I did not get any Easter candy this year. More specifically, I did not remember to go out and buy myself Cadbury Eggs. Oh how I enjoy a good Cadbury Egg! A 4-pack of those & about a half gallon of milk & I'm anybody's. Yet, somehow this year I was so focused on losing the last four pounds of baby weight that I totally blew off that bok-bok-ing bunny. Truth be told, Easter morning I would have settled for any kind of chocolate. Isn't that our Traditional Christian Breakfast on the Holy Day? 'Course I haven't been to church in awhile. And I'm a Methodist, so I don't even know if that counts, really.
I realize I'm almost 34 years old, but--perhaps selfishly, unrealistically--I had hoped that my mother-in-law or other relative, in their blind unthinking love for my son, would put a little chocolate of some sort in his Easter basket. No such luck. Grandma Lee got Lucas a respectable robin's-egg-blue plastic easter basket containing a cute little stuffed bunny and a package of Peeps for my husband. My parents didn't even get Lucas--their first and only grandchild mind you, who is named in part after my father--a basket at all. This not only cheated me of eating the baby's chocolate, but also of tsking them for buying candy for a 10-month-old who isn't even allowed fruit juice. But I digress.
So early Monday morning, as soon as Lucas was up and decent, we set out in search of clearance Cadbury Eggs. Surely somebody had some left? First stop, the Hy-Vee grocery store nearest our house. Nothing. Next we tried Walgreen's. No luck. Then we stopped at Home Depot (no eggs there, but their pansies were lovely). Finally, out of desperation, and as the shot clock was winding down to the baby's nap time, it hit me. What about Wal-Mart? It was right there next to Home Depot afterall. Surely if anyone had leftover Eggs, it would be the Big W.
Now those of you who know me well understand immediately the desperate state of my psyche that I would even suggest a trip to Wal-Mart, let alone follow through on the threat. I freaking hate Wal-Mart. I hate what they stand for and all that they represent. And okay, fine, I resent that often they DO have the Lowest Prices Everyday. But on this day, even Wal-Mart didn't have what I was looking for. I did, however, find a Solid Milk Chocolate Cadbury Bunny for 50% off, which I immediately decided to purchase and consume in the name of self-medication.
After coughing up $1.96 in bunny ransom I pushed our cart--baby, bunny, and all--toward the nearest exit. As we neared the freedom of the automatic doors, a security sensor sounded repeatedly alerting the small elderly greeter person who immediately scurried over to see what was in my sack. She was a compact woman with tight curls of artificially dark hair and little dark-rimmed glasses that she wore on a chain around her neck.
"Do you have any electronics?" she asked, putting on her glasses to peer curiously into my plastic bag.
"I...have a chocolate bunny?" I offered. And then I said what all good thieves say as they steal expensive computer books from Barnes & Noble, "And my cell phone, of course." I don't know what posessed me to say this. While it's true that I did have my cell phone, I don't know what, if anything, that has to do with setting off Wal-Mart's security sensors. But I felt like I had to say something, and this, apparently, was good enough for her.
"Ohh," she said decidedly, raising a single, gnarled finger into the air as she shuffled back to her post, nodding, "That's probably what it is."
"Okay," I said, "Have a good one."
And just like that (poof) we were gone.
30 April 2006
28 April 2006
Deanna The Mystical Ballerina.
What follows in an excerpt from Diana Olson's book, Nighttime, Bedtime: Stories for Children (1stBooks, 2002). I am defying the book's warning, "No part of this book may be reproduced, restored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written consent from the author." As a fellow writer, I feel that Diana's work deserves to be "out there" for a wider audience to enjoy. Her stories are most entertaining when read aloud in the spirit of dramatic recitation. Just a couple of points to make before we begin. First, please assume that all--oh what shall we call them--"errors" perhaps, are [sic] unless otherwise specified. Also, I have provided [bracketed] commentary when warranted.
Deanna The Mystical Ballerina.
[I will double-space her page breaks so as not to lose the overall flow of the story.]
There once lived a mystical ballerina, named Deanna.
["Mystical ballerina?" You mean, like a "stripper?"]
She lived in two worlds, A part of her world was a kingdom.
The other part of her world was mystical!
[Apparently her "kingdom" was more reality-based.]
There were people called nobles, They lived in the blackhills.
[They lived in western South Dakota.]
They had escaped from King Richards of the kingdom of the greens, because they were in non-payment of there taxes.
[They thought they were in Montana.]
They were trying to take over King Richards thrown but when they threaten to fight King Richards and his honored people of the kingdom of the greens.
Something very mystical would happen Deanna the ballerina!
She would turn into a black cougar and scare them away.
[She did her goth number and nobody tipped.]
Deanna was defiantly special!
[Deanna was defiantly special!]
When King Richards would have celebrations, King Richards would always send for Deanna the mystical ballerina in a carriage.
[When King Richards threw parties, he sent a limo to pick up the stripper.]
Deanna even seemed to light shinny stars!
[So shinny!]
She would make them a little bit brighter.
[Her costume really caught the strobe.]
When she danced for King Richards and the Kingdom of the greens.
King Richards was unwedded and looking for a bride.
[King Richards was no stranger to VIP.]
Oh how the ballerina longed for him.
[Oh how she longed for him.]
One rain storm day King Richards called, For his carriage, and his horsemen to take him to the valley of the sun's arising!
Where he loved to fish!
[What?!]
The ballerina Deanna happen to be there.
[No way!]
They took glances at each other, They fell in-love.
