It shouldn't take 4 hours of shopping to put on a small casual birthday party. Should it?
I hate shopping, and I always have. In particular, I don't like to window shop. I figure, if I can't have it, I don't want to waste my time or pine away and think about whether I'd like to have it. Half of the time, when I'm buying myself a "treat," I walk around the store with it for a while, doing other shopping, and then I put it back before I buy it. I ask myself, "Do I need this, or do I just want it?" Until the last few years, if I didn't really need it, I didn't get it. And I also never bought anything that wasn't on sale. Now I am less of a bargain hunter, but I still don't like to shop.
Part of my dislike for shopping may be a mild agoraphobia - agora being the Greek for a gathering place (like the marketplace), appropriately enough. I'm not so good surrounded by crowds of consumers. I have the same problem at amusement parks -a different type of consumer, but the same idea. Crowds of travelers I seem to be just fine with, so the subway in Japan should be okay. I think what makes a difference is whether the people are moving with a purpose or wandering aimlessly with a shopping basket and/or a glazed look on their faces like body snatcher victims.
And who likes Costco's stacks of heavy goods towering over their heads? We just live too close to the San Andreas fault for me to think warehouse shopping is a good idea. I for one do not want to die under a stack of Kirkwood branded canned goods after a strong rattle.
Another reason I hate shopping is the sense of waste. I distinctly remember many times when I would walk into a department store and see stacks and racks of new things - thousands and thousands of items- bright, and cheerful, and ready to buy. So much stuff. Who needs that much? How many of those things will the stores really sell? What happens to the things they don't sell? It has made me almost physically sick in the past. Now, if I think about it, it makes me want to never shop again.
Are these the suppressed emotions from a past life in a third world country, or what? I don't know. I just know that I'm no fun to shop with. R. deserves a medal after spending those 4 hours with me today. Poor kid. Good thing she likes to shop.
Saturday, July 31, 2004
Friday, July 30, 2004
July 30, 2004
Sophie's having a birthday party Sunday, which means I expect to spend tomorrow cleaning up the back yard and otherwise trying to make things presentable - mostly for the sake of her few little friends who might be coming here who haven't been here before. I almost don't care what they think, but it is gratifying to tidy and bring order to things, especially when they're in a state that's so far gone that the change will be especially noticeable.
D's mother will probably come and his father certainly will. His sister might. The family dynamics are not fun, especially since his parents do not speak to one another at all, and his sister only exchanges the briefest of greetings with their mother - and that's only a development that's fairly recent.
But we'll all survive it. I think I will try for the second night in a row to go to bed before 10pm. I was trying to read earlier this evening and fell asleep doing that. Which is nothing new, but still, maybe I'll actually listen to my body for a change tonight and say I've done enough for today.
Yesterday morning my mother called, obviously upset, to tell me that one of my sister's two dogs had died. My sister is single, and her dogs have been so central a part of her life, and were so inseparable from one another, that this is a real blow. Her other dog isn't eating, but J. is keeping a close eye on her, taking her to work with her today, etc. It's hard.
I have no skill with words at all tonight; I'm only blogging out of habit.
God willing, tomorrow will be a better day...
D's mother will probably come and his father certainly will. His sister might. The family dynamics are not fun, especially since his parents do not speak to one another at all, and his sister only exchanges the briefest of greetings with their mother - and that's only a development that's fairly recent.
But we'll all survive it. I think I will try for the second night in a row to go to bed before 10pm. I was trying to read earlier this evening and fell asleep doing that. Which is nothing new, but still, maybe I'll actually listen to my body for a change tonight and say I've done enough for today.
Yesterday morning my mother called, obviously upset, to tell me that one of my sister's two dogs had died. My sister is single, and her dogs have been so central a part of her life, and were so inseparable from one another, that this is a real blow. Her other dog isn't eating, but J. is keeping a close eye on her, taking her to work with her today, etc. It's hard.
I have no skill with words at all tonight; I'm only blogging out of habit.
God willing, tomorrow will be a better day...
Thursday, July 29, 2004
Deep-Sea Divers
sometimes
we are deep-sea divers
and blind things leached of color
slide past our reach
we wear gloves and gear,
carry air as carapaces
on our backs, and know
ourselves beyond
our element
the pressure
of canyons
below us
is great,
but
the weight
of what lies
above
would
suffocate.
7/29/04 rbp
Wednesday, July 28, 2004
No Warning
The next door neighbors are moving. This should not bother me, because ever since they moved in almost two years ago, they have kept very much to themselves. I know they have a baby, because when Susan goes quickly in and out of her garage in her van, I can see a baby's car seat in her car, and once I saw the actual little guy himself. Susan moved back to town from Tahoe to be pregnant and give birth and (ostensibly) to raise her child in a good family-oriented neighborhood. Her new husband (who has already raised at least one child) has been amiable, but in that "he always seemed like such a nice guy before we found out he was a wife-beater" way, and D. and I were saying to one another a few days ago that we disliked and distrusted him.
(And now I'm also paranoid that he has bugged our house and just because of that less-than-charitable eavesdropped conversation, they're moving. But that's just how my mind works.)
