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oh, shaka zulu!

We have a leak in our house — our soon-to-be-not-ours-but-the-bank’s house. I don’t think I can express to you how much we do not need this right now. Is my screaming in my sleep not enough for you, O powers conspiring against me and the clutch that just went out in my car?

Wah.

Oh, wait. How negligent of me, to forget my life’s purpose: “BACK TO WHIMSY, OKAY??!!”

Grrrrrr.

(Okay. Calm down there, Trace. As MB is now saying to me 53 times a day, “Eaaaasy, big fella.”)

And, really, I don’t know the relevance of “oh, shaka zulu” to having an in-wall plumbing leak that is warping and ruining the annoying Pergo in our kitchen, but it seemed like a safe blog swear. I mean, we are completely family friendly ’round here. Only occasionally, for example, do I post large images of women’s naked bums or ruminate about the size of dog anuses.

So, well, I have no idea what this is all about. Please proceed apace with your lives.

And, consarnit: SHAKA ZULU!

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working … working ….

I am working on a long post that was supposed to go up yesterday, but then the day got away from me and now, well, I’m trying to finish to get it posted today. It’s something I needed to research, gather my resources, blah, blah, isn’t that impressive, and it will likely bore anyone but me immensely — and that-there is some truly stellar salesmanship of the ol’ post-aroo, Trace. Where’s that Harold Hill when I need him?

So to distract you in a Look!-Over-there! kind of way while I sneak brussel sprouts onto your blog plate, I offer a Christmas question — it is December 1st, after all.

Here it is:

Which one of these would you most like to possess, personally and unceasingly:

joy

hope

or peace

Which one do you choose and why?

(Love is left off by design, because … I’m a Scrooge, I guess.)

Proceed.

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thanksgiving snippets, part 1

~ First, everything stopped in our house during the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade when Miss Kerry O’Malley appeared on screen in a medley from Broadway’s White Christmas, twirling in an impossibly swirly red gown with these wide white equatorial stripes on a vast spinning globe of skirt. Gorgeous and just so much fun, too. For me, it was the best of the Broadway show numbers. Truly lovely and nostalgic and joyful, taking me back to a time I’ve never even been yet still long for. At the end, the camera came in for a beautiful close-up of Kerry’s face and I got the distinct impression that she was in that moment and that time, too. So thank you, Kerry O’Malley and the cast of White Christmas, for those glowing heartfelt moments. They made me feel like I was completely melting into the larger spirit of the season and it was just the start I needed for my Thanksgiving day.

~ Arriving at my parents’ house, I managed to finagle a welcoming hug from The Banshee, even though she has a strict hug regimen, as previously discussed. And when I say “finagle,” I ain’t kidding. She was on the floor, playing with her aunts’ old dollhouse, so I perched on the sofa near her and said something like, “Hey! Help! I need one of those yummy Banshee hugs!” Then I had to wait for, oh, five seconds while she deliberated, Solomon-like, about the wisdom of hugging Tee Tee. Those were some long vulnerable seconds, I gotta tell you, and it occurred to me that I might not survive emotionally. Suddenly, decision made, she jumped up and crushed me in a huge hug. So hooray for yummy random hugs. And being a sycophant. To a four year old.

~ Moments later, Piper and family were arriving and The Banshee raced to the front door and stood there, chanting, all OCD, “Piper … Piper … Piper ….” She could barely contain herself, waiting in the entryway while my sister’s family rolled out of the car and unloaded Thanksgiving goodies. While she waited, she got quizzed on who else was arriving besides her idol Piper. “So Banshee, it’s Aunt ……” “Tee Tee!” she said. Oops. We corrected her. “And it’s Uncle …..” “Beloved!” she answered. Oops. Another correction. Really not fair to quiz her when she’s basically in a trance of anticipation about Piper. And when Piper entered the door, The Banshee flung herself head- first at her cousin. She’s the only person who doesn’t have to ask for a hug from The Banshee. She gets one whether she wants it or not.

~ MB had to show Elder Nephew how to use a bottle opener. Uhm, wha??? How do you not know this, dear boy?? You are 17. I guess that’s what aunts and uncles are for, though. Filling any odd educational gaps for their nephews and nieces. So, phhhew, that one’s covered.

