Not really--I was just looking for an opportunity to lay the phrase Toggle Poncho on my beloved Flap nation. It won't be the last time. Stumbled across the item while flipping through through a Land's End sale catalog tucked alongside my L.end bargains I just opened up. A few days earlier Baby sis had thrown a $25 gift card in the Christmas card--I wasted no time in whisking off with it before Bob could get his mind around what $25 bux at Lands End could do for him. Within minutes of receiving it I was trolling for bargains on all the random things I seem to need to make sense of my world.
I scored a pair of badly needed gloves (the only other current options were this skinky, pilled up pair I got at the J.Crew outlet that gave me penguin crotch between my fingers because they were too small, or whatever awful pair of leather, gorilla-black snap-on tool gloves I could find on the mudroom floor. ) These new ones, of course, just barely fit my huge manhands, but at least the penguin crotch-look is gone.
AND I finally scored something from Land's End's On the Counter scheme. I used to think it was all a sham--a sick little game to make you think there were really bargains with your name on them out there in Lands End Land. It's usually just canvas hats in 2T, bed linens with sailboats and forks on them, Men's pants with sailboats and forks on them....but finally, it was endgame for On the Counter. I am proud to report that I procured a bathing suit--of famous Land's End quality, no less, for NINE DOLLARS and FIFTY CENTS. It's one of their tankini models and its color-the only available, of course was the undecipherable "Agave." Sort of had a Mexican print thing going on. It was hard to tell what the print really looked like, but I wouldn't care if it depicted ancient Inca chihuahua sacrifices, it was less than ten dollars and in my size. Sold.
Part Two: Subway also serves Moons over My Hammy
A few weeks ago our family came up against that classic Busy Family of Four time crunch--I had left school late because of Student Council. I had the A-man with me and he was scheduled to try out Karate for the first time that evening. By the time I got home, we needed to jam straight to the Dojo. When was my slender sweet dude gonna eat, I wondered? As we were taking the left by the library and our town's Financial District, I glanced over at the neon glow of Subway. Hey, I said we could eat there after Karate, because I need to head back over to the school to photograph the evening performance of the play. (Sometimes I wonder if it ever ends, I mean, what's next, a goddamn Taffy pull?).
Everyone thought it sounded like a great idea;we don't get out much and this would be a hoot. A kick in the pants. A left to the jaw.
When we stormed in, there wasn't what I would call a crowd there at all. Just a cluster of college-y type dudes and this other guy who sent my former big city dwelling Crazy person alarm on a low buzz. His hair was just a bit too unwashed, he had items in plastic shopping bags that had not been originally purchased in said bags --like softly tattered newspapers and other assorted papers. Possibly a deeply rantful manifesto. Oh sweet smoking jesus, I do not frequent restaurants with those members of our society who have greasy hair and write manifestos.
I did all of this in that Gladwell Blink style, and promptly moved on to other more confusing things, like the backlit menu offering me the titter-worthy choices of six-inch or foot long. I left The Man to order the food so I could corral my overly-excited children who had taken over a booth and were showing it no mercy. Shortly after we entered, time seemed to stand still. At a moment when most Subway patrons would be balling up their sandwich wrappers and putting it in the wispy plastic bag and licking the inside of the chip bag (wait, that's just me) We had still.not.ordered.
Kids kept jumping in the booth.
College-y type dudes were still clustered near the register, having a civil, yet possibly increasingly tense conversation regarding their order.
Crazed loner still looming on the edges, but even he walks out, giving up after Bob gets his order in before he does.
Finally we get our food, and even though it's the ultimate standard order, an Italian and a turkey sub, the counter dude claims he can't find it on the register and requests that we pay after we eat. Okay, fine, we'll just go eat our shitty sandwiches and wonder why we ever came in here.
Meanwhile, the crazed loner has not only come back, he has gotten service. He shuffles over to the seating area and begins fussing with something in his bags with his back to us. I glance over, suddenly my former big city crazy person radar is on def con 4, a-whooo-gaaa a-WHOOOOO GAAAA. Bob hasn't noticed, but I say quietly and firmly, We gotta leave. Now. Leave. Let's leave, now. Finally he sees what I've been seeing, the manifesto-writing nut job has been sending us a little message, a little moon-mail, if you will. His pants were hoisted way down, beyond innocent plumber butt territory. My mom has a phrase she uses when one of us gets mad and throws a fit. She calls it Showing your Ass. Well, I guess some take that as a literal way to express anger.
At the time I just thought it was garden variety nut-job stuff, that his pants were down, his awful hairy ass exposed due to general indifference about his appearance, but by the time we got to the car, laughing and screaming with our kids asking what was going on, we realized he must have been deliberate about his message. Why, we will never know, but as Bob suggested, maybe he's really just from Corporate, paid to make sure Subway patrons get an honest, accurate experience of what it's really like to be in a subway. I'll take that. And from now on, I will not be taking my family to dinner via the Subway or any other way beyond whatever I can throw together in my kitchen.
Friday, December 26, 2008
Sunday, November 16, 2008
There's Only One Answer
My mild irritation with my hokey gym has not abated. It's because I go so damn much. As my ass gets smaller, my negative attitude grows. Plus, I am kind of annoyed with the Great Plan of the Universe in general these days, and since there's nothing I could do about it, ever, I am going to take it out on this bland, corporate entity. Although a few friends have received the verbal rant, allow me to cite the Curves Crimes for posterity:*
1. The culture of relentless greeting and dismissal by name. Quit saying hello to me personally every time I come in. I would much rather get half a glance over a raised newspaper, which is what I get at the Colonial from the sullen desk attendant when I show up to swim and swipe towels. I get the sense that over at Curves Corporate they pride themselves on their training in this. "Make sure every curves member gets greeted by name upon arrival and departure. " It makes the matching gym suit set feel special. I get the feeling the general Curves demographic looks for opportunities to feel special about all kinds of mundane, prosaic functions whenever they feel entitled. I wonder what the overlap is between the gung-ho Curves goer and those who identify with that awful Doves Chocolate ad campaign targeting harried women who are only insured bliss if they eat dove's chocolate pellets every time they manage to rinse out a crock pot or whatever.
All this feeling-good-about-doing-what's-expected-of-you crap leads me to the second Curves Crime...
2. Good-Jobbing the human wrecks who frequent the joint. I get the ol' GJ when I put my RFID tag that tracks my work outs, it's on the door facing me when I leave, and the phrase erupts erratically throughout the duration of my workout as I am exposed to everyone else's inane congratulating of one another over managing to survive half an hour on the curves machine circuit.
3. Infantilizing middle-aged women with goofy games and contests. Since there's no judgement here, I will confess that I actually buy into these. The instructions on the dry-erase board a few days before Halloween instructed us to "wear something orange" to "receive a treat." Since it's a gym, and not a candy store, I participated, thinking maybe I'd score a new hair band or somethin'. But no. It was junky Curves brand snak bars and microwave popcorn. I will conserve the rant about processed diet food for another post.
Now, as we enter the dangerous Holiday Season, with its attendant cookie exchanges and baked bries and ham made with seven-up, the good folks at Curves have initiated the holiday challenge to maintain your weight. It's a sign-up format, they initial your card every time you come in. Every week you are eligible for prizes, prizes, prizes. Stinky candles, ugly hand-knit scarves, it's like a goddamn Methodist Christmas Bazaar in there. Don't get me started on the pot holders. I signed up, sure, but you know, I pray I don't win any of this crazy crappazola. Why do people need prizes to go to the gym? How about avoiding a premature death --when did that stop motivating us?
