired of him, and maybe I secretly hate him a little. Or maybe I hate him overtly, and a lot. Does it ultimately matter to anyone other than me? Even if I’m sitting at (ha!) "Happy Hour", venting to friends and co-workers about the jerk-face, do I hold onto the ugly any longer than the time it takes me to find the bottom of a martini glass? Or do I just let Karma take care of him?

Really, it’s not a problem. Or, more specifically, in this case, not MY problem. If there are any problems left after vodka is poured, they will be property of the Jerk-Face himself, not me.

And that, loosely translated, means, "No Problem."

Holiday Past, uh...Post

This year was easily the ugliest Thanksgiving dinner I have ever made. I happen to be a good cook, and turkey dinner is the dee-dee-dee of all dinners, because a trained squirrel could make this, and I've done it while asleep/on drugs a couple of times with outstanding results, but for some reason, this year, there were no attractive foods on the table.

Sourdough rolls were ugly. Pumpkin pie cheesecake was ugly. Dressing? Kinda ugly. Ok, actually, quite scary-looking. Those mashed potatoes that you do in the crock pot with enough dairy products in one serving to support the Great State of Cheese for at least the next 12-14 months? Just damned unattractive.

I'm not sure exactly how this happened. Everything tasted good, and the wine was flowing so you know, no complaints.

It was all just, uninspired.

But as much as this particulary holiday is about the food, it's not about the food. It's about the fact that the word "plenty" comes nowhere near to describing the abundance in our world, and by "our" world, I do mean the cushy little outpost here on the shore of the inland sea where hardly anybody is ever really hungry, ever.

I live in gratitude, daily, and am glad that there is a yearly nod to this sentiment on a national level. I don't hate Thanksgiving, save for the stupid television commercials and hard shove down the stairs that is the "Holiday Shopping Season". I don't pine for Thanksgivings of my youth--I don't think that they were any more thankful than the one that we just experienced, though I do miss my grandmother Roseanna's home and my delightful aunts and uncles gathering and laughing. The closest I got to that this year was an hour-long telephone conversation with my sister while she drove from her home in New Jersey to some friends' house in Connecticut for her own, longstanding and meaningful tradition.

I guess this year, more than any other, it all didn't seem to matter much, and maybe that was, in fact, because I can do this blindfolded. It is all so easy. Automatic. Perhaps I am secretly wondering, "what's next?" Or how do I make it as memorable to people who experience Thanksgiving at my house as certain things were to me during holidays past? Like the sound of my uncle Bob teasing his siblings, or my grandmother wagging a finger at any one of her adult sons who are sneaking bits of dinner before it is time? Those things are permanently etched in my brain.

It is hard to combine families and have Yours, Mine and Ours traditions, because you simply cannot do them all, so you end up spinning the big wheel to see which of them survive your union, and in the process, you lose things that you didn't know even mattered, until it was too late. This year, for example, my ex wanted the have our kids at his family holiday, which left me the only person in my own house who is not a blood relative of any other person here. I'm the stepmother. Felt a bit like a glorified servant, stuck in the kitchen, because I shared virtually no history with the people in the other rooms. Such an odd feeling to have in one's own home.

I think the food was ugly because there was nobody present who didn't eat my cooking all the time. No "Ta-Dah's", no "wow, everything looks great". Just, no big deal.

Though I have never felt it before, I find myself longing for the sound of my grandmother's sweet, chirping voice, good-naturedly shooing people in or out of her kitchen. That may be me one day. In fact, if she has anything to do with it, I am sure it will be. In the mean time, remind me to never let my children out of my grasp on a holiday. You can bet Roseanna never would have, and she left me so much because of it.

10 Questions Your Best Friend Would Ask You.

I have been meaning to do this for a while, and finally asked Barb to "give it up".  It is kind of a meme, only, it's a joint meme, of sorts.  Go ahead, ask YOUR best friend!  (Barb's questions and comments are bold)

 

10 Questions your best friend would ask you.

1. Will you perm my hair?   (You are trusted whether you are a hair stylist
or not. :))   This is kind of funny.  I remember perming Barb's hair once, but don't remember if she ever permed mine, though I did have a perm or two or three back in the day.  Barb?  Any recollection of this?  And, as evidenced by MY hair, I'm not so very good at the hairstyle thing.