~ I sat next to Piper at dinner and she regaled me with endless high-speed tales of I know not what. Something like, “Tee Tee! There’s this boy at my school and his name is Ben and (something insane and hilarious and incomprehensible happened to him) and he was really ASLEEP THE ENTIRE TIME!!!! HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!” Really, she was SO ramped up to share these things with me and I felt bad that I couldn’t follow the thread — or threads — tumbling wildly out of her mouth, but it was cracking me up to see her in such hysterics, so I was laughing. Just not for the reasons she might have thought. But bless her for always wanting to connect with people.

~ After dinner, my sister and Sparky the puppy and I went outside for some fresh, actually chilly air. We sat on my parents’ lawn, near the waterfall. I love that waterfall. Dad only “turns it on” now for special occasions, and even though it’s man-made, it looks so natural — huge rocks jutting out from the pine trees, water rushing towards an ending pond, the sound a backing track to so many years of memories. I can’t imagine my parents’ yard without it. After all the rain we’ve had the last few days, even on Thanksgiving Eve, the grass, so greedy-thirsty from drought, was still dry and cushy, and while we talked, we took turns tossing a fallen pine cone across the lawn for Sparky to retrieve. Between pieces of more meaningful conversation, we’d stop intermittently to laugh at his flying black hair, his teensiness, his willingness to fetch a pine cone, for Pete’s sake. A while later, we were joined by Banshee’s mom, with Baby Banshee in tow in her green plaid dress. She plopped near me, a little bottom-heavy dumpling, as the wind blew my too-long Sasquatch hair into her face, tickling her, making her laugh. Dark clouds dotted the sky, a timid sun peeking behind them, slanting her light like a sideways glance. The perfect clean after-rainy-day sky. The occasional stray raindrop did smatter us here and there, but we didn’t care. It felt so good. Later, as the three of us sisters chatted and watched Baby Banshee trying not to roll down the slight slope, Banshee’s dad (brother) and Younger Nephew started a game of Bocce ball on the lawn in front of us. At one point, a stray ball rolled towards Baby Banshee. She squealed bah bah bah!! and grabbed the ball, clutching it to her bosom with a thrill, drooling over it with love. She hugged that ball tight like a baby for a long time. Chatting continued, lazy and comfortable. We watched brother and nephew’s game, I randomly refereed, and Baby Banshee waved and giggled at her daddy across the lawn, squealing again whenever a ball came near her. I just wanted to drink it all in, slow everything down, make every second last. Sometimes you just have to tear up at how beautiful things can be, you know? I want to take those moments on the grass and sear them into my brain for later, maybe soon, maybe years from now, when I know I will surely need them.

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pre-thanksgiving feast snippets

~ It’s a blustery and rainy day in silly San Diego. Hallelujah! I haven’t seen a cloudy Thanksgiving in eons! I cannot tell you how much I love rain.

~ So MB and I are sort of tucked in here, up early, in our flannel jammies and genuwine Ugg boots from actual Australia, finishing our contribution to today’s family feast, waiting for the Macy’s parade to start, and preparing our Thanksgiving morning tradition: mimosas and bagels with smoked salmon, cream cheese, Spanish onions, and capers. YUM. Toast faster, bagels! I command you.

~ Don’t worry. I promise not to kiss you with this mouth. We will worry about gargling later.

~ I am looking forward to The Banshee’s latest pressing questions, which I hear are theological in nature: How can God be three people? and Is Jesus’ last name Amen? and whatever else consumes the mind of an oh-SO-precocious 4 year old.

~ On an unrelated note, I just got a “Happy Thanksgiving” text message from a friend who’s in the national touring company of “Jesus Christ Superstar” with 493-year-old Ted Neeley as Jesus. That little stinker. I didn’t even know. He’s all, I’m in Vegas. And I’m all, Why are you in Vegas? So he’s all, Oh, we need to chat. I’m in the JCS tour!!! And I’m all, AAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!! etc. Uhm, yes, J! We DO need to talk! Then I told him not to be a lazy V, which is an inside joke that I must one day explain on this blog. Do NOT be a lazy V, J. You are a priest now, for God’s sake.

~ On another unrelated note, I’ve discovered that if a commercial has jingling bells, I will instantly and urgently need to buy whatever the product is: mattresses, batteries, KFC. I am Pavlov’s dog.

~ So this Pavlov’s dog wants to wish you the happiest of Thanksgivings and thank you all for hanging out over here on my little sliver of the Net. You are all such a blessing to me! So eat up and have a wonderful holiday this weekend!