But here's what really bothers me to no end about them leaving - besides the fact that I'm concerned it has something to do with us bringing down the value of the neighborhood with our "do-it-yourself" demolition/reconstruction aspirations - as we've been working on our front yard, Mikehas been talking to us about the project, and hanging out with D. to gaze thoughtfully at the enormous piles of dirt the way men sometimes do toward the end of the afternoon. Just two days ago, I said, "Yeah, it's a mess now, but it'll be a pretty nice courtyard when we're done. You guys'll have to come on over and have lemonade or margaritas or something when it's finished." And he said in his amiable-but-not-entirely-so voice, "Yeah, that sounds really good." Then we all had a nice chuckle and everything was friendly and right with the world in our tiny corner of suburbia.
And then today, I pull into our driveway and see a realtors sign in their front yard. What's up with that? How long had he known they were going to leave? Why didn't he mention it? I mean, really - what's up with that?!!
Here's the thing, though.
How different is what I feel about what he's done from what people in my church might feel about what I've done? What kind of warning did I give them? A little, maybe, to some people. But I also had conversations with people after I was thinking about leaving, and I didn't mention anything to them. And these were people who probably felt they knew me a lot better than I ever thought I knew Mike.
Hmmm. Gives me something to think about.
But first, sleep.
(And now I'm also paranoid that he has bugged our house and just because of that less-than-charitable eavesdropped conversation, they're moving. But that's just how my mind works.)
But here's what really bothers me to no end about them leaving - besides the fact that I'm concerned it has something to do with us bringing down the value of the neighborhood with our "do-it-yourself" demolition/reconstruction aspirations - as we've been working on our front yard, Mike
And then today, I pull into our driveway and see a realtors sign in their front yard. What's up with that? How long had he known they were going to leave? Why didn't he mention it? I mean, really - what's up with that?!!
Here's the thing, though.
How different is what I feel about what he's done from what people in my church might feel about what I've done? What kind of warning did I give them? A little, maybe, to some people. But I also had conversations with people after I was thinking about leaving, and I didn't mention anything to them. And these were people who probably felt they knew me a lot better than I ever thought I knew Mike.
Hmmm. Gives me something to think about.
But first, sleep.
Tuesday, July 27, 2004
July 27, 2004
Another poem below- this one not mine. And yes, it's a bit of a cop-out because I really am dead beat and don't want to go to bed only to get up in 2 hours to meet this (now) self-imposed daily writing deadline.
This is where my blog's name originates, and it's high time I credited Mr. Eliot, who is one of my favorite poets in spite of any reason he shouldn't be.
Tonight I went to a lounge downtown and heard 4 local poets read as part of the Marin County traveling Poetry series. I knew two of the poets, and they were in fine form. The other two were new to me, one of them quite good. Many of the poems were about simply daily things seen through the eyes of the artist. I like to read those things, and I like to write them. But I also like work that is imbued with a depth and some allusion (even an ironic one) to the heart of the human condition. Eliot was good at that.
The Journey of the Magi
'A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For the journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.'
And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.
Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins,
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory
All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death,
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.
-- T. S. Eliot
This is where my blog's name originates, and it's high time I credited Mr. Eliot, who is one of my favorite poets in spite of any reason he shouldn't be.
Tonight I went to a lounge downtown and heard 4 local poets read as part of the Marin County traveling Poetry series. I knew two of the poets, and they were in fine form. The other two were new to me, one of them quite good. Many of the poems were about simply daily things seen through the eyes of the artist. I like to read those things, and I like to write them. But I also like work that is imbued with a depth and some allusion (even an ironic one) to the heart of the human condition. Eliot was good at that.
The Journey of the Magi
'A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For the journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.'
And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.
Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins,
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory
All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death,
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.
-- T. S. Eliot
Monday, July 26, 2004
July 26, 2004
D. did a tremendous amount of work this morning on the house. We now have a dumpster where there was a mountain of dirt, and two piles of gravel in the scooped out area for the courtyard. He also washed off the driveway and the mess of mud in the street. What a guy.
Something I wrote for him a few years ago, at a time when I was writing exuberant love poems in honor of characters from role playing games...
How you don’t inspire me
You should have been a fire sign,
poor man, though you can’t help it
if I’m not swung in dance, held fast by passion,
dizzy, blind, flung like comet’s hair.
(I know it’s not that you don’t care.)
We sit like muck at the bottom of the pond,
settled stuff to make gardens green and plenty.
Stuck in domestic clockwork, patient sprockets leaning
into one another and away
to circle back, click together,
grind and grove and push hard at going nowhere far,
but going firmly, going well.
You should have been a fire sign, or maybe water, even air.
Yes, even air, even anything but earth. You and your dirt,
flakey with minerals, thick and dark and patient like loam.
Something I wrote for him a few years ago, at a time when I was writing exuberant love poems in honor of characters from role playing games...
How you don’t inspire me
You should have been a fire sign,
poor man, though you can’t help it
if I’m not swung in dance, held fast by passion,
dizzy, blind, flung like comet’s hair.
(I know it’s not that you don’t care.)
We sit like muck at the bottom of the pond,
settled stuff to make gardens green and plenty.
Stuck in domestic clockwork, patient sprockets leaning
into one another and away
to circle back, click together,
grind and grove and push hard at going nowhere far,
but going firmly, going well.
You should have been a fire sign, or maybe water, even air.
Yes, even air, even anything but earth. You and your dirt,
flakey with minerals, thick and dark and patient like loam.
Sunday, July 25, 2004
July 25, 2004
We had a visit from one of my oldest and dearest friends and her family today. (And I am not just writing this because I know that you're going to be reading my blog, C.
They have a five-year-old boy who is stunningly beautiful and brilliant, and the two best tempered more adorable one-year-olds I've ever met. We had such a good time hanging out together.
