28 June 2006
Back on the Smack
Well that didn't last long now, did it? I'm back on the Reglan after realizing that the nausea rendered me completely imobile. Still vaguely depressed, still tired as whatever, but it's only for a few more weeks. In the meantime, if you need me, I'll be in my basement room with a needle and a spoon, etc.
27 June 2006
Dream A Little Dream
Oh the hormones. Horror moans, if you will. The good & plenty pregnancy dreams have arrived.
So far most of these wacky visions seem to be falling into distinct categories. First, there are the ever-popular "People I Hung Out With In High School" dreams. I'm getting ready to go out with girls I haven't talked to in ten years. Or my favorite the other night--I was down at the track for some kind of high school alumni meet, watching Craig Prindle run the 400 hurdles. I turned to my friend Matt and said, in all seriousness, "This race is total bullshit. Now the steeplechase, that's crap too, but at least then they let you get a little wet, you know?" Um...what?! While it's true I did occasionally piss in the coach's Cheerios enough that he put me in the 400 hurdles (and for those of you who have never run this race, let me assure you it IS total bullshit), I don't actually believe that the steeplechase is somehow easier because you get to jump in the water. I ran the steeplechase once at track camp in Ames. As I recall, running in wet shoes was not the highlight of my day.
And then there are the ever-popular, always-awkward "Vaguely Inappropriate Co-worker Interlude" dreams. I think everyone has these at some point, regardless of whether or not they actually acknowledge them. These little gems fall in line somewhere between "Smooching the Boy I Had A Crush On In School" and "Making Out With Joe Perry Of Aerosmith" (although it is permissible to substitute another individual in the rock star category if you must). While these naughty little bits can occur at any time, they seem more prevalent during pregnancy. I have consulted friends on this and they agree, but none of us understand why. Why? I blame it in part on the unchecked hormones and in part on the ego (or do I blame the id?). It's like the subconscious is trying to keep us from going totally off our shit. I mean, in real life I may feel bloated, weepy, and big as a house, but in these dreams I am always irresistably beautiful, witty, and still a size 2. Sigh. Is it nap time yet?
Last night's theme seemed to be "Dreams In Which The Dead Outnumber The Living." My friend Monica and I were hanging out with Russian figure skating greats Ekaterina Gordeeva and Sergei Grinkov (I loved these guys in the 80s). After awhile Katia and I wandered away from the other two and before long I glanced back to see Moni giving Sergei her phone number. Oh no! Should I tell Katia that Moni was trying to seduce her husband? Well should I? Ah what the heck. Since Sergei Grinkov died in 1995, and Moni passed away in 2001 I decided to just let it go. I woke up briefly, then fell into a dream about my grandmother's house. While we took shelter from an impending tornado, she began going through furniture in her basement, then decided that maybe the little green library table and Tiffany lamp should be moved back upstairs after the storm. But Grandma Seitz also died in 2001, and we sold the house the following year, so really there was no furniture to move. These resurrection dreams are the best, and they are also the worst. Always there is the waking moment, that first eyelid flutter, when you blink back the dream. Did I just? Are they? But they're not. Always you wake to find that they're not, no matter how much you wish it.
So far most of these wacky visions seem to be falling into distinct categories. First, there are the ever-popular "People I Hung Out With In High School" dreams. I'm getting ready to go out with girls I haven't talked to in ten years. Or my favorite the other night--I was down at the track for some kind of high school alumni meet, watching Craig Prindle run the 400 hurdles. I turned to my friend Matt and said, in all seriousness, "This race is total bullshit. Now the steeplechase, that's crap too, but at least then they let you get a little wet, you know?" Um...what?! While it's true I did occasionally piss in the coach's Cheerios enough that he put me in the 400 hurdles (and for those of you who have never run this race, let me assure you it IS total bullshit), I don't actually believe that the steeplechase is somehow easier because you get to jump in the water. I ran the steeplechase once at track camp in Ames. As I recall, running in wet shoes was not the highlight of my day.
And then there are the ever-popular, always-awkward "Vaguely Inappropriate Co-worker Interlude" dreams. I think everyone has these at some point, regardless of whether or not they actually acknowledge them. These little gems fall in line somewhere between "Smooching the Boy I Had A Crush On In School" and "Making Out With Joe Perry Of Aerosmith" (although it is permissible to substitute another individual in the rock star category if you must). While these naughty little bits can occur at any time, they seem more prevalent during pregnancy. I have consulted friends on this and they agree, but none of us understand why. Why? I blame it in part on the unchecked hormones and in part on the ego (or do I blame the id?). It's like the subconscious is trying to keep us from going totally off our shit. I mean, in real life I may feel bloated, weepy, and big as a house, but in these dreams I am always irresistably beautiful, witty, and still a size 2. Sigh. Is it nap time yet?