Suddenly Deanna leaves in a storm.
[It either began to rain or he said something that pissed her off.]
Then King Richards is captured by the nobles of the black hills.
King Richards was gone for days days became weeks!
Deanna became worried so!
[She was worried so!]
The people of the Kingdom of the greens worried and talked where could King Richards be?
[He suffers from pleurisy and needs his medication.]
Then shinny stars shined over Deanna.
She had rememberd about the nobles fighting with King Richards.
[Aha!]
Deanna used her mystical powers and turned into a black cougar.
She jumped valleys, she jumped mountains.
[Ain't no river wide enough, etc.]
Until she found King Richards tied around a tree!
[Not tied to a tree, mind you. He actually formed his own knot. Exclamation!]
She pulled the horsemen to King Richards to save King Richards!
[She...huh?]
King Richards was dazed!
[Deanna was defiantly special!]
King Richards and the Kingdom of the greens arrested the nobles of the blackhills!
They put them in a cell!
[Apparently, according to the illustration, in a building marked Cell, which was no doubt quite crowded, chock full of nobles and all.]
Then King Richards called for a celebration and sent for Deanna the mystical ballerina.
[1-866-Mys-tcal]
She then came into the ballroom in pink and white.
[For her oft-requested "Barbie Girl" number.]
The stars were then brighter.
[There were many sequins.]
Once again she danced with King Richards.
[$20]
He asked for her hand in marriage.
She said yes!
[Yes!]
They lived happily in the Kingdom of the greens forever!
The end.
[Another time, perhaps, we'll read Sammy, the Chinese Clock...]
*Diana Olson works as a Dietetic Assistant in a hospital and has two sons. She is also the author of a western novel, Sundance in the Eve, which for whatever reason is available both online and at Barnes & Noble stores nationwide.
Deanna The Mystical Ballerina.
[I will double-space her page breaks so as not to lose the overall flow of the story.]
There once lived a mystical ballerina, named Deanna.
["Mystical ballerina?" You mean, like a "stripper?"]
She lived in two worlds, A part of her world was a kingdom.
The other part of her world was mystical!
[Apparently her "kingdom" was more reality-based.]
There were people called nobles, They lived in the blackhills.
[They lived in western South Dakota.]
They had escaped from King Richards of the kingdom of the greens, because they were in non-payment of there taxes.
[They thought they were in Montana.]
They were trying to take over King Richards thrown but when they threaten to fight King Richards and his honored people of the kingdom of the greens.
Something very mystical would happen Deanna the ballerina!
She would turn into a black cougar and scare them away.
[She did her goth number and nobody tipped.]
Deanna was defiantly special!
[Deanna was defiantly special!]
When King Richards would have celebrations, King Richards would always send for Deanna the mystical ballerina in a carriage.
[When King Richards threw parties, he sent a limo to pick up the stripper.]
Deanna even seemed to light shinny stars!
[So shinny!]
She would make them a little bit brighter.
[Her costume really caught the strobe.]
When she danced for King Richards and the Kingdom of the greens.
King Richards was unwedded and looking for a bride.
[King Richards was no stranger to VIP.]
Oh how the ballerina longed for him.
[Oh how she longed for him.]
One rain storm day King Richards called, For his carriage, and his horsemen to take him to the valley of the sun's arising!
Where he loved to fish!
[What?!]
The ballerina Deanna happen to be there.
[No way!]
They took glances at each other, They fell in-love.
Suddenly Deanna leaves in a storm.
[It either began to rain or he said something that pissed her off.]
Then King Richards is captured by the nobles of the black hills.
King Richards was gone for days days became weeks!
Deanna became worried so!
[She was worried so!]
The people of the Kingdom of the greens worried and talked where could King Richards be?
[He suffers from pleurisy and needs his medication.]
Then shinny stars shined over Deanna.
She had rememberd about the nobles fighting with King Richards.
[Aha!]
Deanna used her mystical powers and turned into a black cougar.
She jumped valleys, she jumped mountains.
[Ain't no river wide enough, etc.]
Until she found King Richards tied around a tree!
[Not tied to a tree, mind you. He actually formed his own knot. Exclamation!]
She pulled the horsemen to King Richards to save King Richards!
[She...huh?]
King Richards was dazed!
[Deanna was defiantly special!]
King Richards and the Kingdom of the greens arrested the nobles of the blackhills!
They put them in a cell!
[Apparently, according to the illustration, in a building marked Cell, which was no doubt quite crowded, chock full of nobles and all.]
Then King Richards called for a celebration and sent for Deanna the mystical ballerina.
[1-866-Mys-tcal]
She then came into the ballroom in pink and white.
[For her oft-requested "Barbie Girl" number.]
The stars were then brighter.
[There were many sequins.]
Once again she danced with King Richards.
[$20]
He asked for her hand in marriage.
She said yes!
[Yes!]
They lived happily in the Kingdom of the greens forever!
The end.
[Another time, perhaps, we'll read Sammy, the Chinese Clock...]
*Diana Olson works as a Dietetic Assistant in a hospital and has two sons. She is also the author of a western novel, Sundance in the Eve, which for whatever reason is available both online and at Barnes & Noble stores nationwide.
Somebody Asked
if I would post a poem of mine this month, and I just realized I've been putting it off long enough that I'm about to run out of month (oops). So here. It's older (2003), but it won this little ekphrastic writing thingy at the U. Anyway--
Cynthia in the Bedroom
is dreaming again--a lover's mouth
pressed to her knee, bedclothes' green
velvet rustle. In the next room
a record needle slips, slips, forgotten.
