Original published in Ausgang under the grouping Walking.
Have directions, will travel.
My parents owned a Volkswagen Beetle back in 1974. My father, usually wordless, drove. My mother, always riding shotgun, dealt with me repeatedly whispering lyrics to my favorite songs into her left ear as I stood, leaning in from the backseat. At three-years-old, "Sunshine on My Shoulders" made me happy. Parents despite their unconditional love for their children can take only so much of such abuse. So, one afternoon my father pulled the car over to the brim of the road, and both turned to face me. Looking at them with their heads framed between the pleather seats , I realized, "Man, I loved these folks so much! The beginning and end of my little world.” Joy like that puts a song in your heart. But, before I could start, my mother cracked, "Honey, we're gonna let you out of the car here... and you can walk the rest of the way home, okay?" "Mmmm-hmmm," I replied. My father nodded. She continued, "When you get out here, you wanna head three blocks straight ahead... and, then, turn right and go about two more, okay?" "Mmmm-hmmm, " I replied. She popped the door open, hunched over the dash as I squeezed out onto the street. "Okay, we'll see you at home," she waved. My father nodded again, a shiv smile sliced his lower face open. I waved back, and headed off. They watched my little silhouette diminish into the sunset for a few moments. Maybe, they laughed their asses off. Or maybe, they sat silently, wondering why their three-year-old would just abandon ship like that. My heels hadn’t kicked up much dust before “Mommy” & “Dad” edged up beside me and told me to hop-in. I did... and promptly broke into a sultry, smoky version of "Delta Dawn". That event marks the day I became a conscientious walker. I'll blow through a pair of Campus faster than most... with pride.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Ausgang! Four!
Originally published in Ausgang under the grouping Cops.
Inspiration for a Lumpen comic.
In 1987 while visiting some relatives, the NYPD busted myself and this kid from Ithica (never asked his name) for smoking a joint and drinking a couple cans of beer in an alleyway a few blocks from Madison Square/Grand Central. The man in blue worked up a good hassle about us going to jail with all the hookers and junkies, while he earned overtime booking us. We’d have to call our parents, he said. That thought, more than being a 16-years-old girl sitting trashed in bum vomit with some guy I didn’t know, scared the crap out me. The finger-wagging seemed endless, like the sun had set and rose twice over. Then he said, “What the hell are you smiling at?” “Nothing,” I replied. I never realized that the acid I had eaten about 2 hours before kicked in, and I had just beamed up at him the whole time. After a slight pause, he smiled and said, “Don’t smoke your stuff on my beat. And, put your beer in a bag. Have a good night, kids.” We finished our beers as he walked back onto the street. Later, we went to the top of the Empire State.
- Melissa Sullivan
Inspiration for a Lumpen comic.
In 1987 while visiting some relatives, the NYPD busted myself and this kid from Ithica (never asked his name) for smoking a joint and drinking a couple cans of beer in an alleyway a few blocks from Madison Square/Grand Central. The man in blue worked up a good hassle about us going to jail with all the hookers and junkies, while he earned overtime booking us. We’d have to call our parents, he said. That thought, more than being a 16-years-old girl sitting trashed in bum vomit with some guy I didn’t know, scared the crap out me. The finger-wagging seemed endless, like the sun had set and rose twice over. Then he said, “What the hell are you smiling at?” “Nothing,” I replied. I never realized that the acid I had eaten about 2 hours before kicked in, and I had just beamed up at him the whole time. After a slight pause, he smiled and said, “Don’t smoke your stuff on my beat. And, put your beer in a bag. Have a good night, kids.” We finished our beers as he walked back onto the street. Later, we went to the top of the Empire State.
- Melissa Sullivan
Ausgang! Three!
Originally published in Ausgang under the grouping Rooftops.
The abandoned oil tanks on the lakefront fit our purposes perfectly, to smoke a bunch of weed and waste a bunch of time. Our voices echoed metallically off the inside walls of the rusty hull as we played tag in the dark. Only the moonlight spilling in from the porthole door reminded us that we hadn’t been swallowed up like Jonah. On warmer nights, a spiral staircase carried us three-stories up to its domed roof. Looking down, we surveyed all the cottonwoods lined up on the shore, intermittently projecting a dock or two. And, as we arched our backs to hug the metal sheets, we felt the stars push down towards us. If the stars were magnets, the whole tank would serve as a ship cutting through the waves of space. With our heads full of these celestial bodies and pot, no one cared if they plummeted to their deaths. Many kids in my hometown had dropped over the edges of discarded structures over the years. Mostly, those were the heshers climbing the grain elevators. But, we were goths and punks; and no matter how bad we wanted to die... we couldn’t. By the time I graduated, developers razed the tanks, fell the trees, and crumpled up the docks to build condos.
- Melissa Sullivan
The abandoned oil tanks on the lakefront fit our purposes perfectly, to smoke a bunch of weed and waste a bunch of time. Our voices echoed metallically off the inside walls of the rusty hull as we played tag in the dark. Only the moonlight spilling in from the porthole door reminded us that we hadn’t been swallowed up like Jonah. On warmer nights, a spiral staircase carried us three-stories up to its domed roof. Looking down, we surveyed all the cottonwoods lined up on the shore, intermittently projecting a dock or two. And, as we arched our backs to hug the metal sheets, we felt the stars push down towards us. If the stars were magnets, the whole tank would serve as a ship cutting through the waves of space. With our heads full of these celestial bodies and pot, no one cared if they plummeted to their deaths. Many kids in my hometown had dropped over the edges of discarded structures over the years. Mostly, those were the heshers climbing the grain elevators. But, we were goths and punks; and no matter how bad we wanted to die... we couldn’t. By the time I graduated, developers razed the tanks, fell the trees, and crumpled up the docks to build condos.
- Melissa Sullivan
Ausgang! Two!
Originally published in Ausgang under the grouping Bus Stories.
Back in 1992, I lived in the white trash neighborhood of the bad side of town. I rented a $180 apartment above an old electrician’s store front, officially zoned as office space . The heater’s pilot light never stayed lit; and the orange shag carpet hid a million dead fleas woven into the pile. But, the beer distributor two blocks away delivered for free, the pizza shop across the street baked good pepperoni balls, and the record shop kitty-corner from my front door special ordered LPs for me. So, it wasn’t all bad. I’d stay up throughout the night, contemplating if more insects crawled through the soil of the cemetery visible from my “living room” window or beneath the pavement under the dumpster of the butcher shop up the road. By 8am, these philosophical queries had me a little loopy. A twenty minute ride to my pharmacy technician. job downtown became my depleted dreamscape. I squinted past the Jeri Curl streaks, scanning the never-changing urban decay. Until one day, in a field of patchy sod, a goat bent its neck down to graze. But, then I realized it was only an abandoned shopping cart in the parking lot of a discount/close-out department store.
- Melissa Sullivan
Back in 1992, I lived in the white trash neighborhood of the bad side of town. I rented a $180 apartment above an old electrician’s store front, officially zoned as office space . The heater’s pilot light never stayed lit; and the orange shag carpet hid a million dead fleas woven into the pile. But, the beer distributor two blocks away delivered for free, the pizza shop across the street baked good pepperoni balls, and the record shop kitty-corner from my front door special ordered LPs for me. So, it wasn’t all bad. I’d stay up throughout the night, contemplating if more insects crawled through the soil of the cemetery visible from my “living room” window or beneath the pavement under the dumpster of the butcher shop up the road. By 8am, these philosophical queries had me a little loopy. A twenty minute ride to my pharmacy technician. job downtown became my depleted dreamscape. I squinted past the Jeri Curl streaks, scanning the never-changing urban decay. Until one day, in a field of patchy sod, a goat bent its neck down to graze. But, then I realized it was only an abandoned shopping cart in the parking lot of a discount/close-out department store.
- Melissa Sullivan
Ausgang! One!
Originally published in Ausgang under the grouping Jokes.
New Jokes from Melissa Sullivan.
Joke One:
What's the difference between Ian Curtis and a toaster?
A toaster doesn't hang itself in the basement!
* you can change this one up using any appliance and any famous death, like--
What's the difference between Sonny Bono and a George Forman grill?
A George Forman grill doesn't kill itself by accidently skiing into a tree!
HAHAHAHAHA!
Joke Two:
Knock, knock.
Who's there?
Oh, don't worry. It's just me, Martin Luther, nailing the 95 Theses of Contention to the door.
HAHAHAHAHAHA!
New Jokes from Melissa Sullivan.
Joke One:
What's the difference between Ian Curtis and a toaster?
A toaster doesn't hang itself in the basement!
* you can change this one up using any appliance and any famous death, like--
What's the difference between Sonny Bono and a George Forman grill?
A George Forman grill doesn't kill itself by accidently skiing into a tree!
HAHAHAHAHA!
Joke Two:
Knock, knock.
Who's there?
Oh, don't worry. It's just me, Martin Luther, nailing the 95 Theses of Contention to the door.
HAHAHAHAHAHA!
Sunday, August 24, 2008
The Mistress of the Mayor of Buffalo
Back when I was young, I didn't like kids. In a couple of decades, not much has changed. Except now, I know it is not that I didn't like them as much as I didn't understand them. However, living my life wearing a pair of friendship blinders hasn't left me friendless. Most of my currently closest friends have been in my life for close to twenty years. I can find a few exceptions to this rule, but those exceptions are still within a five plus year range. I'd love to say I don't plan on making any more friends. But, I guess no one plans on making new friends. Once I do, though, I plan on keeping them.
Back around 1978, I was living in a four flat with my mom. It was a vintage dump. It wasn't a fixer-upper. It was a letter-rotter. The landlord had no interest in anything but the rent. Because of my throbbing brain filled with decades of useless memories and data, I remember many things about this place. The hallway was covered in a velveteen wallpaper straight from the 1920's. I once had a nightstand lamp thrown across the room at me by unseen forces, bursting into flames. I had to apologize to the old sagging, clown-faced whore who lived downstairs for telling her and her lap dog to shut up. I spent nights spent making slides of urine to inspect under a low-powered microscope. Hours spent hiding in cupboards, waiting to jump out and scare people walking past. I used to lay in bed and practice not breathing, because nothing would kill you if they thought you were already dead. I figured out my theory of spontaneous combustion and Hell while living there. It goes a little something like this: spontaneous combustion is simply an act of the Devil and since the basement is the closest place in the house to Hell-- you are more likely to spontaneously combust in the basement. I would cry heading down to change the laundry over from the washer to the dryer. There are other things about that place. But, the best thing was Bev. My first best friend.
Bev Rosencrantz lived directly across the hall from me. She was probably about 78years old when we met. I was seven. We shared a wall running along the hallways in our flats. "Pound on the wall if you ever need me to call the police. And, you do the same for me. I'll be listening," Bev would tell me.
I spent every day after school with Bev. I was a latch key kid. Do they even still use that term? If they do, they shouldn't. It's a stupid term. By no means should you ever believe even the most intelligent young child is willing or capable of staying alone in a house for hours on end without incident or fear of incident. What they should be called is we-don't-have-any-other-choice-kids. But, I didn't have to worry about that once Bev and I became friends.
I would run up the stairs, throw my coat in my apartment, and then take my homework over to Bev's. As I did my homework on her marble (no, not marble TOPPED... MARBLE period) coffeetable under the light of a chandelier shaped like of a bunch of grapes, Bev would watch Guilding Light. I would be spread out in my Catholic plaids. And, Bev would be decked out in her rhinestone encrusted, velvet housecoats with a headwrap and black slippers. Bev would offer me peanut britle, and it would always be stale. Bev wouldn't eat, she would just chew on the rhinestone encrusted cigarette holders that she kept next to her chair in an unused standing ashtray.
Bev's apartment was lush. Ebony and teak dining room pieces, constantly set with goldware for six. I once saw inside her bedroom on a trek to the can. And, what would the next two sizes up from a king-sized bed be? Well, that's what she had... with a red velvet, pillowed headboard. And, I was always amazed the crumbling plaster ceilings never gave way under the weight of all the suspended lighting (mostly more chandeliers). And, on and on. Not the typical decor you'd find on a retired school teacher's wage. Yeah, I forgot to mention Bev was a school teacher.
Bev didn't use her kitchen much. Not since someone tried to kill her by setting her refrigerator on fire back in Buffalo. That was decades ago. Back when Bev was the mistress of the mayor of Buffalo. Yup. And, according to Bev, there were plenty of people who would like to have seen her dead. That's why Bev had her windows and the doors eletrified. Yeah, electri-mah-fied. Bev would talk and talk and talk while I did my worksheets.
Another story Bev used to tell quite frequently was about a scientist with snakes forever crawling over his grave. She was a Jew for Jesus before the Jews for Jesus knew they had a choice. She converted to Christianity and had a priest come to her house to give her communion. All so she wouldn't spend eternity covered in snakes.
It's pretty easy to see how Bev and I became close friends. I was a young kid with a wild imagination and an edgy paranoia. And, she was an old lady with one foot in reality and an edgy paranoia. I am surprised we never wound each other up enough to accidentally kill the agents of the Mafia and Satan otherwise known as the postmen.
It might seem kind of sad that I wasn't running in the sun and scabbing my knees in a hearty game of tag. But, I truly enjoyed all my days with Bev. I just wish I knew more about her life than just what she told me. But, don't you know! I can't find a damned thing.
Is it him?
Back around 1978, I was living in a four flat with my mom. It was a vintage dump. It wasn't a fixer-upper. It was a letter-rotter. The landlord had no interest in anything but the rent. Because of my throbbing brain filled with decades of useless memories and data, I remember many things about this place. The hallway was covered in a velveteen wallpaper straight from the 1920's. I once had a nightstand lamp thrown across the room at me by unseen forces, bursting into flames. I had to apologize to the old sagging, clown-faced whore who lived downstairs for telling her and her lap dog to shut up. I spent nights spent making slides of urine to inspect under a low-powered microscope. Hours spent hiding in cupboards, waiting to jump out and scare people walking past. I used to lay in bed and practice not breathing, because nothing would kill you if they thought you were already dead. I figured out my theory of spontaneous combustion and Hell while living there. It goes a little something like this: spontaneous combustion is simply an act of the Devil and since the basement is the closest place in the house to Hell-- you are more likely to spontaneously combust in the basement. I would cry heading down to change the laundry over from the washer to the dryer. There are other things about that place. But, the best thing was Bev. My first best friend.
Bev Rosencrantz lived directly across the hall from me. She was probably about 78years old when we met. I was seven. We shared a wall running along the hallways in our flats. "Pound on the wall if you ever need me to call the police. And, you do the same for me. I'll be listening," Bev would tell me.
I spent every day after school with Bev. I was a latch key kid. Do they even still use that term? If they do, they shouldn't. It's a stupid term. By no means should you ever believe even the most intelligent young child is willing or capable of staying alone in a house for hours on end without incident or fear of incident. What they should be called is we-don't-have-any-other-choice-kids. But, I didn't have to worry about that once Bev and I became friends.
I would run up the stairs, throw my coat in my apartment, and then take my homework over to Bev's. As I did my homework on her marble (no, not marble TOPPED... MARBLE period) coffeetable under the light of a chandelier shaped like of a bunch of grapes, Bev would watch Guilding Light. I would be spread out in my Catholic plaids. And, Bev would be decked out in her rhinestone encrusted, velvet housecoats with a headwrap and black slippers. Bev would offer me peanut britle, and it would always be stale. Bev wouldn't eat, she would just chew on the rhinestone encrusted cigarette holders that she kept next to her chair in an unused standing ashtray.
Bev's apartment was lush. Ebony and teak dining room pieces, constantly set with goldware for six. I once saw inside her bedroom on a trek to the can. And, what would the next two sizes up from a king-sized bed be? Well, that's what she had... with a red velvet, pillowed headboard. And, I was always amazed the crumbling plaster ceilings never gave way under the weight of all the suspended lighting (mostly more chandeliers). And, on and on. Not the typical decor you'd find on a retired school teacher's wage. Yeah, I forgot to mention Bev was a school teacher.
Bev didn't use her kitchen much. Not since someone tried to kill her by setting her refrigerator on fire back in Buffalo. That was decades ago. Back when Bev was the mistress of the mayor of Buffalo. Yup. And, according to Bev, there were plenty of people who would like to have seen her dead. That's why Bev had her windows and the doors eletrified. Yeah, electri-mah-fied. Bev would talk and talk and talk while I did my worksheets.
Another story Bev used to tell quite frequently was about a scientist with snakes forever crawling over his grave. She was a Jew for Jesus before the Jews for Jesus knew they had a choice. She converted to Christianity and had a priest come to her house to give her communion. All so she wouldn't spend eternity covered in snakes.
It's pretty easy to see how Bev and I became close friends. I was a young kid with a wild imagination and an edgy paranoia. And, she was an old lady with one foot in reality and an edgy paranoia. I am surprised we never wound each other up enough to accidentally kill the agents of the Mafia and Satan otherwise known as the postmen.
It might seem kind of sad that I wasn't running in the sun and scabbing my knees in a hearty game of tag. But, I truly enjoyed all my days with Bev. I just wish I knew more about her life than just what she told me. But, don't you know! I can't find a damned thing.
Is it him?
RIP Petey
Petey was a good, hard working, generous man with about 48 grandchildren. He was one of my favorite people during my purgatory at a local tavern.
"Petey, whatchya been up to?"
"This and that... now and then. (Followed by muttering and mumbles.)"
Petey had great picnics where the ribs and the card dealing never stopped. At one of these picnics, one of Petey's young third-forth-fifth cousins, known for knocking up gullable white chicks (apparently, he doesn't believe in equally opportunity impregnanting) and then beating them senseless, tried to start a riot by loudly announcing, "She doesn't like black people." I paused, patted him on the knee, and said, "No, I just don't like you." You see, I loved Petey!
As if we didn't know, years of Black Velvets with a Bud Light chasers finally wrecked his liver. I guess they scheduled him to die by this past Christmas, but Petey did things in his own time.