Before and after the visit, D. worked on the front yard (otherwise known as the front construction zone). I cannot believe how hard my husband is capable of working. He's like a machine. And he was gushingly grateful for my help when I did very little apart from provide moral support and dig out about a sixteenth of the area he's dug out.
Tomorrow we get a dumpster and gravel. We're well on our way. And in the meantime, we're giving our neighbors something to talk about.
R. is off at camp again. I drove her out this afternoon.
S. turns 5 on Wednesday.
D. is soaking in the tub.
The dog is asleep in the hallway.
I am practicing short, declarative sentences.
They have a five-year-old boy who is stunningly beautiful and brilliant, and the two best tempered more adorable one-year-olds I've ever met. We had such a good time hanging out together.
Before and after the visit, D. worked on the front yard (otherwise known as the front construction zone). I cannot believe how hard my husband is capable of working. He's like a machine. And he was gushingly grateful for my help when I did very little apart from provide moral support and dig out about a sixteenth of the area he's dug out.
Tomorrow we get a dumpster and gravel. We're well on our way. And in the meantime, we're giving our neighbors something to talk about.
R. is off at camp again. I drove her out this afternoon.
S. turns 5 on Wednesday.
D. is soaking in the tub.
The dog is asleep in the hallway.
I am practicing short, declarative sentences.
Saturday, July 24, 2004
July 24, 2004
We now have a sizeable hole in our front yard, and the rose bush has been relocated to a spot in the back yard next to a couple of its distant cousins. The driveway looks like a significant but sloppy burial mound. I’m considering absorbing some of the cost of this project by charging admission to see the Holy Hillock, the final resting place of Sweaticus Alotium, patron Saint of Home Improvement.
The street in front of our house looks like flood waters have receded, leaving only a thick coating of mud and detritus.
My husband is exhausted.
The bobcat doesn’t even look winded.
Tomorrow friends are coming to visit, so I’ll rise early and do what cleaning I can after having run to burn off all the calories I consumed at a co-worker’s housewarming party today.
And somewhere in there, I’ll pack up R. for 4 more days of camp and drive her and a friend and the friend’s mom to the retreat center/campground at 2pm.
Next week is Sophie’s birthday party. We’re having a party here. Mostly the kids on the street and my in-laws – in other words, people who already know we’re insane, so when they see the state of the place they won’t even blink.
I’m so glad I dropped out of church so I could slow down the pace of my life. (ha!) Space abhors a vacuum, and I have a hard time with down time, obviously. The glass of wine today did help, but alas, the effects of alcohol are temporary. The problems brought on by over-committment are harder to coax out the door.
The street in front of our house looks like flood waters have receded, leaving only a thick coating of mud and detritus.
My husband is exhausted.
The bobcat doesn’t even look winded.
Tomorrow friends are coming to visit, so I’ll rise early and do what cleaning I can after having run to burn off all the calories I consumed at a co-worker’s housewarming party today.
And somewhere in there, I’ll pack up R. for 4 more days of camp and drive her and a friend and the friend’s mom to the retreat center/campground at 2pm.
Next week is Sophie’s birthday party. We’re having a party here. Mostly the kids on the street and my in-laws – in other words, people who already know we’re insane, so when they see the state of the place they won’t even blink.
I’m so glad I dropped out of church so I could slow down the pace of my life. (ha!) Space abhors a vacuum, and I have a hard time with down time, obviously. The glass of wine today did help, but alas, the effects of alcohol are temporary. The problems brought on by over-committment are harder to coax out the door.
Friday, July 23, 2004
A Bobcat in the Front Yard
There's a bobcat in our front yard.
My four-year-old called it a "wildcat," as in,
"Wow, Papa really is moving a lot of stuff with that wildcat."
But really, it's a bobcat.
And we're completely tearing up our front yard, and in a few hours have ripped out plants that have been there since we moved in ten-and-a-half years ago. We'll carefully dig out more tomorrow, like a rose bush that I estimate to be about 15-20 years old.
When I say "we" I mean the corporate, spousal "we." But since I've done my share of picking adobe in the last few years, I don't feel too much like just a spectator.
The plan is to put in a courtyard off the front of the house, with a very tasteful fence separating it from plants that are as carefully planned as a Japanese garden while still being indigenous and drought tolerant. The nice thing about plans is they're plans - they're not yet realities that didn't live up to expectations.
But I think this really will be nice. It's one of the first home-improvement projects where D. and I share the same vision of what we want. He envisions a much thicker slab of concrete than I would have thought one would ever need (except to dispose of nuclear waste), but it's all right.
I just have to find a good new home for that rose bush.
My four-year-old called it a "wildcat," as in,
"Wow, Papa really is moving a lot of stuff with that wildcat."
But really, it's a bobcat.
And we're completely tearing up our front yard, and in a few hours have ripped out plants that have been there since we moved in ten-and-a-half years ago. We'll carefully dig out more tomorrow, like a rose bush that I estimate to be about 15-20 years old.
When I say "we" I mean the corporate, spousal "we." But since I've done my share of picking adobe in the last few years, I don't feel too much like just a spectator.
The plan is to put in a courtyard off the front of the house, with a very tasteful fence separating it from plants that are as carefully planned as a Japanese garden while still being indigenous and drought tolerant. The nice thing about plans is they're plans - they're not yet realities that didn't live up to expectations.