2. Do you have $5.00 I can borrow  (you usually do and never bug to pay it
back)  I'm perpetually broke.  5 Dollars.  FIVE DOLLARS??  Are you kidding?  But my philosophy is this--never lend, just give.  That way, you never have to worry about getting it back, and it returns to you in some other way.  Karma, baby...

3. Will you help me move?  (whether it is 50 below or 90 degrees you help)  It is ONLY 50 below when either one of us moves, isn't it?  OK, the last time I moved, it was in March, so, not so bad.  Moving just sucks, though, no matter what.  I do notice that every time I need to fix something on my car, it is always the dead of Winter, however...especially alternators.  WTF?

4. Will you got to the * blank* concert with me? I have two tickets and my
hubby/gf doesn't want to go?  (This is fun and has happened numerous times) Our dates are so unreliable, aren't they, Barb?  Or, we just don't want to expose them to our bad "out" behavior, like they have no idea what kind of crap we are up to.  La-la-la-la-la...don't mind us, just flirting with the usher/bartender/random cute person...

5. Do you like my new boyfriend/girlfriend?    (usually it is yes, and you
are thrilled)  Oh, come on!  You have NOT liked them all!  HA!  Some of them, I didn't even like...yours is genuinely likable, though.  Totally sweet person.

6. Am I crazy for thinking that? (this is preceded by running on about
something that is bugging, or is a problem, you answer no and totally understand
where they are coming from)  The answer is always YES!  OK, no, it is never "yes".  We understand each other.

7. Do you want to go study?  (This involves no studying, goofing off, eating
junk, and laughing your ass off.)  Barb and I became somewhat famous for NOT studying, and choosing instead to use our time playing cards and eating licorice in the 2nd floor lounge at Grantham Hall.

 

OK, that and yelling out our dorm room window at random cute people who were walking by.  I was particularly found of a TKE name Tim, who looked just like Neil Finn and was painfully shy.  I'm pretty sure he hated my guts, or I just frightened him.

 

There was one exceedingly beautiful boy who happened to be as dumb as a box of tomatoes (Barb will remember him) who, when you called to him, you had to be sure that he wasn't walking near any "hazards", like a light pole or a curb or something, lest he should look at you and make a misstep and mess up that gorgeous mug in some way.  I saw him riding a bike once and my heart skipped a beat, not because he was cute, but because I was afraid that he might crash. 

 

OK, I just remembered his name--Bruce.  Beautiful Bruce.  To pretty to walk upright.  Right now, Barb is reading this and laughing.

8. Am I a good cook?  ( Yes they are, and you on the other hand can't good
for crap. Wanna eat out?)  I just noticed, this very second, that Barb has NEVER COOKED ME ANYTHING!  WTF?  20-odd years, and no cooking?  OK, just kidding.  Luckily, your hunny is a chef, and she feeds me well...

9. Do I look good in this? ( You are honest and say yes, and they say you
look great too and you go back and forth saying how beautiful you each are and end up being late)  I can honestly say that I don't recall Barb ever looking bad in anything, ever.  You are FAB-ulous, dahling!

10. What's up? How was your day? ( You are brutally honest, you hate your
job, boss, car, blah, blah but after talking, you feel much better)  Best friends are like the Vent-O-Rama, aren't they?  Everything is crazy, you call them, you spew, and then you're fine...isn't it great?
 

 

There you have it, people!  Now, go forth and pester!

Arrow Through Me

I was listening to Paul McCartney's Flower's In The Dirt the other day when I decided (because I'm a freak and this is the crap I think about) that even though "My Brave Face" says McCartney/MacManus on the writing credits, this is TOTALLY an Elvis Costello song because only Elvis Costello would have crammed the uber-wordy line "ever since you left I have been trying to compose a 'baby will you please come home' note meant for you" into the, oh, let's see, bar and a half (?) of music where it sits on the song. Love that.