I'm glad I just found out, because I am not one for funerals. I tend to stare-- at the corpse and the mourners. I am taken by their sense of seperationtheir seperation, not so much their loss.
There was only one Petey. Meaning, I will NEVER meet anyone that could even slightly reminded me of him and our conversations of about decent soul music. I am proud to have been considered one of Petey's Angels-- although there were just tow of us (Kristy Korea and me) and he was no Bosley. It worked for me.
Making Your Money Work for You!
Here's my two cents worth, which is probably only worth about 1.00087 cents on any given day depending on the arbitrary gut feeling of some suits on the Market floor.
DO NOT open any accounts at the Erie Community Credit Union (not to be confused with the Erie Federal Credit Union). Today, I called the bank and spoke to a gentleman who provided no reasonable explanation for the following situation. On August 8th, 2008, I had three transactions posted to my account. First being a withdrawl of X, which according to ECCU put my balance into negative numbers. Secondly, a overdraw fee of $25 was inflicted. Thirdly, a deposit of 2X was posted. There are no time stamps on these transactions. They are simply all dated the eighth. Any bank I have dealt with or any bank anyone I have spoken to about this has dealt with experiencing any transactions posted on the same date has deposits coming before withdrawls. However, the bank representative explained that the withdrawl dated 8/8/8 actually went through on 8/7/8. And, the deposit that I actually made on 8/7/8 didn't actually get posted until 8/8/8. Ummm, yeah. That's my point! So, just 'cos the bank felt like accepting a withdrawl before it was actually posted to my account... and didn't really think it mattered that the deposit slip I hold in my hand dated by their machines as 8/7/8 didn't get posted until the following day, I'm out $25. Blood-- pressure-- righ--zing!
Okay, I am not financially illiterate. Actually, the opposite. When I was in seventh grade, I made a hobby out of reading stock quotes because I flirted with being a stockbroker when I wasn't entertaining the idea of being a vampire. I pose this to you: the whole right brain vs. left brain argument is bullshit. I have excelled as a published illustrator, made a living doing graphic arts, and enjoy dipping a creative pen nub now and then. Yet, back in second grade, I learned computer program languages when all data was only stored on cassette tapes. I studied college math in middle school, having a teacher give me a physics book for kicks. I received A's and B's in all my math classes without barely cracking a cover. I loved all my college accounting courses, and thought about dropping my Liberal Art major to become a CPA with a speciality in tax law. Sooooo, don't act like I don't understand the facade of the banking system we have in this country, Mr.Bank Representative.
But, it just isn't the crunching of numbers that leads me to FINALLY close my account at the ECCU. It's the little things like watching the teller clip her nails (all fingers on both hands) in her little cubby while I am the only person standing directly in front of her in the slaughterhouse lines. Or maybe it was when I was depositing a personal check from my husband and had the teller crassly ask me if it was a support check. "Oh, you mean from my babies' daddy," I should have said. But, instead I said in a close to Steve Martin impersonation, "Excccccuuuuseee me?!?!?!" I don't care if it is a personal check from Hilter for all the paintings he bought from me in any Ebay auction. It is none of your DAMNED business! Blood-- pressure-- righ-- zing.
Initially, I had asked to be patched through to the bank manager about the situation. Apparently, Julie was on the phone. I left a voice mail with a detailed account of the situation. Then, I went to hang out with my daughters to eat a ham omelette I had just cooked for all of us. After some hugs and kisses and internal processing, I called Julie back. And, I said, "You know, Julie, I'll just be in tomorrow to close my account." Sounds like I just bent over, huh? Well, I suddenly had a flash back to the years and years and years I didn't have a bank account. The happy years with a little more leg work to get money orders... but happy years all the same. I want those happy times back. So, I cancelled my direct deposit. Don't start scheming to steal any wads of cash hidden in my mattress. Those aren't the wads you'll find in my bed. The majority of my cash goes to the family budget which is locked up at another bank that hasn't pissed me off enough yet.
Am I being too rigid by expecting the 8th of August to be the 8th of August? Not the seventh or the ninth. Or is it completely inflexible of me to consider public records something that should be made readily available to me, a relucant member of the public?
DO NOT open any accounts at the Erie Community Credit Union (not to be confused with the Erie Federal Credit Union). Today, I called the bank and spoke to a gentleman who provided no reasonable explanation for the following situation. On August 8th, 2008, I had three transactions posted to my account. First being a withdrawl of X, which according to ECCU put my balance into negative numbers. Secondly, a overdraw fee of $25 was inflicted. Thirdly, a deposit of 2X was posted. There are no time stamps on these transactions. They are simply all dated the eighth. Any bank I have dealt with or any bank anyone I have spoken to about this has dealt with experiencing any transactions posted on the same date has deposits coming before withdrawls. However, the bank representative explained that the withdrawl dated 8/8/8 actually went through on 8/7/8. And, the deposit that I actually made on 8/7/8 didn't actually get posted until 8/8/8. Ummm, yeah. That's my point! So, just 'cos the bank felt like accepting a withdrawl before it was actually posted to my account... and didn't really think it mattered that the deposit slip I hold in my hand dated by their machines as 8/7/8 didn't get posted until the following day, I'm out $25. Blood-- pressure-- righ--zing!
Okay, I am not financially illiterate. Actually, the opposite. When I was in seventh grade, I made a hobby out of reading stock quotes because I flirted with being a stockbroker when I wasn't entertaining the idea of being a vampire. I pose this to you: the whole right brain vs. left brain argument is bullshit. I have excelled as a published illustrator, made a living doing graphic arts, and enjoy dipping a creative pen nub now and then. Yet, back in second grade, I learned computer program languages when all data was only stored on cassette tapes. I studied college math in middle school, having a teacher give me a physics book for kicks. I received A's and B's in all my math classes without barely cracking a cover. I loved all my college accounting courses, and thought about dropping my Liberal Art major to become a CPA with a speciality in tax law. Sooooo, don't act like I don't understand the facade of the banking system we have in this country, Mr.Bank Representative.
But, it just isn't the crunching of numbers that leads me to FINALLY close my account at the ECCU. It's the little things like watching the teller clip her nails (all fingers on both hands) in her little cubby while I am the only person standing directly in front of her in the slaughterhouse lines. Or maybe it was when I was depositing a personal check from my husband and had the teller crassly ask me if it was a support check. "Oh, you mean from my babies' daddy," I should have said. But, instead I said in a close to Steve Martin impersonation, "Excccccuuuuseee me?!?!?!" I don't care if it is a personal check from Hilter for all the paintings he bought from me in any Ebay auction. It is none of your DAMNED business! Blood-- pressure-- righ-- zing.
Initially, I had asked to be patched through to the bank manager about the situation. Apparently, Julie was on the phone. I left a voice mail with a detailed account of the situation. Then, I went to hang out with my daughters to eat a ham omelette I had just cooked for all of us. After some hugs and kisses and internal processing, I called Julie back. And, I said, "You know, Julie, I'll just be in tomorrow to close my account." Sounds like I just bent over, huh? Well, I suddenly had a flash back to the years and years and years I didn't have a bank account. The happy years with a little more leg work to get money orders... but happy years all the same. I want those happy times back. So, I cancelled my direct deposit. Don't start scheming to steal any wads of cash hidden in my mattress. Those aren't the wads you'll find in my bed. The majority of my cash goes to the family budget which is locked up at another bank that hasn't pissed me off enough yet.
Am I being too rigid by expecting the 8th of August to be the 8th of August? Not the seventh or the ninth. Or is it completely inflexible of me to consider public records something that should be made readily available to me, a relucant member of the public?
C-I-L-L my O-C-D
This is a copy of the certified letter I sent to my former landlord as a response to his certified letter. I did not include the graph illustrating all usage and payments. Take a person with frontal lobe issues, a photographic memory, an acerbic wit, and a bad case of obsessive compulsive issues thrown into a mental, economic, or familial threat, and I will show you a mess of words that cut like a thousand knives. But here's the fizzle, I found out he can't ask a penny from us after six months have passed since our occupancy anyway. I still love the unemotional retaliation. It's so... so... ummmmm, reptilian.
Mr. (Blankity-Blank),
In reference to the certified letter received June 18, 2008, we dispute the factuality of its content and the accuracy of the sum owed to you towards supposed unpaid garbage collection.
Mr. Shimek and myself tried to maintain a courteous nature in our interactions with you. We even took it upon ourselves to repair certain aspects of your unit, such as broken toilets and faucets. However, the stress caused to our family during the fifteen months in your rental unit proved to be too much. Water pouring down bedroom walls, drain flies coming up from a permanently water soaked basement, broken windows, monthly shut-off notices for water, and no working heat were just some of the situations which slowly eroded any pleasantries. Some of these circumstances were doubly distressing, being the new parents of infant twins. Once moving out from our month to month agreement, we decided not to speak ill of you but to maintain no further contact. After not hearing from you for over six months, I found it illogical to simply write you a check for $200-300 as you requested without any physical proof, such as an invoice (as I requested numerous times). However, I took it upon myself to trace all bank transactions and to discuss usage and fees with the Erie Water Works-- the collector of garbage payments. They suggested we take this matter to a District Justice, as I specified to you in our second telephone conversation.
In your conversation with myself, you stated, "I can use that money however I want." It is unfortunate you did not use the money gained from cashed checks (all noted with the memos either "garbage" or with the specific invoices numbers in question) to pay your long standing overdue bills.
As a courtesy to you, so you do not waste your or our time trying to collect money that is not owed to you through public means, we are giving you the information we used to figure what was owed to you during our rental of your property-- the payments due for all months are separated into quarters like the Water Works billing and the amounts of the checks you cashed specifically marked for garbage payment (which are COMPLETELY separate from checks you cashed slated for water usage or rent). We are offering no payment, as our figures show OVERPAYMENT on our part. This mirrors the overpayment we gave you towards water bills. The overpayment you accepted and made no mention until we took it upon ourselves to go down to the Erie Water Works offices to straighten out usage and billing with one of their representatives. As far as any late fees, we do not feel it is our responsibility to pay fines on an overdue bill that stood at $463.75 (close to twelve unpaid quarters of usage) owed before we even moved into your unit. You can consider this letter and its accompanying information as resolution to your self-described problem, or we will be more than happy to share this information with a District Justice at your cost and convenience.
Mr. (Blankity-Blank),
In reference to the certified letter received June 18, 2008, we dispute the factuality of its content and the accuracy of the sum owed to you towards supposed unpaid garbage collection.
Mr. Shimek and myself tried to maintain a courteous nature in our interactions with you. We even took it upon ourselves to repair certain aspects of your unit, such as broken toilets and faucets. However, the stress caused to our family during the fifteen months in your rental unit proved to be too much. Water pouring down bedroom walls, drain flies coming up from a permanently water soaked basement, broken windows, monthly shut-off notices for water, and no working heat were just some of the situations which slowly eroded any pleasantries. Some of these circumstances were doubly distressing, being the new parents of infant twins. Once moving out from our month to month agreement, we decided not to speak ill of you but to maintain no further contact. After not hearing from you for over six months, I found it illogical to simply write you a check for $200-300 as you requested without any physical proof, such as an invoice (as I requested numerous times). However, I took it upon myself to trace all bank transactions and to discuss usage and fees with the Erie Water Works-- the collector of garbage payments. They suggested we take this matter to a District Justice, as I specified to you in our second telephone conversation.
In your conversation with myself, you stated, "I can use that money however I want." It is unfortunate you did not use the money gained from cashed checks (all noted with the memos either "garbage" or with the specific invoices numbers in question) to pay your long standing overdue bills.
As a courtesy to you, so you do not waste your or our time trying to collect money that is not owed to you through public means, we are giving you the information we used to figure what was owed to you during our rental of your property-- the payments due for all months are separated into quarters like the Water Works billing and the amounts of the checks you cashed specifically marked for garbage payment (which are COMPLETELY separate from checks you cashed slated for water usage or rent). We are offering no payment, as our figures show OVERPAYMENT on our part. This mirrors the overpayment we gave you towards water bills. The overpayment you accepted and made no mention until we took it upon ourselves to go down to the Erie Water Works offices to straighten out usage and billing with one of their representatives. As far as any late fees, we do not feel it is our responsibility to pay fines on an overdue bill that stood at $463.75 (close to twelve unpaid quarters of usage) owed before we even moved into your unit. You can consider this letter and its accompanying information as resolution to your self-described problem, or we will be more than happy to share this information with a District Justice at your cost and convenience.
Steamy German Summer
Oh, and just a few more things. Just in case you didn't get my Germanfest call to arms, here it is for your viewing pleasure. They think they can push us around, eh? They think they can tell us where to sit, do they? Where the HECK is the corn on the cob? We deserve the Mad Bavarian! We will cook our own spatzle, dammit. The DANK should know better than anyone. You start telling downtrodden people what to do-- they'll suddenly pick some maniacal leader and bodies will start to fill the pits! So, leave our picnic table alone, I say!
You are nothing! They people are EVERYTHING!
And, this weekend was the Steam Engine show. And, once again, I am impressed. It is probably one of my favorite outdoor events. I base this favoritism solely upon the people. Well, okay, the chugging engines and brightly colored farm equipment always tickles me, too. But, I have never been an outdoor event with such a display of grace, manners, and courtsey. I know I am not the norm in my gas mask t-shirt and toaster tattoo, but you'd never know it by the way people treat me. Friendliness from the past middle-aged women serving sloppy joes and smiles from the flea market table manned by the children the system forgot (Amy told her daughter one day she'd have to watch Deliverance to truly understand any references made). When the rain started pouring down and everyone hunkered down in the outdoor kitchen, many people struck up conversations with Matt and I about the girls. And, uncharacteristically, I didn't feel put off or oogled. Ahhh, and who can forget the vague odor of manure in the wind.
Now, I am not being overly romantic about country folk. I know it is simply human to judge others against yourself. But, you know what? Publicly, keep it to yourself. Be polite. Respect the fact that the person in front of you has the same capacity for emotion and even (possiby) knowledge. Just nod your head with a smile and move on. You've got bigger fish to fry, like packing your antique bulldozer up on the trailer or breaking the fingers of the methhead next door who stole your rachet set.
Oh, and I got some goodies at the flea market. Some Christain comics by the same publisher, Spire, of The Cross and the Switchblade. These titles include: Up from Harlem, Live It Up, and On the Road with Andrae Crouch. I also scooped up a New Krofft Supershow comic and The Science Fair Story of Electronics (the discovery that CHANGED the WORLD) comic. I'll put them with the September 1976 issue of Playgirl Kristy bought me until I can properly file them away. Shudder with me. Also, I picked up some LPs, of course. The shining star? Lee Hazelwood's Houston. I like to think of my husband has the best mix of a young Orson Wells and the weirdest parts of Lee Hazelwood... and more. Man, I love Lee Hazelwood. In the same way, but more than, Bobby Goldsboro. I guess there is a physical similarity. But, Lee definitely seems like more of a hardass.
And, the other LPs include The Giants of Country Music, Country Girls Sing Country Songs, Mr. Guitar by Billy Strange (I am pretty sure I already own this), Great Speckle Bird by Roy Acuff and his Smoky Mountain Boys, Here's Loretta Lynn, and a radio program called American Country Countdown dated 5-29-1982.
I guess that's all I have to share right now. Umm, the Borax-honey-sugar-hamburger-grease experiment has rid the house of ants. Thanks, Smith. I am starting a new sweater. My first cable knit. The poppies have overrun my garden like weeds. My longest standing roommate in life, Jason, is in town from Spain. And, he got married. Amy and Pat had their little boy, Hunter "Porkchop" Lord. And, he is beautiful. Danielle and Justus are expecting their first child. She is very ill-- so, I try to make her laugh by making an ass out of myself. And, that's not too hard. Kristy is in Korea. Matt needs a haircut. My mom got another bassette hound. And, no doubt about it, hounds stink. And, last but not least, another brother had a son. The world needs more Sullivan blood. I just hope everything works out for him. Of all of us, I never thought it would be me taking the American Way of Life route. Married with kids in a nicie-nice house. Also, to my horror, I accidentally discovered my daughters enjoy Barney. Why? Why? WHY!!!!
I think it is going to be November tomorrow. I can't keep track.
You are nothing! They people are EVERYTHING!
And, this weekend was the Steam Engine show. And, once again, I am impressed. It is probably one of my favorite outdoor events. I base this favoritism solely upon the people. Well, okay, the chugging engines and brightly colored farm equipment always tickles me, too. But, I have never been an outdoor event with such a display of grace, manners, and courtsey. I know I am not the norm in my gas mask t-shirt and toaster tattoo, but you'd never know it by the way people treat me. Friendliness from the past middle-aged women serving sloppy joes and smiles from the flea market table manned by the children the system forgot (Amy told her daughter one day she'd have to watch Deliverance to truly understand any references made). When the rain started pouring down and everyone hunkered down in the outdoor kitchen, many people struck up conversations with Matt and I about the girls. And, uncharacteristically, I didn't feel put off or oogled. Ahhh, and who can forget the vague odor of manure in the wind.
Now, I am not being overly romantic about country folk. I know it is simply human to judge others against yourself. But, you know what? Publicly, keep it to yourself. Be polite. Respect the fact that the person in front of you has the same capacity for emotion and even (possiby) knowledge. Just nod your head with a smile and move on. You've got bigger fish to fry, like packing your antique bulldozer up on the trailer or breaking the fingers of the methhead next door who stole your rachet set.
Oh, and I got some goodies at the flea market. Some Christain comics by the same publisher, Spire, of The Cross and the Switchblade. These titles include: Up from Harlem, Live It Up, and On the Road with Andrae Crouch. I also scooped up a New Krofft Supershow comic and The Science Fair Story of Electronics (the discovery that CHANGED the WORLD) comic. I'll put them with the September 1976 issue of Playgirl Kristy bought me until I can properly file them away. Shudder with me. Also, I picked up some LPs, of course. The shining star? Lee Hazelwood's Houston. I like to think of my husband has the best mix of a young Orson Wells and the weirdest parts of Lee Hazelwood... and more. Man, I love Lee Hazelwood. In the same way, but more than, Bobby Goldsboro. I guess there is a physical similarity. But, Lee definitely seems like more of a hardass.