Last night's theme seemed to be "Dreams In Which The Dead Outnumber The Living." My friend Monica and I were hanging out with Russian figure skating greats Ekaterina Gordeeva and Sergei Grinkov (I loved these guys in the 80s). After awhile Katia and I wandered away from the other two and before long I glanced back to see Moni giving Sergei her phone number. Oh no! Should I tell Katia that Moni was trying to seduce her husband? Well should I? Ah what the heck. Since Sergei Grinkov died in 1995, and Moni passed away in 2001 I decided to just let it go. I woke up briefly, then fell into a dream about my grandmother's house. While we took shelter from an impending tornado, she began going through furniture in her basement, then decided that maybe the little green library table and Tiffany lamp should be moved back upstairs after the storm. But Grandma Seitz also died in 2001, and we sold the house the following year, so really there was no furniture to move. These resurrection dreams are the best, and they are also the worst. Always there is the waking moment, that first eyelid flutter, when you blink back the dream. Did I just? Are they? But they're not. Always you wake to find that they're not, no matter how much you wish it.
26 June 2006
Postcard from Hell
Recently it was pointed out to me that I have been delinquent in my posts. I didn't realize just how long I'd been out of the loop until I logged in this morning. Allow me to update you on my most current downward spiral.
About two weeks ago I began taking a medication to help control my nausea. One morning I called the nurse at my OB's office and said, "How much of this can we fix and how much is just First Trimester Tough Tootie?" I was reassured that my symptoms could certainly be managed, and the nurse offered to phone in a prescription for Reglan. Sounded good to me. And for the first few days, it was. It was awesome. Those of you in regular contact with me got to (had to?) listen to me run down the somewhat humorous list of possible side effects. (Note for future reference: I'm thinking that when a medication comes with 5 [five] extra little warning labels plastered to it, to the point that they had to overlap them to fit them all on the bottle, I'm thinking that perhaps one should reconsider taking said medication unless absolutely, unquestionably necessary. I'm thinking.)
Anywho, two of my favorites are:
Taking this medicine alone or with alcohol may lessen your ability to drive or perform hazardous tasks. [Alone OR with alcohol? That's helpful.]
Call your doctor immediately if you experience new or worsening feelings of anxiety, sadness, depression, restlessness or confusion. [So, my stomach will be settled, but I may become suicidal.]
But I took the stuff for ten days anyway. At first the relief from intestinal symptoms was wonderful, and I was sure no side effect could take away that euphoria. But now. As funny as those potential side effects seemed when I first read them, it never really occurred to me that I would experience any ill symptoms. Truth is, the Reglan made me so tired that it was hard to function, hard to take care of myself let alone Lucas. And for those of you who have been pregnant, you know how exhausted you feel during the first trimester anyway. Multiply that times about five. And while I'm not exactly suicidal, I seemed to have developed a general apathy toward things. I don't care if I shower, don't care if my clothes are clean, don't want to go to work, don't really want to stay home, don't really want to do anything. So I quit the Reglan cold turkey.
We'll see.
[To be continued...]
About two weeks ago I began taking a medication to help control my nausea. One morning I called the nurse at my OB's office and said, "How much of this can we fix and how much is just First Trimester Tough Tootie?" I was reassured that my symptoms could certainly be managed, and the nurse offered to phone in a prescription for Reglan. Sounded good to me. And for the first few days, it was. It was awesome. Those of you in regular contact with me got to (had to?) listen to me run down the somewhat humorous list of possible side effects. (Note for future reference: I'm thinking that when a medication comes with 5 [five] extra little warning labels plastered to it, to the point that they had to overlap them to fit them all on the bottle, I'm thinking that perhaps one should reconsider taking said medication unless absolutely, unquestionably necessary. I'm thinking.)
Anywho, two of my favorites are:
Taking this medicine alone or with alcohol may lessen your ability to drive or perform hazardous tasks. [Alone OR with alcohol? That's helpful.]
Call your doctor immediately if you experience new or worsening feelings of anxiety, sadness, depression, restlessness or confusion. [So, my stomach will be settled, but I may become suicidal.]