It has been snowing for hours.
In her healing dream, Cynthia herself
is a painter--Spotted Horse Mural,
Meditation on a Woman Bathing
hang in her grown son's apartment
years after her death. In the lamplight
she is perfect, elegant face painted
into the hair's dark frame.
How she wants to be remembered
this way, before cancer's compromise.
Lips almost parted, throat rising.
On the nightstand a single, vibrant
flower's jealous heart.
[based on Cynthia in the Bedroom, a painting by Tom Wesselmann, 1981]
Cynthia in the Bedroom
is dreaming again--a lover's mouth
pressed to her knee, bedclothes' green
velvet rustle. In the next room
a record needle slips, slips, forgotten.
It has been snowing for hours.
In her healing dream, Cynthia herself
is a painter--Spotted Horse Mural,
Meditation on a Woman Bathing
hang in her grown son's apartment
years after her death. In the lamplight
she is perfect, elegant face painted
into the hair's dark frame.
How she wants to be remembered
this way, before cancer's compromise.
Lips almost parted, throat rising.
On the nightstand a single, vibrant
flower's jealous heart.
[based on Cynthia in the Bedroom, a painting by Tom Wesselmann, 1981]
23 April 2006
Pome
From Rebecca Wee's Uncertain Grace:
hoop snake
Any of several snakes, such as the mud snake, said to grasp the tail in
the mouth and move with a rolling, hooplike motion
AMERICAN HERITAGE DICTIONARY OF THE
ENGLISH LANGUAGE
the second time we met
he told me about the hoop snake
(temporal, exquisite,
a godless man
so I listened)
we weren't sure though
if it could be true
a snake that takes its tail in its mouth,
then rolls through the world
but there are reasons to believe in god
and this seems a good one
we brought wine to the porch, spoke
of piety, marriage,
devotion assumed for reasons
that could not sustain it
while lightning took apart the sky
the fields leapt up the stream's
muddy lustre its sinuous length
liminal, lush, the grass black
the unheard melodies and those that catch
the leaves beginning to fret
I don't remember now what he said his eyes
revising that dark
after he left I walked through the grass the rain
asked how do things work?
we are after something miraculous
we open our mouths we believe
we turn
at times
we gather speed
hoop snake
Any of several snakes, such as the mud snake, said to grasp the tail in
the mouth and move with a rolling, hooplike motion
AMERICAN HERITAGE DICTIONARY OF THE
ENGLISH LANGUAGE
the second time we met
he told me about the hoop snake
(temporal, exquisite,
a godless man
so I listened)
we weren't sure though
if it could be true
a snake that takes its tail in its mouth,
then rolls through the world
but there are reasons to believe in god
and this seems a good one
we brought wine to the porch, spoke
of piety, marriage,
devotion assumed for reasons
that could not sustain it
while lightning took apart the sky
the fields leapt up the stream's
muddy lustre its sinuous length
liminal, lush, the grass black
the unheard melodies and those that catch
the leaves beginning to fret
I don't remember now what he said his eyes
revising that dark
after he left I walked through the grass the rain
asked how do things work?
we are after something miraculous
we open our mouths we believe
we turn
at times
we gather speed
21 April 2006
Hi, My Name is Jonene...and I'm a Registered Republican.
[All: Hi, Jonene!]
No, I have not lost my mind. I did not hit my head. Please do not call 9-1-1. I joined The Grand Old Party in order to vote in our upcoming gubernatorial primary, because the only real race at this point is who will win the Republican nomination for Nebraska Governor, and the Big Issue on the table is that wonderful school district consolidation/split question that has graced national headlines: Omaha School District To Be Split Down Racial Lines.
We are so proud.
So for a few weeks I'm red-state. Just until I can vote for the guy who helped Crazy Ernie's bill pass into law. I am all for the splitting of OPS. The fact that it may occur "down racial lines" has to do with local schools and demographics more than the featured articles imply. Southeast Omaha is primarily Latino, Northeast Omaha is historically African-American, and Northwest Omaha is mostly Caucasian. Unless you split the Florida-shaped OPS district into horizontal stripes, it's going to be racially split if it's divided. Welcome to Omaha.
Anyway. Without getting into it completely, last year the Omaha Public School District set in motion a plan to annex our district (Millard) and another under their "One City, One District" plan. The Millard District, as a whole, consistently ranks better on standardized tests and overall performance than OPS (smaller districts tend to fare, on average, better than larger, super-districts). Those of us who live in Millard pay higher property taxes, in large part, to support the Millard School District. In fact, we recently passed a bond issue to raise our taxes yet again in order to facilitate the building of new schools and the updating of existing ones in order to keep up with rapid enrollment growth. The view from the Millard side of the issue--OPS wants access to our tax base, although they've never admitted as much.
Now that Senator Ernie's suggestion has come about--Divide the OPS District into 3 smaller districts, thereby increasing local control and creating a cooperative learning community (that would include the Millard and other districts) where children could attend whatever school they wanted to, OPS cries, "Racism!" [Those of you familiar with Ernie Chambers have to appreciate the irony. If you don't know who he is, Google an image.] I mean, if they don't absorb our school district, where are they gonna get their money? Geez, it's not like they could talk their constituents into passing a bond issue to raise their taxes to help improve the schools or something. That'd just be stupid.