And, the other LPs include The Giants of Country Music, Country Girls Sing Country Songs, Mr. Guitar by Billy Strange (I am pretty sure I already own this), Great Speckle Bird by Roy Acuff and his Smoky Mountain Boys, Here's Loretta Lynn, and a radio program called American Country Countdown dated 5-29-1982.
I guess that's all I have to share right now. Umm, the Borax-honey-sugar-hamburger-grease experiment has rid the house of ants. Thanks, Smith. I am starting a new sweater. My first cable knit. The poppies have overrun my garden like weeds. My longest standing roommate in life, Jason, is in town from Spain. And, he got married. Amy and Pat had their little boy, Hunter "Porkchop" Lord. And, he is beautiful. Danielle and Justus are expecting their first child. She is very ill-- so, I try to make her laugh by making an ass out of myself. And, that's not too hard. Kristy is in Korea. Matt needs a haircut. My mom got another bassette hound. And, no doubt about it, hounds stink. And, last but not least, another brother had a son. The world needs more Sullivan blood. I just hope everything works out for him. Of all of us, I never thought it would be me taking the American Way of Life route. Married with kids in a nicie-nice house. Also, to my horror, I accidentally discovered my daughters enjoy Barney. Why? Why? WHY!!!!
I think it is going to be November tomorrow. I can't keep track.
Mungo Jerry obviously didn’t have ants
Before the summer officially arrived, the ants came. First, the BIG, BLACK pick-in-their-afro Carpenter ants showed up on the scene. Their love for water kept them pretty localized in the upstairs bathroom. I have to thank them for showing us the ancient, yet on-going, water damage occurring next to the tub. Now, you'd think they would be coming in from the outside perimeter; but, no! Our next door neighbor, a Snowbird retiree, infiltrated their lines. More specifically-- telephone lines. These mercenaries were climbing a telephone pole ACROSS the street, walking the lines with the agility of an Eastern European circus performer, and barging right in! Clever buggers. It isn't so much that I am afraid of these semi-trucks of the ant family. It's more of a territorial issue. Like the Furies versus the Orphans. Like my old neighbor Troy Cochran used to say, "Thiz izzzz MAH house!" We don't like uninvited guests. Thank god, we're not drinking enough anymore to whip out a gun and start blasting the son of a guns.
Then, one day, they were gone. Moved on the damper fields, I thought. I felt relieved, yet somehow rejected. Soon we discovered Joel the Snowbird had taken matters into his own hands. Unable to burn the pole, Joel got out the old Vemon or Viper or Liquid Death spray and soaked the joint. I had some ethical issues with the mass ant genocide. They were here first, I sighed. We're in trouble when they figure out how to Vemon us. They're just little aliens trying to gather information, build homes, and feed their colonies. What right do we have? Then, I remembered I am not down with imperialism. And, I wondered when Dr. Who was going to show up as the multi-dimensional exterminator. Maybe I'm the Dalek in the ant world. Maybe their Dr. Who will show up one day and dig my spine out of my back like the vein on a cold shrimp. Or maybe I thinking about bugs too much. Yeah, maybe I thinking about smart, conniving bugs too much.
Whheeee! Thank god those ants are gone, huh? But, nooooooooo. On the heels of the Carpenters-- Gee, what if Karen and Richard showed up one day and just started messing with the wooden structure of your house? What if they were too busy to even sing you a song? Music, I'd say, or beat it! So, on the slender ankles of my Karen Carpenter ants came the teeny, tiny, maybe-I'm-a-crumb-maybe-I'm-not brown ants. Maddening! That's how they break you down. First, they're here. Then you spray them with Windex and they break up the party. And, not even a whole day later, they're over there now. They sneak in from crack and crevice. You never knew how many cracks you had until the ants come to town. They squeeze into the spaces even too small for a draft! They like bananas, peanut butter, minuscule splatters of bacon grease, the green cat food kibbles, and apple juice.
Again, this isn't a phobia. Like the screams I hear in my head when I step to close to the edge of a building or cliff. It is more an economical issue. With the price of gas, groceries, and the overhead of raising two growing girls, I can't afford daily handouts to the whole neighborhood. But, I am willing to make a deal. I am willing to treat the whole situation like a mob transaction. I'm willing to offer up a honey glazed ham once a month for a little peace and quiet. Until then, I will fight the losing battle like a store owner battling strong arm tactics only to end up face down on his front stoop. But, every day, I get a little stronger. I can freely squash any little brown ant under my thumb (as long as I hear no crunching) and rub their segmented carcass on my peddle-pushers. Sigh, deflation of chest, strong inhalation through double-wide nostrils, sigh. Where's my cinnamon?
In other insect news, the silverfish population growth seemed like it hit a few months of inactivity. But, now, the youngest of the brood seem to be testing their limits by peeking their little shiny selves out of the shadows. I think, after some mental adjustments, they are silly. And, they remind me of the cover of The Stooges Raw Power. However, they help dust off that schizophrenic part of my brain, too. The bugs are watching me, I whisper in the twilight. They are watching me... waiting... patiently, waiting. Years ago, I read a short story about an obese women, driven to consume by this unceasing hunger-- until pop! She split open and a HUGE larvae slithered out of her bulging belly. Ray Bradbury? Who? Tell me! It's things like these that made it IMPOSSIBLE for me to go to school in Athens, Georgia. Yes, acceptance letter in hand, someone told me about June bugs. And, bugs. And, some more bugs. Heck, pill bugs (rolly-pollies or potato bugs) kinda gross me out. But, like any good parsimonious Scot-Irish-German territorial teeth clencher, start messin' with my home or food and ye shall suffer the wrath!
Hmmm,what else? Contaray to Whiteman's prodding, I am not a Republican. But, yet, I feel I am becoming very conservative in my pre-golden years. Yes, I cry during the Harlan County footage. Yes, the Jungle is scarier than any Koontz novel. But, no, sorry... I don't think unionized G.E. employees need two more weeks of paid vacation. Is the minimum wage a barbed wire fence around the lowest socio-economic classes? Yes. But, do I understand why companies move overseas? Yes, it's called capitalism. When American citizens finally started whining louder, major corporations had to find someone else to exploit. I am convinced small-business owners would jump on that cheap whore if they could; but the government just doesn't make the penicillin as readily available to them yet. They are the medium fish in the big pond trying to decided if they should eat some small fish or have the small fish collect some plankton to sell to the big fish. Or better yet have the small fish collect the plankton and give it to you for a fraction of the price you plan on selling it back to them for. Go, Wal-pond!
Other recent considerations-- my favorite president, James Buchanan. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Buchanan
And, secondly, "Silent Cal" Coolidge. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Calvin_Coolidge
SATUR! DAY! NIGHT!
Tonight, Matt and I finished the Albums of the Seventies. We both went cross-eyed; but we did it.
Soundtrack? Shuffle of five disks.The Future is Unwritten/ Joe Strummer, 20th Century Masters/ Chuck Berry, Appalachian Mountain Bluegrass 30 Vintage Classics/Various Artists, I'll Sleep When You're Dead/ DJ El-P, and End of an American Dream/ Lee "Scratch" Perry.
Here's a sneaky peek at the Bird in Hand. We plan on applying some shellac to the 550 pieces, hanging it on the wall right next to the black velvet cobra, the Keane girl in an alleyway, or the Magnum PI breakfast tray.
You are all sheep. My beloved sheep.
Years ago, the Rev. Bill Roe and I discussed starting our own cult. Years later, I am realizing this wasn't such a half-crocked idea. However, it's not a cult I want to start. It's more of a religion (as an institution). Faith in something beyond us as a way of life. Something which, on a daily basis, realizes our shortcomings and acknowledges our failures, but as achievements not mess-ups. I figure it will be almost unitarian in its approach, but not so touchie-feelie. We won't worry about the afterlife, because we are already in it! We're dead, not dying. So, let's make the best of it! There's no need to get mopey and transgressive. Entropy should be enjoyed like a ticker tape parade.
I will establish some tenements, and get back to you. From this moment on, I will make myself available as a spiritual consouler (sic) to help you realize the benefit of even the worse things in your life. And, hopefully, get you to stop complaining about it all.
Of course, I will have to accept tax-free donations. The apocalypse isn't a courtesy in this global climate, you know. But, I am working on a goodie bag for those interested in my brand of salvation.
I highly suggest you keep your current belief system. I will function merely as an supplimental everyday prophet. I make no claims of holding the bejeweled keys to any pearly gate, any golden razor of ventilating self-abuse, or any waxy, flowered Dixie cupful of a sweet Kool-Aid starship outta this joint. However, I truly believe we can all make it a better day for ourselves by not focusing on others so much. No, not in a Satanic dragon ring wearing self-absorption. A little bit more carefree than that. But, not as much as a nudist commune of hedonism. It's all about balance and decay.
Please brush up on the writings of Rod McKuen. I am expecting some visons will direct us to his wordplay. Also, as balance, we will refer to the autobiography a Col. Harlan Sanders, finger lickin' good, on a continual basis.
Signs will follow, along with a catchy jingle.
I will establish some tenements, and get back to you. From this moment on, I will make myself available as a spiritual consouler (sic) to help you realize the benefit of even the worse things in your life. And, hopefully, get you to stop complaining about it all.
Of course, I will have to accept tax-free donations. The apocalypse isn't a courtesy in this global climate, you know. But, I am working on a goodie bag for those interested in my brand of salvation.
I highly suggest you keep your current belief system. I will function merely as an supplimental everyday prophet. I make no claims of holding the bejeweled keys to any pearly gate, any golden razor of ventilating self-abuse, or any waxy, flowered Dixie cupful of a sweet Kool-Aid starship outta this joint. However, I truly believe we can all make it a better day for ourselves by not focusing on others so much. No, not in a Satanic dragon ring wearing self-absorption. A little bit more carefree than that. But, not as much as a nudist commune of hedonism. It's all about balance and decay.
Please brush up on the writings of Rod McKuen. I am expecting some visons will direct us to his wordplay. Also, as balance, we will refer to the autobiography a Col. Harlan Sanders, finger lickin' good, on a continual basis.
Signs will follow, along with a catchy jingle.
Going bananas for charity!
Today, I became one of those sweaty geeks in blinders with superficial manners. I walked in exactly seven minutes after they opened the doors. It's not the first time, nor will it be the last.
These are the things I bought at the Friends of the Library sale-- in no particular order. All long-playing vinyl unless otherwise noted. Some we don't have and want. Some we don't have and will take a chance. Some we have, but these might be in better condition than the ones we already own. Or some we have and I will sell the recoop the money spent on the ones we want. Get it. Whew.
There is something sickly fun about seeing people eye up the stack under your gritty palm with its blackened fingertips, turning to them to say, "Oh, no, I'm sorry. Those are all mine." I patiently wait my turn for the next stack and reluctantly nod at the other sweaty geeks when they talk to me. But, baby, don't you line jump or pick into my stack as I'm flippin' through it. Have some manners. Or I'll give you some serious elbow! I mean SERIOUS ELBOW! Oh, and to the one or two familiar faces who tried to talk to me in the midst of my offensive. Sorry, can't talk... eating. Yay, good times!
They Harder the Come VHS, Roy Orbison/ 1965-1968 cassette, Journey to the Center of Time VHS, Original Surfin' Hits/ Various Artits (Crescendo Records), Hank Locklin/ My Kind of Country Music, Mel Tellis/ Me & Pepper, Melanie/Leftover Wine, Leonard Cohen/ I'm Your Man, Enviroments/ Induced Mediation, Western Heritage/ Ted Hockridge & the Peter Knight Orchestra, Xavier Alberto & his Orchestra/ Brazil Today, The New CBS Audio-fil Sound Effects Library, CCR/ Cosmo's Factory, Home Movie Sounds Effects, Sound Effects Vol. 1 & 2 , Ravi Shankar/ Festival from India, The Now Sounds of the New Generation/ Various Artists, Slim Whitman/ Home on the Range, Willie Nelson/ Pretty Paper, The Four Seasons/ Gold Vault of Hits, Kenny & Dolly/ Once Upon a Christmas, Big Men of Counrty/ Various Artists, 144 Genuine Sound Effects, Television/ Adventure, A Treasury of Gregorian Chants, The Dovells/ You Can't Sit Down, Cat Stevens/ Tea for the Tillerman, James Taylor/Sweet Baby James, Ray Charles/ Modern Sounds in Country Music, Sons of the Pioneers/ Cool Water, Roy Clark/ Greatest Hits Vol. 1, Down a Country Road/ Various Artists, Mel Tillis and the Statesiders/ S-s-superstar!, Waylon Jennings/ Ol' Waylon, Banjo Bandits/ Roy Clark & Buck Trent, My Country America/ Various Artists, Guantanamera/ The Sandpipers, Lionel Newman/ Exciting Hong Kong, The Three Suns/ Fever & Smoke, Sergio Mende/ Best of Brazil, Burl Ives/ Songs of the West, Marty Gold/ Skin Tight, Martin Denny/ A Taste of Honey, Martin Denny/ Exotic Today, Arthur Lyman/ Percussion Spectacular!, Chet Atkins/The Most Popular Guitars, Kool MOe Dee/ Wild WIld West 12", Henry Mancini/ Mr. Lucky Goes Latin, Martin Denny/ Exotic, Leo Diamond & his Orchestra/ Subliminal Sounds, The Platers/ Super Hits, Bright Lights & Country Music/ Various Artists, The California Poppy Pickers/ Today's Chart Busters, A Boy Named Sue & Other Country Hits/ Various Artists, Country Hymns/ Varous Artists, Gene Pitney/ Big Sixteen Vol. 3, Page Cavanaugh with Art Van Damme & Les Paul/ Three of a Kind, Discover the.../Bitter End Singers, Solid Gold '68/ Chet Atkins.
And some seven inches by: Glenn Campbell, The Buoys, The Jaggerz, The Dacrons, Bill Carmichael, Bill Black's Combo, The Byrds, The Robins, Tommy James, Mary Hopkins, Gerry & the Pacemakers, Bobby Darin, Dawn, Edison Lighthouse, The Cowsills, Sheb Wooley, Mike Douglas, Johnny Maddox, Dinah Washington (singing Hank), The New Yorkers, The Rivingtons, Les Baxter, Tommy Roe, Looking Glass, Bryan Hyland, Johnny Rivers, Freddy Cannon, Randy Newman, Little Caear & the Consuls, Gene Chandler, Crow, Emerson Lake & Palmer, Crazy Elephant, Dave & Ansil Collins, Led Zepplin, Lou Christie, Dolly Parton, Marvin Gaye, Teresa Brewer, Lenny Welch, Robert Davie, and Ronnie Dove.
I got some VHS tapes for the kids, too.
I have realized having children finally justifies our pack-ratting nature. We are building an estate for our children, see.
Whew.
These are the things I bought at the Friends of the Library sale-- in no particular order. All long-playing vinyl unless otherwise noted. Some we don't have and want. Some we don't have and will take a chance. Some we have, but these might be in better condition than the ones we already own. Or some we have and I will sell the recoop the money spent on the ones we want. Get it. Whew.
There is something sickly fun about seeing people eye up the stack under your gritty palm with its blackened fingertips, turning to them to say, "Oh, no, I'm sorry. Those are all mine." I patiently wait my turn for the next stack and reluctantly nod at the other sweaty geeks when they talk to me. But, baby, don't you line jump or pick into my stack as I'm flippin' through it. Have some manners. Or I'll give you some serious elbow! I mean SERIOUS ELBOW! Oh, and to the one or two familiar faces who tried to talk to me in the midst of my offensive. Sorry, can't talk... eating. Yay, good times!
They Harder the Come VHS, Roy Orbison/ 1965-1968 cassette, Journey to the Center of Time VHS, Original Surfin' Hits/ Various Artits (Crescendo Records), Hank Locklin/ My Kind of Country Music, Mel Tellis/ Me & Pepper, Melanie/Leftover Wine, Leonard Cohen/ I'm Your Man, Enviroments/ Induced Mediation, Western Heritage/ Ted Hockridge & the Peter Knight Orchestra, Xavier Alberto & his Orchestra/ Brazil Today, The New CBS Audio-fil Sound Effects Library, CCR/ Cosmo's Factory, Home Movie Sounds Effects, Sound Effects Vol. 1 & 2 , Ravi Shankar/ Festival from India, The Now Sounds of the New Generation/ Various Artists, Slim Whitman/ Home on the Range, Willie Nelson/ Pretty Paper, The Four Seasons/ Gold Vault of Hits, Kenny & Dolly/ Once Upon a Christmas, Big Men of Counrty/ Various Artists, 144 Genuine Sound Effects, Television/ Adventure, A Treasury of Gregorian Chants, The Dovells/ You Can't Sit Down, Cat Stevens/ Tea for the Tillerman, James Taylor/Sweet Baby James, Ray Charles/ Modern Sounds in Country Music, Sons of the Pioneers/ Cool Water, Roy Clark/ Greatest Hits Vol. 1, Down a Country Road/ Various Artists, Mel Tillis and the Statesiders/ S-s-superstar!, Waylon Jennings/ Ol' Waylon, Banjo Bandits/ Roy Clark & Buck Trent, My Country America/ Various Artists, Guantanamera/ The Sandpipers, Lionel Newman/ Exciting Hong Kong, The Three Suns/ Fever & Smoke, Sergio Mende/ Best of Brazil, Burl Ives/ Songs of the West, Marty Gold/ Skin Tight, Martin Denny/ A Taste of Honey, Martin Denny/ Exotic Today, Arthur Lyman/ Percussion Spectacular!, Chet Atkins/The Most Popular Guitars, Kool MOe Dee/ Wild WIld West 12", Henry Mancini/ Mr. Lucky Goes Latin, Martin Denny/ Exotic, Leo Diamond & his Orchestra/ Subliminal Sounds, The Platers/ Super Hits, Bright Lights & Country Music/ Various Artists, The California Poppy Pickers/ Today's Chart Busters, A Boy Named Sue & Other Country Hits/ Various Artists, Country Hymns/ Varous Artists, Gene Pitney/ Big Sixteen Vol. 3, Page Cavanaugh with Art Van Damme & Les Paul/ Three of a Kind, Discover the.../Bitter End Singers, Solid Gold '68/ Chet Atkins.