But I noticed the most galling contest last week. Near this one machine that makes you wave your crotch at all the other gym goers, there's a glossy poster that says Work out Your Brain, too, or somesuch. There are rhyming clues that get revealed over the course of the week. The answers are simple enough for a five year old to figure out: "I hover near flowers and drink nectar, ect. Oh christ, it's a fucking hummingbird, people. There's a cardboard box on a table beneath it, with a pad of answer forms. I have formed a plan, a continuation of my Heh-Heh shoe-switcharoo tactic, only this time I just might cause a stir. Because, you see, flap-readers, I plan to submit one answer, and one answer only for the duration of this imbecilic contest. Sure, the real answer will be random things like Maple Syrup, Hummingbirds or Sewing Machines, but I will only submit one answer each time, because it will always be the correct answer, because this is the answer to all of the ills perpetrated by Curves. The answer, my friend, is Trucknuts.
*Yes, Curves Crimes are so mild, they only deserve to be kicking around void that is my Blogger-brand blog.
1. The culture of relentless greeting and dismissal by name. Quit saying hello to me personally every time I come in. I would much rather get half a glance over a raised newspaper, which is what I get at the Colonial from the sullen desk attendant when I show up to swim and swipe towels. I get the sense that over at Curves Corporate they pride themselves on their training in this. "Make sure every curves member gets greeted by name upon arrival and departure. " It makes the matching gym suit set feel special. I get the feeling the general Curves demographic looks for opportunities to feel special about all kinds of mundane, prosaic functions whenever they feel entitled. I wonder what the overlap is between the gung-ho Curves goer and those who identify with that awful Doves Chocolate ad campaign targeting harried women who are only insured bliss if they eat dove's chocolate pellets every time they manage to rinse out a crock pot or whatever.
All this feeling-good-about-doing-what's-expected-of-you crap leads me to the second Curves Crime...
2. Good-Jobbing the human wrecks who frequent the joint. I get the ol' GJ when I put my RFID tag that tracks my work outs, it's on the door facing me when I leave, and the phrase erupts erratically throughout the duration of my workout as I am exposed to everyone else's inane congratulating of one another over managing to survive half an hour on the curves machine circuit.
3. Infantilizing middle-aged women with goofy games and contests. Since there's no judgement here, I will confess that I actually buy into these. The instructions on the dry-erase board a few days before Halloween instructed us to "wear something orange" to "receive a treat." Since it's a gym, and not a candy store, I participated, thinking maybe I'd score a new hair band or somethin'. But no. It was junky Curves brand snak bars and microwave popcorn. I will conserve the rant about processed diet food for another post.
Now, as we enter the dangerous Holiday Season, with its attendant cookie exchanges and baked bries and ham made with seven-up, the good folks at Curves have initiated the holiday challenge to maintain your weight. It's a sign-up format, they initial your card every time you come in. Every week you are eligible for prizes, prizes, prizes. Stinky candles, ugly hand-knit scarves, it's like a goddamn Methodist Christmas Bazaar in there. Don't get me started on the pot holders. I signed up, sure, but you know, I pray I don't win any of this crazy crappazola. Why do people need prizes to go to the gym? How about avoiding a premature death --when did that stop motivating us?
But I noticed the most galling contest last week. Near this one machine that makes you wave your crotch at all the other gym goers, there's a glossy poster that says Work out Your Brain, too, or somesuch. There are rhyming clues that get revealed over the course of the week. The answers are simple enough for a five year old to figure out: "I hover near flowers and drink nectar, ect. Oh christ, it's a fucking hummingbird, people. There's a cardboard box on a table beneath it, with a pad of answer forms. I have formed a plan, a continuation of my Heh-Heh shoe-switcharoo tactic, only this time I just might cause a stir. Because, you see, flap-readers, I plan to submit one answer, and one answer only for the duration of this imbecilic contest. Sure, the real answer will be random things like Maple Syrup, Hummingbirds or Sewing Machines, but I will only submit one answer each time, because it will always be the correct answer, because this is the answer to all of the ills perpetrated by Curves. The answer, my friend, is Trucknuts.
*Yes, Curves Crimes are so mild, they only deserve to be kicking around void that is my Blogger-brand blog.
Friday, October 24, 2008
SubCURVESive Behaviour*
*I am an anglophile, if you did not know already.
And let's just acknowledge how NO ONE else could begin a missive with a footnote. 'Cept me, with my new Mavrick-y attitude. And why do I feel like this? Because my life has been hijacked/kidnapped/and just generally occupied by this and this and sweet cracker sandwich would someone save me from this. But is that really true? The begging to be saved? No! It's a Magnificent Obsession, that's what it is. And I am not alone. I've done my own damn polling around town, and I noticed a trend--one half of a couple tends to be in the tight, relentless maw of the Election, while the other half sits on the other side of the room, lips pursed and terse, repeating the same advice to the shell that was once their beloved: There's nothing more you can do. Obsessively monitoring the Web for new information does not affect the ultimate outcome.
Mayhaps there's a bit o'Palin in me, par ce que logic isn't working. I feel like my vigilance, and possibly the vigilance of me compadres is the only thing that's not only keeping this crazy Juggernaut aloft but allowing it to gain altitude. It's like me, Cole, Gail, Mel, and Tine are all sitting in a dark basement rumpus room playing Light as Feather, Stiff as a Board with Barry's body. If we break our concentration, if one of our Mom's (Spouses) clumps down the steps and pops her head in and shouts "Some one's Dad is honking in the drive way, it's time to go home!" the spell will crumble, we will drop his lanky frame and then it's back to only listening to classical VPR because I cannot stand to hear news, or the voices of the asshats who make the news.
But if no one disturbs us--no pesky siblings ("spouses") needle us, poke us, disrupt us or just generally stop us from raising him up on index and second digits, we can hold him up until November 4.
Are we not all asking what the fa-hell we ever did before we started this little endless monitoring? If we put the same energy into our election web info cruising, we might be able to contact alien life forms yet!
But enough of my David Foster Wallace tribute, what about flapping about what I came here to flap about?!?!? It's this: if my giant footnote didn't already reveal my often childish nature, the following confession surely will.
As some of you may know, I've been fucking it up at Curves since early-mid-August. It's the hokiest of gyms, full of granny-fanny church ladies of all denominations half heartedly kicking their legs on the square "recovery stations" when they are not half-heartedly operating one of the many different idiot-proof hydraulic resistance machines on the world famous Curves circuit.
I don't know why I roll my eyeballs so heavily in the Curves Gym's general direction, but I do. It's really bringing a level of eyeball rolling you normally only see in teenage girls who have fat dads who never wear shirts even when they have their friends come over and the fat dad walks in the room full of teenage girls and thinks it funny to solemnly nod and address the group thus: Hello, Men. (yeah, that never happened to me).
But I guess it's been dormant all this time, because not only do I scoff and mock the goofy place that has allowed me to drop enough weight for me to not want to immediately get out of my work pants as soon as I get home, but I am now pulling ridiculous stunts like this:
My local Curves is the only one I know, so maybe this is just the local culture of the place, but there's this fussy, fussy rule that you have to carry in the shoes you are going to wear on the circuit. There's a stringent dedication to clean floors in the joint. It's run by some universal middle class-type mom who nags you to pick up your jacket. So, they want me to change my shoes, huh? They want me to CHECKTHESOLESOFYOURSHOES, so says the nagging signs on the walls. Well, guess what Curves gym? Know what I did the last time I worked out? I stopped at the store and got groceries, walked all over a parking lot in the SAME shoes that I worked out in. Only You don't know that because as soon as I pulled up I removed the shoes, slid on a pair of sandals, walked in holding my still-warm UNCHECKED sneakers and proceeded to put them on twelve seconds later. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
It's sad what passes for entertainment in my world.