So yes, fine. Call me what you will, but I'm voting for Governor Dave, who all along has been telling OPS to sit down & stop whining. Besides, a vote for Dave is a vote against Coach Tom, which is another story entirely (rumors of Blue Laws abound). As the yard signs on my block say:
Save Our Schools!
Millard Forever!
(Is the primary over yet?)
No, I have not lost my mind. I did not hit my head. Please do not call 9-1-1. I joined The Grand Old Party in order to vote in our upcoming gubernatorial primary, because the only real race at this point is who will win the Republican nomination for Nebraska Governor, and the Big Issue on the table is that wonderful school district consolidation/split question that has graced national headlines: Omaha School District To Be Split Down Racial Lines.
We are so proud.
So for a few weeks I'm red-state. Just until I can vote for the guy who helped Crazy Ernie's bill pass into law. I am all for the splitting of OPS. The fact that it may occur "down racial lines" has to do with local schools and demographics more than the featured articles imply. Southeast Omaha is primarily Latino, Northeast Omaha is historically African-American, and Northwest Omaha is mostly Caucasian. Unless you split the Florida-shaped OPS district into horizontal stripes, it's going to be racially split if it's divided. Welcome to Omaha.
Anyway. Without getting into it completely, last year the Omaha Public School District set in motion a plan to annex our district (Millard) and another under their "One City, One District" plan. The Millard District, as a whole, consistently ranks better on standardized tests and overall performance than OPS (smaller districts tend to fare, on average, better than larger, super-districts). Those of us who live in Millard pay higher property taxes, in large part, to support the Millard School District. In fact, we recently passed a bond issue to raise our taxes yet again in order to facilitate the building of new schools and the updating of existing ones in order to keep up with rapid enrollment growth. The view from the Millard side of the issue--OPS wants access to our tax base, although they've never admitted as much.
Now that Senator Ernie's suggestion has come about--Divide the OPS District into 3 smaller districts, thereby increasing local control and creating a cooperative learning community (that would include the Millard and other districts) where children could attend whatever school they wanted to, OPS cries, "Racism!" [Those of you familiar with Ernie Chambers have to appreciate the irony. If you don't know who he is, Google an image.] I mean, if they don't absorb our school district, where are they gonna get their money? Geez, it's not like they could talk their constituents into passing a bond issue to raise their taxes to help improve the schools or something. That'd just be stupid.
So yes, fine. Call me what you will, but I'm voting for Governor Dave, who all along has been telling OPS to sit down & stop whining. Besides, a vote for Dave is a vote against Coach Tom, which is another story entirely (rumors of Blue Laws abound). As the yard signs on my block say:
Save Our Schools!
Millard Forever!
(Is the primary over yet?)
19 April 2006
16 April 2006
Hi Atus
A poem from the late Kenneth Koch:
To My Twenties
How lucky that I ran into you
When everything was possible
For my legs and arms, and with hope in my heart
And so happy to see any woman--
O woman! O my twentieth year!
Basking in you, you
Oasis from both growing and decay
Fantastic unheard of nine- or ten-year oasis
A palm tree, hey! And then another
And another--and water!
I'm still very impressed by you. Whither,
Midst falling decades, have you gone? Oh in what lucky fellow,
Unsure of himself, upset, and unemployable
For the moment in any case, do you live now?
From my window I drop a nickel
By mistake. With
You I race down to get it
But I find there on
The street instead, a good friend,
X_____ N_____, who says to me
Kenneth do you have a minute?
And I say yes! I am in my twenties!
I have plenty of time! In you I marry,
In you I first go to France; I make my best friends
In you, and a few enemies. I
Write a lot and am living all the time
And thinking about living. I loved to frequent you
After my teens and before my thirties.
You three together in a bar
I always preferred you because you were midmost
Most lustrous apparently strongest
Although now that I look back on you
What part have you played?
You never, ever, were stingy.
What you gave me you gave whole
But as for telling
Me how best to use it
You weren't a genius at that.
Twenties, my soul
Is yours for the asking
You know that, if ever you come back.
To My Twenties
How lucky that I ran into you
When everything was possible
For my legs and arms, and with hope in my heart
And so happy to see any woman--
O woman! O my twentieth year!
Basking in you, you
Oasis from both growing and decay
Fantastic unheard of nine- or ten-year oasis
A palm tree, hey! And then another
And another--and water!
I'm still very impressed by you. Whither,
Midst falling decades, have you gone? Oh in what lucky fellow,
Unsure of himself, upset, and unemployable
For the moment in any case, do you live now?
From my window I drop a nickel
By mistake. With
You I race down to get it
But I find there on
The street instead, a good friend,
X_____ N_____, who says to me
Kenneth do you have a minute?
And I say yes! I am in my twenties!
I have plenty of time! In you I marry,
In you I first go to France; I make my best friends
In you, and a few enemies. I
Write a lot and am living all the time
And thinking about living. I loved to frequent you
After my teens and before my thirties.
You three together in a bar
I always preferred you because you were midmost
Most lustrous apparently strongest
Although now that I look back on you
What part have you played?
You never, ever, were stingy.
What you gave me you gave whole
But as for telling
Me how best to use it
You weren't a genius at that.
Twenties, my soul
Is yours for the asking
You know that, if ever you come back.
10 April 2006
1-800-Service
That tears it. As I sat down a few moments ago to start this post, this rant, if you will, the phone rang again. A glutton for punishment, I answered in spite of the fact that the call--for the 6th time today--came up 1-800-Service.
"Hello?" Me.