But I took the stuff for ten days anyway. At first the relief from intestinal symptoms was wonderful, and I was sure no side effect could take away that euphoria. But now. As funny as those potential side effects seemed when I first read them, it never really occurred to me that I would experience any ill symptoms. Truth is, the Reglan made me so tired that it was hard to function, hard to take care of myself let alone Lucas. And for those of you who have been pregnant, you know how exhausted you feel during the first trimester anyway. Multiply that times about five. And while I'm not exactly suicidal, I seemed to have developed a general apathy toward things. I don't care if I shower, don't care if my clothes are clean, don't want to go to work, don't really want to stay home, don't really want to do anything. So I quit the Reglan cold turkey.
We'll see.
[To be continued...]
05 June 2006
A New Hangover Every Day
Ah, the joys of the first trimester. When I was pregnant with Lucas, I didn't get to fully enjoy the perils of the first twelve weeks. It was holiday at Victoria's Secret, and we were a manager short most of the time. Looking back I realize I survived on pure adrenaline--driving to the mall at 5:30 in the morning with a death grip on my travel mug full of chocolate milk--there's no other way to explain it. I just didn't have time to feel wretched. Oh sure I was tired, but it was Christmas in retail. That comes with the territory. And the mild nausea? A portion of that, too, could be explained away by the long lines and psychotic customers that go hand-in-hand with a mall holiday.
But this trip I have plenty of time to feel the burn. I consistently feel like ass until about three in the afternoon (also the time Dr. Phil comes on...coincidence?). Don't get me wrong, I'm not hurling into a bucket or anything, but each morning I wake up feeling like I might have had one too many "liquid cocaine" shots at the club the night before. I mean let's face it--pineapple juice, amaretto, and tequila should not travel in the same circles. But I digress.
I wake up a little groggy but manage to stumble down the hallway and into the kitchen, where I remember (seemingly anew each morning) that I am unable to make a pot of coffee. So instead I dig through the cupboards to find the saltines--Oh, miracle food! Oh, manna!--and I pour a glass of ice water. Once the three of us have settled on the couch, I start to pray, "Oh God," I say, "Oh God, oh Gaaaaaahd..." Now if this were truly a hangover, a Spicy Chicken Sandwich from Wendy's would fix me right up, but since chicken is one of my many first trimester food aversions, I do my best to keep this automatic response at bay. After choking down a dozen crackers or so, I begin to feel better. Soon I am brave enough to go retrieve the baby from his crib.
Once Lucas is up the morning becomes one big, stumbling lurch toward his morning nap. The smell of his breakfast makes me nauseous, the lavender in our dish soap, the bathroom cleaning supplies, the "fresh citrus scent" of improved dry Swiffer cloths. But I power through somehow. The baby's hair still smells sweet, as does his signature blend of lotion, oatmeal and formula, so I spend the bulk of my time cuddling with him, reading "Moo, Baa, La La La" until we are both exhausted.
Lucas goes easily down for his morning nap around 9:30, and it's time once again to forage through the kitchen for something that doesn't make me want to throw up in my mouth. Ironically, what settles my stomach is Beef-A-Roni. Sometimes Raviolios. What are the odds? That which sustained me through sack lunches in elementary school makes a surprising, if retro, comeback as a pregnancy super-food! And no, I don't bother to read the list of ingredients on the label. I know it contains MSG and probably lots of other vaguely frightening, medicinal-sounding things, but come on. It's Chef Boyardee. He wants to be our friend.
But this trip I have plenty of time to feel the burn. I consistently feel like ass until about three in the afternoon (also the time Dr. Phil comes on...coincidence?). Don't get me wrong, I'm not hurling into a bucket or anything, but each morning I wake up feeling like I might have had one too many "liquid cocaine" shots at the club the night before. I mean let's face it--pineapple juice, amaretto, and tequila should not travel in the same circles. But I digress.
I wake up a little groggy but manage to stumble down the hallway and into the kitchen, where I remember (seemingly anew each morning) that I am unable to make a pot of coffee. So instead I dig through the cupboards to find the saltines--Oh, miracle food! Oh, manna!--and I pour a glass of ice water. Once the three of us have settled on the couch, I start to pray, "Oh God," I say, "Oh God, oh Gaaaaaahd..." Now if this were truly a hangover, a Spicy Chicken Sandwich from Wendy's would fix me right up, but since chicken is one of my many first trimester food aversions, I do my best to keep this automatic response at bay. After choking down a dozen crackers or so, I begin to feel better. Soon I am brave enough to go retrieve the baby from his crib.