I remember there being much jumping up and down and squealing and carrying on when it was announced that Elvis Costello was recording with Paul McCartney. OK, in the interest of full disclosure, that was me carrying on, while my friends watched, shook their heads and wondered why anybody would care about this.

There are some artists that I am a bit sensitive about. Maybe the whole "mommy" thing takes over and I feel like I must give them my absolute, unconditional support because, damn it, they need it and/or they have earned it. Elvis Costello has been one of those artists, from the very first note I ever heard him play or sing. I actually actively dislike people who claim not to like him. I figure they are just being lazy and have never bothered to listen.

Anyway, when one of my little pets does some widely publicized project with someone who is wildly famous across the entire planet and beyond, I always think that is cool. And Paul had been a staple on my bedroom wall and record player for many, many years by that time. Consequently, Flowers In The Dirt was very exciting.

When it came out, a couple of things happened: First, I realized that my lifetime hero, a man I had literally been listening to every day since my birth in 1966, was actually a human being, capable of occasional mis-judgement.

Damn.

"Luke, I am your father...."

Second, and this came a bit later, I realized that despite being "human", Paul McCartney must have indeed had a pretty brave face to say "yes" to working with Elvis Costello. And, if the collaboration was Paul's idea, then he was actually beyond brave. It was practically (uncharacteristically), leanly artistic of him.

Why? Well, I thought (and I still think it, all these years later when I listen to that album) that standing in such close proximity to Elvis Costello made Paul McCartney seem tired. I have to believe that Paul felt it too, at the time--I think he panicked. There is a lot of frantic carrying-on on that record that doesn't need to be there. The songs have good structure, but Paul didn't just let them be what they were--he forced and fucked around with them and half-buried them in gobbledegook (I understand that to be the proper Scottish spelling of that particular word...).

I do remain a Macca loyalist, and it's not as if he suddenly stopped being likeable one day back in the late 80's. I will admit that I listen to everything with a totally different ear now than I did before that album, and that I do prefer everything Paul recorded before Flowers In The Dirt to most things recorded after. I think I may have actually bummed myself out by listening to that album again! (such a freak...please ignore me...I'm just not normal. Except for the Dark Side reference, that was funny...)

To shake the bugger, I'm listening to ancient recordings today, and re-aligning my brain to somewhere around the Back To The Egg era. I was 13 or 14 then, not quite so jaded. ;-) That was back when Linda sang on all the albums, and it was all OK, in a sweet, harmless, pop music way...

It Is My Understanding...

That he makes movies of some note, as well...

Sat down to dinner tonight to the question (from a kid), "You're having wine with pizza?"



Children are so cute, aren't they?

(Seriously, the Syrah-Shiraz? Buy it.)

Found the cats. Seems they were all hiding in plain sight on the ugly upholstery.

Oh Justin...

The only man on the planet who can get away dead Beatles jokes without me losing all respect for him. Gawd, I fucking love/HATE him! Justin, you always get a pass from me. I'm such a softie...Get your ass to the States, would you? You can sleep on my living room floor. I'll make soup. You'll be so uninspired, it will be inspiring.


A Beginner's Guide to Songwriting, by Justin Currie
(From his My Space blog, shamelessly stolen.) [What's he going to do? Call me a name? Bring it, tough guy...]
Current mood: Impregnated with diseased intolerance

As there are so many frequently asked questions I receive through this site I thought it might be useful to set out a few standard answers in the blog section to save everybody time. I shall deal firstly with the issue of songwriting, a subject about which I know virtually nothing but am constantly quizzed upon by those presumably even more talentless than I. Of course, remarkable ignorance of a topic has never prevented me from expounding upon it at length before and I see no reason why it should stop me now.

1. Mood, Environment and Ambience
The first step in the manufacture of a successful song is the manipulation of the composer's mood. Critically, he (or she but for the sake of convenience I shall stick to the masculine singular) must be hungry. Very hungry. Try missing breakfast. Then lunch and dinner (and if applicable) supper. Keep this up for two months (liquids will be required - but avoid vodka). The nascent writer should now be ready to begin. If he should feel too weak to maintain an upright sitting position he should have a couple of pints of stout followed by some Diocalm. Now he must carefully attenuate his surroundings. Turn the lights down low, draw the curtains and handcuff the cat to a convenient radiator pipe. Light a scented candle or if he wishes a cigar. The scene is now set and the hour of inspiration is upon him.