And some seven inches by: Glenn Campbell, The Buoys, The Jaggerz, The Dacrons, Bill Carmichael, Bill Black's Combo, The Byrds, The Robins, Tommy James, Mary Hopkins, Gerry & the Pacemakers, Bobby Darin, Dawn, Edison Lighthouse, The Cowsills, Sheb Wooley, Mike Douglas, Johnny Maddox, Dinah Washington (singing Hank), The New Yorkers, The Rivingtons, Les Baxter, Tommy Roe, Looking Glass, Bryan Hyland, Johnny Rivers, Freddy Cannon, Randy Newman, Little Caear & the Consuls, Gene Chandler, Crow, Emerson Lake & Palmer, Crazy Elephant, Dave & Ansil Collins, Led Zepplin, Lou Christie, Dolly Parton, Marvin Gaye, Teresa Brewer, Lenny Welch, Robert Davie, and Ronnie Dove.
I got some VHS tapes for the kids, too.
I have realized having children finally justifies our pack-ratting nature. We are building an estate for our children, see.
Whew.
I’m shocked, but not nearly horrified enough!
Last night, I had a dream that I was back in London. It's been years. And, I am sure the London in my dreams is just another one of my alternate dimension cities. I dream about other cities in other dimensions 'cos I am the white solar wind (Mayan symbol http://www.astrodreamadvisor.com/M_white-sol-wind.html ). Pause... cough... sip of coffee. Anyway, I am in London standing around as an extra on the set of Eastenders. We are inside some auditorium. Well, it's more like the gymnasium of my Catholic grade school with a basketball court on the floor, a stage at one end, a bingo kitchen at the other, and a bunch of folding bleachers. And, I'm eating a danish. Something tasty like the ones from Alliance bakery on Division in Chicago. Mmmmm.The dream goes on like that for a while. Pretty boring stuff like when I was an extra (bartender) in tthe movie High Fidelity. A lot of standing around with me watching knuckleheads try to get discovered in a crowd of 150+ starlets in between my chapters of Lester Bangs' essays. Yawn. But, it's cooler in the dream because it's Eastenders!
Suddenly, I am in a hotel. But, the hallways look like something out of a college dormitory with all sorts of notes on the doors. Only a little more ghetto, because the notes are spray painted over blood splatter. Oh, let's not forget all the litter moving around like tumbleweeds. Doors are hanging off of hinges and lights are burnt out. I think it is a memory conjured up from a hotel room where I stayed in Paris. Old broken elevator, hair in the sheets, and blood on the walls. I am not scared, though. Mostly, because I have plans. Big plans to do some sightseeing! Apparently, I have a car parked out front. But, it is just a large, unfinished model of a car-- just the molded plastic shell. Instead, I try to take the tube. However, I don't have real money in my pockets. I have cardboard nickles. I'm mad! How am I gonna get to the London Dungeons!?
Which brings me to my point: I thought the London Dungeon was awesome! Some day, I will take my children there. Supposedly, it is quickly becoming more of an amusement park of sorts. With some Demon Drop-ish ride and labyrinth of the lost. What I remember are the wax works and the torture museum. However, I didn't really take akin to the thespians trying to "booga-booga" around the joint. Highlights include: dioramas of the plague (everyone knows I love plagues), a man being drawn & quartered, and the noise of bones crushing under piles of stones. I remember wondering how one would cleanly, effectively void their bowels in a chastity belt. I bought my best friend a black skull candle there. And, it blew up all over her bedroom.
Other exhibits high on my list include: the surgical impliments on display at the International Museum of Surgery in Chicago (did you know doctors were the carriers of disease with their pretty, yet absorbant bone handled tools???), the Bog People at the Carnegie in Pittsburgh (I want to be buried in a bog after death), the Dead Sea Scrolls at the Field (I'm convinced it's a hoax... those naughty Nephilim!), and any early DeBuffet like Portrait d'Henri Michaux. There's more, but I'll end this here.
Suddenly, I am in a hotel. But, the hallways look like something out of a college dormitory with all sorts of notes on the doors. Only a little more ghetto, because the notes are spray painted over blood splatter. Oh, let's not forget all the litter moving around like tumbleweeds. Doors are hanging off of hinges and lights are burnt out. I think it is a memory conjured up from a hotel room where I stayed in Paris. Old broken elevator, hair in the sheets, and blood on the walls. I am not scared, though. Mostly, because I have plans. Big plans to do some sightseeing! Apparently, I have a car parked out front. But, it is just a large, unfinished model of a car-- just the molded plastic shell. Instead, I try to take the tube. However, I don't have real money in my pockets. I have cardboard nickles. I'm mad! How am I gonna get to the London Dungeons!?
Which brings me to my point: I thought the London Dungeon was awesome! Some day, I will take my children there. Supposedly, it is quickly becoming more of an amusement park of sorts. With some Demon Drop-ish ride and labyrinth of the lost. What I remember are the wax works and the torture museum. However, I didn't really take akin to the thespians trying to "booga-booga" around the joint. Highlights include: dioramas of the plague (everyone knows I love plagues), a man being drawn & quartered, and the noise of bones crushing under piles of stones. I remember wondering how one would cleanly, effectively void their bowels in a chastity belt. I bought my best friend a black skull candle there. And, it blew up all over her bedroom.
Other exhibits high on my list include: the surgical impliments on display at the International Museum of Surgery in Chicago (did you know doctors were the carriers of disease with their pretty, yet absorbant bone handled tools???), the Bog People at the Carnegie in Pittsburgh (I want to be buried in a bog after death), the Dead Sea Scrolls at the Field (I'm convinced it's a hoax... those naughty Nephilim!), and any early DeBuffet like Portrait d'Henri Michaux. There's more, but I'll end this here.
Nicknames
These are some of the nicknames I've received in my life... or least, the ones I've heard used to my face: Botch, Cueball, Butterball, Missy, Mel, Mellie Mel, Meluta, Betty, Militant, Militia, Meow-meow, Nana, and Aaaah! (my daughter Ginny's).
These are SOME nicknames I have given or helped give or have used through family proding: Woo, Mama Jim, Daddy Chick, Rumpus, Bucky Boy, Meecack, Prish, Mimi, Eug, Beko, Mavis, Pseudo, I Like Dogs, Auntie Shrew, Staffordshire, Porkchop, Spoke, Numchucks (Chucks for short), Who's Drivin', Wack Job, Meow-Meow, Ustus, Cupcake, Pancakes, Hotdog, Hat, Shirt, Good ol' Hole in the Ankle, Tippy Toes, Debbie Womb, Nervous Elk, Joe Chang & the Supernatural Doo-Dads, Kevie Kev & the Kev-kev, Nonna Clancy, Baseball Mit, Jive Ass Turkey, Quarter Eye, Holly Bibble, Shits & Giggles, Joe Stellars, and Thomas Dolby.
I've named my cat, Itty-bit because she was small when I got her. I named my last cat Miss Kitty because she was a cat. So, apparently, there is a very simple logic behind my technique.
I like to call my husband The Big Fuss. I like to call our daughters-- the Dumplings, Mar-Bear, Ginners, Peanut, or Skinny.
It is easier for me to recall the names I have given people than to "see" what their names are as written on their unseen name-tags.
These are SOME nicknames I have given or helped give or have used through family proding: Woo, Mama Jim, Daddy Chick, Rumpus, Bucky Boy, Meecack, Prish, Mimi, Eug, Beko, Mavis, Pseudo, I Like Dogs, Auntie Shrew, Staffordshire, Porkchop, Spoke, Numchucks (Chucks for short), Who's Drivin', Wack Job, Meow-Meow, Ustus, Cupcake, Pancakes, Hotdog, Hat, Shirt, Good ol' Hole in the Ankle, Tippy Toes, Debbie Womb, Nervous Elk, Joe Chang & the Supernatural Doo-Dads, Kevie Kev & the Kev-kev, Nonna Clancy, Baseball Mit, Jive Ass Turkey, Quarter Eye, Holly Bibble, Shits & Giggles, Joe Stellars, and Thomas Dolby.
I've named my cat, Itty-bit because she was small when I got her. I named my last cat Miss Kitty because she was a cat. So, apparently, there is a very simple logic behind my technique.
I like to call my husband The Big Fuss. I like to call our daughters-- the Dumplings, Mar-Bear, Ginners, Peanut, or Skinny.
It is easier for me to recall the names I have given people than to "see" what their names are as written on their unseen name-tags.
You will always find me in the kitchen with allergies.
One of my all time favorites-- Jona Lewie.
This guy is cooler than 99.9999 percent of the people I have met in my life.
Oh, and I have been doing lots of landscaping and gardening which is rewarding... however, miserable on the allergies. And, the blooming dogwoods? Simply gorgeous if I am able to see them through my blurry eyes. I feel I am constantly having a spider web dragged across my face. Ah, spring! I remember once my dad pretty much told me to buck up and just get over my allergies. After 37yrs., I still haven't been able to pull that off.
This guy is cooler than 99.9999 percent of the people I have met in my life.
Oh, and I have been doing lots of landscaping and gardening which is rewarding... however, miserable on the allergies. And, the blooming dogwoods? Simply gorgeous if I am able to see them through my blurry eyes. I feel I am constantly having a spider web dragged across my face. Ah, spring! I remember once my dad pretty much told me to buck up and just get over my allergies. After 37yrs., I still haven't been able to pull that off.
By playdate, do you mean a little of the ol’ ultra-violence?
We recently moved into Millcreek, the 'burbs. Everyone on this side agreed it was mostly for the school system. Yes, my mother works for the Erie school district; and yes, I went to Catholic schools all my life but I'm not dumb. I know what is, or more percisely, is not happening in the Erie school district. And, from what I have heard about Jesus Christ, he would not send his kids to a school run by Catholics. Another bonus in our new neighborhood, a park right across the street. A park with trails, a park with a baseball diamond, a park with a BMX track, and, best of all, a park with bucket swings, slides, and those old school rocking animals on industrial sized springs. Oh, and picnic pavilions with grills! Okay, I once saw a guy drinking a fifth of liquor on a park bench in the middle of the afternoon once. Maybe I have also hard to was a good place to score drugs in the public restrooms. But, it's a park with swings.
When I was growing up, I was a latch key kid. I came home, ate close to a whole box of pop-tarts, and then sat two inches away from the TV screen until my mom got home anywhere from three to five hours later. Or I'd hang out with my 78yr old neighbor. I do remember playing with the neighborhood kids a few times. Always watching more than participating... but, I do remember this: kids were out of control then, too. However, they were more likely to harm THEMSELVES, not someone else! They'd jump from garage roofs, scale porches, and blow up bottles of dishwashing liquid with cherry bombs. Or, they'd pet matted, unknown dogs.
So, you'd think I'd be startled when I heard about the little girl who was so severely beaten by a ten and an eleven year old that she needs a hip replacement. I wasn't surprised at all. Apparently, this girl, new to town, walked from 8th and German to 12th and German by herself. Oh, no, wait! She wasn't by herself-- she was with her LITTLE sister! I also have some inside scoop information that would make your stomach twist even a little more... but I can't go into that now. Okay, that area isn't necessarily a total ghetto. But, it isn't anything you'd see in a back issue of Better Homes and Gardens. As the story goes, the littlest sister was being bullied and had water tossed on her. Big sister cuts in to defend little sister and tells the bullies to, "Cut it out." They then proceed to beat her close to unconsciousness. It didn't stop until a passer-by, no relation to either party, ran over and found her. I feel a great deal of sympathy for that little girl. How can you expect an elementary school aged kid to weigh out all her options and any related dangers?
But, again... Mommy? Daddy? 'Ere re ooouuu (I love Waiting for Guffman)?
my husband supposed Mom was at home taking care of the other three to four kids and that Dad was at the bar. Or was Mom working, and there just wasn't anything good on TV like M*A*S*H or Taxi or Barney Miller or Dr. Who? Maybe if those shows were still on, this never would have happened. It kills me to think this Mom and Dad will be all over the media crying about the injustice, the violence, and shuffling some blame. I wonder if anyone will have the backbone to ask, "Where the HELL were you?!?!?!"
Gee, that reminds me of the story my husband recently told me about his co-worker's niece or granddaughter or somethin'. She was at a skating rink on the eastside of town. I guess some group of girls didn't like the way she looked. So, they did the only thing they could. They struck her in the head with a roller skate and knocked her unconscious!
WHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAATTTT!?!?!
Should I even bother to mention the murder plot organized by third graders? When I was in third grade, I was playing Star Trek, collecting dozens of bags of horse chestnuts, making potions out of chalk and Jean Nate after bath splash in my tiny tea set, collecting EC horror comics, or making beds for Tinkerbell out of shaving cream and Kleenex. Gee, maybe I was just a loser and didn't realize it.
It would take me about three months to truly convey my opinions about the youth of today. And, by youth, I don't mean the whippersnappers hanging on the corner, thinking about burning the rec. center down. I mean the kids who still secretly enjoy Sesame Street, who secretly don't know why they are calling their teacher a motherf*cker nor do they understand why they are asking the little girl next to them in reading and spelling class to give them oral sex, when they meant to ask to borrow her eraser.
Notice how I make no mention of race or socio-economic background here... 'cos TRASH IS TRASH! You can smell it when it is sitting in the schoolyard parking lot, even if it is dressed up in a suit.
A few final words about the guy drinking a fifth in the park across the street. This jive-turkey pulled up in his rickety Mercedes with his purple pants and race jockey-ish satin shirt. And, then he drank a fifth (not even in a paper bag) on a picnic table while we pushed our daughters on the swings... at 3pm in the afternoon... in BROAD daylight... RIGHT next to an elementary school! Pre-babies, I wouldn't have even noticed. Post-babies, I wanted to either call the cops or go over, knock the bottle out of his mouth, drag him back to his barely running diesel, and send him cruising over the cliffs of the lake. But, all I did was huff and puff. I was confused and enraged. Recently, my husband found a couple garbage bags full of clothes next to a used condom off one of the trails, while walking with the girls. Did my highscool friends and I sleep in this park at night during like documented in the movie River's Edge? Yes. Have I read enough of serial killers to think every wooded area with trails is a potential dumping gound? Yes. Do I shut the shutters in our library/office/study room at night for fear a creepy-crawly from the trailer park down by the peninsula might saunder up for some peeping? Yes. Am I glad to have a park right across the street? Hell, yeah! 'Cos I know I will, in a blind rage, protect my kin with tooth and nail. It will be a sorry sight... and I shall be victorious! And, we can still have fun out of doors.
In writing this, I feel I am judging without all the facts. I probably shouldn't do that. I am a small person. But, c'mon! You don't need to read a Dr. Spock book to have a little bit of common sense. I think fish have more protective qualities than some parents today, and they eat their young! I certainly realize one day, my daughters may be involved in a situation which will lead others to judge me and questions just what the hell I was or was not doing. I might be mortified. I will question what the hell I was or was not doing myself. Sure. At least, I can say I tried my BEST... some people don't even bother to try.
I won't even get into the families I see at the bookstore and at the art supply store with severely overweight (abuse) children in filthy clothes, stinking-- unbathed (neglect). Guess what, though? Mom and dad are severely over weight and reeking, too. Ahhh, their future is dim and walking with labored breath and heaving chest, right in front of them.
Time to scramble some eggs and try to figure out the mystery that is Elmo, while the girls go bananas for the squeeky, red rug.
***Here are some side notes I've added to clarify after receiving a few emails about this blog. First, I did not intend for anyone to infer all persons living in trailer parks are creeps. Anyone who knows me, would know better. If you've known me long enough, you'll know I once dropped out of schoool to go work at a donut shop and live in HALF of a trailer by the railroad tracks. Secondly, I am not suggesting you have to pay top dollar to move out of the 'hood to find safe playgrounds or childcare. Teaching your children to do what is right, to have some working morals, ethics, and respect for other living things DOESN'T COST A SINGLE THIN DIME! As a kid, I remember sitting at the kitchen table rolling pennies to buy a loaf of bread and I never ended up in Juvie (almost but not quite). Good people can come from bad places.
People magazine... who are these people?
And old friend sent me a gift subscription to People magazine. She received two subscriptions, and they wouldn’t let her piggy back them one after the other. She calls it her guilty pleasure. So, here I am trying to figure out who the HELL these people are! And, why do same people have photos taken of themselves every couple of weeks while they tie their shoes, pick their noses, and poop? Who cares? I guess someone somewhere must. Actually, a lot of people everywhere care. Or else advertisers wouldn't pump tons of cash into it. I mean, why care about the drama going on in your life when you can read about some horrible actor who was in a bunch of dumbed down novel to screen movies who had a secret drug habit or who was in an open-ended relationship and who had two bastard children (that we know of). Most of you know, I would rather read my MOJO, British version ONLY, about dead musicians or washed up musicians who are janitors now. Once I was an extra in a movie. I got to stand next to John Cusak. The only thing that stuck me was this: he smelled of Indian food. I do not understand the cult of personality. But, then again, I have a hard time recalling someone's facial features unless I am looking right at them. But, all my celebrity crushes are dead or have really dead teeth.
Here’s what I want to know: Why can’t they start re-issuing OLD celebrity rags from the 40s, 50s and 60s? I would love to read about Robert Mitchum’s drug bust! Speaking of Robert Mitchum...
The whole movie Night of the Hunter is visually arousing.
Thinking about the anticipation that builds before actually seeing Harry Lime still gives me goose bumps.
I’ll post some more eye candy later as I think of more.
Alfred Hitchcock presents--
My first harvest of mushrooms has been reaped! It reminds me of the episode in which all the dads disappear after their kids start growing mushrooms in their basements--the ones they ordered from a comic book.