And let's just acknowledge how NO ONE else could begin a missive with a footnote. 'Cept me, with my new Mavrick-y attitude. And why do I feel like this? Because my life has been hijacked/kidnapped/and just generally occupied by this and this and sweet cracker sandwich would someone save me from this. But is that really true? The begging to be saved? No! It's a Magnificent Obsession, that's what it is. And I am not alone. I've done my own damn polling around town, and I noticed a trend--one half of a couple tends to be in the tight, relentless maw of the Election, while the other half sits on the other side of the room, lips pursed and terse, repeating the same advice to the shell that was once their beloved: There's nothing more you can do. Obsessively monitoring the Web for new information does not affect the ultimate outcome.
Mayhaps there's a bit o'Palin in me, par ce que logic isn't working. I feel like my vigilance, and possibly the vigilance of me compadres is the only thing that's not only keeping this crazy Juggernaut aloft but allowing it to gain altitude. It's like me, Cole, Gail, Mel, and Tine are all sitting in a dark basement rumpus room playing Light as Feather, Stiff as a Board with Barry's body. If we break our concentration, if one of our Mom's (Spouses) clumps down the steps and pops her head in and shouts "Some one's Dad is honking in the drive way, it's time to go home!" the spell will crumble, we will drop his lanky frame and then it's back to only listening to classical VPR because I cannot stand to hear news, or the voices of the asshats who make the news.
But if no one disturbs us--no pesky siblings ("spouses") needle us, poke us, disrupt us or just generally stop us from raising him up on index and second digits, we can hold him up until November 4.
Are we not all asking what the fa-hell we ever did before we started this little endless monitoring? If we put the same energy into our election web info cruising, we might be able to contact alien life forms yet!
But enough of my David Foster Wallace tribute, what about flapping about what I came here to flap about?!?!? It's this: if my giant footnote didn't already reveal my often childish nature, the following confession surely will.
As some of you may know, I've been fucking it up at Curves since early-mid-August. It's the hokiest of gyms, full of granny-fanny church ladies of all denominations half heartedly kicking their legs on the square "recovery stations" when they are not half-heartedly operating one of the many different idiot-proof hydraulic resistance machines on the world famous Curves circuit.
I don't know why I roll my eyeballs so heavily in the Curves Gym's general direction, but I do. It's really bringing a level of eyeball rolling you normally only see in teenage girls who have fat dads who never wear shirts even when they have their friends come over and the fat dad walks in the room full of teenage girls and thinks it funny to solemnly nod and address the group thus: Hello, Men. (yeah, that never happened to me).
But I guess it's been dormant all this time, because not only do I scoff and mock the goofy place that has allowed me to drop enough weight for me to not want to immediately get out of my work pants as soon as I get home, but I am now pulling ridiculous stunts like this:
My local Curves is the only one I know, so maybe this is just the local culture of the place, but there's this fussy, fussy rule that you have to carry in the shoes you are going to wear on the circuit. There's a stringent dedication to clean floors in the joint. It's run by some universal middle class-type mom who nags you to pick up your jacket. So, they want me to change my shoes, huh? They want me to CHECKTHESOLESOFYOURSHOES, so says the nagging signs on the walls. Well, guess what Curves gym? Know what I did the last time I worked out? I stopped at the store and got groceries, walked all over a parking lot in the SAME shoes that I worked out in. Only You don't know that because as soon as I pulled up I removed the shoes, slid on a pair of sandals, walked in holding my still-warm UNCHECKED sneakers and proceeded to put them on twelve seconds later. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
It's sad what passes for entertainment in my world.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Flap-doodle Tent Revival: Still Flapping after all these months
So, dear readers, Flap-nation if you will, I have, as usual been constantly composing tepid entries in my mind for lo these past months. But there they have stayed, knocking around with other gray matter notables like: My screen play about living in the UK in the early ‘80s and my children’s novel that will be a blend of Homer Price and Swallows and Amazons.
But! Gone is the tension elf/stress monkey/bitch beetle of deep winter that birthed this blog. Here we have Flapdoodle, arrived in the promised land and I have been forced to ask myself, does Flapdoodle belong here in this blessed place that I longed to arrive at for the past two years?
A land free of being graded on my library prowess skills. Free from driving one hour south for three hour classes. Yes, at last I can be in my house and not have to stare at the pile of fetid this, the lump of suspicious that, indeed, everything that I have had to tacitly ignore while in school--things, issues and situations that I actually longed to do, because it would mean that having the time to say, sort my kids toys or actually fold my undies would prove that I no longer had to spend every free moment on obtaining proof that I am a librarian. All I can say is: It is highly unlikely that I will ever find stuff to stop complaining about. So without further ado, let the tirade begin!
IT'S ABOUT TIME
I often think of this phrase from BOC’s “Burnin’ for You:” “Time to play B-sides” That’s what inspired this blog entry--I was thinking about it again, and wondering what the lyrics were that went ‘fore and ‘aft of this apt phrase when, I sh*t you not, it came on the radio! And damn if that whole song isn’t awesome. Here’s the stanza with the B-sides phrase:
Time is the essence
Time is the season
Time ain't no reason
Got no time to slow
Time everlasting
Time to play B-sides
Time ain't on my side
Time I'll never know
Sing it, BOC!!!
It came on the radio just after I turned it on, having settled into a sort-n-root session in the bathroom cabinets. I was holding this stupid can of suede protector propellent and realizing that if I didn’t throw this rusty can away TODAY it was very likely that Archie and Lucy were gonna find it in the medicine cabinet of my old-lady house when they are sorting through crap trying to figure out what was worth running past the estate sale agent.
I was also having my usual baby-sitting quandary at the time, which is, should I be doing this chore, or another errand or what? I get so paralyzed when I have childcare--and hell if I don’t have a chore list that would choke a horse. It’s always the agonizing question, Is this the best use of my time?
To me, the longing for “time to play B-sides has always summed up the way your day just gets sucked up with the basest of basics-- cooking, eating, shoving laundry around, emptying and filling the dishwasher.
Damn, you know what I wish I had the time to do? And I mean, I wish I had the time to do it without sacrificing to time to prep dinner, or vacuum the living room or change my sheets. I just wish I could go downtown, park my car, go into that cute little kitchen store and pick out a funnel. Because I could really use one. And I would like to buy one at that cute little shop. But funnel shopping is officially a B-side, and there it stays. For now.
Full Flap-disclosure, I wrote this entry with UNBELIEVABLE fumes from the roof job coming through the window. So if it’s not up to the usual standards, there’s your clue.
But! Gone is the tension elf/stress monkey/bitch beetle of deep winter that birthed this blog. Here we have Flapdoodle, arrived in the promised land and I have been forced to ask myself, does Flapdoodle belong here in this blessed place that I longed to arrive at for the past two years?
A land free of being graded on my library prowess skills. Free from driving one hour south for three hour classes. Yes, at last I can be in my house and not have to stare at the pile of fetid this, the lump of suspicious that, indeed, everything that I have had to tacitly ignore while in school--things, issues and situations that I actually longed to do, because it would mean that having the time to say, sort my kids toys or actually fold my undies would prove that I no longer had to spend every free moment on obtaining proof that I am a librarian. All I can say is: It is highly unlikely that I will ever find stuff to stop complaining about. So without further ado, let the tirade begin!