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bits ‘n’ pieces

~ I am now obsessed with Mad Men. We do not have cable, as I think I’ve mentioned before, because we have an ongoing debate in this household as to which century we actually want to live in, so I am Netflixing my new fixation now at regular intervals. I’m just digging into it, but I love the whole atmosphere. The look. The undercurrents. It’s slow to start, and you wonder if it will ever really grab you, but next thing you know, you’re caught in its vise-like grip.

~ It’s supposed to RAIN here in San Diego today and I am breathless with anticipation. Surely, fall is coming. Someday. I mean, the other day, I actually saw some palm fronds that had blown down onto our street.

~ Oh, and yes. As predicted, the now-banned doctor did drop me from his blogroll — without even seeing my REAL explosion. If only I could get onto people’s blogrolls as quickly as I get off them. Ah, my ever-present charms.

~ On Thursday, I’m hoping to ask Piper more questions about how Squash helped the pilgrims at the first Thanksgiving. It’s always good to bone up on one’s knowledge of our history, don’t you agree?

~ Perhaps, too, I will purposely give The Banshee the wrong muffin or something, just to see what happens when she’s awake.

~ I wish with every fiber of my being that Jayne were here to make the Thanksgiving dessert that I’m supposed to make. Does anyone have a good, easy — this cannot be overstressed — recipe for some kind of spicy, apple-y cake-y thing with frosting? I can’t have this happening again. I need a Dessert Savior, so step up, pippa, I implore you.

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a random list of what i’m not wearing

To the fellow who made a comment — which went into moderation because I’ve never heard from you before — demanding to know “So are you or are you not wearing makeup in those photos?”:

First, wow. Whoa. Just wowie zowie wow WOW. Kind of an odd and strangely hostile query.

Second, uhm, no. No, I’m not. Really, I don’t generally get myself all gussied up for a date with my cell phone camera. I am not a Real Housewife of the OC.

And how wrong of me not to engage in full disclosure with you, a total stranger.

Seriously, I cannot fathom why you would ask that. It’s either, Uh, you look okay without makeup or Girrl, you need to slap on some Lancome, and whichever one it is, it is completely bizarre to me. On top of that, to demand to know and say nothing else? To have that be your first attempt at a comment? Just a tad icky and — well, off — for my taste.

But to spare you from asking any further questions or making any further demands — and to mend my horrible, withholding ways, here’s a list of some other things — albeit woefully incomplete and off the top of my currently very grumpy head — that I am also NOT wearing in the aforementioned photos, ‘mkay, lambchop?

~ okay, so makeup

~ shoes

~ socks

~ earrings

~ toe rings

~ a watch

~ a red Kablahblah bracelet

~ a kerchief

~ a cod piece

~ a snood

~ a frock

~ a dickey

~ a cravat

~ a petticoat

~ a corset

~ a jerkin

~ a merkin

~ “spurs that jingle jangle jingle”

~ a girdle

~ Dr. Scholl’s inserts

~ corn pads

~ an ‘Ove Glove

~ a zoot suit

~ a union suit

~ warm woolen mittens

~ a lightning scar because I am not Harry Potter

~ Crest White Strips

~ blue suede shoes

~ “an itsy-bitsy teeny-weenie yellow polka-dot bikini”

~ a dress made of credit cards

~ a rose tattoo

~ Sarah Palin glasses because I am not Sarah Palin

~ an Oscar Mayer wiener whistle

~ day of the week underwear

~ scissorhands

~ beef grinds

~ “vomit on my sweater already, mom’s spaghetti”

~ an eye patch, tho’ that would have been very cool

~ a raspberry beret

~ a coat of many colors

~ anything with kitties

~ fishnet stockings

~ fish

~ a swastika on my forehead because I am not Charles Manson

~ my heart on my sleeve

~ an Easter bonnet with all the frills upon it

~ a chastity belt

~ pasties

~ anything that’s been “Bedazzled”

~ Pull-ups

~ a TV box with my phone number painted on it because I only have to do freshman initiation once, thank you

~ Grandpa Walton denim overalls

~ coke spoon fingernails

~ a Nana

~ a toilet paper mummy costume

~ a bullet bra

~ parachute pants

~ “rings on my fingers and bells on my toes”

~ a skater onesie

~ a Speedo because I am not Michael Phelps or a 1970s oily Arnold Schwarzenegger

~ a Girl scout vest

~ a latex ape chest

~ a poodle skirt

~ a Schnoodle skirt

~ a Magnadoodle skirt

~ a fake arrow through the head

~ for that matter, a live chicken in my underwear

~ for that matter, cruel shoes

~ Scarlett O’Hara’s green velvet curtain gown that she wore to convince an imprisoned Rhett to give her the $300 to pay the taxes on Tara