Pause while information comes up on computer.
"HelLOo?" Still me.
"Oh, Mr. Lee?"
"No, this is Jonene."
"Is this Mrs. Lee?"
Oh what the hell, "Sure."
"Hi, Mrs. Lee, this is [somebody] with [some kind of children's cancer charity] and we were just calling to thank you for [something you didn't actually do, which is contribute money to these children, "most of whom have less than a year to live," so that they can go to Disney World or some shit]. We just wanted to make sure [that you will send us the same imaginary money you did last year or] something else I wasn't really listening to."
"Look," I began, "I don't mean to be rude, but this is the sixth separate charity call we've gotten today. We aren't donating ANY money at this time."
"That's not rude," she said (obviously not privy to my internal dialogue), "Thank you. Have a nice day."
"You too," I said.
Since nine a.m. today I have answered six calls from charities. All of them have asked for Ron (read: Mr. Lee), which is funny because last I knew the only people he occasionally gave money to were the State Highway Patrol Policeman's Ball Fund (or whatever the hell that one is) and the Republican Party. [Sidebar: Ron's financial support of the Republican Party came to an abrupt halt when he received his pledge return envelope addressed to "Ronald Van Meter." Oops. Of course, the only reason they got to him in the first place was that Ron answered the phone once when they called asking to speak with me, at which point he informed them that they might want to take me off their call list, what with me being a registered Democrat and all. Apparently the stupid runs down hill, too.]
Anyway, we've learned the hard way that giving a little here or there means that suddenly everyone will try to solicit you all the time. Blood in the water. In 2005 I gave small amounts to the American Red Cross and Habitat for Humanity. I sent $25 to the University of Minnesota (the first money I have ever contributed to any alma mater). I bought 12 boxes of Girl Scout Cookies and 1 tin of caramel corn from a little Boy Scout (Weeblo?) who was hauling them around the neighborhood in a red wagon. Oh, and I stuck a couple bucks and some change in the Salvation Army kettle at the grocery store.
I am sorry that bald children need money for wigs and trips to Disneyland, that the policemen/firefighters/state patrol need dance captains or money to keep at-risk kids off the streets. I do not wish to give money to politicians regardless of party affiliation. I do not want to buy random knick-knacks or overpriced candy to help keep juvies out of jail. I do not need buyer protection for my credit card, nor do I wish to take advantage of any other offers for which I qualify as a valued customer. And although I appreciate the gesture, I really don't need anymore free address labels or Personalized Bear Cub Notepads. And I have never even heard of the TelecomPioneers although apparently, according to their latest mailing, "When people in Nebraska call for help--the TelecomPioneers are always ready to answer!" Who knew?
Bottom line is I ain't got no money, honey. I quit big-girl job to raise son and work part-time for paltry hourly wage. Current Discretionary Income, Zero Dollars. And honestly if I did have money right now, I would probably use it to buy a couple of Korean Boxwoods to plant in the dirt bed out front where I prematurely tore out all the river rock. Please make checks payable to : The Front Yard Fund to Benefit Dirt Piles That May Otherwise Remain Baked And Clumpy All Summer.
For your convenience, we also accept PayPal.
"Hello?" Me.
Pause while information comes up on computer.
"HelLOo?" Still me.
"Oh, Mr. Lee?"
"No, this is Jonene."
"Is this Mrs. Lee?"
Oh what the hell, "Sure."
"Hi, Mrs. Lee, this is [somebody] with [some kind of children's cancer charity] and we were just calling to thank you for [something you didn't actually do, which is contribute money to these children, "most of whom have less than a year to live," so that they can go to Disney World or some shit]. We just wanted to make sure [that you will send us the same imaginary money you did last year or] something else I wasn't really listening to."
"Look," I began, "I don't mean to be rude, but this is the sixth separate charity call we've gotten today. We aren't donating ANY money at this time."
"That's not rude," she said (obviously not privy to my internal dialogue), "Thank you. Have a nice day."
"You too," I said.
Since nine a.m. today I have answered six calls from charities. All of them have asked for Ron (read: Mr. Lee), which is funny because last I knew the only people he occasionally gave money to were the State Highway Patrol Policeman's Ball Fund (or whatever the hell that one is) and the Republican Party. [Sidebar: Ron's financial support of the Republican Party came to an abrupt halt when he received his pledge return envelope addressed to "Ronald Van Meter." Oops. Of course, the only reason they got to him in the first place was that Ron answered the phone once when they called asking to speak with me, at which point he informed them that they might want to take me off their call list, what with me being a registered Democrat and all. Apparently the stupid runs down hill, too.]
Anyway, we've learned the hard way that giving a little here or there means that suddenly everyone will try to solicit you all the time. Blood in the water. In 2005 I gave small amounts to the American Red Cross and Habitat for Humanity. I sent $25 to the University of Minnesota (the first money I have ever contributed to any alma mater). I bought 12 boxes of Girl Scout Cookies and 1 tin of caramel corn from a little Boy Scout (Weeblo?) who was hauling them around the neighborhood in a red wagon. Oh, and I stuck a couple bucks and some change in the Salvation Army kettle at the grocery store.
I am sorry that bald children need money for wigs and trips to Disneyland, that the policemen/firefighters/state patrol need dance captains or money to keep at-risk kids off the streets. I do not wish to give money to politicians regardless of party affiliation. I do not want to buy random knick-knacks or overpriced candy to help keep juvies out of jail. I do not need buyer protection for my credit card, nor do I wish to take advantage of any other offers for which I qualify as a valued customer. And although I appreciate the gesture, I really don't need anymore free address labels or Personalized Bear Cub Notepads. And I have never even heard of the TelecomPioneers although apparently, according to their latest mailing, "When people in Nebraska call for help--the TelecomPioneers are always ready to answer!" Who knew?