IT'S ABOUT TIME
I often think of this phrase from BOC’s “Burnin’ for You:” “Time to play B-sides” That’s what inspired this blog entry--I was thinking about it again, and wondering what the lyrics were that went ‘fore and ‘aft of this apt phrase when, I sh*t you not, it came on the radio! And damn if that whole song isn’t awesome. Here’s the stanza with the B-sides phrase:
Time is the essence
Time is the season
Time ain't no reason
Got no time to slow
Time everlasting
Time to play B-sides
Time ain't on my side
Time I'll never know
Sing it, BOC!!!
It came on the radio just after I turned it on, having settled into a sort-n-root session in the bathroom cabinets. I was holding this stupid can of suede protector propellent and realizing that if I didn’t throw this rusty can away TODAY it was very likely that Archie and Lucy were gonna find it in the medicine cabinet of my old-lady house when they are sorting through crap trying to figure out what was worth running past the estate sale agent.
I was also having my usual baby-sitting quandary at the time, which is, should I be doing this chore, or another errand or what? I get so paralyzed when I have childcare--and hell if I don’t have a chore list that would choke a horse. It’s always the agonizing question, Is this the best use of my time?
To me, the longing for “time to play B-sides has always summed up the way your day just gets sucked up with the basest of basics-- cooking, eating, shoving laundry around, emptying and filling the dishwasher.
Damn, you know what I wish I had the time to do? And I mean, I wish I had the time to do it without sacrificing to time to prep dinner, or vacuum the living room or change my sheets. I just wish I could go downtown, park my car, go into that cute little kitchen store and pick out a funnel. Because I could really use one. And I would like to buy one at that cute little shop. But funnel shopping is officially a B-side, and there it stays. For now.
Full Flap-disclosure, I wrote this entry with UNBELIEVABLE fumes from the roof job coming through the window. So if it’s not up to the usual standards, there’s your clue.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
A lotta Dribbles and Drabbles
Just some Flap-crumbs here. Look out, it goes fast and there's much-o changes in tempo. Mostly a sense of confusion and so many things in my head that I can't hear anything anymore. Oh just shut up and start flapdoodling.
Bob and I enjoy a good deep-from-1970's movie, we do. Recently found a gem that everyone else in our NPR-listening-liberal-arts-school-attending pack already knows, no doubt: Five Easy Pieces. I always thought that was some Nicholson film that had tense bar scenes and mild violence that back in the '70s came off as really horrible violence. No. He plays a drop-out member of an elite musical family. Karen Black sports some classic thick mascara in this one. But when has she not, I ask you? We saw this on the new, wonderful, couldn't have gotten through late winter without it Netflix Instant.
Now we cruise the Instant Plays selections all the time, cruising around for the perfect heady mix of feathered hair, high-waisted slacks, thoughtful, yet somehow plodding, direction, and just a general air of quiet melancholy that only a high-'70s film can provide. Yes, I did use the word cruise...and it inspired us to look up what I thought was a H70' movie. We had had our Sunday night Scrabble game with the M-O gang of four and that movie came up. I made everyone laugh when I said I recalled watching it with my Dad. Was that really possible? We did watch some heavy movies together when I was a kid: Papillion, Cool Hand Luke, The Great Escape...but did we really watch Cruising? A film about a serial murderer stalking the gay subculture of heavy leather men? Somehow, I know I have already seen that movie. You'll never see a hankie the same way again. But Bob says he had not. He had no idea what my hankie jokes were all about. Yet.
So we felt like we were going to have another 70's movie night when we saw it offered as a Netflix instant. Our first clue that we would noooooot be having this experience was the release date: 1980. But I blew that off, because we all know the 70's did not end in 1980. Still plenty of loud rugby shirts and clogs to be had. About 25 minutes later we gave up. There was nothing nostalgic, or comforting about this film. Usually it's fun to see big, green dial phones, typewriters on desks, signs in supermarkets that say 29 cents a pound. And they are referring to like, grapes or something.
But no, this one was nuthin' but guys in dark aviator sunglasses, jock straps and black socks. Dancing together in well-lit underground clubs. Until some crazy guy picked them up and they got stabbed. A movie that opens with a decaying severed arm floating in the Hudson is not the balm we are looking for right before we go to sleep. I can't believe it took us 25 minutes to even realize it.
But much later, I start thinking about the premise for this film. Al Pacino's cop character happens to resemble the victims, so he gets pulled off his rinky-dink beat, finds himself having a conversation with some big chief police officer about his prior experiences with homosexuality. He gets told he's going deep undercover into the world of the heavy leather gay lifestyle. He will not have any contact with anyone from his life--his paychecks will be cash, delivered once a month. He's to show up in a village apartment and begin assuming the role, stat. What kind of fantasy film has a police force that decides that in order to catch a serial killer you have to have anonymous sex in Central Park, underground clubs, and random alleys of the Village?
No wonder this film has achieved cult status in the gay world. I could create a stand-up comedy joke about it. Something like:
Al Pacino's undercover character: "Uh, yeah, sorry this case is taking so long. There are a lot of...suspects! I'm going to need to keep the Village apartment for another few months. I've had a lot of leads, though, Captain! I feel like this thing's gonna break wide open soon! Gotta go, it's Rough Rider night at the Ramrod and I've got to pick up my hankies at the corner laundry. I'll check back in a few weeks!"
We tried to flush out the gritty nastiness of that film with a soothing Columbo with Ray Milland as an arrogant orchid raising schemer who double-crosses his nephew in a fake kidnapping. Every other scene was shot on this greenhouse set. I've come to realize that production values on Columbo were really low. I noticed in one scene they didn't have the ability to film a scene with any dialog. Even though this one guy was in a hurry, he gave directions to the driver OUTSIDE the car, then got in and they sped off.
It didn't flush it all out and we are only just recovering. Presently we are watching the soooothing British classic comedy The Good Life. It's perfect. I love how I don't get the period jokes about politicians.
Final note--all humor credits go to bobbles:
Bob's been doing this consulting gig about homes that are tricked out with all kind of gadgets and fantabulous flaptraptions. During a phone call with the team someone asked him what kind of stuff he used. Expecting an answer like: "Uh, my sub-zero fridge is wired to my home alarm system so no one can swipe champagne at all my swank parties." They got, "Uh, sometimes my cat runs out the door before I can shut it and I'm scared a racoon's gonna eat her. "
The flapdoodle has pfffted. Over and out.
Bob and I enjoy a good deep-from-1970's movie, we do. Recently found a gem that everyone else in our NPR-listening-liberal-arts-school-attending pack already knows, no doubt: Five Easy Pieces. I always thought that was some Nicholson film that had tense bar scenes and mild violence that back in the '70s came off as really horrible violence. No. He plays a drop-out member of an elite musical family. Karen Black sports some classic thick mascara in this one. But when has she not, I ask you? We saw this on the new, wonderful, couldn't have gotten through late winter without it Netflix Instant.
Now we cruise the Instant Plays selections all the time, cruising around for the perfect heady mix of feathered hair, high-waisted slacks, thoughtful, yet somehow plodding, direction, and just a general air of quiet melancholy that only a high-'70s film can provide. Yes, I did use the word cruise...and it inspired us to look up what I thought was a H70' movie. We had had our Sunday night Scrabble game with the M-O gang of four and that movie came up. I made everyone laugh when I said I recalled watching it with my Dad. Was that really possible? We did watch some heavy movies together when I was a kid: Papillion, Cool Hand Luke, The Great Escape...but did we really watch Cruising? A film about a serial murderer stalking the gay subculture of heavy leather men? Somehow, I know I have already seen that movie. You'll never see a hankie the same way again. But Bob says he had not. He had no idea what my hankie jokes were all about. Yet.