But I think this really will be nice. It's one of the first home-improvement projects where D. and I share the same vision of what we want. He envisions a much thicker slab of concrete than I would have thought one would ever need (except to dispose of nuclear waste), but it's all right.
I just have to find a good new home for that rose bush.
Thursday, July 22, 2004
Madeleine L'Engle
I only really have one thing to say tonight. I really like Madeleine L'Engle.
I stumbled across this
interview today.
More about her tomorrow, about how she and I met years ago and what happened then....
I stumbled across this
interview today.
More about her tomorrow, about how she and I met years ago and what happened then....
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
Breaking the News
As I was saying, I just told my daughter about menstruation.
She took it pretty well. Except for when she said, “You have got to be kidding,” and ‘Okay, now you’re really grossing me out.” and, “You mean this still happens to you?”
She’s only nine. I hadn’t planned on talking to her about all this yet, but a friend of hers (who is ten) just started, and I’d rather have R. hear about it from her own mother than from someone else. I’m trying to break a generation-old family tradition of disseminating this kind of information “too little, too late.”
And besides, I didn’t have a copy of Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret handy.
We had our conversation in the pantry. I hadn’t expected to tell her all this in the pantry, but that’s how it worked out. Part of my oh-so-clever strategy was to keep the conversation light. (You can stop laughing now.)
I thought that a big sit-down lecture with a scientific book would make the whole thing loom too large in her sensitive pre-adolescent brain, and that it would be better to say, “Oh by the way, you should know something…”
We were only near the pantry at first. But then when I said it was something that her 4-year old sister shouldn’t hear, she moved us farther next to the spice rack and shut the door so S. wouldn’t find us.
Years from now, I expect that the setting will be prompt much eye-rolling when she tells the story to friends or her own daughters. If she gets over being grossed out and has any daughters.
I didn’t go into too much detail. I didn’t discuss sex. I know it’s too soon for that. I just explained that when a girl’s body starts to get ready to someday be able to have a baby, the uterus, which is where babies (when there are babies) grow, needs to have blood in it to help the baby grow. This is where her exclamations started.. And then I said that when there isn’t a baby – as is usually the case – the body doesn’t need the blood, and it comes out.
She really did accept it pretty well, considering. I’ve assured her that she probably won’t need to worry about it for a couple of years at least. She’s had some follow-up questions. Her first was, “Does it change how you feel or how you act?”
I told her it doesn’t have to, and it doesn’t always, but that for some people it does. Sometimes. And I also said that other people say it does more than it really does. But we don’t go too far down that path. There’s a balance to maintain for ya. How to allow her to feel it’s okay to be emotional because of hormones without giving her another big gun in her already well-stocked arsenal of reasons for wild mood swings?
When R. was about 6 and a half, she burst into tears one January afternoon because, as she put it in a wail, “Now I know three people who have died! Nana, Abraham Lincoln, and that other man!”
It was Martin Luther King Day.
And now, she’ll have to bleed once a month on top of all that.
Last night, though, she said, “Mom, about that period thing. Do men get it?” And I said, “Nope.” and bless her little heart, she said with obvious pride, “Oh, cool. It’s just a girl thing, then.”
Yeah. Cool. I hope she can keep this positive attitude. I think attitude counts for so much.
Today in the car (before we got her sister), she said, “Mom, about that period thing. Do you think I’m the kind of girl who will be able to handle it? Or do you think I’m the kind of girl who will freak out?” I assured her that based on everything I already knew about her, I was sure that she would be just fine with it. I almost said, “You know how you clean out the bottom of the bird cage without making a fuss about it?” but I caught myself in time.
Sometimes analogies are better left unsaid.
She took it pretty well. Except for when she said, “You have got to be kidding,” and ‘Okay, now you’re really grossing me out.” and, “You mean this still happens to you?”
She’s only nine. I hadn’t planned on talking to her about all this yet, but a friend of hers (who is ten) just started, and I’d rather have R. hear about it from her own mother than from someone else. I’m trying to break a generation-old family tradition of disseminating this kind of information “too little, too late.”
And besides, I didn’t have a copy of Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret handy.
We had our conversation in the pantry. I hadn’t expected to tell her all this in the pantry, but that’s how it worked out. Part of my oh-so-clever strategy was to keep the conversation light. (You can stop laughing now.)
I thought that a big sit-down lecture with a scientific book would make the whole thing loom too large in her sensitive pre-adolescent brain, and that it would be better to say, “Oh by the way, you should know something…”
We were only near the pantry at first. But then when I said it was something that her 4-year old sister shouldn’t hear, she moved us farther next to the spice rack and shut the door so S. wouldn’t find us.
Years from now, I expect that the setting will be prompt much eye-rolling when she tells the story to friends or her own daughters. If she gets over being grossed out and has any daughters.
I didn’t go into too much detail. I didn’t discuss sex. I know it’s too soon for that. I just explained that when a girl’s body starts to get ready to someday be able to have a baby,
She really did accept it pretty well, considering. I’ve assured her that she probably won’t need to worry about it for a couple of years at least. She’s had some follow-up questions. Her first was, “Does it change how you feel or how you act?”
I told her it doesn’t have to, and it doesn’t always, but that for some people it does. Sometimes. And I also said that other people say it does more than it really does. But we don’t go too far down that path. There’s a balance to maintain for ya. How to allow her to feel it’s okay to be emotional because of hormones without giving her another big gun in her already well-stocked arsenal of reasons for wild mood swings?