2. Keys and Tempi
Our budding musical poet must now make his first creative decision. Which key should he select for this, his premier opus? Well, there is a simple solution here. E major. This is the only true key worth messing around with. All the greatest songs are in E major except "Yesterday" and "Where Do You Go To My Lovely?" which are in F major - only a semi-tone away so who's quibbling? Then he must choose a tempo. Tempo is another word for velocity which literally means the amount of time it will take for the beats and words in a song to be used up when fired from a loudspeaker at a membrane such an eardrum or a pair of tights. Usually a medium tempo will be required in order to balance the opposing forces of the excitement quotient and the decipherment index. If our composer is actually ravenous to the point of imminent expiry then a high tempo may be chosen.

3. Subject Matter
We will now be ready to impose a subject matter onto our mid-tempo E major framework. Subject matter is to the song what filling is to a toastie or if you will, toasted sandwich. Unlike key and tempo the writer here is free to choose from a vast range of possible options. He might wish to sing about his house. Or his fridge. Or if he has neither of these his sleeping bag or his ditch. It really doesn't matter. However most successful compositions address only one of two subjects. The "bitch/bastard has left me" theme and the "Oh, look at that flower - it puts me in mind of my dead Mother" theme. If our lyricist sticks to these he can't go far wrong.

4. Titles
The name of a song is the second most important thing after the fact of it existing at all. In fact it might be said that it is more important than that, in that without a name a song might be said not properly to exist. "Song 2" by Blur is a good example of this in that the absence of a real title means that other than some drunken oafish student screeching, "Woo-Hoo!" every time it is played on the tawdry union jukebox the song itself represents a kind of vacuum or "anti-song". A title will work best if it is closely linked with the "Subject Matter" (see above). For example "Paranoid Android" by Radiohead is a GOOD title because the song is indeed about a paranoid android. Ditto "Take Me Out" by Franz Ferdinand which takes the form of a polite request to an attractive girl to escort the singer to a restaurant and "I'm a Cuckoo" by Belle and Sebastian which is perfectly self-explanatory. The beginner should probably avoid deviating from this technique lest he finds himself in terrible semantic bother. "Atmosphere" by Joy Division serves as a great lesson here in that that particular song, confusingly, is not about the atmosphere at all (we must remember Ian Curtis would have been blissfully unaware of global warming in 1979) but instead is about an imbecile having an argument with his deaf girlfriend.

5. Metaphor and Simile
Here are two very dangerous and often misunderstood approaches to the communication of ideas in a song. Metaphor happens when a writer tries to say one thing but says something else entirely different by mistake. For example the writer may say, "my cup runneth over", meaning, "I have filled my cup far too full" but many a listener will interpret this to mean "I have the shits" or possibly, "I haven't bought a round for three hours and I'm completely pissed". We can see here, I believe what a potentially damaging thing metaphor can be.Likewise, simile, where the writer might liken his girlfriend's face to an item of furniture (e.g. "When she smiles at me she looks like a sofa") can mislead the listener in ways not intended by the author. Many people, including myself were completely perplexed the first time we heard "Like a Rolling Stone" by Bob Dylan, "Your Love is Like Las Vegas" by The Thrills, and "I Heard It Through the Grapevine" by every other fucker under the sun.