Once Lucas is up the morning becomes one big, stumbling lurch toward his morning nap. The smell of his breakfast makes me nauseous, the lavender in our dish soap, the bathroom cleaning supplies, the "fresh citrus scent" of improved dry Swiffer cloths. But I power through somehow. The baby's hair still smells sweet, as does his signature blend of lotion, oatmeal and formula, so I spend the bulk of my time cuddling with him, reading "Moo, Baa, La La La" until we are both exhausted.
Lucas goes easily down for his morning nap around 9:30, and it's time once again to forage through the kitchen for something that doesn't make me want to throw up in my mouth. Ironically, what settles my stomach is Beef-A-Roni. Sometimes Raviolios. What are the odds? That which sustained me through sack lunches in elementary school makes a surprising, if retro, comeback as a pregnancy super-food! And no, I don't bother to read the list of ingredients on the label. I know it contains MSG and probably lots of other vaguely frightening, medicinal-sounding things, but come on. It's Chef Boyardee. He wants to be our friend.
04 June 2006
SPS or Shitty Parent Syndrome
Lucas and I have just returned from my friend's daughter's first birthday party. Lucas is two weeks to the day younger than the birthday girl, and, while he behaved like a champ, the party has taken its toll on me.
First of all, eleven-and-a-half months is a horrible age to try and take the boy anyplace that doesn't have baby gates or shopping carts. Today, at least, my friend's house had neither. While Lucas is walking-ish, cruising easily along furniture and taking five or six free steps at a time before plopping back down, he is not walking efficiently enough to remain upright for a helpful length of time. He is also at the age where everything on the carpet must be tasted. At our house this includes but is not limited to: cat hair, human hair, loose threads, blades of grass, hair balls, crumbs, and electronic equipment. So I spent the better portion of the party holding him. Last time I checked, Lucas weighed about 1/5 of what I do, and that gets heavy after, oh, say, the first hour or so. Don't get me wrong--we "played" in the yard (read: crawled in the grass while Mommy ran interference between hand & mouth), and he had a great time climbing the stairs. But there were a lot of people there, a lot of kids in the preschool range, and when I put him down he tended to get underfoot. So I carried him, and now my back is paying for it. Keep the change.
Still, the party was fun, and the birthday girl performed angelically. Everyone kept asking if Lucas wanted anything to eat. "Are you SURE?" they prodded.
"Oh yes," I said, repeatedly, "he ate right before we came," which was mostly the truth. Partly. And I restrained myself when someone tried to hand him a Wheat Thin. I wanted to ask if they were trying to kill him, but I didn't--my brand of restraint. Ever since the incident a month ago--two months?--when Lucas choked on the Fruit Puff, Mommy has been gun-shy about self-feeding solid (especially crunchy) foods. I don't mean "choked," as in "he gagged a little and threw it up." I mean CHOKED. As in, it completely blocked his windpipe, he turned red, then purple, and only after four solid blows to the back did the offensive Puff fly across the dining room table. My aunt was visiting at the time, and during the brief crisis I actually had cause to say, "He's not BREATHING," which would have been followed by, "Call 9-1-1!" had the Puff not flown free as soon as the words were out. [By the way, it's good to know that no matter how long it sometimes takes to strap a squirming baby into his high chair, it only takes about point-zero seconds to whip him out of it when he's choking on a Fruit Puff.]
So when we got home from the party I put Lucas down for a nap and immediately started crying. I will blame this in part on my surging pregnancy hormones. "I am a SHITTY PARENT!" I wail. This is internal dialogue, incidentally--don't want to wake the baby. He's developmentally delayed in food! And he's not talking yet either or doing any gimmicky baby stuff. My friend Jim's little boy, Noah, is just a few months older than Lucas, but I think by this age he was waving and blowing kisses and who knows what else. Ah! We have failed the boy by not teaching him pony tricks! SHITTY PARENTS! I mean sometimes, if the moon is in the second house, and you do it for him a few times first, if you ask, "How big is Lucas?" and answer, "Sooo big!" while stretching your arms above your head, sometimes he's imitate you on the "So big" part. And Lucas reaches for people and things, but he doesn't point. And he can clap when he really feels like it, but he doesn't do peek-a-boo. Is it possible our boy is simple? What if--oh, ass-biting irony of ironies, Alanis--what if Lucas is speech delayed? Is that even possible?