When R. was about 6 and a half, she burst into tears one January afternoon because, as she put it in a wail, “Now I know three people who have died! Nana, Abraham Lincoln, and that other man!”
It was Martin Luther King Day.
And now, she’ll have to bleed once a month on top of all that.
Last night, though, she said, “Mom, about that period thing. Do men get it?” And I said, “Nope.” and bless her little heart, she said with obvious pride, “Oh, cool. It’s just a girl thing, then.”
Yeah. Cool. I hope she can keep this positive attitude. I think attitude counts for so much.
Today in the car (before we got her sister), she said, “Mom, about that period thing. Do you think I’m the kind of girl who will be able to handle it? Or do you think I’m the kind of girl who will freak out?” I assured her that based on everything I already knew about her, I was sure that she would be just fine with it. I almost said, “You know how you clean out the bottom of the bird cage without making a fuss about it?” but I caught myself in time.
Sometimes analogies are better left unsaid.
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
July 20, 2004
Yesterday, I told my daughter all about menstruation.
This will be the first line of my post tomorrow, too. The post where I actually tell the story. Those of you who don't want to hear rite-of-passage stories, don't read tomorrow's post.
Tonight's post is just to say that I am asleep and somehow still writing, having been awoken by my husband while I slept in my younger daughter's bed. ("Mommy, sleep with me just for a little while?!")
If I couldn't touch type, there would be no readable blog post at all today. There would still be a post of some kind, because Julia "Mwah Ha Ha" D. cursed me with this post-every-day curse. It's like the friggin' red shoes story only slightly less gory and religious and I don't think I'll have to cut of my hands to keep them from typing. Let's just say that they're doing their work without much else of my brain being engaged, and with my eyes closed while I sleep-blog.
If hadn't taught myself to type in college with a stupid computer typing game, this post would just be whatever random characters blind hen-pecking would yield. That, and whatever might be put on the screen by the force of my drool hitting the a random key on the keyboard.
Good night.
This will be the first line of my post tomorrow, too. The post where I actually tell the story. Those of you who don't want to hear rite-of-passage stories, don't read tomorrow's post.
Tonight's post is just to say that I am asleep and somehow still writing, having been awoken by my husband while I slept in my younger daughter's bed. ("Mommy, sleep with me just for a little while?!")
If I couldn't touch type, there would be no readable blog post at all today. There would still be a post of some kind, because Julia "Mwah Ha Ha" D. cursed me with this post-every-day curse. It's like the friggin' red shoes story only slightly less gory and religious and I don't think I'll have to cut of my hands to keep them from typing. Let's just say that they're doing their work without much else of my brain being engaged, and with my eyes closed while I sleep-blog.
If hadn't taught myself to type in college with a stupid computer typing game, this post would just be whatever random characters blind hen-pecking would yield. That, and whatever might be put on the screen by the force of my drool hitting the a random key on the keyboard.
Good night.
Monday, July 19, 2004
A Road Not Taken
I haven't yet gone to see King Arthur, but I know I will have to soon. I may not like the film, but I'm compelled to see it in the same way that I've been compelled to read everything I've ever found about Arthur even when it was the worst kind of schlock ever printed.
In a parallel universe somewhere, I have a Master's Degree in Arthurian Literature from the University of Wales in Bangor. (Here's a link in English for those of you who don't read Welsh.)
After I got my BA in "English Literature with a Writing Emphasis" (and a minor in Philosophy), I was all set to go to the very tip of Northern Wales to study something that would have qualified me to do not much more than teach nutcases like myself in turn all about Arthurian Literature.
I was accepted to the school. I even had a dorm room assigned. I didn't go.
What happened? 3 things, I think:
1 - I did not get the financial aid I needed and did not want to be fiscally irresponsible and take out a loan just to get a degree that would not have made me any more money than I could have made by having a job where I had a nametag and asked repeatedly, "Would you like fries with that?"
2 - I realized that Arthurian Literature was just that kind of vicious cycle I mention above - what would I do with the degree? Would it change the world? No. Even worse, would it turn the legend that I so adored into something sprawled and wriggling on a wall like a bug? Would it kill my love for the story? Would I become one more person who had turned a hobby into a chore?
3 - I didn't want to be that far away from my boyfriend.
I'm sure you can guess which of these reasons most influenced my decision.
The summer before I would have started the Masters program, a friend and I spent 3 months traveling from Britain to Greece via Eurail and Youth Hostels, and one of our first stops was for me to tell the Dean at Bangor that I would have to back out of attending the school.
I took a picture of the dorm where I would have stayed.
Okay, and I just have to add this. You know that many of King Arthur's men would have been Welsh, right? And that Lancelot (a much later addition to the legend) would have been French? So before I even see the film, I am really irked by the fact that the only Welshman in the cast is playing Lancelot. What's up with that? It's like Highlander, where they had an American-born, Swiss-bred actor playing the Scot, and the Scottish actor playing a Spaniard (with a rotten accent). Hollywood. Sheesh.
I'll probably see the movie this weekend.
Because I have to.
Even if my blog spellchecker wants to substitute "Arthurian" with "earthworms."
In a parallel universe somewhere, I have a Master's Degree in Arthurian Literature from the University of Wales in Bangor. (Here's a link in English for those of you who don't read Welsh.)
After I got my BA in "English Literature with a Writing Emphasis" (and a minor in Philosophy), I was all set to go to the very tip of Northern Wales to study something that would have qualified me to do not much more than teach nutcases like myself in turn all about Arthurian Literature.