Whoo-hoo!
The Great Famine revisited
It’s not a blight... it’s a bumper crop!
Portabella mushrooms
Little red potatoes
Get me a bucket-- flu thoughts
Lately, I have an influx of new (yet old) CDs coming into the house: the Stooges, Lee Hazelwood, the Replacements, the Clash, Brigette Bardot, Edith Pilaf, the Beach Boys, Brain in a Box boxset, Yo la Tengo, Luna, Bill Hicks, Stereolab, Life Aquatic S/T, Nick Drake, Sea and Cake, Prince, Calexico, Dave Brubeck, Andrew Bird, John Cale, Delfonics, the Police, the Melvins, the Cars and James Brown. Somehow, ninty-eight percent were free or at severe discount.
There has also been in influx of domestication on my part. I have been keeping the kitchen warm with homemade: chicken potpies, curried pork and apples, Guinness roast beef, spinach/beef lasagna, bacon-corn-cream sauce over scallops and ziti, asparagus with soy and sesame sauce, crispy chocolate chip cookies (that I’ll eat until my tongue hurts), classic German pot roast, kitchen sink salads, french fry pie, and and and... yum.
Let’s not forget about the knitting. Currently I have put my husband’s Bob Dobbs sweater on hold to try my second round at making a hooded pullover for my nephew Hunter. I made it all the way through the pattern once. But, I ran out of yarn on the last sleeve. It was definitely a "Are you fargin' kidding me?" moment. Because I am a pack rat, and used yarn that I bought in Chicago about ten years ago when a shop in Lincoln Park was going out of business, I couldn’t find any more to complete it. They don’t make it anymore. Which, I considered the second "Are you farging kidding me?" moment. And, I refuse to pull some half-assed move like using some other yarn to get by. I am not a get-by-er. Either do it or don’t. But, don’t monkry around. As Kristy Korea would like to hear me say if you’re gonna piss around, you might as well go piss yourself-- hee!
Knitting kudos go out to-- Juliayn "Clancy" Coleman for knitting me the most INCREDIBLE pair of pseudo-hunting socks with hearts EVER!!!! They are of the finest craftsmanship. And, boy! Are they ever comfortable! Inspiring. I wear my jeans severely cuffed (beyond that rock-a-billy style I sport) and am more than happy to slip off my prison issue sneaker to show you the hidden stripes. Just ask. And, super crochet credit goes to Kristy Korea for the stripey blankey she made for the girls. And, it smells like her, too. What a bonus! Also, my little hot dog got all her grant money for her trip to Korea. So, congratulate her if she’ll talk to you.
I finally decided it is okay to use the dishwasher. It doesn’t make my lazy.
And, there are four owls living in the park across the street. And, a male and female cardinal have started to hang out in the tree outside our living room window. And, a HUGE opossum creeps around our back door at night. So tragic looking, but I still wanna see if he’ll hang from my arm by his tail. And, I saw two deer in the neighbor’s front yard. And, I see bunny tracks in the morning. And, the lunar eclipse was cool.
Oh, the ’shrooms! I started the mushroom kit Chelks got me for my birthday. I love it! We have an finished 1950-60’s style basement with an unused shower stall off the laundry room. Perrrrrrrfffffeeeeeecccccttt for my mushrooms. Portabella mushrooms, that is. I keep thinking of the Alfred Hitchcock Presents (Season 5, Episode 10: Special Delivery Original Air Date: 29 November 1959.Young Tom Fortnam is thrilled when he receives his guaranteed to grow mushroom seeds by special delivery mail. His father Bill is then approached by a friend, Roger, who thinks people are disappearing. Bill isn’t quite sure what to make of it all until Roger’s wife calls him to say that Roger has vanished, as has all of his clothes. When he visits Roger’s house, he sees that Roger’s son, who is the same age as Tom, is also busy growing mushrooms in the basement. Convinced there is a connection, Bill confronts his son - with fantastic results.). I also started some red potatoes. Yes, that is how this Irish girl celebrates St. Patrick’s day. Not by drinking to excess and barfing or getting hit by a car with all the non-Irish ethnic types dressed like clowns. But, by growing potatoes and fungus. Anyone else see the after-the-fact irony in those two choices?
The silverfish are back. I figure that is the cue to start working on that childrens' book. Okay-okay already! I get the message. You don’t have to try and scare me when I get up to use the bathroom at night.
Oh, and dreams. Lots of crazy dreams. Driving rooms that are actually hidden spaceships with the sprinkler systems as the controls. Spaceships flying over my house. Eating donuts in unknown dinors. My cat getting pinched by an over-sized millipede. Trying to move hundreds and hundreds of books and records back home after taking them with me to summer camp (as an adult). Seeing the planet Saturn and all its moons outside my window big as a Harvest moon. And, mystery sales. And, missing trains. And, Juliayn’s broken suitcase zipper. And, Cat Chow having to do community service on subway platforms. And, all you people whom I obviously have unfinished business with and unresolved emotions about... back off! Whew.
There has also been in influx of domestication on my part. I have been keeping the kitchen warm with homemade: chicken potpies, curried pork and apples, Guinness roast beef, spinach/beef lasagna, bacon-corn-cream sauce over scallops and ziti, asparagus with soy and sesame sauce, crispy chocolate chip cookies (that I’ll eat until my tongue hurts), classic German pot roast, kitchen sink salads, french fry pie, and and and... yum.
Let’s not forget about the knitting. Currently I have put my husband’s Bob Dobbs sweater on hold to try my second round at making a hooded pullover for my nephew Hunter. I made it all the way through the pattern once. But, I ran out of yarn on the last sleeve. It was definitely a "Are you fargin' kidding me?" moment. Because I am a pack rat, and used yarn that I bought in Chicago about ten years ago when a shop in Lincoln Park was going out of business, I couldn’t find any more to complete it. They don’t make it anymore. Which, I considered the second "Are you farging kidding me?" moment. And, I refuse to pull some half-assed move like using some other yarn to get by. I am not a get-by-er. Either do it or don’t. But, don’t monkry around. As Kristy Korea would like to hear me say if you’re gonna piss around, you might as well go piss yourself-- hee!
Knitting kudos go out to-- Juliayn "Clancy" Coleman for knitting me the most INCREDIBLE pair of pseudo-hunting socks with hearts EVER!!!! They are of the finest craftsmanship. And, boy! Are they ever comfortable! Inspiring. I wear my jeans severely cuffed (beyond that rock-a-billy style I sport) and am more than happy to slip off my prison issue sneaker to show you the hidden stripes. Just ask. And, super crochet credit goes to Kristy Korea for the stripey blankey she made for the girls. And, it smells like her, too. What a bonus! Also, my little hot dog got all her grant money for her trip to Korea. So, congratulate her if she’ll talk to you.
I finally decided it is okay to use the dishwasher. It doesn’t make my lazy.
And, there are four owls living in the park across the street. And, a male and female cardinal have started to hang out in the tree outside our living room window. And, a HUGE opossum creeps around our back door at night. So tragic looking, but I still wanna see if he’ll hang from my arm by his tail. And, I saw two deer in the neighbor’s front yard. And, I see bunny tracks in the morning. And, the lunar eclipse was cool.
Oh, the ’shrooms! I started the mushroom kit Chelks got me for my birthday. I love it! We have an finished 1950-60’s style basement with an unused shower stall off the laundry room. Perrrrrrrfffffeeeeeecccccttt for my mushrooms. Portabella mushrooms, that is. I keep thinking of the Alfred Hitchcock Presents (Season 5, Episode 10: Special Delivery Original Air Date: 29 November 1959.Young Tom Fortnam is thrilled when he receives his guaranteed to grow mushroom seeds by special delivery mail. His father Bill is then approached by a friend, Roger, who thinks people are disappearing. Bill isn’t quite sure what to make of it all until Roger’s wife calls him to say that Roger has vanished, as has all of his clothes. When he visits Roger’s house, he sees that Roger’s son, who is the same age as Tom, is also busy growing mushrooms in the basement. Convinced there is a connection, Bill confronts his son - with fantastic results.). I also started some red potatoes. Yes, that is how this Irish girl celebrates St. Patrick’s day. Not by drinking to excess and barfing or getting hit by a car with all the non-Irish ethnic types dressed like clowns. But, by growing potatoes and fungus. Anyone else see the after-the-fact irony in those two choices?
The silverfish are back. I figure that is the cue to start working on that childrens' book. Okay-okay already! I get the message. You don’t have to try and scare me when I get up to use the bathroom at night.
Oh, and dreams. Lots of crazy dreams. Driving rooms that are actually hidden spaceships with the sprinkler systems as the controls. Spaceships flying over my house. Eating donuts in unknown dinors. My cat getting pinched by an over-sized millipede. Trying to move hundreds and hundreds of books and records back home after taking them with me to summer camp (as an adult). Seeing the planet Saturn and all its moons outside my window big as a Harvest moon. And, mystery sales. And, missing trains. And, Juliayn’s broken suitcase zipper. And, Cat Chow having to do community service on subway platforms. And, all you people whom I obviously have unfinished business with and unresolved emotions about... back off! Whew.
I need a giant novelty eraser!
It makes my sick how I just can't stop thinking about some things. Over and over and over...
I used to wear a rubber band around my wrist and snap it when I would start thinking about something or some people too much.
Now, it just makes me wanna stick a hot awl in my brain. It is so tiring.
I used to wear a rubber band around my wrist and snap it when I would start thinking about something or some people too much.
Now, it just makes me wanna stick a hot awl in my brain. It is so tiring.
Don’t be such a drag!
Hey, Ms. Pussycat! Is that a banana in your pocket?
Or are you just glad to see me?
Well, dare I say it? I will be heading out into the extremely charted waters of Erie, PA tomorrow night to have a late-eighties slash early-90's reunion of sorts with Sean-go, Amy Z., Herr Gary, and Lady Ruby at the drag show. If you're in town, and ever saw me almost beat up five guys at once for talking crap on the band Slade... come join the party.
We'll see if I actually go. I thought making a public announcement would force me into going. But, I am rarely forced to do anything. Yes, I challenge my own authority even when it comes to bodily functions. And, obligation is the excuse of suckers. If I am ever cornered into submission by law or might, I can usually do some pretty good internal debating to finally convince myself it was my idea anyway. So, no matter how much I would love to see old friends who have not written me off despite past stumbles, cartwheels, and highdive back flips... we all know I hate crowds (defining a crowd as a collective containing three or more people). Place your bets. As your bookie, I plan on taking a large percentage of your actual winnings regardless of the outcome. No, this is not fixed. Just ante up your money. Gee, I sure hope I don't panic and go.
Oh, and when discussed with Sargent Tammy Peppers, he told me he wasn't so into dressing in women's clothing. To which I answered as walking away, "Yeah. Neither am I."
Or are you just glad to see me?
Well, dare I say it? I will be heading out into the extremely charted waters of Erie, PA tomorrow night to have a late-eighties slash early-90's reunion of sorts with Sean-go, Amy Z., Herr Gary, and Lady Ruby at the drag show. If you're in town, and ever saw me almost beat up five guys at once for talking crap on the band Slade... come join the party.
We'll see if I actually go. I thought making a public announcement would force me into going. But, I am rarely forced to do anything. Yes, I challenge my own authority even when it comes to bodily functions. And, obligation is the excuse of suckers. If I am ever cornered into submission by law or might, I can usually do some pretty good internal debating to finally convince myself it was my idea anyway. So, no matter how much I would love to see old friends who have not written me off despite past stumbles, cartwheels, and highdive back flips... we all know I hate crowds (defining a crowd as a collective containing three or more people). Place your bets. As your bookie, I plan on taking a large percentage of your actual winnings regardless of the outcome. No, this is not fixed. Just ante up your money. Gee, I sure hope I don't panic and go.
Oh, and when discussed with Sargent Tammy Peppers, he told me he wasn't so into dressing in women's clothing. To which I answered as walking away, "Yeah. Neither am I."
For those about to remember rock.
In no specific order and omitting some which have been forgotten... live shows.
Wire, Television, Suicide, The Roches, Elliot Smith, Flying Luttenbachers, Magma, Glen Stlyer, Bobby Conn, US Maple, Lake of Dracula, Zeke Sheke, Melt Banana, Mount Shasta, Tejuana Hercules, Behold! The Living Corpse, Don Cabellero, Shellac, The Ex, Gary Numan, Man or Astroman, The Cramps, Little Feat, The Grateful Dead, Belle and Sebatian, Todd Rungrund, Laughing Hyenas, Urge Overkill, Nick Cave, Love and Rockets, Echo and the Bunnymen, The Church, Pink Floyd, Nirvana, Bob Dylan, Gang of Four, Built to Spill, Hank III, The Jesus Lizard, Craw, Murder Junkies, The Duvalby Bros., Cocktails, Crosby Stills and Nash, Neil Young, Brick Layer Cake, Fugazi, Duran Duran, Robyn Hitchcock/ Soft Boys, Powerstation, David Bowie, Cows, Jets to Brazil, Supersuckers, John Spencer Blues Explosion, Beastie Boys, George Clinton, The Lonesome Organist, Tool (eh), Pavement, Seam, Smashing Pumpkins (walked out), Cheap Trick, Boss Hog, Smog, Mark Robinson, Cop Shoot Cop, Yo La Tengo, Didgits, CKY, that band from Norway with the female singer who all wore skisuits when they played at Shuba's, Luna, Scrawl, The Monkees, The Grass Roots, Joan Jett, Blue Oyster Cult, My Dad is Dead, Today is the Day, Ringworm, David Allen Coe, and and and... that is all I can remember right now. Anyone remember going to a show with me that I haven't listed? I know there have been more, but either they were forgetable that night or I was forgetable that night.
OH! I forgot Royal Trux, Willie Nelson, Bow Wow Wow, Trans Am, TRS-80, and Pere Ubu. I am sure random shows will start seeping into my brain.
Does the Dalai Lama count???
Wire, Television, Suicide, The Roches, Elliot Smith, Flying Luttenbachers, Magma, Glen Stlyer, Bobby Conn, US Maple, Lake of Dracula, Zeke Sheke, Melt Banana, Mount Shasta, Tejuana Hercules, Behold! The Living Corpse, Don Cabellero, Shellac, The Ex, Gary Numan, Man or Astroman, The Cramps, Little Feat, The Grateful Dead, Belle and Sebatian, Todd Rungrund, Laughing Hyenas, Urge Overkill, Nick Cave, Love and Rockets, Echo and the Bunnymen, The Church, Pink Floyd, Nirvana, Bob Dylan, Gang of Four, Built to Spill, Hank III, The Jesus Lizard, Craw, Murder Junkies, The Duvalby Bros., Cocktails, Crosby Stills and Nash, Neil Young, Brick Layer Cake, Fugazi, Duran Duran, Robyn Hitchcock/ Soft Boys, Powerstation, David Bowie, Cows, Jets to Brazil, Supersuckers, John Spencer Blues Explosion, Beastie Boys, George Clinton, The Lonesome Organist, Tool (eh), Pavement, Seam, Smashing Pumpkins (walked out), Cheap Trick, Boss Hog, Smog, Mark Robinson, Cop Shoot Cop, Yo La Tengo, Didgits, CKY, that band from Norway with the female singer who all wore skisuits when they played at Shuba's, Luna, Scrawl, The Monkees, The Grass Roots, Joan Jett, Blue Oyster Cult, My Dad is Dead, Today is the Day, Ringworm, David Allen Coe, and and and... that is all I can remember right now. Anyone remember going to a show with me that I haven't listed? I know there have been more, but either they were forgetable that night or I was forgetable that night.
OH! I forgot Royal Trux, Willie Nelson, Bow Wow Wow, Trans Am, TRS-80, and Pere Ubu. I am sure random shows will start seeping into my brain.
Does the Dalai Lama count???
Squeezing the rock out at Lounge Ax, Chicago circa 1994-95.
They are trying to slowly kill me!
My husband and I packed our girls into their new Radio Flyer wagon to hit the new indoor flea market located in the old Hill's building. Let's start on a positive note. Actually, two of them. I love flea markets. I love the crap somewhere left of the stuff shown in Ebay magazines and right of the Pittsburgh Steeler fuzzy throws or moving waterfall wall hangings. Also, I think it is beautiful to reuse a vacant building, instead of tearing through some more wetland or farmland to building another shell out of substandard materials.
As with any flea market, there will be the old men with stellar yet dusty treasures waiting to make a deal. There will be the shrewd grandmas selling a basement's worth (about seven decades) of bakeware, cookware, magazines, children's toys, and various other decorative housewares. Also, there will be the Meth mom with one tooth left in her head selling all her children's dirty toys (as the children are with her, playing with the toys in a last hoorah). And, who can forget the 40-something slob, still living with his mom. You know, the guy who thinks you're a dumb-ass because you can't see the value in his unlistenable Sam Hagar LP and his destroyed 1980's back-copies of TV Guide. I'm not gonna even explore the boothes full of NEW South American or Asian manufactured nickel plated trinkets.
Here's the problem-- you know there had to be one if I am taking the time to write this, right? The sign on the front of the building reads: All Season's Market. See? See! What the heck! I stood there for a few minutes exploring all the possibilities. ALL of this building belongs to someone named SEASON? Every square inch of it? Apparently, what it is not is this: an ALL SEASONS MARKET (open all seasons, but belonging to none) or a MARKET belonging to ALL SEASONS' (notice the slight change). This inappropriate flick of a paint brush is an embarrassment! With the poor shape of our American dollar, dozens of busloads full of Canadians are coming to shop the stores surrounding this ALL SEASON'S MARKET. And, are their hunches are correct: Americans are uneducated dumb-asses? And, I don't even wanna think what our New Yorker neighbors, trying to save a few bucks on taxes, think about all of us slack-jawed Pennsyltuckians.