So we felt like we were going to have another 70's movie night when we saw it offered as a Netflix instant. Our first clue that we would noooooot be having this experience was the release date: 1980. But I blew that off, because we all know the 70's did not end in 1980. Still plenty of loud rugby shirts and clogs to be had. About 25 minutes later we gave up. There was nothing nostalgic, or comforting about this film. Usually it's fun to see big, green dial phones, typewriters on desks, signs in supermarkets that say 29 cents a pound. And they are referring to like, grapes or something.
But no, this one was nuthin' but guys in dark aviator sunglasses, jock straps and black socks. Dancing together in well-lit underground clubs. Until some crazy guy picked them up and they got stabbed. A movie that opens with a decaying severed arm floating in the Hudson is not the balm we are looking for right before we go to sleep. I can't believe it took us 25 minutes to even realize it.
But much later, I start thinking about the premise for this film. Al Pacino's cop character happens to resemble the victims, so he gets pulled off his rinky-dink beat, finds himself having a conversation with some big chief police officer about his prior experiences with homosexuality. He gets told he's going deep undercover into the world of the heavy leather gay lifestyle. He will not have any contact with anyone from his life--his paychecks will be cash, delivered once a month. He's to show up in a village apartment and begin assuming the role, stat. What kind of fantasy film has a police force that decides that in order to catch a serial killer you have to have anonymous sex in Central Park, underground clubs, and random alleys of the Village?
No wonder this film has achieved cult status in the gay world. I could create a stand-up comedy joke about it. Something like:
Al Pacino's undercover character: "Uh, yeah, sorry this case is taking so long. There are a lot of...suspects! I'm going to need to keep the Village apartment for another few months. I've had a lot of leads, though, Captain! I feel like this thing's gonna break wide open soon! Gotta go, it's Rough Rider night at the Ramrod and I've got to pick up my hankies at the corner laundry. I'll check back in a few weeks!"
We tried to flush out the gritty nastiness of that film with a soothing Columbo with Ray Milland as an arrogant orchid raising schemer who double-crosses his nephew in a fake kidnapping. Every other scene was shot on this greenhouse set. I've come to realize that production values on Columbo were really low. I noticed in one scene they didn't have the ability to film a scene with any dialog. Even though this one guy was in a hurry, he gave directions to the driver OUTSIDE the car, then got in and they sped off.
It didn't flush it all out and we are only just recovering. Presently we are watching the soooothing British classic comedy The Good Life. It's perfect. I love how I don't get the period jokes about politicians.
Final note--all humor credits go to bobbles:
Bob's been doing this consulting gig about homes that are tricked out with all kind of gadgets and fantabulous flaptraptions. During a phone call with the team someone asked him what kind of stuff he used. Expecting an answer like: "Uh, my sub-zero fridge is wired to my home alarm system so no one can swipe champagne at all my swank parties." They got, "Uh, sometimes my cat runs out the door before I can shut it and I'm scared a racoon's gonna eat her. "
The flapdoodle has pfffted. Over and out.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Turbo Turtle
This one's going to be short-if you are lucky--and definitely sweet. It can't be all poo poo humor people. I'm a Mom with two cute kids who are growing up and doing cute things that makes me want to document the growing and the cuteness. Sure, they poop, but that's not very interesting. **
There's been a shift in the season, we are surrounded by late-season granita snow, for the most part. I have already documented the cabin fever in our house. At this point, most of us have just started to lean into it. You know, rolling instant Neflix after instant netflix-who gives a crap if movies are bad for you. It's fucking MARCH. The A-man's watched the wonderful-but bizarre cult flick The 5,000 Fingers of Dr. T about, uh, (wait for it) 5,000 times. Last night we were trolling the instant plays and I nearly lost control of my bowels when I realized we could watch The China Syndrome last night. I have always wanted to see that movie. I was about eleven when it came out. And damn if it didn't get the job done. It opened with an awesome yacht rock song, for the opening credits, even. Oh yeah, what's the job it's supposed to do? Put me to sleep, eventually. We never have any intention of finishing anything we watch on instant Netflix. We just want our eyes to roll back in our heads and the drool to start flowing within twenty minutes. But that's actually a week night thing. I actually wanted to watch TCS and will finish it. Because by the time Jack Lemmon was hunched over that fucked up pump I was goooonne.
You know what really does it for us? BBC productions of obscure mystery writers. Give me an Albert Campion episode anytime--it's better than two valium and a warm beer. Those vintage cars, the characters you can't keep track of, the British countryside. It's a heady mix custom -made to knock us both out.
So we have all managed to self-soothe our way thru this final passage of winter. All of us except our dim-witted tabby cat. She keeps trilling and purring at the door, getting whiffs of the skunks and what-not visiting our compost heap. Girlfriend thinks it's gonna be like last year, with her skipping out to the woods across the street all day then finally coming back around noon the next day. Bob and I are both so sick of reenacting our own version of the touching ending to Breakfast at Tiffany's, with the couple crying and holding their lost cat. Last year it was all kinds of painful craning outside, scanning the woods, calling her name, even though she's never learned it, and finally, catching some movement in the woods, spotting her playing with a twig, completly unaware of our anguish. I run across the street and attempt to lure her while Bob stands on the steps singing "Mooooooon Riiivver." Then we both hug her while she stares around blankly, unsure what's going on. We love our dumb cat!
Anyway, about the title, turbo turtle does have relevancy. With all this thawing going on, the kids have had initial forays on their bikes. Last year Bob -famous for his love of the dump swap, came back with a little blue bike for the boy called a Turbo Turtle. The graphic is hilarious, with a grimacing turtle on a bike. Or did I just make that up? It's so easy to imagine.
I loved that name because it pretty much sums up what we want for our kids.Yes, we want them to grow up, and have all these wonderful experiences, and it does seem to go kind of turbo sometimes. But just how fast can turbo be when paired with turtle? A perfect pace for a busy parent with a growing kid. Kind of like my favorite phrase Jumbo Junior. I just love big defintions that get tempered, I guess. May we always be blessed to move at the turbo turtle pace.
**Unless you count the time the A-man swallowed a damn lego. Yep, the eternal daydreamer was playing alone in his room, running some elaborate fantasy in his head that somehow lead to him putting a six-dot red brick in his mouth, tilting back like a braying seal or something, and allowing it to sliiiide down his throat.
I heard him coming down the stairs, crying in a way that I never had before. I was on the phone, natch, with Anne when he came in saying "Mom I swallowed a lego!" When I realized it was still in his throat I called 911. We went to the emergency room, but by that time, that six-dot was in the boy's tummy. Mr. ER doc said, in dry-doc talk, "He's just going to have to shit it out."
So for the next two weeks or more our fondue forks got a workout like they never imagined when they were being forged by some happy Swedish guy in 1974. What kind of ceramic pot is this, they wondered? What kind of dessert fondue is this, that needs to float in so much liquid? How come it gets stabbed, and not eaten?