6. Structure
Structure, by which we mean the scaffolding of a song, is an often terribly overlooked part of the business of songwiting. As in a human skeleton, certain parts must come before certain others or the whole venture will collapse like a cheaply built high-rise public housing project. If we put the skull at the bottom, for example and the breasts at the top, our "human" is going to walk around with a very sore head and cold nipples!So, where does our Mozart begin? Well let him look back on what he has established so far. He has the key of E. He has a medium tempo and he has a title that closely corresponds with his subject matter and a refreshing absence of metaphors. Firstly he must sing the title repeatedly until he starts to feel sick. Then he must make up some gobbledegook that lasts about thirty seconds before repeating his title interminably or until he passes out. This is an example of the classic "verse/chorus" structure. He may wish to add a little colour or "complexity" by inserting a bit of frantic yelling toward the end of minute two. This is called a "middle eight". Some examples of BAD structure can be heard in "She Belongs to Me" (all gobbledegook, no title), "There She Goes" (all title, not enough gobbledegook) and that shit one about the bicycles in China.

7. Strangeness - Obscurity versus Clarity
Having established his title, subject and structure our composer might now wish to consider the very useful device known as "strangeness". Let's say he wants to sing about his feelings for a friend. Let's say his friend is called Sean, who is mean and makes our author sad. He might write "Sean, you cunt, where's that twenty you owe me" and be well pleased with that. But imagine he employs some strangeness here and changes the word "twenty" to the word "leopard". Do we see how much more powerful it will be? Remember, "leopard" here is not a metaphor; it is simply "strange". Think how much more prosaic these great hit songs would have been in the absence of applied strangeness. "When a Man Loves a Human", "Ain't No Building High Enough", "Don't You Desire Me, Baby" and "You're Pitiful".

8. Melody
We have so far dealt mainly with lyrical and narrative concepts but let us now turn to our tune. Our songwriter will have developed already many of the important facets of making a hit but now must address a key component in his song's "listenability" - the melody. A melody is a sequence of notes (remember all in E major) at least one of which is different from the others. An example of this is "It's the End of the World as We Know It" by REM where one note is employed in the verse section and another two added for the chorus ("title") section. Alternatively the writer can use a different note for every word until he runs out and has to start again. Remember there are only eight available notes so for the sake of avoiding repetition it may be advisable to have eight or less words in each section. If we applied this to the aforementioned REM track the verse would resemble a kind of nauseous carousel ride of insanity and thus be vastly improved.

9. Harmony
Harmony is a complicated musical device whereby notes entirely different from those in the melody are played or sung simultaneously. A ubiquitous example of this can be found every time people sing "Happy Birthday to You" and invariably some knob-head pipes in with a fancy cadence on the last line and makes you want to throttle him. From this we can see that "harmony" is, like metaphor and simile, a thing best avoided. British group The Beatles famously employed harmony so frequently and obsessively that one of their members was attacked with a knife and another shot on his front path.

10. How to Test a Finished Song's Quality
A song is "finished" when the writer can't think of anything else to add, dies of hunger or is told to shut the fuck up by his Mum. How then can a nascent songsmith find out if his debut creation is a "hit" or a "complete disaster". Well, if he has followed these steps carefully and precisely we may be certain it is the former. However it is a wise precaution to "test" the song before foisting it upon people in a public arena. A "test" might take the form of playing the song to a friend. Do they blanche? Or turn bright red? Do they back out of the room? Are they instantly involuntarily sick? If so it may be advisable to "tweak" or subtly alter some of the song's components. Add some strangeness perhaps, delete a note here or there or add a semi-colon before the word "spectacles". In this way a song can be slowly modified, improved and refined. For example "Loser" by crap Scientologist hippy tit Beck was originally titled "I'm a Lame Excuse for an Artist and My Mum's Got Fleas". The modification may be subtle but we can see its obvious effectiveness.

Finally, a seminal tip. If no one likes you and you are a conceited selfish little egoist, if you have severe social inclusion issues due to your essential pointlessness then as a last resort write some pretty songs. This will fool them for a while and if you're as jammy as me, you might even get repulsively rich doing it.

An appropriate birthday greeting...


Happy Birthday Kat!!!

OK, to be honest, this only applies to ME, not you! ;-)

Please, Just One Less Grouchy Person...

...I'm begging you.

I know, this is a strange request coming from a curmudgeon. Like, I have a lock on the whole moody thing. For some reason, everyone I talked to today at work today was a grump.

Except for Barb.

Barb is my best friend, and she spent the day sending me pictures via e-mail from her cushy funeral home gig in Mpls. Check it out:

George
George
George and some random chick Barb failed to identify...
Hmmm....George...