As you have likely concluded, the biggest challenge Lucas faces at this point may well be the fact that his mother is a bit neurotic. Perhaps I'm just feeling slightly overwhelmed knowing that another is on the way when I haven't completely figured out what to do with this one yet. Oh Lucas. Oh, Angel Baby, please be patient with me. And I promise--cross my heart--none of this has anything to do with the fact that you still don't say, "Mama."
First of all, eleven-and-a-half months is a horrible age to try and take the boy anyplace that doesn't have baby gates or shopping carts. Today, at least, my friend's house had neither. While Lucas is walking-ish, cruising easily along furniture and taking five or six free steps at a time before plopping back down, he is not walking efficiently enough to remain upright for a helpful length of time. He is also at the age where everything on the carpet must be tasted. At our house this includes but is not limited to: cat hair, human hair, loose threads, blades of grass, hair balls, crumbs, and electronic equipment. So I spent the better portion of the party holding him. Last time I checked, Lucas weighed about 1/5 of what I do, and that gets heavy after, oh, say, the first hour or so. Don't get me wrong--we "played" in the yard (read: crawled in the grass while Mommy ran interference between hand & mouth), and he had a great time climbing the stairs. But there were a lot of people there, a lot of kids in the preschool range, and when I put him down he tended to get underfoot. So I carried him, and now my back is paying for it. Keep the change.
Still, the party was fun, and the birthday girl performed angelically. Everyone kept asking if Lucas wanted anything to eat. "Are you SURE?" they prodded.
"Oh yes," I said, repeatedly, "he ate right before we came," which was mostly the truth. Partly. And I restrained myself when someone tried to hand him a Wheat Thin. I wanted to ask if they were trying to kill him, but I didn't--my brand of restraint. Ever since the incident a month ago--two months?--when Lucas choked on the Fruit Puff, Mommy has been gun-shy about self-feeding solid (especially crunchy) foods. I don't mean "choked," as in "he gagged a little and threw it up." I mean CHOKED. As in, it completely blocked his windpipe, he turned red, then purple, and only after four solid blows to the back did the offensive Puff fly across the dining room table. My aunt was visiting at the time, and during the brief crisis I actually had cause to say, "He's not BREATHING," which would have been followed by, "Call 9-1-1!" had the Puff not flown free as soon as the words were out. [By the way, it's good to know that no matter how long it sometimes takes to strap a squirming baby into his high chair, it only takes about point-zero seconds to whip him out of it when he's choking on a Fruit Puff.]
So when we got home from the party I put Lucas down for a nap and immediately started crying. I will blame this in part on my surging pregnancy hormones. "I am a SHITTY PARENT!" I wail. This is internal dialogue, incidentally--don't want to wake the baby. He's developmentally delayed in food! And he's not talking yet either or doing any gimmicky baby stuff. My friend Jim's little boy, Noah, is just a few months older than Lucas, but I think by this age he was waving and blowing kisses and who knows what else. Ah! We have failed the boy by not teaching him pony tricks! SHITTY PARENTS! I mean sometimes, if the moon is in the second house, and you do it for him a few times first, if you ask, "How big is Lucas?" and answer, "Sooo big!" while stretching your arms above your head, sometimes he's imitate you on the "So big" part. And Lucas reaches for people and things, but he doesn't point. And he can clap when he really feels like it, but he doesn't do peek-a-boo. Is it possible our boy is simple? What if--oh, ass-biting irony of ironies, Alanis--what if Lucas is speech delayed? Is that even possible?
As you have likely concluded, the biggest challenge Lucas faces at this point may well be the fact that his mother is a bit neurotic. Perhaps I'm just feeling slightly overwhelmed knowing that another is on the way when I haven't completely figured out what to do with this one yet. Oh Lucas. Oh, Angel Baby, please be patient with me. And I promise--cross my heart--none of this has anything to do with the fact that you still don't say, "Mama."
02 June 2006
Em Oh Em
Last night at Barnes & Noble we hosted author Alex Kava, whose real name is apparently Sharon, but who initially had problems being taken seriously as a female thriller writer. Understandable, I suppose, as Sharon really seems more PTA president than intrigue inventor. So she began submitting manuscripts under the name Alex ("a name [she] could live with") and had better luck, though her mother apparently has never really gotten used to the idea.