I wonder how many takers I will have for my always-a-hit-Christmas Eve fondue party now? I wonder who will believe me when I kick off a blog entry with a solemn promise not to talk about poop and immediately launch into an anecdote about violating fondue forks? I can still hear my boy's sweet, shrill voice calling (weeks after we had given up, mind you) "DADDY! GET THE FONDUE FORKS!" Maybe I should just call it Flapdoodie, then. Just being honest.
There's been a shift in the season, we are surrounded by late-season granita snow, for the most part. I have already documented the cabin fever in our house. At this point, most of us have just started to lean into it. You know, rolling instant Neflix after instant netflix-who gives a crap if movies are bad for you. It's fucking MARCH. The A-man's watched the wonderful-but bizarre cult flick The 5,000 Fingers of Dr. T about, uh, (wait for it) 5,000 times. Last night we were trolling the instant plays and I nearly lost control of my bowels when I realized we could watch The China Syndrome last night. I have always wanted to see that movie. I was about eleven when it came out. And damn if it didn't get the job done. It opened with an awesome yacht rock song, for the opening credits, even. Oh yeah, what's the job it's supposed to do? Put me to sleep, eventually. We never have any intention of finishing anything we watch on instant Netflix. We just want our eyes to roll back in our heads and the drool to start flowing within twenty minutes. But that's actually a week night thing. I actually wanted to watch TCS and will finish it. Because by the time Jack Lemmon was hunched over that fucked up pump I was goooonne.
You know what really does it for us? BBC productions of obscure mystery writers. Give me an Albert Campion episode anytime--it's better than two valium and a warm beer. Those vintage cars, the characters you can't keep track of, the British countryside. It's a heady mix custom -made to knock us both out.
So we have all managed to self-soothe our way thru this final passage of winter. All of us except our dim-witted tabby cat. She keeps trilling and purring at the door, getting whiffs of the skunks and what-not visiting our compost heap. Girlfriend thinks it's gonna be like last year, with her skipping out to the woods across the street all day then finally coming back around noon the next day. Bob and I are both so sick of reenacting our own version of the touching ending to Breakfast at Tiffany's, with the couple crying and holding their lost cat. Last year it was all kinds of painful craning outside, scanning the woods, calling her name, even though she's never learned it, and finally, catching some movement in the woods, spotting her playing with a twig, completly unaware of our anguish. I run across the street and attempt to lure her while Bob stands on the steps singing "Mooooooon Riiivver." Then we both hug her while she stares around blankly, unsure what's going on. We love our dumb cat!
Anyway, about the title, turbo turtle does have relevancy. With all this thawing going on, the kids have had initial forays on their bikes. Last year Bob -famous for his love of the dump swap, came back with a little blue bike for the boy called a Turbo Turtle. The graphic is hilarious, with a grimacing turtle on a bike. Or did I just make that up? It's so easy to imagine.
I loved that name because it pretty much sums up what we want for our kids.Yes, we want them to grow up, and have all these wonderful experiences, and it does seem to go kind of turbo sometimes. But just how fast can turbo be when paired with turtle? A perfect pace for a busy parent with a growing kid. Kind of like my favorite phrase Jumbo Junior. I just love big defintions that get tempered, I guess. May we always be blessed to move at the turbo turtle pace.
**Unless you count the time the A-man swallowed a damn lego. Yep, the eternal daydreamer was playing alone in his room, running some elaborate fantasy in his head that somehow lead to him putting a six-dot red brick in his mouth, tilting back like a braying seal or something, and allowing it to sliiiide down his throat.
I heard him coming down the stairs, crying in a way that I never had before. I was on the phone, natch, with Anne when he came in saying "Mom I swallowed a lego!" When I realized it was still in his throat I called 911. We went to the emergency room, but by that time, that six-dot was in the boy's tummy. Mr. ER doc said, in dry-doc talk, "He's just going to have to shit it out."
So for the next two weeks or more our fondue forks got a workout like they never imagined when they were being forged by some happy Swedish guy in 1974. What kind of ceramic pot is this, they wondered? What kind of dessert fondue is this, that needs to float in so much liquid? How come it gets stabbed, and not eaten?
I wonder how many takers I will have for my always-a-hit-Christmas Eve fondue party now? I wonder who will believe me when I kick off a blog entry with a solemn promise not to talk about poop and immediately launch into an anecdote about violating fondue forks? I can still hear my boy's sweet, shrill voice calling (weeks after we had given up, mind you) "DADDY! GET THE FONDUE FORKS!" Maybe I should just call it Flapdoodie, then. Just being honest.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Daily Rhubarb-Cabin Fever Edition
Too many snowstorms later, cabin fever hits the house Saturday evening in all its edgy glory. It started when Bob began rooting in the so-called Liquor Cabinet: The up-to0-high-to-be-useful -over-the-sink place where we stash our random bottles of booze, and also the smelly, rusty lunchboxes (the ThomasTankengine ones have vanished and now Lucy has to use the Shaun Cassidy/Parker Stevenson Hardy Boys lunchbox my sister sent me as a gag gift. It still smells like a 1970s lunch in there. Bologna, mayo,and Kraft Singles on verrrrry white bread, and uh, whiffing deeper, I think there's a sub note of ....let's say a lil'Debbie cake and a bag of Fritos. Thank god the thermos was no longer inside. Can you imagine what Wyler's lemonade would smell like after all these years?) So, back to poor Bob--he's suddenly inspired, in a way that only a parent who's been in the house, all week with two small children who are training mightily for a slot in the qualifying heat of the National Sibling Bickering Olympics would be.
And how's the Bickering Olympics training going? Oh, very well! Thanks for asking! Archie's been honing his Outrage at his sibling for even glancing at, or daring to touch, any of his unassembled Bioncle pieces while he puts his creepy cyborg together using a booklet the size of an unincorporated town's phone directory. Meanwhile, Lucy plans on sweeping the Umbrage event by screeching her sibling's name each and every time he walks past her while she's playing on the floor, or registers his disdain over her slowly shredding sweat pants she insists on wearing all the time. I'm telling you, these two are headed for the cover of Bickering Sibling Monthly: A Magazine for the Ardent Sibling Bickerer. I can see the pull quotes for the cover now--Lucy Parks says "There's nothing that you absolutely CANNOT take umbrage with when it comes to your sibling, I know, because I do." Archie Parks retorts: "LUCY DO NOT TOUCH THOSE BIONCLE PARTS! GET THOSE OUT OF YOUR MOUTH ....MOMLUCY'SCHEWINGONMYBIONCLEPARTS!!!!!!!!!"
So yeah, Bob's pretty much ready for a drink and he's getting very inspired by the bottle of Hennessy that the Moore-Odells so kindly bequeathed us at Christmas tide. I had saved the pretty metallic box that this swanky booze came in for awhile. Not being used to having amber fluid of this caliber in the house, I wasn't sure what kind of cocktails you concocted with it. I recall the back of the box had some geography based drinks;there was a ...Hennessy Miami (add confectioner's sugar?) Damn. Could not think of what kind of drink to make. And let's face it, we have limited mixers here at any given time. So, enter the website --here's where we'll get some information on how to refresh ourselves with this exciting, yet baffling libation. Oh noooo. First of all, when you go there you have to present your bona fides and they have that ridiculous pull-down menu where they want to know what country you are from. Not a big deal except they don't put the US at the top. Oh yeah, hennessy's HUGE in Afghanistan. So, after clearing that hurdle, this crazy make-you-think-you're-shopping-for-v-necks-at-Banana-Republic music kicks in. Fancy photography of Really. Beautiful. People. They are thinking long and hard about their Hennessy cocktails. There's some very small links at the bottom -yay! recipes! Salvation's at hand! But wait! The good folks at Hennessey want to know what kind of mixers you have on hand. Not much, good folks at Hennessy, not much. After awhile the buy merchandise at a mall music starts to wear, so we give up. On the website, I mean. Never on the actual booze. Bob now has another geographical cocktail to submit to Hennessy. What's in a Hennessy Vermont you ask? Maple syrup, lemon juice, the booze, and bitters, of course.