Yet another cute boy who looks like my brother, Doug...

So, do you think she likes him much? Actually, the quote from one of her e-mails had something to do with George being "cutest thing on two feet" or something. Barb, we'll talk...

Hey...

At least she wasn't grouchy. Love you Barb! Please let George get some rest, now...

All Else Is Bondage

I read this quote some weeks ago and threw it in The Points for future consideration.  Sometimes, when I tuck things away and revisit them later, I find that they aren't as interesting, or they don't mean as much to me the second time around.  This one, I have come back to a few times, and I still think it is important:

 

 

Let us live gladly! Quite certainly we are free to do it. Perhaps it is our only freedom, but ours it is, and it is only phenomenally a freedom. 'Living free' is being 'as one is'. Can we not do it now? Indeed can we not-do-it? It is not even a 'doing': it is beyond doing and not-doing. It is being as-we-are. This is the only 'practice'. 'All Else is Bondage; Non-Volitional Living' --- Wei Wu Wei

 

 

Love it.

Some Of My Lies Are True

Got a funny e-mail the other day, and it turned out to be just like doing a meme! Thanks for sending it, Rae!


Dear Shelly,

I've read your blog top to bottom and I have some questions. I know you are a writer and that some of this stuff is made up. Is any of it true? I'm most interested in these items:

1. Is 101 Reasons Why Pissing Me Off Could Be The Stupidest Thing You Do Today a real essay? And if it is, could you please post it?
That particular "essay" was actually never written. It was a joke from "Becoming Sane", which you can read with the link on the right hand of the page, under Favorite Posts. I think if you take Cats and Yarn and compress and edit it, you would have more than 101 Reasons.

2. Ever write for money?
Every job I have ever had involved writing or editing of some kind. Except bartending. Wait--I'm going to take that back. We'll include bartending. I figure any time you have to think on your feet, you're writing. Ever try to talk a drunk out of following you home? You're writing.

3. Which of the following characters are real? Sainted Assistant Jennie? Dr. Doogie? Late Night Diner Waiter With Prison Tattoo? Stepdaughter? Distractingly Sexy Boy?
All of these characters are real human beings--names changed to protect...well, me, I guess. Sainted Assistant Jennie is a real living saint who was an assistant in my office for 4 years. Since I have the tendency to stomp around like a Great Dane thundering through a tulip bed and Jennie not only survived the experience but also lived to become one of my best friends, she is indeed, Sainted Assistant Jennie. Only now she isn't an assistant--just Jennie. Distractingly Sexy Boy and Late Night Waiter are both ex's of mine. We won't talk about them more than is necessary. Stepdaughter, of course, is my stepdaughter, who actually exists. Can't talk about her much and still maintain a decent blood pressure, so we'll let that go for now. Who is left? Dr. Doogie--he's my internist. A man with a bottomless pit of patience and a good sense of humor, thank God.

4. Is your doctor really as cute as you say?
He is quite unbearable! When he rolls into the exam room in that tweed jacket, you forget why you're there, seriously. I'd love to post a picture of him, but I am sure he would not be OK with that, and his wife might want to step on my head or something. Maybe I deserve it, but I'm mostly harmless. The funny thing is that Dr. Doogie is blonde, and I have never really found blond men to be all that attractive--just a personal thing. Maybe he is cute because he is a good guy--Karmic Cute.

5. How many times have you fired him, really?
That is a longstanding joke between us. I tell him that "Every day I have a headache, you are so fired." Of course, since I have a headache most days, he is pretty much fired all the time. I fired him the first time when I was 35 and he used the phrase "of a certain age" in a sentence. I fired him about 27 times last year--we just saw way too much of each other. I think I will have to see him again sometime in a month or so, and I'm sure he's saving up all of his smart-ass comments for this occasion, meaning, I may have to fire him again...