This started a conversation about mothers, specifically our mothers, more specifically how they deal with (or don't deal with) our writing and the things we write about. Alex, for example, was raised in a devoutly Catholic family but recently (or, perhaps, "so recently") has had to murder a couple of priests in one of her books. Awkward. So when I got home last night, I pulled out my old manuscript and re-read some of the poems in which my mom appears. One in particular I remember she had a strong reaction to, "Oh honey," she said, "I like this," and got all misty-eyed. (This rates as a "strong reaction" as her usual response to my writing at the time was, "Oh.") At any rate, I thought I'd throw it up here, so to speak. More on this topic to come.
I Couldn't Want Another Life
Of course this is a lie. Even telling this
I've failed at something.
In the yard, my mother battles the cold--
there are seeds to be planted. She doesn't
ask for much, trowel and water.
All I want is common ground, roads
open in winter, dress across my hips
in summer--nothing more.
It would be difficult without her,
left alone with my grief.
And her face. In the garden she is simple.
Never mind her life--it's laced with sweat.
Truth is like dirt. It is what it is. In the garden,
knuckles bleeding, my mother on her knees.
This started a conversation about mothers, specifically our mothers, more specifically how they deal with (or don't deal with) our writing and the things we write about. Alex, for example, was raised in a devoutly Catholic family but recently (or, perhaps, "so recently") has had to murder a couple of priests in one of her books. Awkward. So when I got home last night, I pulled out my old manuscript and re-read some of the poems in which my mom appears. One in particular I remember she had a strong reaction to, "Oh honey," she said, "I like this," and got all misty-eyed. (This rates as a "strong reaction" as her usual response to my writing at the time was, "Oh.") At any rate, I thought I'd throw it up here, so to speak. More on this topic to come.
I Couldn't Want Another Life
Of course this is a lie. Even telling this
I've failed at something.
In the yard, my mother battles the cold--
there are seeds to be planted. She doesn't
ask for much, trowel and water.
All I want is common ground, roads
open in winter, dress across my hips
in summer--nothing more.
It would be difficult without her,
left alone with my grief.
And her face. In the garden she is simple.
Never mind her life--it's laced with sweat.
Truth is like dirt. It is what it is. In the garden,
knuckles bleeding, my mother on her knees.
16 May 2006
Victoria's Secrets
Friends often ask if Victoria's Secret provides me with great material for my writing. "I'll be you get a lot of great material from Victoria's Secret," they nudge. Well not yet, not really. Mostly it gives me good stories to tell at the bar, but since I rarely go to the bar anymore, that doesn't do me much good. Anyway, instead, I have compiled a brief collection of t&a q&a, if you will, observations, suggestions, and so on, that may shed a little more light on exactly what it is we do at Victoria's Secret. Besides the tickle fights and slumber parties, I mean. Curious? Read on.
For the Girls:
If you ask us what size underwear you should buy, and we ask you what size pants or jeans you usually wear, do not answer, "Anywhere from a size 6 to a 12 depending on the brand." For the record, it does not depend that much. No one is "a size 6 to a 12." Do not lie or exaggerate for vanity's sake. We are not judging you--we are trying to sell you something. Remember, we can see your ass. We know you're fibbing.
In case you were wondering, the bras on the girls in the catalog are too small in 90% of the pictures. Sure, they look fantastic, but if I sold you a bra that fit like that, you'd be back in two days demanding a refund because it felt like your bra was attacking you. Trust me.
Yes, one is probably bigger than the other, and it's probably your left one, or, "Lefty," as we call him in the biz. As in, "Oops! Lefty's trying to make an appearance, there."
Let me guess, you're "planning on losing weight this summer," right? Everyone is.
Where do I think you'll lose it first? Let me consult my psychic friends. Honey, I just met you. I don't know. Where did you gain it?
When you describe to me a very sheer/fitted/clingy pair of pants/skirt/shorts and ask for a suggestion as to what type of undergarment you might wear in order to completely avoid unsightly panty lines, when in response to this I suggest you might want to try a thong, please do not react as though I have suggested you shove your mother in front of a bus.
Boys Only:
Actually, we do get a lot of guys that shop in here. Don't be embarrassed. We're kind, helpful, and we usually don't bite. Also, it is not requisite that you crack bad jokes to break the tension. These might include but are not limited to the following:
--If you're shopping for your wife and we ask if you know what size bra she wears, you needn't squeeze the air and say, "Bigger'n a handful."
--Similarly, if we ask what size garter belt or similar, try not to say, "Size 'Fat,'" or "Wide-ass."
And get her something you'd like to see her in, regardless of what you think her reaction might be. Chances are she'll be flattered. Besides, she can buy her own Granny Panties. If you chicken-out & get her a gift certificate, that's probably what she'll use it on anyway. Live a little.