Bottom line is I ain't got no money, honey. I quit big-girl job to raise son and work part-time for paltry hourly wage. Current Discretionary Income, Zero Dollars. And honestly if I did have money right now, I would probably use it to buy a couple of Korean Boxwoods to plant in the dirt bed out front where I prematurely tore out all the river rock. Please make checks payable to : The Front Yard Fund to Benefit Dirt Piles That May Otherwise Remain Baked And Clumpy All Summer.
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09 April 2006
Indeed
Some timeless words of wisdom from Gerald Stern, from his book Lovesick, published in 1987:
Lillian Harvey
This is lovesick for you--Charles Koechlin
covering his paper with tears, he shushes his wife
and his children, he is crying for Lillian Harvey--
or this is lovesick--sending his wife to meet her,
he is too shy to go, and he is married;
when she comes back he asks a thousand questions:
What was she wearing? Does she like his music?
How old did she look? Was she like her photograph?
But he never met her, she whose face haunted him,
although he wrote a hundred and thirteen compositions
for her, including two Albums for Lillian,
and he wrote a film scenario and score,
which he imagined, fantastically,
would star the two of them. He was himself
twice in America, both times in California,
but they couldn't meet--it would be a violation.
I know that agony myself, I stood
on one foot or another four or five times
and burned with shame and shook with terror. You never
go yourself. I know he must have waited
outside her house, a crazy man, he must have
dialed her number a hundred times, even risked
his life for her. But you never go, you never
stand there smiling--he never stood there smiling,
he never reached his hand inside her dress,
he never touched her nipple, he never pressed
his mouth against her knee or lifted her thighs.
For she was the muse. You never fuck the muse.
Lillian Harvey
This is lovesick for you--Charles Koechlin
covering his paper with tears, he shushes his wife
and his children, he is crying for Lillian Harvey--
or this is lovesick--sending his wife to meet her,
he is too shy to go, and he is married;
when she comes back he asks a thousand questions:
What was she wearing? Does she like his music?
How old did she look? Was she like her photograph?
But he never met her, she whose face haunted him,
although he wrote a hundred and thirteen compositions
for her, including two Albums for Lillian,
and he wrote a film scenario and score,
which he imagined, fantastically,
would star the two of them. He was himself
twice in America, both times in California,
but they couldn't meet--it would be a violation.
I know that agony myself, I stood
on one foot or another four or five times
and burned with shame and shook with terror. You never
go yourself. I know he must have waited
outside her house, a crazy man, he must have
dialed her number a hundred times, even risked
his life for her. But you never go, you never
stand there smiling--he never stood there smiling,
he never reached his hand inside her dress,
he never touched her nipple, he never pressed
his mouth against her knee or lifted her thighs.
For she was the muse. You never fuck the muse.
08 April 2006
Say My Name
Lucas, at 9 1/2 months, has entered a phase of enthusiastic babbling, "Dadadadada," he says, and, "Phblblblhth," [a phoenetic raspberry, near as I can figure]. Sometimes he becomes so obsessed with these variant raspberries that I find him leaning against his little keyboard concentrating, brow furrowed, spitting a steady stream of drool onto the carpet, "Blblblblblbl...Thfffffff..." he says, and so on.
Although I'm doing my best not to take it personally, Lucas has yet to make the "Mmm" sound, which means he doesn't yet say, "Mama." I understand, at this age, that even his "Dadada" is mostly just a sound. He doesn't really mean "Dad" anymore than he means "concentric circles," "cat," or "rhinoplasty." Still, there are moments it kind of gets to me.
Last night, for example, the three of us were on our way home in the car. "Lucas," I called to the back seat, "Say, 'Mama.'" Silence. "Say, 'Mama...Mama,'" I urged.
Nothing, then the rattle of plastic keys, then, "Dadadada."
I glanced over at my husband, who, although offering me a sympathetic pat on the knee, was trying not to laugh. "See?" I said, exasperated.
My husband shrugged, "Come on," he smiled, "he doesn't actually know what he's saying."
"Oh, I know," I lied, "but still." I sat for a few moments. "Lucas," I tried again, "Say, 'Mama. Mamamamama...Mamamamama.'"
"Phblblblfth!" Lucas giggled from the back, flinging his keys into the front seat.
"Maybe he thinks he's saying 'Mama?'" Ron offered. "You know how he shakes his head 'No' when he thinks he's nodding, right? Maybe this is like that..."
I briefly entertained that possibility. Currently, if you nod your head at Lucas, he breaks into a big, dimpled grin and shakes his head as if to say, "Nooo." At first we thought he was being contrary, but then we realized that he thinks he's imitating us, kind of the way his pat-a-cake claps more often resemble wings flapping. "Whatever," I said, finally. I had to laugh. If nothing else, the kid has great timing.
According to my own baby book, "At 13 months [Jonene] says, Da-da, Ma-ma, and Bow-bow-bow. At 1 1/2 [she] is really trying to talk...Her 'Mommy,' 'Daddy,' and 'Nene' are so cute! She mostly says first syllables so cracker, cookie and color sound a lot alike...At 2 years (& before some) she says the alphabet, Pledge of Allegiance, and counts to about 15 or 16. Everyone remarks that she talks a lot or fast."