Things like this give me the shivers in a bad way. Ghosts down in the basement of the old train station give me shivers, too, in a good way. tThey make me feel my hair follicles. I can understand a mis-typed letter or dollar sign or comma placed a double-space away from an and, but, or or in speed. The brain works faster than the fingers, I understand all too well. But, this is publicly displayed SIGNAGE. And, it is right above the door of the establishment. It is the first interaction all customers will have with all the vendors. However, I need to keep in mind the audience. Why assume people going to flea markets can't read!?!?! Respect the lowest of the lower classes (maybe they'll forgive you when the price of flour pushes them over the edge and they consider eating you)!
As with any flea market, there will be the old men with stellar yet dusty treasures waiting to make a deal. There will be the shrewd grandmas selling a basement's worth (about seven decades) of bakeware, cookware, magazines, children's toys, and various other decorative housewares. Also, there will be the Meth mom with one tooth left in her head selling all her children's dirty toys (as the children are with her, playing with the toys in a last hoorah). And, who can forget the 40-something slob, still living with his mom. You know, the guy who thinks you're a dumb-ass because you can't see the value in his unlistenable Sam Hagar LP and his destroyed 1980's back-copies of TV Guide. I'm not gonna even explore the boothes full of NEW South American or Asian manufactured nickel plated trinkets.
Here's the problem-- you know there had to be one if I am taking the time to write this, right? The sign on the front of the building reads: All Season's Market. See? See! What the heck! I stood there for a few minutes exploring all the possibilities. ALL of this building belongs to someone named SEASON? Every square inch of it? Apparently, what it is not is this: an ALL SEASONS MARKET (open all seasons, but belonging to none) or a MARKET belonging to ALL SEASONS' (notice the slight change). This inappropriate flick of a paint brush is an embarrassment! With the poor shape of our American dollar, dozens of busloads full of Canadians are coming to shop the stores surrounding this ALL SEASON'S MARKET. And, are their hunches are correct: Americans are uneducated dumb-asses? And, I don't even wanna think what our New Yorker neighbors, trying to save a few bucks on taxes, think about all of us slack-jawed Pennsyltuckians.
Things like this give me the shivers in a bad way. Ghosts down in the basement of the old train station give me shivers, too, in a good way. tThey make me feel my hair follicles. I can understand a mis-typed letter or dollar sign or comma placed a double-space away from an and, but, or or in speed. The brain works faster than the fingers, I understand all too well. But, this is publicly displayed SIGNAGE. And, it is right above the door of the establishment. It is the first interaction all customers will have with all the vendors. However, I need to keep in mind the audience. Why assume people going to flea markets can't read!?!?! Respect the lowest of the lower classes (maybe they'll forgive you when the price of flour pushes them over the edge and they consider eating you)!
My yellow dinner.
Fried Chicken, macaroni & cheese, and corn on the cob (straight from Tractor Steve's). Only a tall glass of lemonade would have made it any better.
Curses and Cusses
From this day forward, I am trying to make a valiant attempt to stop swearing so much. It might fuckin' kill me.
The Good Ol' Days or Whitey with a Sunburn
Well, you thought I was just a paste-y white girl, huh? Thought I was trying to be all goth when I had a chunk of skin cancer taken outta my arm? Guess what? Not only do I fry in approximately two seconds in the shade-- I found out that I am now officially "allergic" to the sun. It is hereditary (on the Scot-side) and can be traced back through many generations. So, now when I want to sport that awesome farmer's tan, I have deal with a bumpy rash all over any exposed area. It's the kinda rash that makes you wanna rip your flesh off the bone. This should make for a righteous summer! So, don't make fun when I show up at your pool party dressed in a hat with a 10foot radius brim and a bathing suit made outta mirrors. It reminds me of a Casper the Friendly Ghost 7" I had as a child that told the story of a gigantic bat blocking out the sun, making it perminantly nighttime. And, Casper saved the day by tickling the bat's armpits. Damn you, Casper, damn you.
I'm gonna go crawl back under my rock now.
I'm gonna go crawl back under my rock now.
Green Stamps-- schmeen stamps! or I'm so green!
Here's what I am really interested in (today): Green Stamps or more precisely, S&H Green Stamps. Remember them? That magic dial above the cash register in most grocery stores? The stamps would stream out like fish poop. And, then, you'd get back home and pull the tattered book out of the kitchen drawer. I always preferred to separate each stamp before placing them in the book, but I know some people who would lick a whole string at a time. God bless their salivary glands. Every once in a while, you'd end up at the Green Stamps store often affectionately referred to as the Redemption Center. Rows and rows of "free" items. A Crockpot, a three-speed bike with ape bars, a baby doll that eats and poops, a guitar, a fondue set, a screwdriver set, a set of new floor mats for your car. It's like a Willy Wonka version of all the modern trappings of capitalism during the 1970's. But, really, I remember it like a scene from the novel 1984. The store had a bare minimalist feel: flickering fluorescent lights suspended from the ceiling, salt stained rugs at the door, acned teenage clerks with their haphazardly adorned smocks, and a handful of other radioactive low-income families fondling various items throughout the store who looked like a tribe that had just discovered fire
According to Straight Dope (yes, I did my research-- kinda), "Not everything was listed in the catalog, but you could negotiate with the company for pretty much whatever you wanted. One school in Erie, Pennsylvania even saved up 5.4 million Green Stamps to buy a pair of gorillas for a local zoo!" Whoo-hoo, Erie represent! I wonder if one of those gorillas has since passed away and the remaining one is sitting, lonely, in its cage, watching TV while waiting for a new shipment of fresh love-meat and wondering why those stupid humans can't figure out how to ship a new gorilla from Cleveland without killing it. Okay, there's probably not a TV in the cage anymore but there was!
Well, you'd think the Green Stamps are a thing of the past like Grit magazine ("America's rural magazine for 125 years"); but, like Grit magazine, you can still find it if you have the itch. Apparently, you can still access S&H Green Stamps on-line. Again, the Straight Dope states: "If you still have boxes of Green Stamps tucked away in your attic, here's good news. You can still trade them in for either cash or merchandise. Cash value of 1,200 stamps is $1.20 and you can still get a catalog by calling them at 1-800-435-5674."
>
I guess I would just rather have cents off towards gasoline. But, do we get more cents off on gas as the price goes up or does the price go up the more we get cents off.
I'll leave you with those Golden Days memories. I have to go dance around the house to some Tom Waits with my daughters.
Love is patient.
My banjo sits in the corner... waiting for me, silently.
No-no, don't you touch it just 'cos it's idle... or I'll break your fingers.
My banjo sits in the corner... waiting for me, silently.
(pause)
Silently, godamnit, silently.
No-no, don't you touch it just 'cos it's idle... or I'll break your fingers.
My banjo sits in the corner... waiting for me, silently.
(pause)
Silently, godamnit, silently.
White gloves and party manners, you jerk!
Yes, yes! It is true. I am an official graduate of the White Gloves and Party Manners course. Never heard of it? Well, I think that's because I don't think it's existed since 1978.
Every Saturday morning for about a month, I timidly took the escalator to the second floor of Halle's department store to learn how to become a little lady. Apparently, being born with a vagina is not enough. The class was taught by Shirley Ramsey, the local weather woman from WICU. By the by, her husband was missing a hand. I ran into them at the Loblaws shopping one day. For years, I would wonder if he had peripheral attachments. It made him so mysterious. By association, that also made Ms. Ramsey cabalistic in some way. Anywho, yeah... party manners... I gots 'em.
To graduate, we had to prepare a small room for a party. Setting the table, wrapping the presents, making the punch, etc. Then we were sent out into the world to really make a difference in domestic entertaining. You didn't think girls above the Mason-Dixon line were capable of it, did you? I still hold the WGAPM premise close to my heart. "Please" and "thank you" never go out of style. And, if you disagree, you definitely deserve a sock in the jaw.
I like to collect recipes and to keep a neat house. Everything in its place. I wrote a thank you note for every damned baby gift we received for the girls. I think writing letters and getting letters in the mail is AWESOME! I find it incomprehensible that some people don't know how to place silverware properly around a plate. I don't think the Crafty Revolution is very revolutionary, since I've been tooting crafty/knitty/stitchy praises for decades! But, I'm glad others are finally taking solice in a comforting kind of creativity; and not just that razor blade style inspiration to which we've become accustom. Mind you, don't for one moment think I wouldn't snap on you if you bump into me one too many times at a bar (which is about once). However, we can all be civil about it, can't we?
So, be nice... or you'll get a vague note with nasty undertones on monogramed stationary from me. Got it.
Every Saturday morning for about a month, I timidly took the escalator to the second floor of Halle's department store to learn how to become a little lady. Apparently, being born with a vagina is not enough. The class was taught by Shirley Ramsey, the local weather woman from WICU. By the by, her husband was missing a hand. I ran into them at the Loblaws shopping one day. For years, I would wonder if he had peripheral attachments. It made him so mysterious. By association, that also made Ms. Ramsey cabalistic in some way. Anywho, yeah... party manners... I gots 'em.
To graduate, we had to prepare a small room for a party. Setting the table, wrapping the presents, making the punch, etc. Then we were sent out into the world to really make a difference in domestic entertaining. You didn't think girls above the Mason-Dixon line were capable of it, did you? I still hold the WGAPM premise close to my heart. "Please" and "thank you" never go out of style. And, if you disagree, you definitely deserve a sock in the jaw.
I like to collect recipes and to keep a neat house. Everything in its place. I wrote a thank you note for every damned baby gift we received for the girls. I think writing letters and getting letters in the mail is AWESOME! I find it incomprehensible that some people don't know how to place silverware properly around a plate. I don't think the Crafty Revolution is very revolutionary, since I've been tooting crafty/knitty/stitchy praises for decades! But, I'm glad others are finally taking solice in a comforting kind of creativity; and not just that razor blade style inspiration to which we've become accustom. Mind you, don't for one moment think I wouldn't snap on you if you bump into me one too many times at a bar (which is about once). However, we can all be civil about it, can't we?
So, be nice... or you'll get a vague note with nasty undertones on monogramed stationary from me. Got it.
The book.
The author.
Pregnacy Log Stardate October 2006 part 2
Hours of channel surfing later, I still have not seen a doctor and have not been measured again. They allow me to eat dinner. What can you expect from hospital food? Is that a trick question? Soylent Green would have been more interesting. We are bored. Again, I am still convinced they will be sending me home. Mind over matter and creative visualization techniques versus a tragic character flaw that allows me to identify myself with Sisyphus and the boulder. By 11pm, I am informed the doctor has left without evaluating me... but has not left me empty handed. I am offered sleeping pills and morphine, if I wish. I think it is a bit much. Especially considering the guy never even took my temperature or peeked at a toe, for God's sake! I choose ice chips. I tell my husband to go home and rest.
After flipping from side to side, twirling like an alligator feeding on a dead animal, I finally give up and get up at 4:30am. More monitoring. I take a shower. I am convinced that hospitals could NEVER be as clean as they want you to believe they are. More flipping through horrible cable. I do watch a show "How to Bathe your Baby". And, I think, "I'm going to break my children." Breakfast at 7am of a bagel and tea with the Morning Times. Great, I read that Erie is again in the national news for a woman using her four week old child as a weapon.
Lo and behold! Shifts change, Raisinette is back. She hooks me up to the monitor, and tells me Dr. Levinson will be in soon to check out the tapes and measure my cervix. FINALLY! Wait, what's this? Suddenly, thanks to Raisinette's crypt-like finger stylin', I have no more contractions registering. Yes, labor starts and stops... but I blame you, Raisinette. Yes, you. After a few minutes or more (I refuse to track time under less than pleasurable circumstances), a female doctor I will refer to as Dr. Aloo-Matar comes into the room. That is not a racist slur, it more speaks to this fact: I have never spoken to the woman before in my life and have no clue what her name might be! She snaps on the latex, greases up, and assaults my cervix. Nope, no change... I can go home. The whole encounter takes about five minutes.
Whahhhhhhh? (Get a mid-wife if you can.)
Raisinette tells me she's gonna leave me hooked up a few minutes more and then I am free to go. I call my husband. I cry. I wait about fifteen minutes and then say, "Hell with this!" While I undo the paddles myself, I realize one is dangling anyway. Ummm, hello? Has anyone noticed the lack of heartbeat on this one child??? I know, I am NOT the only pregnant lady in the maternity ward. No, it is not called, "The Melissa Sullivan Wing". I wipe off the goo, get dressed, cry more, and wait for Matt. As we leave, I stop by the nurses station to sign decharge papers. Everyone there seems very preoccupied with their conversation.
Raisinette's teeth glow like someone shone a black light on them, "Okay, just keep your regular appointment next week. If you even make it that far! I'll be waiting for you." I reply, "I am not coming back here unless someone drags me in by my hair." "Oh," she asks, "did you want something for the pain?" I shake my head thinking, "Yeah, a shotgun." At this point, Dr. Levinson shrugs and says, "A little crampy." I conclude there is no socially appropriate response to this. So, I say nothing... but "crampy"??? Let me tell you something, sir. Crampy is you just ate a bad hotdog at the baseball game, you are experiencing gassy rumblings, and you are trying to evaluate the quickest route to the toilet. What I am feeling would be more akin to small reenactments of Hellraiser. Maybe my brain is limited, but I can't see the correlation.
We get home. My husband offers to stay with me. I figure spending an afternoon watching me cry and sleep won't be much fun. Plus, I know he doesn't want to miss work, no matter how much he dislikes it. He leaves (and brings me caramel apples home later... I am so lucky). I cry and sleep.
Then, my dad calls. My father is a difficult man, who comes across usually as unhappy and intolerant. But, he is a good, smart man with a DRY sense of humor. Someone who definitely earns your respect and keeps it. But, he demands you earn his respect in return. Doesn't sound like a lot to ask... but it is. Anywho, "Dad" is now a nurse after decades of being a graphic artist. I review my night and day with him. And, with most things my father encounters, the whole ordeal is "bullshit". I agree. He's got a good "bullshit" indicator. He tells me to call the office tomorrow, tell them I am on my way to the hospital, and that I want to be induced. No ifs! I tell him I'll call. But, really I have no intention of speaking to anyone in that office or hospital. I have hit my "Immaculate Deception" phase of pregnancy. I saw Blue Lagoon when I was young! I know what to do.
Minutes after I hang up with my dad, my mom calls. She wants to know, "Are you sitting down?" Yup. "Dr. X (my OB/GYN) killed himself."
WHAHHHHHHH?
We were referred to Dr. X after we lost one of the babies. When we were no longer expecting triplets, and Dr. ABC realized he wouldn't be getting his name in the paper, he dropped us like a hot potato and decided to stick with his original plan to retire. But, Dr. X, we were told, was a specialist of "high risk" pregnancies. Okay, we made an appointment. He seemed like a pretty quiet guy who looked like an extra from Miami Vice. But, after the first three or so appointments, I started getting scheduled with other doctors in the practice. I inquired as to why when we were specifically "referred" to Dr. X. The receptionist explained, impatiently, I would need to see all the doctors and this was normal practice... because you never know who will be the attending when you go into labor. I never saw Dr. X again (except in passing).
I find it twisted that someone who brought hundreds, maybe even thousands of babies into this world would decide to take his own life. Giveth and taketh away. Of course, he probably wasn't even cold before rumors started up in this small enough town. And, no matter how messed up I think it is that this happened during my pregnancy (ME! ME! ME!), I am trying to have compassion for the man and his surviving family. It does, however, explain some of the preoccupation and/or absence of the other health care providers during my hospital stay.
Coldly-- drama! I don't need it! Coldly-- this goes on my list of other people I knew who committed suicide. My first babysitter, my first date, etc. Coldly-- my friend Drew says our daughters have no choice but to be Goth now. Genetically, with my husband and I as the source, they have no choice but to be dark, stubborn, incredibly witty, stunningly beautiful, and outrageously talented children anyway. Right? Right.
We have had many people give us imdepending dates. A psychic at work said Sept. 29th or the full moon or Uncle Steve's birthday or Friday the 13th is creeping up. We have also tried many things to naturally induce labor: raspberry leaf tea, spicy foods, sex, etc. Like I said, these are stubborn children. A friend says she has a plunger and she knows how to use it. Hmmmm, that seems reasonable at this point.
So, that is where we stand. I am still in one piece, not three. Now, you don't have to ask. And, we will fill you in if any other news breaks. And, by news I mean, water.
After flipping from side to side, twirling like an alligator feeding on a dead animal, I finally give up and get up at 4:30am. More monitoring. I take a shower. I am convinced that hospitals could NEVER be as clean as they want you to believe they are. More flipping through horrible cable. I do watch a show "How to Bathe your Baby". And, I think, "I'm going to break my children." Breakfast at 7am of a bagel and tea with the Morning Times. Great, I read that Erie is again in the national news for a woman using her four week old child as a weapon.
Lo and behold! Shifts change, Raisinette is back. She hooks me up to the monitor, and tells me Dr. Levinson will be in soon to check out the tapes and measure my cervix. FINALLY! Wait, what's this? Suddenly, thanks to Raisinette's crypt-like finger stylin', I have no more contractions registering. Yes, labor starts and stops... but I blame you, Raisinette. Yes, you. After a few minutes or more (I refuse to track time under less than pleasurable circumstances), a female doctor I will refer to as Dr. Aloo-Matar comes into the room. That is not a racist slur, it more speaks to this fact: I have never spoken to the woman before in my life and have no clue what her name might be! She snaps on the latex, greases up, and assaults my cervix. Nope, no change... I can go home. The whole encounter takes about five minutes.
Whahhhhhhh? (Get a mid-wife if you can.)
Raisinette tells me she's gonna leave me hooked up a few minutes more and then I am free to go. I call my husband. I cry. I wait about fifteen minutes and then say, "Hell with this!" While I undo the paddles myself, I realize one is dangling anyway. Ummm, hello? Has anyone noticed the lack of heartbeat on this one child??? I know, I am NOT the only pregnant lady in the maternity ward. No, it is not called, "The Melissa Sullivan Wing". I wipe off the goo, get dressed, cry more, and wait for Matt. As we leave, I stop by the nurses station to sign decharge papers. Everyone there seems very preoccupied with their conversation.