No, I'm sorry. We do not have "Bring A Friend To Work Day." The reality would never live up to your fantasy anyway. In fact, you would probably need counselling.
No, no you can't go into the fitting room with your wife/girlfriend/significant other. I am sorry. You'll have to wait til you get home. If you don't know what I'm talking about, think on it for a moment & get back to me.
No, I will not try that on for you.
Yes, if you are a sixteen-year-old boy and come in to ask for a job application, your friends waiting outside in the mall will think you're the shit. And those giggling girls will think you're so cool, you might even get laid.
We call them "Peek-a-Boo" panties because it is considered more Brand-Appropriate than "Crotchless," but yes, we do sell them. As a fine gentleman friend of mine recently observed, "But it's not like they're looking at you or something." Actually yes, yes it is exactly like that.
For the Girls:
If you ask us what size underwear you should buy, and we ask you what size pants or jeans you usually wear, do not answer, "Anywhere from a size 6 to a 12 depending on the brand." For the record, it does not depend that much. No one is "a size 6 to a 12." Do not lie or exaggerate for vanity's sake. We are not judging you--we are trying to sell you something. Remember, we can see your ass. We know you're fibbing.
In case you were wondering, the bras on the girls in the catalog are too small in 90% of the pictures. Sure, they look fantastic, but if I sold you a bra that fit like that, you'd be back in two days demanding a refund because it felt like your bra was attacking you. Trust me.
Yes, one is probably bigger than the other, and it's probably your left one, or, "Lefty," as we call him in the biz. As in, "Oops! Lefty's trying to make an appearance, there."
Let me guess, you're "planning on losing weight this summer," right? Everyone is.
Where do I think you'll lose it first? Let me consult my psychic friends. Honey, I just met you. I don't know. Where did you gain it?
When you describe to me a very sheer/fitted/clingy pair of pants/skirt/shorts and ask for a suggestion as to what type of undergarment you might wear in order to completely avoid unsightly panty lines, when in response to this I suggest you might want to try a thong, please do not react as though I have suggested you shove your mother in front of a bus.
Boys Only:
Actually, we do get a lot of guys that shop in here. Don't be embarrassed. We're kind, helpful, and we usually don't bite. Also, it is not requisite that you crack bad jokes to break the tension. These might include but are not limited to the following:
--If you're shopping for your wife and we ask if you know what size bra she wears, you needn't squeeze the air and say, "Bigger'n a handful."
--Similarly, if we ask what size garter belt or similar, try not to say, "Size 'Fat,'" or "Wide-ass."
And get her something you'd like to see her in, regardless of what you think her reaction might be. Chances are she'll be flattered. Besides, she can buy her own Granny Panties. If you chicken-out & get her a gift certificate, that's probably what she'll use it on anyway. Live a little.
No, I'm sorry. We do not have "Bring A Friend To Work Day." The reality would never live up to your fantasy anyway. In fact, you would probably need counselling.
No, no you can't go into the fitting room with your wife/girlfriend/significant other. I am sorry. You'll have to wait til you get home. If you don't know what I'm talking about, think on it for a moment & get back to me.
No, I will not try that on for you.
Yes, if you are a sixteen-year-old boy and come in to ask for a job application, your friends waiting outside in the mall will think you're the shit. And those giggling girls will think you're so cool, you might even get laid.
We call them "Peek-a-Boo" panties because it is considered more Brand-Appropriate than "Crotchless," but yes, we do sell them. As a fine gentleman friend of mine recently observed, "But it's not like they're looking at you or something." Actually yes, yes it is exactly like that.
02 May 2006
Visitor's Pass
I'm going back to the Twin Cities for four days next week, and I can't figure out what to do with myself. I never know what to do when I go back to visit places I lived for any length of time. Most of my grad school friends have cleared out, and it seems silly to drive six hours so I can lie in the grass at Como.
That's one of the reasons Ron & I didn't take a honeymoon. My inability to visit, I mean. Initially he'd had this great romantic vision of taking me away to London for a few days, but I vetoed. What would I do in London for "a few days?" I wouldn't even know where to start. Actually, yeah I would--I'd eat 3 meals a day at Wagamama, then go to my old local & get shnockered. But that's a long way to fly for chicken ramen and beer, and I just knew I would be so sad when we had to come back home. There was actually a brief time in my early 20s when I considered doing the ex-pat thing & permanently relocating to the UK. I was young and idealistic...but the idea of trying to explain to my parents that I wanted to denounce my American citizenship and move to Scotland to help run an independent hostel was just more than I was up for at the time. They would have flipped shit.