Reading the first part of this makes me feel better. I was 4 months older than Lucas is now by the time I had the "Mama/Dada" thing down. And I guess that instead of "Bow-bow-bow" Lucas will likely learn a feline equivalent of some sort. Maybe, "Mow-mow-mow?" More probably it'll be, "Bad Beans!" or "Ba Bee!" as the case may be. We'll see.
I'll have to ask my parents, however, how (read: Why?) "Bow-bow-bow" morphed so quickly into "The Pledge of Allegiance." Although I guess it was the early 70s, so it was probably either that or the lyrics to "Rhiannon." Hey, maybe that was my third year milestone? The book doesn't say.
Although I'm doing my best not to take it personally, Lucas has yet to make the "Mmm" sound, which means he doesn't yet say, "Mama." I understand, at this age, that even his "Dadada" is mostly just a sound. He doesn't really mean "Dad" anymore than he means "concentric circles," "cat," or "rhinoplasty." Still, there are moments it kind of gets to me.
Last night, for example, the three of us were on our way home in the car. "Lucas," I called to the back seat, "Say, 'Mama.'" Silence. "Say, 'Mama...Mama,'" I urged.
Nothing, then the rattle of plastic keys, then, "Dadadada."
I glanced over at my husband, who, although offering me a sympathetic pat on the knee, was trying not to laugh. "See?" I said, exasperated.
My husband shrugged, "Come on," he smiled, "he doesn't actually know what he's saying."
"Oh, I know," I lied, "but still." I sat for a few moments. "Lucas," I tried again, "Say, 'Mama. Mamamamama...Mamamamama.'"
"Phblblblfth!" Lucas giggled from the back, flinging his keys into the front seat.
"Maybe he thinks he's saying 'Mama?'" Ron offered. "You know how he shakes his head 'No' when he thinks he's nodding, right? Maybe this is like that..."
I briefly entertained that possibility. Currently, if you nod your head at Lucas, he breaks into a big, dimpled grin and shakes his head as if to say, "Nooo." At first we thought he was being contrary, but then we realized that he thinks he's imitating us, kind of the way his pat-a-cake claps more often resemble wings flapping. "Whatever," I said, finally. I had to laugh. If nothing else, the kid has great timing.
According to my own baby book, "At 13 months [Jonene] says, Da-da, Ma-ma, and Bow-bow-bow. At 1 1/2 [she] is really trying to talk...Her 'Mommy,' 'Daddy,' and 'Nene' are so cute! She mostly says first syllables so cracker, cookie and color sound a lot alike...At 2 years (& before some) she says the alphabet, Pledge of Allegiance, and counts to about 15 or 16. Everyone remarks that she talks a lot or fast."
Reading the first part of this makes me feel better. I was 4 months older than Lucas is now by the time I had the "Mama/Dada" thing down. And I guess that instead of "Bow-bow-bow" Lucas will likely learn a feline equivalent of some sort. Maybe, "Mow-mow-mow?" More probably it'll be, "Bad Beans!" or "Ba Bee!" as the case may be. We'll see.
I'll have to ask my parents, however, how (read: Why?) "Bow-bow-bow" morphed so quickly into "The Pledge of Allegiance." Although I guess it was the early 70s, so it was probably either that or the lyrics to "Rhiannon." Hey, maybe that was my third year milestone? The book doesn't say.
07 April 2006
Post Script
Thanks to everyone who has emailed me forgiveness for stealing their shit.
I am also happy to report that the filing cabinet yielded nothing.
I am also happy to report that the filing cabinet yielded nothing.
Old School
From Frank O'Hara
Poem
Lana Turner has collapsed!
I was trotting along and suddenly
it started raining and snowing
and you said it was hailing
but hailing hits you on the head
hard so it was really snowing and
raining and I was in such a hurry
to meet you but the traffic
was acting exactly like the sky
and suddenly I see a headline
LANA TURNER HAS COLLAPSED!
there is no snow in hollywod
there is no rain in california
I have been to lots of parties
and acted perfectly disgraceful
but I never actually collapsed
oh Lana Turner we love you get up
Poem
Lana Turner has collapsed!
I was trotting along and suddenly
it started raining and snowing
and you said it was hailing
but hailing hits you on the head
hard so it was really snowing and
raining and I was in such a hurry
to meet you but the traffic
was acting exactly like the sky
and suddenly I see a headline
LANA TURNER HAS COLLAPSED!
there is no snow in hollywod
there is no rain in california
I have been to lots of parties
and acted perfectly disgraceful
but I never actually collapsed
oh Lana Turner we love you get up
05 April 2006
April is National Poetry Month.
And while I can't promise a poem a day, I'm going to try to post some of my favorites throughout the month. Enjoy.
From Ninety-five Nights of Listening by Malinda Markham:
Postcard--Without Grace
Mosquitoes unstrung the night. Twice sleep broke,
you said, Enough. Then the night--
And the many of waiting three hours for headlights
and swift, thorough sleep. Who knows
what can be understood later from this, my hair grayed
at the nape, nails growing like roots in the dark.
The apartment above opened and closed
all night: The hinge spoke. Once I told you
everything I knew in a language
you did not speak. This is love, is division,
a pile of memories catalogued like stars.
What seems to burn a trick of time,
of loss. From this angle I remember you best
and which photo most resembles--
Trees smell differently this many miles away.