Raisinette's teeth glow like someone shone a black light on them, "Okay, just keep your regular appointment next week. If you even make it that far! I'll be waiting for you." I reply, "I am not coming back here unless someone drags me in by my hair." "Oh," she asks, "did you want something for the pain?" I shake my head thinking, "Yeah, a shotgun." At this point, Dr. Levinson shrugs and says, "A little crampy." I conclude there is no socially appropriate response to this. So, I say nothing... but "crampy"??? Let me tell you something, sir. Crampy is you just ate a bad hotdog at the baseball game, you are experiencing gassy rumblings, and you are trying to evaluate the quickest route to the toilet. What I am feeling would be more akin to small reenactments of Hellraiser. Maybe my brain is limited, but I can't see the correlation.
We get home. My husband offers to stay with me. I figure spending an afternoon watching me cry and sleep won't be much fun. Plus, I know he doesn't want to miss work, no matter how much he dislikes it. He leaves (and brings me caramel apples home later... I am so lucky). I cry and sleep.
Then, my dad calls. My father is a difficult man, who comes across usually as unhappy and intolerant. But, he is a good, smart man with a DRY sense of humor. Someone who definitely earns your respect and keeps it. But, he demands you earn his respect in return. Doesn't sound like a lot to ask... but it is. Anywho, "Dad" is now a nurse after decades of being a graphic artist. I review my night and day with him. And, with most things my father encounters, the whole ordeal is "bullshit". I agree. He's got a good "bullshit" indicator. He tells me to call the office tomorrow, tell them I am on my way to the hospital, and that I want to be induced. No ifs! I tell him I'll call. But, really I have no intention of speaking to anyone in that office or hospital. I have hit my "Immaculate Deception" phase of pregnancy. I saw Blue Lagoon when I was young! I know what to do.
Minutes after I hang up with my dad, my mom calls. She wants to know, "Are you sitting down?" Yup. "Dr. X (my OB/GYN) killed himself."
WHAHHHHHHH?
We were referred to Dr. X after we lost one of the babies. When we were no longer expecting triplets, and Dr. ABC realized he wouldn't be getting his name in the paper, he dropped us like a hot potato and decided to stick with his original plan to retire. But, Dr. X, we were told, was a specialist of "high risk" pregnancies. Okay, we made an appointment. He seemed like a pretty quiet guy who looked like an extra from Miami Vice. But, after the first three or so appointments, I started getting scheduled with other doctors in the practice. I inquired as to why when we were specifically "referred" to Dr. X. The receptionist explained, impatiently, I would need to see all the doctors and this was normal practice... because you never know who will be the attending when you go into labor. I never saw Dr. X again (except in passing).
I find it twisted that someone who brought hundreds, maybe even thousands of babies into this world would decide to take his own life. Giveth and taketh away. Of course, he probably wasn't even cold before rumors started up in this small enough town. And, no matter how messed up I think it is that this happened during my pregnancy (ME! ME! ME!), I am trying to have compassion for the man and his surviving family. It does, however, explain some of the preoccupation and/or absence of the other health care providers during my hospital stay.
Coldly-- drama! I don't need it! Coldly-- this goes on my list of other people I knew who committed suicide. My first babysitter, my first date, etc. Coldly-- my friend Drew says our daughters have no choice but to be Goth now. Genetically, with my husband and I as the source, they have no choice but to be dark, stubborn, incredibly witty, stunningly beautiful, and outrageously talented children anyway. Right? Right.
We have had many people give us imdepending dates. A psychic at work said Sept. 29th or the full moon or Uncle Steve's birthday or Friday the 13th is creeping up. We have also tried many things to naturally induce labor: raspberry leaf tea, spicy foods, sex, etc. Like I said, these are stubborn children. A friend says she has a plunger and she knows how to use it. Hmmmm, that seems reasonable at this point.
So, that is where we stand. I am still in one piece, not three. Now, you don't have to ask. And, we will fill you in if any other news breaks. And, by news I mean, water.
Pregnacy Log Stardate October 2006 part 1
Okay, yes! This is another pregnancy oriented blog. Do you expect something different? I mean, LOOK AT ME!!! Oh, no! As a matter of fact, like I told Danielle last night,I am close to adorning a John Merrick burlap sack (with one eye hole cut out) on my head. Not that I was a fashion plate before-- but, believe it or not, I cared. Now, I don't care. I have read many women are edgy about having their water break in public. "Carry a jar of pickles to mask the spill and the smell of ammonia." At this point, I could poop my pants in the middle of a Farmer's Market and not care.
Wait, I've lost track here. That is one of the reasons why I have stopped going to work as of last Tuesday (my 36th week). My pain/discomfort is chronic enough as to make me unable to concentrate for too long without being interrupted with thoughts like, "My god! My back!" And, then I spending about ten minutes reorienting myself in a chair... making snorting, huffing noises like regulars at the Chinese buffet.
Which reminds me, the other day, my mother decided it was time to take me to get Chinese food. Well, why not? It worked for my cousin Karla and Glenda's daughter and... whatever, I go. Maybe it is all mind over matter. I am screwed for being so cynical (says the girl who believes in ginji and vampires). I waddle my way up to the brass bar, catching the peripheral of an INCREDIBLY obese woman double-timing it to the chaffing dish in front of me. Yeah, god forbid that the severely pregnant lady eat all the Lo Mein! Because, then, oh, dear! You would have to wait approximately two minutes for the cooks to bring out some more. Would I be exaggerating if I said I saw beads of sweat on her mustache? No. Then, at the other corner of the station, she leans into a waistless stretch to reach a soup bowl. The noise released from her air passages have recently only been heard on PBS nature shows. Am I making fun of "fat" people? No, I'm slightly Amazonian even pre-pregnancy AND there was nothing funny about the situation. The magic of MSG? Nah... no labor.
I am taking the time to write some of this because I have already gone through these events at least three times. And, that is two times too many. I DO realize I have been very fortunate not to have had any major health complications thus far (besides what I have mentioned previously). I should've expected having to submit to doctors' request at some point. I can also see the toll exhaustion and discomfort takes on one's temperament. Before, people would ask, "How ya doin'?" I would ALWAYS answer, "Fine. Thanks." Well, now, I am not going to answer at all. So, don't ask. I won't complain (unless you've known me for more than ten years). I will just stare at you blankly.
MOST IMPORTANTLY! The girls are look really well. Their heartbeats are strong. They're about six and a half pounds each. And, they are still wiggling almost constantly (where they find the room I have no clue). So, please realize despite my bitching, I am happy they are going past the expected 36 weeks. And, there are some brief moments where I experience a kinda of happiness they are comfy and warm inside of me. However, I would like them out before their high school graduation.
Let's review. Last Monday, I was told I was dilated to 2cm and 70% effaced (all cervix talk). "Cool," I projected, "time to get the ball rolling." I went to work the next day for a management meeting. It would prove to be my last day, which I think my co-workers appreciated (they were staring to look very nervous around me). Yup, a trooper! That's me! Tuesday night into Wednesday morning, I lost my mucus plug. My husband mentioned concern how he wanted to see it. But, once I explained it looked more like the by-product of a sinus infection and nothing like a wine cork or votile candle, he lost interest. Unfortunately, I read these events mean you could start labor in an hour or two weeks. And, the waiting kicks into high gear. I did experience some contractions but nothing regularly. Wait for it, wait for it. The impatience doubles, triples...
This Monday, first, I had my weekly NST (stress test) at the hospital. Mind you, I have been OVERLY polite to every health care provider involved with this ordeal whether I "like" them or not. Don't offer anyone a knife, a spear, or a sword as you remove your armor. The nurse who has given me my last few NSTs, I refer to her as Raisinette. She is a bottle blond with an Angie Dickenson bob (that sounds kinda cool, in an Amy Sedaris type of way) and a baby oil tan that makes my pigment cells ache. I know, I never go out in the sun and when I do, we have an experience like the Air Show sunburn. I know not of your tanning ways. However, every time she reaches over my belly, I can see the horrible damage done to her skin. And, I look up at her face with a sad sympathy in my eyes that I save to be shared with a legless child beggar in a sewage filled street somewhere in Central America. Anyway, nothing new. The girls look great.
Next, I had my sonogram. The sono-nurse has been extremely sweet. She can't believe I haven't had these babies yet, she says. Genevieve's head is so deep in my pelvis! Have I thought about induction, she asks. Sure, sure. Is it selfish? Yes, I think so. But, it sounds like you pay for it with the severity of contractions. But, the sono-nurse can't induce. Oh, if she could! I waddle down the corridor toward the exam room, tears building around my eyelashes. I can't even walk anymore, I pity myself. Dr. MNO, one of the five doctors I've seen since being inseminated, measures me again. Now, I am 3.5cm and 90% effaced. She tells me to go back to the hospital. I was just there. They sent me here, I explain. "I want to see if you dilate more," she answers. Fine. I make some calls. I grab my bags.
By 2pm, I am in a gown with Raisinette hooking me up again. I told my husband not to rush, but he shows up soon after. I've got this feeling they are yanking my chain. No emergencies... in the babies' best interest, of course. I am definitely experiencing uterine irritability. Oh, and thank god! I am reminded again, this irritability occurs because I am carrying two babies... TWINS, they say! You know what? NO SHIT! If I walked around town with a dairy cow on my shoulders and complained of a sore neck, it's not necessary to remind me, "Well, you are carrying a dairy cow on your shoulders, you know." No contractions noted, despite my gauging of reoccurring pain (on a scale of one to ten) at a seven. Apparently, unless the monitor picks something up (I later learn this varies wildly, depending on who hooks you up and where they place the paddles), this means nothing.
However, the shifts change and the next nurse, who I think is sweet although I become agitated by her bizarrely small mouth, starts finding contractions. Apparently, the irritability prevents the uterus from getting into any type of rhythm. I, however, have still not seen a doctor.
More soon... (lucky you).
Wait, I've lost track here. That is one of the reasons why I have stopped going to work as of last Tuesday (my 36th week). My pain/discomfort is chronic enough as to make me unable to concentrate for too long without being interrupted with thoughts like, "My god! My back!" And, then I spending about ten minutes reorienting myself in a chair... making snorting, huffing noises like regulars at the Chinese buffet.
Which reminds me, the other day, my mother decided it was time to take me to get Chinese food. Well, why not? It worked for my cousin Karla and Glenda's daughter and... whatever, I go. Maybe it is all mind over matter. I am screwed for being so cynical (says the girl who believes in ginji and vampires). I waddle my way up to the brass bar, catching the peripheral of an INCREDIBLY obese woman double-timing it to the chaffing dish in front of me. Yeah, god forbid that the severely pregnant lady eat all the Lo Mein! Because, then, oh, dear! You would have to wait approximately two minutes for the cooks to bring out some more. Would I be exaggerating if I said I saw beads of sweat on her mustache? No. Then, at the other corner of the station, she leans into a waistless stretch to reach a soup bowl. The noise released from her air passages have recently only been heard on PBS nature shows. Am I making fun of "fat" people? No, I'm slightly Amazonian even pre-pregnancy AND there was nothing funny about the situation. The magic of MSG? Nah... no labor.
I am taking the time to write some of this because I have already gone through these events at least three times. And, that is two times too many. I DO realize I have been very fortunate not to have had any major health complications thus far (besides what I have mentioned previously). I should've expected having to submit to doctors' request at some point. I can also see the toll exhaustion and discomfort takes on one's temperament. Before, people would ask, "How ya doin'?" I would ALWAYS answer, "Fine. Thanks." Well, now, I am not going to answer at all. So, don't ask. I won't complain (unless you've known me for more than ten years). I will just stare at you blankly.
MOST IMPORTANTLY! The girls are look really well. Their heartbeats are strong. They're about six and a half pounds each. And, they are still wiggling almost constantly (where they find the room I have no clue). So, please realize despite my bitching, I am happy they are going past the expected 36 weeks. And, there are some brief moments where I experience a kinda of happiness they are comfy and warm inside of me. However, I would like them out before their high school graduation.
Let's review. Last Monday, I was told I was dilated to 2cm and 70% effaced (all cervix talk). "Cool," I projected, "time to get the ball rolling." I went to work the next day for a management meeting. It would prove to be my last day, which I think my co-workers appreciated (they were staring to look very nervous around me). Yup, a trooper! That's me! Tuesday night into Wednesday morning, I lost my mucus plug. My husband mentioned concern how he wanted to see it. But, once I explained it looked more like the by-product of a sinus infection and nothing like a wine cork or votile candle, he lost interest. Unfortunately, I read these events mean you could start labor in an hour or two weeks. And, the waiting kicks into high gear. I did experience some contractions but nothing regularly. Wait for it, wait for it. The impatience doubles, triples...
This Monday, first, I had my weekly NST (stress test) at the hospital. Mind you, I have been OVERLY polite to every health care provider involved with this ordeal whether I "like" them or not. Don't offer anyone a knife, a spear, or a sword as you remove your armor. The nurse who has given me my last few NSTs, I refer to her as Raisinette. She is a bottle blond with an Angie Dickenson bob (that sounds kinda cool, in an Amy Sedaris type of way) and a baby oil tan that makes my pigment cells ache. I know, I never go out in the sun and when I do, we have an experience like the Air Show sunburn. I know not of your tanning ways. However, every time she reaches over my belly, I can see the horrible damage done to her skin. And, I look up at her face with a sad sympathy in my eyes that I save to be shared with a legless child beggar in a sewage filled street somewhere in Central America. Anyway, nothing new. The girls look great.
Next, I had my sonogram. The sono-nurse has been extremely sweet. She can't believe I haven't had these babies yet, she says. Genevieve's head is so deep in my pelvis! Have I thought about induction, she asks. Sure, sure. Is it selfish? Yes, I think so. But, it sounds like you pay for it with the severity of contractions. But, the sono-nurse can't induce. Oh, if she could! I waddle down the corridor toward the exam room, tears building around my eyelashes. I can't even walk anymore, I pity myself. Dr. MNO, one of the five doctors I've seen since being inseminated, measures me again. Now, I am 3.5cm and 90% effaced. She tells me to go back to the hospital. I was just there. They sent me here, I explain. "I want to see if you dilate more," she answers. Fine. I make some calls. I grab my bags.
By 2pm, I am in a gown with Raisinette hooking me up again. I told my husband not to rush, but he shows up soon after. I've got this feeling they are yanking my chain. No emergencies... in the babies' best interest, of course. I am definitely experiencing uterine irritability. Oh, and thank god! I am reminded again, this irritability occurs because I am carrying two babies... TWINS, they say! You know what? NO SHIT! If I walked around town with a dairy cow on my shoulders and complained of a sore neck, it's not necessary to remind me, "Well, you are carrying a dairy cow on your shoulders, you know." No contractions noted, despite my gauging of reoccurring pain (on a scale of one to ten) at a seven. Apparently, unless the monitor picks something up (I later learn this varies wildly, depending on who hooks you up and where they place the paddles), this means nothing.
However, the shifts change and the next nurse, who I think is sweet although I become agitated by her bizarrely small mouth, starts finding contractions. Apparently, the irritability prevents the uterus from getting into any type of rhythm. I, however, have still not seen a doctor.
More soon... (lucky you).
Summertime Rules: Bugs
Later published in Ausgang under the grouping Trash
I've been hedging about whether or not to post this. Mostly, because it seems like common, elemental sense. Simply put: Don't litter, arseholes!
We live in the city, on a pretty busy corner (by the third largest city in Pennsylvania standards). And, we are forever picking up various bottles and candy wrappers off the lawn, sidewalk, and curb. It seems those with poor diets litter most, because it is ALWAYS absolute crap floating/rolling around. Seriously, when is the last time you saw someone drop the plastic bag from spinach out their car window as opposed to a Dorito bag? I figure this: if you drop it 'cos you don't care enough about someone's property or about the Good Ol' Earth, in general-- then, I should be able to run after you and attach said garbage to your person with a gunpowder powered nail-gun. You wouldn't care if I did that, right? Are you that depressed and lazy? Or are you some sort of prophet-that-sees-the-world-ending-tomorrow-so-who-cares-type of person? Sad thing is, some people ARE that lazy. "Whaddya mean I have to carry this .0001 oz. empty potato chip bag one more block so I can throw it away in some sort of receptacle? Dude! I can't! It is like 90-degrees outside, and I need my free hand to dig into this Snickers bar." Plus, as I get older and reach for my Nanna-years, I see it as some sort of pre-pubescent middle finger. Like, I've suddenly become "The Man" and littering on my property is like burning the flag in some sort of revolt against me sitting on my front porch. And, yes, the Apocalypse is coming.But, I always envisioned us drowning in a flaming sea of stupidity not in the trash compactor from Star Wars.
This is the particular situation that finally set me off: we went to an airshow this past weekend. Which, on a side note, was so overly patriotic that it makes you wanna have sex with the flag, and feel cheap for doing it. Anyway, on one of my many pregnant lady trips to the bathroom, I walked by these guys standing in front of their "trikes" (arseholes! get a real bike). And just as I passed by, one guy kicked an empty Mountain Dew bottle out of his path into mine. So, I said: "Oh, HEY! Let me get that and throw it away for you." Sure, make the overheated pregnant lady with a sunburn bend over. And he replied with his arms crossed, "It's not mine." I was confused for a moment, before my aggravated brain thought, "Pick the damn thing up! There's a trash can not 10 feet from you. Or are your hemorrhoids (from riding an adults' version of an toddler's toy) flaring up!?!?!" But, instead, I replied,"You know, I'll throw it away anyway." NOT mine! Geeesh!
We went to the Steam Engine show the day before the airshow. It was, what most would say, out in the sticks. You know what? The only litter I saw was a trash can that had over-flowed. And, not five minutes after I noticed it, some guy in a pick-up stopped and started scooping it all up. Sure, he might have been collecting cans (one man's trash is another man's treasure), but so what. It was off the ground. I'm not gonna stereotype, but maybe the Amish and career agriculturalists don't litter as much because they realize the land is an investment. I guess that fact was driven home in the Dust Bowl years. Plus, I suppose you can more easily burn your trash if you have those couple extra 100 acres as opposed to burning your trash on your front porch in the city (I do not recommend).