6. You joke a lot about pain killers and booze. What's the deal?
I don't mean to make light of anything, and believe me when I tell you that I am quite serious about pain relief. I have a neurological condition and I am in a weird state most of the time--my head constantly feels like I just got done blowing up 800 party balloons all by myself. It hurts sometimes--consequently, I do not take any actual Party Party Painkillers, because I believe if I started, I would never be able to stop. That is just the reality of having some kind of pain every day. Besides, I've never actually found one that relieves this type of pain, though they are all FABULOUS for getting loose on a weeknight. Just kidding. OK, I'm not kidding. But I've tried them, and I think I've tried them all. I currently take none--though I do have other prescriptions dealing with the other stuff involved with a leaking brain stem, or whatever the hell it is that is wrong with me. Ultimately, pain control became a case of mind over matter. How does the song go? "If you want to be somebody else, change your mind." Just a huge shift in focus, and it works OK for now. I joke because if I didn't have a sense of humor about it, I'd never get out of bed. And as for the drinking, well, I do, but ultimately, I'm pretty boring...

7. Every time you talk about your brother, you give a different name. Is this to keep us on our toes? Or do you have a lot of different brothers?
Um, I have a lot of brothers--4, actually.

8. You joke about your husband being "very, very old". How old is he, really?
He is at least a hundred years older than me, and you know that I am also very, very old...

Seriously, he is 12 years older than me--refuses to age, too, so, he is a bit of a bizarre combination of Born In The Fifties and I Wish I Was 18 Again. He listens to a lot of rap and screamo music, wears a suit to work every day and is a total Republican. Completely annoying, as you can imagine.


9. It is mathematically impossible for you to have listened to Little Perennials 854,792 times since September. Any comment?
You are correct. Damn!! HA! OK, I think that number may be in reference to the song "Yes It Is" by the Beatles, which I listened to at least a dozen times a day for a very, very long stretch in my 20's. I can still hear "Please don't wear red tonight" resonating through my brain.


Rae, honey, I love getting e-mail, and I love that you read all of this, but I think you should go read a book or knit a sweater or something. First of all, staring at a computer screen long enough to read all this crap must have given you a gigantic headache. Second, well, there is no second...can I send you some painkillers? ;-)

What? Friday? Already?

• Don't you hate it when you get a song stuck in your head? I have that now. At least it isn't a sucky song.
• Warm winter things update: Wool Blend (Wool Ease) socks coming along swimmingly--1st sock of 1st pair is almost done. Since it is worsted weight yarn, the work is pretty fast. Big needles, too--it is the Dad's Easy Cable socks from Socks, Socks, Socks .
• Of course, working on the socks means I have temporarily set aside Norah Gaughan's pullover. Don't worry, Ma, I'm still cabling...
• My horoscope said today is supposed to be some kind of fiery romance day. Perhaps I should go ahead and flirt with the bag boy at the grocery store and see what happens. On second thought, maybe not--I may be too powerful.
• I am sure that I shouldn't say this, but it is a slow day at the office. (writer looks sharply up, anticipating anvil dropping)
• Also at work today (and if someone could please explain this to me, I'd be eternally grateful), a "Border Battle" dress code. Half of the people wore Green and Gold, the other half, Purple and White. Me? Blue. I'm Switzerland. Is it bad that I care so little? I don't even own one item of clothing in those colors. I had one, once (the ex was from Racine), but I gave it to DD#1, who wears it to sleep in. At the office, there are football-related contests and games, and everybody is feeling festive. Why don't I care? I am the schlub who shows up at work for...uh...I dunno...work? No, I can't find "Favre" in the Border Battle Word Search. Busy. Working. *sigh* I'm trying to be less of a freak--really, I am.
• OK, you caught me. I'm NOT all that busy. But, there are Internet Nazi's here, so, I have to write out all my posts longhand on scratch paper, and type them up when I get home--it takes up all my free time.
• Burned myself with Constant Comment Tea today. Today's comment? "Yow!!"
• Slacker mom moment of the week? Immunizations. I was advised that DD#1 was about to be KICKED OUT of school because she didn't have all of her shots, yet. Good Grief! OK, OK, I'm on it...Step up for the poke. Thank goodness my kid is so healthy that I barely need to think about this stuff...
• An office mate of mine won a prize for wearing a fine assortment of Packer gear. Wow! All this, and a paycheck, too?
• And now, I have a whole different song stuck in my head. Thought police, please shoot me...this one kind of sucks...