When you call there are sirens, machinery
neither can name. From here on, history is nothing
but waiting. The background
panoramic, larger than life. From this far away,
which speck are you. I am this one, I'm sure. I am here.
From Ninety-five Nights of Listening by Malinda Markham:
Postcard--Without Grace
Mosquitoes unstrung the night. Twice sleep broke,
you said, Enough. Then the night--
And the many of waiting three hours for headlights
and swift, thorough sleep. Who knows
what can be understood later from this, my hair grayed
at the nape, nails growing like roots in the dark.
The apartment above opened and closed
all night: The hinge spoke. Once I told you
everything I knew in a language
you did not speak. This is love, is division,
a pile of memories catalogued like stars.
What seems to burn a trick of time,
of loss. From this angle I remember you best
and which photo most resembles--
Trees smell differently this many miles away.
When you call there are sirens, machinery
neither can name. From here on, history is nothing
but waiting. The background
panoramic, larger than life. From this far away,
which speck are you. I am this one, I'm sure. I am here.
02 April 2006
Paranoia Blues
Today did not get off to the best start. Somehow during the night I inadvertently turned the monitor all the way down, so when I woke up this morning around 8:30, the little red light was fully engaged. I jumped out of bed and flew into the nursery apologizing, "Oh Lucas, Mommy's sorry, Mommy's sorry..." over and over. Of course he was crying so hard he had the sup-sups. He was teething, hungry, his diaper was wet, and he was PISSED. His usual routine is to wake up and play for 15 minutes or so before firing up his aquarium, which is the signal that he's ready to get out of the crib. The fact that when I finally got to him there was no music, no fishies, and a tear-soaked sheet makes me think he was probably awake for an hour or so before I showed up. Fantastic.
So I changed his diaper and rocked him a little singing a selection of early Paul Simon (Oooh, paraphernalia...). Still crying. Aha! We are hungry! So I put him in his high chair with an Elmo doll and started singing about oatmeal to the tune of Me & Julio. Lucas was so upset by the time I sat down to feed him that he almost couldn't eat. Inhaling dramatically as he attempted a spoonful of cereal, he sucked it down the wrong pipe, choked, and threw back up the little he had managed to get down. After a few more attempts with the cereal, I made him a bottle. That helped a little. But then he had to endure the dreaded clean-up. Getting wiped down sent him over the edge again.
Next we headed into the living room. I sat Lucas down with some toys, made sure the gate at the top of the stairs was shut, and went back into the kitchen to make coffee. When I came back, Lucas was nowhere to be seen (And when I looked I see my Chow Fon's gone...). Had he rolled behind the chair? No. Under the dining room table? Nope. Then I heard laughter coming from down the hallway. Lucas had crawled into the bathroom (Yes, his Bad Mommy left the door open again) where he had pulled himself up on the bathtub and apparently cornered two of our cats. (Why the cats were in the bathtub to begin with will have to be the subject of another post.) This, apparently, was hilarious enough to temporarily erase the memory of his otherwise traumatic morning. I was able to wash my face and brush my teeth while he squealed at Tooter & Beans, who just sat in the bathtub looking confusedly at the baby, "So, what, he like follows us around now?"
I attempted to return Lucas to the living room long enough to run back to the nursery and grab his clothes. Crying. "Here's Mommy!" I called gleefully upon my return. But Lucas wasn't there. He had migrated to the kitchen, where he stood, hanging onto the open (full) dishwasher for support.
Anyway, the child is mobile now, and quite fast, with a talent for scooting under the radar. As his days of freedom unfurl before him like a special crawly carpet, mine have come to an abrupt, paranoid halt. Full stop.
So I changed his diaper and rocked him a little singing a selection of early Paul Simon (Oooh, paraphernalia...). Still crying. Aha! We are hungry! So I put him in his high chair with an Elmo doll and started singing about oatmeal to the tune of Me & Julio. Lucas was so upset by the time I sat down to feed him that he almost couldn't eat. Inhaling dramatically as he attempted a spoonful of cereal, he sucked it down the wrong pipe, choked, and threw back up the little he had managed to get down. After a few more attempts with the cereal, I made him a bottle. That helped a little. But then he had to endure the dreaded clean-up. Getting wiped down sent him over the edge again.
Next we headed into the living room. I sat Lucas down with some toys, made sure the gate at the top of the stairs was shut, and went back into the kitchen to make coffee. When I came back, Lucas was nowhere to be seen (And when I looked I see my Chow Fon's gone...). Had he rolled behind the chair? No. Under the dining room table? Nope. Then I heard laughter coming from down the hallway. Lucas had crawled into the bathroom (Yes, his Bad Mommy left the door open again) where he had pulled himself up on the bathtub and apparently cornered two of our cats. (Why the cats were in the bathtub to begin with will have to be the subject of another post.) This, apparently, was hilarious enough to temporarily erase the memory of his otherwise traumatic morning. I was able to wash my face and brush my teeth while he squealed at Tooter & Beans, who just sat in the bathtub looking confusedly at the baby, "So, what, he like follows us around now?"
I attempted to return Lucas to the living room long enough to run back to the nursery and grab his clothes. Crying. "Here's Mommy!" I called gleefully upon my return. But Lucas wasn't there. He had migrated to the kitchen, where he stood, hanging onto the open (full) dishwasher for support.
Anyway, the child is mobile now, and quite fast, with a talent for scooting under the radar. As his days of freedom unfurl before him like a special crawly carpet, mine have come to an abrupt, paranoid halt. Full stop.
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