And how's the Bickering Olympics training going? Oh, very well! Thanks for asking! Archie's been honing his Outrage at his sibling for even glancing at, or daring to touch, any of his unassembled Bioncle pieces while he puts his creepy cyborg together using a booklet the size of an unincorporated town's phone directory. Meanwhile, Lucy plans on sweeping the Umbrage event by screeching her sibling's name each and every time he walks past her while she's playing on the floor, or registers his disdain over her slowly shredding sweat pants she insists on wearing all the time. I'm telling you, these two are headed for the cover of Bickering Sibling Monthly: A Magazine for the Ardent Sibling Bickerer. I can see the pull quotes for the cover now--Lucy Parks says "There's nothing that you absolutely CANNOT take umbrage with when it comes to your sibling, I know, because I do." Archie Parks retorts: "LUCY DO NOT TOUCH THOSE BIONCLE PARTS! GET THOSE OUT OF YOUR MOUTH ....MOMLUCY'SCHEWINGONMYBIONCLEPARTS!!!!!!!!!"
So yeah, Bob's pretty much ready for a drink and he's getting very inspired by the bottle of Hennessy that the Moore-Odells so kindly bequeathed us at Christmas tide. I had saved the pretty metallic box that this swanky booze came in for awhile. Not being used to having amber fluid of this caliber in the house, I wasn't sure what kind of cocktails you concocted with it. I recall the back of the box had some geography based drinks;there was a ...Hennessy Miami (add confectioner's sugar?) Damn. Could not think of what kind of drink to make. And let's face it, we have limited mixers here at any given time. So, enter the website --here's where we'll get some information on how to refresh ourselves with this exciting, yet baffling libation. Oh noooo. First of all, when you go there you have to present your bona fides and they have that ridiculous pull-down menu where they want to know what country you are from. Not a big deal except they don't put the US at the top. Oh yeah, hennessy's HUGE in Afghanistan. So, after clearing that hurdle, this crazy make-you-think-you're-shopping-for-v-necks-at-Banana-Republic music kicks in. Fancy photography of Really. Beautiful. People. They are thinking long and hard about their Hennessy cocktails. There's some very small links at the bottom -yay! recipes! Salvation's at hand! But wait! The good folks at Hennessey want to know what kind of mixers you have on hand. Not much, good folks at Hennessy, not much. After awhile the buy merchandise at a mall music starts to wear, so we give up. On the website, I mean. Never on the actual booze. Bob now has another geographical cocktail to submit to Hennessy. What's in a Hennessy Vermont you ask? Maple syrup, lemon juice, the booze, and bitters, of course.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Monkey Brain Flush
Despite the word flush in the title, I'm moving away from my bowel for the moment. Never fear, tho, to know me is to know my bowel habits. (Just ask Leanne about the ill-fated polish hot dog at a SF Giants game lo these many years past).
I'm just trying to come to grip with my monkey brain. Always with the disjointed flitty thoughts in the predawn hours. The problem is, some of them are pretty good, so I don't want to call my doc and beg for meds. Like, I know I have to reconfigure my library so I can cope next year. It's grand-freaking central in there all the time. What other teacher has to do their lessons with folks coming in to make photocopies, and most of the time they screw up this simple task and I happen to have a photocopier that makes an alarming sound if you even place the paper on the glass in a way that it can't read and it starts making noise like diseased monkeys in the super-secret-sector-seven lab just escaped and are now causing havoc all over the lab and oh god what are the implications for mankind? Or it sorta sounds like the Stazi are tracking someone who's just about to make it to Checkpoint Charlie or something.
Not what you want to hear during Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus. And I just don't have the time or the energy to give the stink-eye all the time. I'm just horrified by what people are willing to inflict on others in the name of getting things done on their schedule. And then there's the kids who have been sent down to the library to make photocopies. Kind of reminds of that tactic Jehovah Witnesses have when canvassing: they show up with a kid so you don't unleash all the vitriol you would like. But talk about brazen. Or clueless. I'm reading away, giving it all I've got and I glance down and whoa, hey, lurking at my right elbow is a kid holding some ratty sheet of paper and they want a photocopy of it. WHY? Why the hell would you need a photocopy of your shitty, illegible handwriting? Because reproducing it is not going to make it look any better. I feel like it's a tactic to just get a kid out of the room for awhile because they finished first, or they are driving the teacher crazy. I have noticed that the kids who wander in to "browse" or "make photocopies" are not the bright, shiny learners. They are usually the shuffling lurking types. One of them even has a bizarre odor that I can only interpret as Unicorn Piss. At first I just thought she was some horsey-type who has to muck out a stall in the morning before school. But that kind of fug tends to settle after a while. No, this is a powerful, magical odor that is not going to relent and fade like the real-life odor of a horse stall. Somehow she has come in contact with a mythical beast and she appears to have angered this normally benign creature for it has condemned her to smell like its pee-pee.
And now my library smells like Unicorn Pee from strange kids and the photocopier makes it sound like Vermont Yankee just hired Homer Simpson. Welcome to my library.
I'm just trying to come to grip with my monkey brain. Always with the disjointed flitty thoughts in the predawn hours. The problem is, some of them are pretty good, so I don't want to call my doc and beg for meds. Like, I know I have to reconfigure my library so I can cope next year. It's grand-freaking central in there all the time. What other teacher has to do their lessons with folks coming in to make photocopies, and most of the time they screw up this simple task and I happen to have a photocopier that makes an alarming sound if you even place the paper on the glass in a way that it can't read and it starts making noise like diseased monkeys in the super-secret-sector-seven lab just escaped and are now causing havoc all over the lab and oh god what are the implications for mankind? Or it sorta sounds like the Stazi are tracking someone who's just about to make it to Checkpoint Charlie or something.
Not what you want to hear during Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus. And I just don't have the time or the energy to give the stink-eye all the time. I'm just horrified by what people are willing to inflict on others in the name of getting things done on their schedule. And then there's the kids who have been sent down to the library to make photocopies. Kind of reminds of that tactic Jehovah Witnesses have when canvassing: they show up with a kid so you don't unleash all the vitriol you would like. But talk about brazen. Or clueless. I'm reading away, giving it all I've got and I glance down and whoa, hey, lurking at my right elbow is a kid holding some ratty sheet of paper and they want a photocopy of it. WHY? Why the hell would you need a photocopy of your shitty, illegible handwriting? Because reproducing it is not going to make it look any better. I feel like it's a tactic to just get a kid out of the room for awhile because they finished first, or they are driving the teacher crazy. I have noticed that the kids who wander in to "browse" or "make photocopies" are not the bright, shiny learners. They are usually the shuffling lurking types. One of them even has a bizarre odor that I can only interpret as Unicorn Piss. At first I just thought she was some horsey-type who has to muck out a stall in the morning before school. But that kind of fug tends to settle after a while. No, this is a powerful, magical odor that is not going to relent and fade like the real-life odor of a horse stall. Somehow she has come in contact with a mythical beast and she appears to have angered this normally benign creature for it has condemned her to smell like its pee-pee.