Anyway, I have this huge list of places I want to go and people I want to see in the not-quite-72-hours I'll actually be in Minneapolis. Of course I probably won't accomplish half of it. You leave a place and life goes on. Your friends replace the divots you leave, and pretty soon the grass is all one color again. Always greener, you suspect, than wherever you are now. That said, I'll understand if people can't squeeze me in, and I'll cope, somehow, with the new menu at Big Bowl and the fact that Crunchy Sesame Chicken is no longer served. I don't know why I'm always hoping to find a Star Trek-arrested culture waiting--keys to my old apartment still on the chain and my name on a mailbox. Things change. Life goes on. Et al.
The truth is, whatever I find Up North will be fine. Why? Because I NEED A BREAK. Don't get me wrong, I love my son, my precious, darling little boy, but what I really need is the chance to miss him. My friends with kids shake their heads knowingly, "It'll be hard on you," read: "You will miss your baby so much that you'll be miserable and want to go home as soon as you get there." Maybe they're right, but I doubt it. Lucas doesn't go to daycare, which means that between Mommy & Daddy, one of us is on Baby Duty at all times. 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. We have had a sitter so that the two of us could go out alone on only two occasions in the past 10 1/2 months: dinner on our anniversary last October, and a few hours in March when we test-drove cars.
That said, I'm not even sure I am capable of dressing myself for non-working, public life four days in a row. And since Lucas was born, I haven't gone an entire day without mixing bottles, changing diapers, or singing about things like "lunchy-lunch time," "jammie jams," and "poo pants," to name a few. I can count the number of adult beverages I've consumed since October of 2004 on 1 hand. Hell, now that I think about it, I may even get crazy and take the car seat base out of my back seat before I leave town. Look out.
That's one of the reasons Ron & I didn't take a honeymoon. My inability to visit, I mean. Initially he'd had this great romantic vision of taking me away to London for a few days, but I vetoed. What would I do in London for "a few days?" I wouldn't even know where to start. Actually, yeah I would--I'd eat 3 meals a day at Wagamama, then go to my old local & get shnockered. But that's a long way to fly for chicken ramen and beer, and I just knew I would be so sad when we had to come back home. There was actually a brief time in my early 20s when I considered doing the ex-pat thing & permanently relocating to the UK. I was young and idealistic...but the idea of trying to explain to my parents that I wanted to denounce my American citizenship and move to Scotland to help run an independent hostel was just more than I was up for at the time. They would have flipped shit.
Anyway, I have this huge list of places I want to go and people I want to see in the not-quite-72-hours I'll actually be in Minneapolis. Of course I probably won't accomplish half of it. You leave a place and life goes on. Your friends replace the divots you leave, and pretty soon the grass is all one color again. Always greener, you suspect, than wherever you are now. That said, I'll understand if people can't squeeze me in, and I'll cope, somehow, with the new menu at Big Bowl and the fact that Crunchy Sesame Chicken is no longer served. I don't know why I'm always hoping to find a Star Trek-arrested culture waiting--keys to my old apartment still on the chain and my name on a mailbox. Things change. Life goes on. Et al.
The truth is, whatever I find Up North will be fine. Why? Because I NEED A BREAK. Don't get me wrong, I love my son, my precious, darling little boy, but what I really need is the chance to miss him. My friends with kids shake their heads knowingly, "It'll be hard on you," read: "You will miss your baby so much that you'll be miserable and want to go home as soon as you get there." Maybe they're right, but I doubt it. Lucas doesn't go to daycare, which means that between Mommy & Daddy, one of us is on Baby Duty at all times. 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. We have had a sitter so that the two of us could go out alone on only two occasions in the past 10 1/2 months: dinner on our anniversary last October, and a few hours in March when we test-drove cars.
That said, I'm not even sure I am capable of dressing myself for non-working, public life four days in a row. And since Lucas was born, I haven't gone an entire day without mixing bottles, changing diapers, or singing about things like "lunchy-lunch time," "jammie jams," and "poo pants," to name a few. I can count the number of adult beverages I've consumed since October of 2004 on 1 hand. Hell, now that I think about it, I may even get crazy and take the car seat base out of my back seat before I leave town. Look out.
30 April 2006
(No) Thank You, Easter Bunny
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.
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.
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.
For your convenience, we also accept PayPal.
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
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