Cheese

I think I take the very worst "employee ID" photos ever. Seriously.

At my last job, picture day was one day after my husband had undergone quadruple bypass surgery, and I had spent the previous evening hanging around in what is decidedly the worst place on the planet, a cardiac ICU.

Oh, and I had a headache, but, you knew that already...

Worst picture, ever.

Second worst? My new employee ID. The good news is that this particular ID "expires" in 2010, at which time I apparently either get fired, or I get to destroy the employee ID, either of which will be mildly entertaining.

I am definitely one of those people who does not like to have their picture taken (as evidenced by the lack of self-portraits on this web page). Some people think that to have your photo taken is to allow someone to steal your soul. I used to think this was ridiculous, but lately, I get it. I haven't seen a photograph of myself that was taken anytime in the last five years (except the ones that I personally took) that looks anything like me. There is something missing from all of them--essence, aura, whatever. I just don't feel the way that I look in a picture. I know other people who have the same problem--you see them in person and they are delightful, but in still photos, they look kind of blank. That handsome, thoughtful brow looks grouchy without any movement. You know what I mean?

Pictures of me sort of make me cringe--I can't stand the thought that the world sees me in a way that is different from the way I see me. I know, I know...everybody has a different perspective and the whole world is out of my control. Don't worry...in my list of the 8 million things I obsess over, being photographed is pretty close to the bottom, right near whether or not I have too many pairs of shoes. Lord knows I never stress over that.

Still, whenever it comes up, my reaction to pictures of myself is strong enough to make me say "ouch". Maybe the camera not only adds 10 pounds, but also simultaneously subtracts every trace of my personality. I also notice that the older I get, the more my pictures make me look like my brother Dave. I don't feel like Dave...and what the hell is the deal with the Grandpa Oscar nose that keeps turning up? Couldn't I just look more like my mom? Or my Grandmother Roseanna? Lovely women.

Do photos of me inspire me to change things? Yes and no. Some things, I can't change, like, the way my eyes get all squinty and disappear when I smile. I understand from reliable sources that this is "cute" in person. On film, not so much.

I suppose I could lose those "10" pounds (OK, more than 10, less than 30), and maybe shave my head to solve the "I HATE my hair" thing.

Or, I could just wait it out. 2010 isn't so very far off, after all.

Due To Problems Beyond Our Control...

I WISH we could have cancelled Monday due to technical difficulties...I had enough computer problems today at work to float an ark on the help tickets. What is so great about the new job is that SOMEBODY OTHER THAN ME gets to yell at the techs. I do believe that I frightened them at my last job, what with my big mouth and extreme lack of patience and all....

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Hey, everybody--don't forget to get out to your polling place tomorrow and vote!!

Marriage is love.

Love That Girl...

Sharing the love again, as I do try to do at least once a week at least.

Tonight, I was digging deep in the Moanin' Malone collection, and I must say, the girl is damn near perfect.

I mean, perfect in a flawed, human, killer musician and singer sort of way.

She has some new music out, and they say (you know, they?) that if you listen to this on the way to work in the morning, you won't need Starbucks.

They would happen to be dead right about that. Sugarfoot will have you on your knees, smacking the floor with your palm.**

So, go visit Michelle, and if you think that web page is fun and noisy, check her out on her My Space (Thats The My Space if you're a certain southern humorist...or the president...) for some, uh, home invasion video.


**Reminds me of a funny side note--when I was in Minneapolis on Sunday, the girls reminded me of yet another dumb thing that I said once that made no sense at all--something they heard me say in a moment of passing on the radio some Sunday morning in November over 10 years ago, while they were driving up the North Shore, and they still remember it. They must really love me. Apparently, I said something about feeling "good enough to mess up my hair." Not something that I would say in normal conversation, mind you, just some kind of bizarro comment I made after dancing around the studio like a yahoo to some song I was playing way too loud. Sunday night, they quoted me, to me. How bizarre!