Unfortunately, as urban sprawl sprawls, I think more littler will be blowing around in empty parking lots. But, I can't settle myself to that.
Don't they smack you upside the face with a board in Germany if you litter or spit on the side walk? Don't they do that somewhere? Wherever it is, I like it there.
Also, after spending two days at outdoor events and making numerous trips to the Port-a-Potties to empty my compressed bladder, I have a general suggestion. If you have severe diarrhea, don't go to an outdoor event. And, if you have to drag your dehydrating body out anyway, stick to one stall instead of spraying your rear like a poo-cano in EVERY SINGLE stall. I figure it must be just one or two people, because I can't believe THAT a small army of people can leave their homes confidently when they are suffering from (as my mom calls it) the Squirts.
I've been hedging about whether or not to post this. Mostly, because it seems like common, elemental sense. Simply put: Don't litter, arseholes!
We live in the city, on a pretty busy corner (by the third largest city in Pennsylvania standards). And, we are forever picking up various bottles and candy wrappers off the lawn, sidewalk, and curb. It seems those with poor diets litter most, because it is ALWAYS absolute crap floating/rolling around. Seriously, when is the last time you saw someone drop the plastic bag from spinach out their car window as opposed to a Dorito bag? I figure this: if you drop it 'cos you don't care enough about someone's property or about the Good Ol' Earth, in general-- then, I should be able to run after you and attach said garbage to your person with a gunpowder powered nail-gun. You wouldn't care if I did that, right? Are you that depressed and lazy? Or are you some sort of prophet-that-sees-the-world-ending-tomorrow-so-who-cares-type of person? Sad thing is, some people ARE that lazy. "Whaddya mean I have to carry this .0001 oz. empty potato chip bag one more block so I can throw it away in some sort of receptacle? Dude! I can't! It is like 90-degrees outside, and I need my free hand to dig into this Snickers bar." Plus, as I get older and reach for my Nanna-years, I see it as some sort of pre-pubescent middle finger. Like, I've suddenly become "The Man" and littering on my property is like burning the flag in some sort of revolt against me sitting on my front porch. And, yes, the Apocalypse is coming.But, I always envisioned us drowning in a flaming sea of stupidity not in the trash compactor from Star Wars.
This is the particular situation that finally set me off: we went to an airshow this past weekend. Which, on a side note, was so overly patriotic that it makes you wanna have sex with the flag, and feel cheap for doing it. Anyway, on one of my many pregnant lady trips to the bathroom, I walked by these guys standing in front of their "trikes" (arseholes! get a real bike). And just as I passed by, one guy kicked an empty Mountain Dew bottle out of his path into mine. So, I said: "Oh, HEY! Let me get that and throw it away for you." Sure, make the overheated pregnant lady with a sunburn bend over. And he replied with his arms crossed, "It's not mine." I was confused for a moment, before my aggravated brain thought, "Pick the damn thing up! There's a trash can not 10 feet from you. Or are your hemorrhoids (from riding an adults' version of an toddler's toy) flaring up!?!?!" But, instead, I replied,"You know, I'll throw it away anyway." NOT mine! Geeesh!
We went to the Steam Engine show the day before the airshow. It was, what most would say, out in the sticks. You know what? The only litter I saw was a trash can that had over-flowed. And, not five minutes after I noticed it, some guy in a pick-up stopped and started scooping it all up. Sure, he might have been collecting cans (one man's trash is another man's treasure), but so what. It was off the ground. I'm not gonna stereotype, but maybe the Amish and career agriculturalists don't litter as much because they realize the land is an investment. I guess that fact was driven home in the Dust Bowl years. Plus, I suppose you can more easily burn your trash if you have those couple extra 100 acres as opposed to burning your trash on your front porch in the city (I do not recommend).
Unfortunately, as urban sprawl sprawls, I think more littler will be blowing around in empty parking lots. But, I can't settle myself to that.
Don't they smack you upside the face with a board in Germany if you litter or spit on the side walk? Don't they do that somewhere? Wherever it is, I like it there.
Also, after spending two days at outdoor events and making numerous trips to the Port-a-Potties to empty my compressed bladder, I have a general suggestion. If you have severe diarrhea, don't go to an outdoor event. And, if you have to drag your dehydrating body out anyway, stick to one stall instead of spraying your rear like a poo-cano in EVERY SINGLE stall. I figure it must be just one or two people, because I can't believe THAT a small army of people can leave their homes confidently when they are suffering from (as my mom calls it) the Squirts.
Clean, Sober, Huge and Taking Names
Current mood: anxious
So, how's my pregnancy going? Pretty great. Not that I understand why anyone who isn't either an immmediate family member or a close friend would give two cares.
My father's side of the family seems to be playing their usual hand by acting like nothing is a big deal. Birth is no big deal, as death is no big deal. It is something that may come up in conversation in a delivery room or a viewing parlor, but that is about it. They ask you once if you need something, and then it is up to you to tell them if you do. Most likely, they won't ask again. And, my mother's side? Well, first, there is my mother (although totally wrapped up in creating a new life for herself), who has been waiting for grandchildren since I first got my period in seventh grade. She will completely lose her mind by the time I go into labor. As for the rest of her family, god only knows where they are. Well, I know where they are, but no one really ever talks often or much . The bonds of family are, surfacely, as seamless as a piece of glass (remember the old SNL skit about "my Irish mother"???). We know all the stories of our immediate ancestors; however, you barely even get a call on your birthday. So, considering this family background, I think it is bizarre when people I hardly know (which I consider everyone except the handful of my closest, longest, and dearest friends) voice their numerous and repeated inquires or ancedotes. I suppose people are "just being nice". But, many of you already know my suspicions about "nice". I told myself right from the beginning, after finding we were expecting multiples, I would need to put my fierce independence and self-destructive self-reliance in mothballs for a while. I would need to accept help whenever and whereever it was offered. Easier said than done.
I do not believe in altruism. No, I don't think people necessarily want an award or a gold star on the calendar-- but worse yet, they may want some conversation! Believe me! I am EXTREMELY grateful for any help/assistance offered and/or given. And, I say it probably meaning it more than most people who express frequent thanksgivings. However, I am not a chatty person unless you are one of the afore mentioned handful. For example, I hate the phone. Really... HATE! I usually scream, "Damnit!" from whereever I am in the house when it rings. When people offer one, I don't know, a banana, then one then is obligated to answer a bazillion questions about names, due dates, why is one so big already, why one is out at a bar (not drinking or smoking, mind you), why one isn't tired, does one suffer from gas (which means a hairy boy baby) or just in general, WHAT IN THE HELL DO MY HUSBAND AND I PLAN TO DO?!?!?!?! Okay, you get the picture. I'd tell you if I wanted you to know. And, if you tell me one hundred thousand times that I am looking great (for being pregnant), you make me feel like a chemotherapy patient. No, I don't take compliments well. Nor am I really fond of people telling me how tired I look on a given day when I actually feel relatively refreshed and slightly together. It's always on the tip of my tongue to say something like, "Oh, tired, eh? No, I'm just tired of looking at the squirrel-sized mole on the side of your neck?" or something like that. But, instead, I say, "No. Actually, I feel really good today." Ugh! And, you know what? I really don't complain about being pregnant (like some people I know who would probably get a motorized scooter from the day the took the EPT test). That might change in a couple of months when I look like Mama Cass in a sweaty poncho-dress with a fan blowing up between my legs, sucking on a popicle. But, as of right now, I haven't had any morning sickness (did get some mean heartburn on Cinqo de Mayo but that was the tomales not me). I sleep pretty well. I can still climb stairs (more slowly), etc. If you were my Itty Bitty kitty, you might overhear me complaining about my hip hurting (good ol' pelvic bone spreading) or cursing when I tinkle in my pajamas a little bit when I sneeze or laugh too hard (extra weight on my bladder). Personally, I am not thrilled about my larger than average bosom growing an additional three measurements and two cup sizes. My husband, on the other hand, doesn't seem to mind. Actually, I have had to ask him not to announce this novelity to all of our smarmy friends. Anyway, mind over matter. I am healthy! I will remain healthy.
Oh, and the smoking argument? I was never a smoker. And, I gained an exaggerated distaste for it once pregnant. I have little respect for people who cannot stop smoking for their children (unborn or born). What is your point of persuasion? Oh, the baby will only be a little bit premature and the birth weight a little bit below average. Yeah, and Brian Wilson is only a little bit schitzophrenic. Ted Bundy was only slightly a serial killer. And, Hitler only killed a handful of Eastern European Jews.
So, the pregnancy? What do you need to know? We were expecting triplets; and about a month ago, we lost one of them. It was far more difficult to deal with then we thought it would be. However, we are not looking for sympathetic pats on the back. The doctor told us from the beginning we could have all three or none. But, when you see the little head and hands, etc. and then they tell you there is no heartbeat? Well, yeah, it is still tough to think about even now. My husband and I figure it is better this happen now then have to bring a child into the world who would have to suffer with some affliction or handicap for the rest of his life. It may sound gross, but the body naturally reabsorbs the fetus. So, the baby is part of me and the other two "beans" now. If there is a bright side to the story, there is now a better chance for the other two to go full-term with less chance of complications. And, it will put less stress on my body as well. Nature runs its own course. And, if it is meant to be, it is. I mean, crackheads carry babies to full-term. And, I am cleaner than I've ever been, getting lots of sleep, and eating hummos and cheese instead of donuts. So, it makes no sense to me. It just is.
As for Baby A and Baby B (as the sonogram reads), they are doing great. KNOCK WOOD! Their heartbeats are strong. And, every bit and piece is filling out nicely. Heads, hearts, ribs, tummies, hips, and femurs. They are laying atop each other like bunk beds (maybe explaining my extra-width), and punching the hell out of each other. I figure they will roll out of me in fist-a-cuffs. I can't wait to holler out my first, 'Knock it off, Dumplings (because they actually looked like little doughy dumpling)!" However, there will be no Cain and Abel in our household.
Otherwise, we are preparing the best we can. Trying to get our ducks in a row (after we identify and define what a "duck" may be in this situation). I figure these next two years are gonna be pretty rough. But, I also figure, we'll do what we got to do. Food, clothing, shelter (not to mention the emotional and mental needs) are the logictics. I am so SICK of peoples' horror stories about childbirth and rearing. "Oh, you wait and see!" People make it sound like you'll have two 50lb. leeches hanging off your skull! Perhaps, I could more understand this attitude from single/childless friends (although most share our joy). But, it comes from the mouths of mothers!!! However, most of those mothers would complain about the taxes after winning a million dollars in the lottery, too.
Well, all in all, we (all four of us) are healthy and happy. And, as present spokeperson, we're excited (also filled with a healthy dose of sheer horror and confusion) about our growing family and the new phase of life we have begun. You know, the usual. And, as cheesy as it sounds, I find it amazing that I could be fortunate enough to have two little people in me who have been created with half of myself and half of the man I love, my best friend. So, we're just sex-crazed, pro-creatin' monkeys, eh?
Oh, and I do plan on starting a cottage industry of "DIY" maternity wear for the rocker/goth/punk/retro woman. I guess you don't think about it until you get there, but maternity clothing is a sad sac... literally a sac.
I said, "Good day to you, sir! Good day!"
So, how's my pregnancy going? Pretty great. Not that I understand why anyone who isn't either an immmediate family member or a close friend would give two cares.
My father's side of the family seems to be playing their usual hand by acting like nothing is a big deal. Birth is no big deal, as death is no big deal. It is something that may come up in conversation in a delivery room or a viewing parlor, but that is about it. They ask you once if you need something, and then it is up to you to tell them if you do. Most likely, they won't ask again. And, my mother's side? Well, first, there is my mother (although totally wrapped up in creating a new life for herself), who has been waiting for grandchildren since I first got my period in seventh grade. She will completely lose her mind by the time I go into labor. As for the rest of her family, god only knows where they are. Well, I know where they are, but no one really ever talks often or much . The bonds of family are, surfacely, as seamless as a piece of glass (remember the old SNL skit about "my Irish mother"???). We know all the stories of our immediate ancestors; however, you barely even get a call on your birthday. So, considering this family background, I think it is bizarre when people I hardly know (which I consider everyone except the handful of my closest, longest, and dearest friends) voice their numerous and repeated inquires or ancedotes. I suppose people are "just being nice". But, many of you already know my suspicions about "nice". I told myself right from the beginning, after finding we were expecting multiples, I would need to put my fierce independence and self-destructive self-reliance in mothballs for a while. I would need to accept help whenever and whereever it was offered. Easier said than done.
I do not believe in altruism. No, I don't think people necessarily want an award or a gold star on the calendar-- but worse yet, they may want some conversation! Believe me! I am EXTREMELY grateful for any help/assistance offered and/or given. And, I say it probably meaning it more than most people who express frequent thanksgivings. However, I am not a chatty person unless you are one of the afore mentioned handful. For example, I hate the phone. Really... HATE! I usually scream, "Damnit!" from whereever I am in the house when it rings. When people offer one, I don't know, a banana, then one then is obligated to answer a bazillion questions about names, due dates, why is one so big already, why one is out at a bar (not drinking or smoking, mind you), why one isn't tired, does one suffer from gas (which means a hairy boy baby) or just in general, WHAT IN THE HELL DO MY HUSBAND AND I PLAN TO DO?!?!?!?! Okay, you get the picture. I'd tell you if I wanted you to know. And, if you tell me one hundred thousand times that I am looking great (for being pregnant), you make me feel like a chemotherapy patient. No, I don't take compliments well. Nor am I really fond of people telling me how tired I look on a given day when I actually feel relatively refreshed and slightly together. It's always on the tip of my tongue to say something like, "Oh, tired, eh? No, I'm just tired of looking at the squirrel-sized mole on the side of your neck?" or something like that. But, instead, I say, "No. Actually, I feel really good today." Ugh! And, you know what? I really don't complain about being pregnant (like some people I know who would probably get a motorized scooter from the day the took the EPT test). That might change in a couple of months when I look like Mama Cass in a sweaty poncho-dress with a fan blowing up between my legs, sucking on a popicle. But, as of right now, I haven't had any morning sickness (did get some mean heartburn on Cinqo de Mayo but that was the tomales not me). I sleep pretty well. I can still climb stairs (more slowly), etc. If you were my Itty Bitty kitty, you might overhear me complaining about my hip hurting (good ol' pelvic bone spreading) or cursing when I tinkle in my pajamas a little bit when I sneeze or laugh too hard (extra weight on my bladder). Personally, I am not thrilled about my larger than average bosom growing an additional three measurements and two cup sizes. My husband, on the other hand, doesn't seem to mind. Actually, I have had to ask him not to announce this novelity to all of our smarmy friends. Anyway, mind over matter. I am healthy! I will remain healthy.
Oh, and the smoking argument? I was never a smoker. And, I gained an exaggerated distaste for it once pregnant. I have little respect for people who cannot stop smoking for their children (unborn or born). What is your point of persuasion? Oh, the baby will only be a little bit premature and the birth weight a little bit below average. Yeah, and Brian Wilson is only a little bit schitzophrenic. Ted Bundy was only slightly a serial killer. And, Hitler only killed a handful of Eastern European Jews.
So, the pregnancy? What do you need to know? We were expecting triplets; and about a month ago, we lost one of them. It was far more difficult to deal with then we thought it would be. However, we are not looking for sympathetic pats on the back. The doctor told us from the beginning we could have all three or none. But, when you see the little head and hands, etc. and then they tell you there is no heartbeat? Well, yeah, it is still tough to think about even now. My husband and I figure it is better this happen now then have to bring a child into the world who would have to suffer with some affliction or handicap for the rest of his life. It may sound gross, but the body naturally reabsorbs the fetus. So, the baby is part of me and the other two "beans" now. If there is a bright side to the story, there is now a better chance for the other two to go full-term with less chance of complications. And, it will put less stress on my body as well. Nature runs its own course. And, if it is meant to be, it is. I mean, crackheads carry babies to full-term. And, I am cleaner than I've ever been, getting lots of sleep, and eating hummos and cheese instead of donuts. So, it makes no sense to me. It just is.
As for Baby A and Baby B (as the sonogram reads), they are doing great. KNOCK WOOD! Their heartbeats are strong. And, every bit and piece is filling out nicely. Heads, hearts, ribs, tummies, hips, and femurs. They are laying atop each other like bunk beds (maybe explaining my extra-width), and punching the hell out of each other. I figure they will roll out of me in fist-a-cuffs. I can't wait to holler out my first, 'Knock it off, Dumplings (because they actually looked like little doughy dumpling)!" However, there will be no Cain and Abel in our household.
Otherwise, we are preparing the best we can. Trying to get our ducks in a row (after we identify and define what a "duck" may be in this situation). I figure these next two years are gonna be pretty rough. But, I also figure, we'll do what we got to do. Food, clothing, shelter (not to mention the emotional and mental needs) are the logictics. I am so SICK of peoples' horror stories about childbirth and rearing. "Oh, you wait and see!" People make it sound like you'll have two 50lb. leeches hanging off your skull! Perhaps, I could more understand this attitude from single/childless friends (although most share our joy). But, it comes from the mouths of mothers!!! However, most of those mothers would complain about the taxes after winning a million dollars in the lottery, too.
Well, all in all, we (all four of us) are healthy and happy. And, as present spokeperson, we're excited (also filled with a healthy dose of sheer horror and confusion) about our growing family and the new phase of life we have begun. You know, the usual. And, as cheesy as it sounds, I find it amazing that I could be fortunate enough to have two little people in me who have been created with half of myself and half of the man I love, my best friend. So, we're just sex-crazed, pro-creatin' monkeys, eh?
Oh, and I do plan on starting a cottage industry of "DIY" maternity wear for the rocker/goth/punk/retro woman. I guess you don't think about it until you get there, but maternity clothing is a sad sac... literally a sac.
I said, "Good day to you, sir! Good day!"
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