I was accepted to the school. I even had a dorm room assigned. I didn't go.
What happened? 3 things, I think:
1 - I did not get the financial aid I needed and did not want to be fiscally irresponsible and take out a loan just to get a degree that would not have made me any more money than I could have made by having a job where I had a nametag and asked repeatedly, "Would you like fries with that?"
2 - I realized that Arthurian Literature was just that kind of vicious cycle I mention above - what would I do with the degree? Would it change the world? No. Even worse, would it turn the legend that I so adored into something sprawled and wriggling on a wall like a bug? Would it kill my love for the story? Would I become one more person who had turned a hobby into a chore?
3 - I didn't want to be that far away from my boyfriend.
I'm sure you can guess which of these reasons most influenced my decision.
The summer before I would have started the Masters program, a friend and I spent 3 months traveling from Britain to Greece via Eurail and Youth Hostels, and one of our first stops was for me to tell the Dean at Bangor that I would have to back out of attending the school.
I took a picture of the dorm where I would have stayed.
Okay, and I just have to add this. You know that many of King Arthur's men would have been Welsh, right? And that Lancelot (a much later addition to the legend) would have been French? So before I even see the film, I am really irked by the fact that the only Welshman in the cast is playing Lancelot. What's up with that? It's like Highlander, where they had an American-born, Swiss-bred actor playing the Scot, and the Scottish actor playing a Spaniard (with a rotten accent). Hollywood. Sheesh.
I'll probably see the movie this weekend.
Because I have to.
Even if my blog spellchecker wants to substitute "Arthurian" with "earthworms."
Sunday, July 18, 2004
July 18, 2004
Maybe not the final draft, but enough for now.
I am in Love with Old Men
Not just the idea of old men,
but the men themselves,
stooped and faded, mottled skin
loose at the elbows like the sweater
I’ve never quite been able to throw away.
The shorter, the better.
You don’t have to tell me
they were taller once. I understand
that before they began to walk
with such care, they strode
like giants over the land.
I want to swim in their Summer
memories. Men who once knew
how to tie seamen’s knots, how to whittle.
They were engineers, and drew
the world the way they saw it,
and only gave up the pipe under duress.
They may use canes now,
but when they were cowlicked boys
with tadpoles and muck in paper cups
they once, on a dare, burned something
alive with a glass and the sun.
Whatever life has done to them,
I want to eat it up.
Each old man who waits on a bench
for the bus to come – does he know
how close he is to having me
stop for him instead?
There beats a heart, still.
I want to cut it out
give it back to him and say,
“Look, how beautiful.”
6/04-7/04 RBP
I am in Love with Old Men
Not just the idea of old men,
but the men themselves,
stooped and faded, mottled skin
loose at the elbows like the sweater
I’ve never quite been able to throw away.
The shorter, the better.
You don’t have to tell me
they were taller once. I understand
that before they began to walk
with such care, they strode
like giants over the land.
I want to swim in their Summer
memories. Men who once knew
how to tie seamen’s knots, how to whittle.
They were engineers, and drew
the world the way they saw it,
and only gave up the pipe under duress.
They may use canes now,
but when they were cowlicked boys
with tadpoles and muck in paper cups
they once, on a dare, burned something
alive with a glass and the sun.
Whatever life has done to them,
I want to eat it up.
Each old man who waits on a bench
for the bus to come – does he know
how close he is to having me
stop for him instead?
There beats a heart, still.
I want to cut it out
give it back to him and say,
“Look, how beautiful.”
6/04-7/04 RBP
Saturday, July 17, 2004
Here's a good test of what a dare will do for me. I am so tired I can't really see straight let alone focus, but I'm writing.
After doing chores around the house in the morning, I did food delivery, then took R. to riding lessons. Then it was home for 10 minutes to get D. & S., a quick trip to the grocery store for salads, desserts, and a housewarming plant, and then to Walnut Creek to spend the day at my father-in-law's.
Here's what I'm too tired to write about:
* The food deliveries I've been doing for two and a half years
* R's riding lessons
* How children's lesson times are good for balancing my checkbook and paying bills
* How we forgot to eat the salads but remembered the desserts
* My father-in-law
* Company coming tomorrow
* What I expect to do in the 4-5 waking hours I'll have before they get here.
* Gwen the tooth fairy and remembering the right font in Illustrator
I'm falling asleep at the keyboard. The week of sleep depravation is hitting me with a vengeance.
The next intelligent step in my writing daily process would be for me to make a practice of posting before 9pm.
After doing chores around the house in the morning, I did food delivery, then took R. to riding lessons. Then it was home for 10 minutes to get D. & S., a quick trip to the grocery store for salads, desserts, and a housewarming plant, and then to Walnut Creek to spend the day at my father-in-law's.
Here's what I'm too tired to write about:
* The food deliveries I've been doing for two and a half years
* R's riding lessons
* How children's lesson times are good for balancing my checkbook and paying bills
* How we forgot to eat the salads but remembered the desserts
* My father-in-law
* Company coming tomorrow
* What I expect to do in the 4-5 waking hours I'll have before they get here.
* Gwen the tooth fairy and remembering the right font in Illustrator
I'm falling asleep at the keyboard. The week of sleep depravation is hitting me with a vengeance.
The next intelligent step in my writing daily process would be for me to make a practice of posting before 9pm.