And now my library smells like Unicorn Pee from strange kids and the photocopier makes it sound like Vermont Yankee just hired Homer Simpson. Welcome to my library.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
A Serious Flap in my Doodle
Yesterday I had homemade potato leek soup for lunch. Also a piece of cornbread, an orange and way more girl scout thin mints than originally planned. Seriously, those cookies DO NOT fit my profile. I loathe chocolate and mint together. Nothing more disturbing to me than biting into a brownie and discovering vile mint flavoring mingling with the cocoa. But there's always an exception, as in most things.
So, I don't know if it was the circumstances of ingestion--slumping on a stool in the art room, leaning toward a table sized for kids which started a bad round of digestion, but I got some serious shooting-pain gas from that damn soup. Had to hobble my way through two more classes before it was all over. Dare not go to a school toilet lest I toot my horn, or clap my cymbals or play any kind of bottom percussion too loudly or too long. As we all know, the school's huge and there's no way there won't be some midget waiting for me, staring at me silently, when I emerge after my one-woman ass concert. No, I don't give autographs.
Chris and I left for the pool immediately after school. On the way there I was recalling a quote from one of Bob's many track coaches: "Yer bound to pass a little gas when yer exacisin' ya laigs". So that was my plan, grab a kickboard and move those legs. I'll be making so much froth at the back, who will notice a few more bubbles? Well, it worked, but damn if the gas-- which at this time was starting to feel like an entity with consciousness, some kind of internal twin who was tired of living on the inside or whatever. So yeah, it came out, but it STAYED in my suit. The entire back of my tank was filled with air. Just like the gum-chewing kid from Wonka. Then all of the sudden, the gas entity made a decision to be free. It flew up up the back of my suit and became one with the chlorinated air of the indoor pool.
Sadly, that didn't end it for me. But it was the end of the beginning. When I got home I told Bob about my gas and my potato leek soup suspicions. "Oh yeah, he says, that soup gave me bad gas, too."
File this one under Cheap laffs.
So, I don't know if it was the circumstances of ingestion--slumping on a stool in the art room, leaning toward a table sized for kids which started a bad round of digestion, but I got some serious shooting-pain gas from that damn soup. Had to hobble my way through two more classes before it was all over. Dare not go to a school toilet lest I toot my horn, or clap my cymbals or play any kind of bottom percussion too loudly or too long. As we all know, the school's huge and there's no way there won't be some midget waiting for me, staring at me silently, when I emerge after my one-woman ass concert. No, I don't give autographs.
Chris and I left for the pool immediately after school. On the way there I was recalling a quote from one of Bob's many track coaches: "Yer bound to pass a little gas when yer exacisin' ya laigs". So that was my plan, grab a kickboard and move those legs. I'll be making so much froth at the back, who will notice a few more bubbles? Well, it worked, but damn if the gas-- which at this time was starting to feel like an entity with consciousness, some kind of internal twin who was tired of living on the inside or whatever. So yeah, it came out, but it STAYED in my suit. The entire back of my tank was filled with air. Just like the gum-chewing kid from Wonka. Then all of the sudden, the gas entity made a decision to be free. It flew up up the back of my suit and became one with the chlorinated air of the indoor pool.
Sadly, that didn't end it for me. But it was the end of the beginning. When I got home I told Bob about my gas and my potato leek soup suspicions. "Oh yeah, he says, that soup gave me bad gas, too."
File this one under Cheap laffs.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
The Daily Rhubarb
IF only I could capture the random ideas that flit in and out of my head while I'm driving down to Mt. Holyoke every Saturday morning and afternoon. I've realized there's a standard collection of themes. EVERY time I cross over a bridge I imagine losing control over the car and crashing over the railing. Would I begin trying to get out of my seatbelt if I was heading for water? I wonder. The weirdest thing I do is take other driver's behavior personally. I get passed a lot, because I am no Joey Chitwood, we all know that. Sometimes I notice a car bearing down on me in my rearview mirror and I start speeding up a little--alright, alright, I'm going, already. I think to myself. I always think I get passed with a "there's no telling about some" shake of the head.
Although I should spend the valuable hour listening to a quality kid lit book--like A Wrinkle in Time, I find I keep scanning commercial radio stations for either Led Zepplin songs or what I call my Secret Shame songs. The newest SSS is the John Mayer song about running through the halls of his high school. The original is Kiss on My List by Hall and Oats. I hear that one almost every drive down. I feel guilty when a good, obscure Beatles song comes on and I choose not to listen to it. I dream of making a song collection full of ELO, Led Zepp and that one John Mayer song for the drive down. And that new Regina Spektor song about making it better or something. SSS's really help with the mind flush reverie I get going during the one-hour drive. Full of flitting thoughts of car crash deaths, dreams of fame and fortune that could be mine if only I could find the wherewithal. Then I pull up to the ol' Ivy-covered brick pile that is one of our Seven Sisters, heave out of my filthy car and head to a three hour class with a random assortment of future librarians with Masters.
Bob and the kids are at a kids party at KidsPlayce. (Kidsplayce: A playce to Scream your head off)'its in the basement of a downtown building. It was a gay bar in the late '70s, so I'm told. It would seem there's been some kind of attrocious behavior occuring in those bathrooms of one kind or another for almost thirty years straight. I realized that listening to kids screaming for two hours is not the kind of thing to get me unwound and ready for a work week that will include not only screaming kids, but yelling kids, whining kids, complaining kids, confused kids, crying kids, and all manner of unpleasant kids. It's the dead of winter. Vermont kids are looking pretty chewed up right now. Pale faces. Chapped lips. Muddy boots. Dirty snowpants.
Instead of the scream fest I am here, initiating a blog because I miss interacting with all of you. I thought Pownce was the answer, and it could be, I suppose. But I'm going to try this, for lots of reasons. Like you, and you, and you and you and you.
Although I should spend the valuable hour listening to a quality kid lit book--like A Wrinkle in Time, I find I keep scanning commercial radio stations for either Led Zepplin songs or what I call my Secret Shame songs. The newest SSS is the John Mayer song about running through the halls of his high school. The original is Kiss on My List by Hall and Oats. I hear that one almost every drive down. I feel guilty when a good, obscure Beatles song comes on and I choose not to listen to it. I dream of making a song collection full of ELO, Led Zepp and that one John Mayer song for the drive down. And that new Regina Spektor song about making it better or something. SSS's really help with the mind flush reverie I get going during the one-hour drive. Full of flitting thoughts of car crash deaths, dreams of fame and fortune that could be mine if only I could find the wherewithal. Then I pull up to the ol' Ivy-covered brick pile that is one of our Seven Sisters, heave out of my filthy car and head to a three hour class with a random assortment of future librarians with Masters.
Bob and the kids are at a kids party at KidsPlayce. (Kidsplayce: A playce to Scream your head off)'its in the basement of a downtown building. It was a gay bar in the late '70s, so I'm told. It would seem there's been some kind of attrocious behavior occuring in those bathrooms of one kind or another for almost thirty years straight. I realized that listening to kids screaming for two hours is not the kind of thing to get me unwound and ready for a work week that will include not only screaming kids, but yelling kids, whining kids, complaining kids, confused kids, crying kids, and all manner of unpleasant kids. It's the dead of winter. Vermont kids are looking pretty chewed up right now. Pale faces. Chapped lips. Muddy boots. Dirty snowpants.
Instead of the scream fest I am here, initiating a blog because I miss interacting with all of you. I thought Pownce was the answer, and it could be, I suppose. But I'm going to try this, for lots of reasons. Like you, and you, and you and you and you.
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