Friday, July 16, 2004
Bring a Bum to Your Birthday & Letters Home
Ah, yes. I realized yesterday that in typical fashion, I went off on a tangent and never finished the bring-a-bum-birthday party story. (And that phrase is *not* a judgement. It's just alliteration. I'm a sucker for sound-binding.)
If I remember correctly, R. went on to tell him when her birthday was and that we lived in the green house (did he know the one?) and that there would be a cake. And I think he sort of mumbled that he probably wouldn't be able to come. And I agreed that he probably wouldn't be able to come. I confess. I am not as enlightened as I'd like to be. I'm working on it.
I don't recall for certain, but I think that R's parting comment as he shuffled off was, "Maybe next year?"
Here are the letters she sent home from camp this week:
"Dear S.,
How are you? I
miss you alredey.
Write soon. Right now
I'm in my cabin listen
too the two most
anowing grils. Well I got
to go. Bye!
R.
P.S. Send some more notes."
- and -
"Dear mom and PaPa
I made a friend
Katie as sone as
I got Here. she is
so nice. She has
Dirty Blound hair.
And Blue eyes.
Heres wate she Looks Like."
...complete with a sketch of Katie, who D. said was fortunate to have R. for a friend, because judging by the picture, she had some serious anatomical challenges, such as her right arm being attached directly to her rib cage.
I love my kids. I find this amazing, considering the fact that even though I pushed them out of my body and they're flesh of my flesh, and I know that I'm responsible for their well-being and for raising them to be good, strong, loving people, they are really just strangers who happen to live in the same house where I live and who deplete my energy and time on a daily basis.
It's maybe more amazing considering that even though I have a great capacity to think well of pretty much the whole world, I have a very limited capacity to express love.
I'm working on that too.
And you know what? My kids are teaching me. I think it's no accident that, frigid detached soul that I am, I have been given two of the most affectionate people on the planet as daughters.
See? See? There's a reason for everything.
If I remember correctly, R. went on to tell him when her birthday was and that we lived in the green house (did he know the one?) and that there would be a cake. And I think he sort of mumbled that he probably wouldn't be able to come. And I agreed that he probably wouldn't be able to come. I confess. I am not as enlightened as I'd like to be. I'm working on it.
I don't recall for certain, but I think that R's parting comment as he shuffled off was, "Maybe next year?"
Here are the letters she sent home from camp this week:
"Dear S.,
How are you? I
miss you alredey.
Write soon. Right now
I'm in my cabin listen
too the two most
anowing grils. Well I got
to go. Bye!
R.
P.S. Send some more notes."
- and -
"Dear mom and PaPa
I made a friend
Katie as sone as
I got Here. she is
so nice. She has
Dirty Blound hair.
And Blue eyes.
Heres wate she Looks Like."
...complete with a sketch of Katie, who D. said was fortunate to have R. for a friend, because judging by the picture, she had some serious anatomical challenges, such as her right arm being attached directly to her rib cage.
I love my kids. I find this amazing, considering the fact that even though I pushed them out of my body and they're flesh of my flesh, and I know that I'm responsible for their well-being and for raising them to be good, strong, loving people, they are really just strangers who happen to live in the same house where I live and who deplete my energy and time on a daily basis.
It's maybe more amazing considering that even though I have a great capacity to think well of pretty much the whole world, I have a very limited capacity to express love.
I'm working on that too.
And you know what? My kids are teaching me. I think it's no accident that, frigid detached soul that I am, I have been given two of the most affectionate people on the planet as daughters.
See? See? There's a reason for everything.
Thursday, July 15, 2004
Benign Neglect
Today is R's fourth day at Girl Scout camp. I pick her up tomorrow morning. She went last year too, when she was only 8. But even then, I felt only a vague and nonchalant, "Oh I hope she has fun and doesn't get hurt."
A preschool teacher I know has called this behavior letting my children have their independence. I call it highly developed benign neglect. Child Protective Services might have another name for it. Maybe I shouldn't be a parent.
But really, I would worry if it weren't for the fact that R. makes friends with almost everyone she meets, everywhere she goes.
For example, when she was about to turn 5, we were walking to the local swim center, and we passed a man who looked like he'd been wearing the same clothes for a year without coming anywhere near a Laundromat or a shower. He was unshaven, and listing to starboard, and I'm pretty sure he was shy some teeth. He was also carrying a paper sack that was suspiciously bottle-shaped.
But other than that, he seemed like a nice guy.
I have this policy of treating human beings like human beings whenever possible. But I'm also not an extravert. While he and I politely nodded a hello (abiding by that unspoken social contract that keeps so much genuine interaction between strangers from happening), R. skipped up to him and said enthusiastically, "HELLO! Would you like to come to my birthday party?"
I felt several things at once. I was secretly hoping that his dance card was already full, but I also didn't want to be rude and un-invite him. (I mean, if vicious bug-eyed aliens invaded the earth, I'd probably try to figure out how to say "Begone foul creatures!" in just the right way so they wouldn't be offended.) So anyway, I didn't want him to feel uncomfortable about turning her down, which is what he and I both knew he had to do. And I wanted R. to continue to be friendly to the world, but I wanted her to learn that you can't invite a total stranger to your birthday party.
Or can you?
I tell you what; she's going to have one interesting life. She's got the angle on entertaining angels unawares. Or inviting bug-eyed aliens to tea.
...I just read this post to four-year-old S., who has been patiently waiting for me to finish - having only said, "Are you done yet??" twelve times in two minutes.
And she said, "Mommy? Mommy? Mommy?" and I said, "What?" and she said, "I want you to be a parent."
So I also just read the last bit to her too (to stall more), and she said, "I did not say it twelve times."
I'd better go now.
A preschool teacher I know has called this behavior letting my children have their independence. I call it highly developed benign neglect. Child Protective Services might have another name for it. Maybe I shouldn't be a parent.
But really, I would worry if it weren't for the fact that R. makes friends with almost everyone she meets, everywhere she goes.
For example, when she was about to turn 5, we were walking to the local swim center, and we passed a man who looked like he'd been wearing the same clothes for a year without coming anywhere near a Laundromat or a shower. He was unshaven, and listing to starboard, and I'm pretty sure he was shy some teeth. He was also carrying a paper sack that was suspiciously bottle-shaped.
But other than that, he seemed like a nice guy.
I have this policy of treating human beings like human beings whenever possible. But I'm also not an extravert. While he and I politely nodded a hello (abiding by that unspoken social contract that keeps so much genuine interaction between strangers from happening), R. skipped up to him and said enthusiastically, "HELLO! Would you like to come to my birthday party?"
I felt several things at once. I was secretly hoping that his dance card was already full, but I also didn't want to be rude and un-invite him. (I mean, if vicious bug-eyed aliens invaded the earth, I'd probably try to figure out how to say "Begone foul creatures!" in just the right way so they wouldn't be offended.) So anyway, I didn't want him to feel uncomfortable about turning her down, which is what he and I both knew he had to do. And I wanted R. to continue to be friendly to the world, but I wanted her to learn that you can't invite a total stranger to your birthday party.
Or can you?
I tell you what; she's going to have one interesting life. She's got the angle on entertaining angels unawares. Or inviting bug-eyed aliens to tea.
...I just read this post to four-year-old S., who has been patiently waiting for me to finish - having only said, "Are you done yet??" twelve times in two minutes.
And she said, "Mommy? Mommy? Mommy?" and I said, "What?" and she said, "I want you to be a parent."
So I also just read the last bit to her too (to stall more), and she said, "I did not say it twelve times."
I'd better go now.
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
July 14, 2004
Okay, credit where credit's due: last night, Julia challenged me to post daily. So I am. So there.
The big news is that, just when I was starting to believe it wasn't going to happen, I received the premier issue of the American Poetry Journal in the mail.
It's glossy, and has a price on the cover, and an ISSN, and my name is listed on the back and also inside, and a poem that I wrote is in it. In print. On paper. Paper that people (besides the poets in it) will have to pay money for.
See Rebecca.
See Rebecca shamelessly self-promote.
Now how do you really feel about people who refer to themselves in the third person? Don't you find it strange? Rebecca finds it strange.
I have a co-worker, for example, who regularly sends email - from his email address, which those of us who know how to read can recognize as his email address - that he will be in late, or out early, or is on a break.
Let's call him Sparky. Just because I'm in that kind of mood.
So a typical email from Sparky might go
To: everyone@theplaceiworkthatwillremainanonymous.com
From: Sparky@theplaceiworkthatwillremainanonymous.com
Subject: Sparky will be in at 8:00 this morning.
To which I think, "Okay, Sparky. Thanks for the head's up. Now learn how to use the first person singular pronoun. It can come in so handy."
Sassy when I write after 7am, ain't I?
The big news is that, just when I was starting to believe it wasn't going to happen, I received the premier issue of the American Poetry Journal in the mail.
It's glossy, and has a price on the cover, and an ISSN, and my name is listed on the back and also inside, and a poem that I wrote is in it. In print. On paper. Paper that people (besides the poets in it) will have to pay money for.
See Rebecca.
See Rebecca shamelessly self-promote.
Now how do you really feel about people who refer to themselves in the third person? Don't you find it strange? Rebecca finds it strange.
I have a co-worker, for example, who regularly sends email - from his email address, which those of us who know how to read can recognize as his email address - that he will be in late, or out early, or is on a break.
Let's call him Sparky. Just because I'm in that kind of mood.
So a typical email from Sparky might go
To: everyone@theplaceiworkthatwillremainanonymous.com
From: Sparky@theplaceiworkthatwillremainanonymous.com
Subject: Sparky will be in at 8:00 this morning.
To which I think, "Okay, Sparky. Thanks for the head's up. Now learn how to use the first person singular pronoun. It can come in so handy."
Sassy when I write after 7am, ain't I?
Okay, so it's after midnight, so this blog entry counts for tomorrow 7/14, right? But really, I'll be posting another entry then, so I'm considering this a late 7/13 post. So there.
I will need to leave for work in just under 5 hours. I have not slept yet tonight. I tell you what, sir. Either Lady Grey Tea has a heck of a lot more caffeine than one would think, or I'm still soaring from tonight's Writer's Group meeting. (Thank you Julia & Suzanne!)
It may be the adreneline from booking a hotel room in Japan in the middle of the night has something to do with it, too.
Very exciting stuff.
I really should sleep.
Really.
I should.
I will need to leave for work in just under 5 hours. I have not slept yet tonight. I tell you what, sir. Either Lady Grey Tea has a heck of a lot more caffeine than one would think, or I'm still soaring from tonight's Writer's Group meeting. (Thank you Julia & Suzanne!)
It may be the adreneline from booking a hotel room in Japan in the middle of the night has something to do with it, too.
Very exciting stuff.
I really should sleep.
Really.
I should.
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