~ Ingrid Bergman’s hat from the end of Casablanca when Rick gives her the maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of your life speech

~ the red shoes from The Red Shoes

~ ruby slippers

~ blue velvet

~ a yellow ribbon because I am not an oak tree

~ a tricorn hat

~ platform shoes with an aquarium heel

~ a burqa

~ a creepy, inappropriate, and vaguely threatening curiosity about total strangers

… yeeeah ….. okay …. mama’s tired of listing ……

All righty. There you go, stranger. An incomplete list of other things I’m also not wearing in the aforementioned photos. I know it doesn’t cover everything — how could it — but I tried. I did. I really tried to put to rest at least some of the other niggling questions that may be tormenting you. My dear readers can help me add to the list, if they like — only in the spirit of the existing list, of course.

Mama’s tired and grumpy now and even makeup would not help me.

So, yeah.

Yeaaah …..

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things are getting hairy

I am officially a mop. A Sasquatch. Cousin Itt.

S’true. S’not attractive either.

But you know what? I figure in these dicey uncertain times, more and more people will follow my lead and choose to appear dangerous and feral as a form of self-defense. I mean, who’s gonna try to grab you and eat you if you look like a mangy demented troll? So, it’s the smart choice, the forward-thinking choice. In other words, it’s all good, as the kind of people I can’t stand always say.

Please allow me to document my complete break with the grooming norms of modern society with my uber-cruppy cell phone which apparently takes only one size of photo: unnervingly large. So if gigantic images of wild woolly mammoths unhinge or demoralize you, well, you’ve been warned.

me-hair3_1.jpg
I, uhm … feel a little lost …. maybe a little vulnerable …. about my encroaching Cousin Itt-ness. I mean, it’s deforestation in rapid reverse. (So then, would that be “reforestation,” Trace?) As a matter of fact, The Hundred Acre Wood atop my head has been officially declared “environmentally friendly” by the EPA, The Sierra Club, and Leonardo Di Caprio. While I could not give one tiny rat’s bottom what the EPA and The Sierra Club think of me and my home-grown nature preserve, Leo’s good opinion means a lot to me. It does. He’s the king of the world, you know, and that must always give a girl pause. And, now that I think of it, Obama, I think I deserve some kind of tax rebate for growing my Sherwood Forest thusly and decreasing my carbon footprint and saving the planet and blahdie blahdie blah.

Or you may send me a puppy.

me-hair41.jpg
The dementia of the Sasquatch.

“Well, helloo, Clarice.”

me-hair5_1.jpg
Oh, you poor hairy girl. I know what you’re trying to do here — trying to cover up what’s really going on. It goes way beyond the whole Forbidden Forest dealio you’ve got going on atop thee olde noggin. What you and I both know, little yeti, is that you made a horrifying attempt at deforestation the other day and chopped your bangs to smithereens and you now look like it’s picture day at Sasquatch Elementary. It’s bad. Your very own Beloved has been reduced to nervously and repeatedly uttering, “ohh, you’re … darling” — most likely to keep himself from swooning with laughter and you from slitting your remarkably hairless wrists. All too soon, he will start gently reminding you, “Heey …. don’t you like hats?” and you will fall dead on the spot. So go ahead. Smush those reckless tangles around your head all you want. I see what’s really poking out there. Foghorn Leghorn. Tsk, tsk, I say, I say.

me-hair1.jpg
The smushy cover-up continues, unabated and embarrassing. This is even worse. Scraps of bangs shoot straight out of my head whilst I try to look coy. Gah. What a wiener. I am a’quiver with self-loathing.

me-hair21.jpg
See? See?? The little tuft of banglet to the right?? Dangling like a loose shingle several feet above my eyebrow?? I did that. I DID that. AGGHHHH!!! The massive hair carnage lying limp on my bathroom counter could have combed-over many a naked skull, but, no, I threw it away. Selfish Sasquatch.

me-hair6_1.jpg
Losing touch with reality. Hair tightening its hairy grip. Calling to me. Becoming one with hair. Becoming nothing but hair. I am lost to me.

Farewell, polite society …….

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out and about

~ Coming home from the grocery store, I saw a little boy plopped in a plastic chair on the sidewalk, apple in his hand, swinging tennis shoe feet that didn’t touch the ground. Yesterday was summer-hot in San Diego, but there he was, in the glaring bright sun. Next to him in another chair, was a small cardboard box propped on its side with an action figure leaning against one cardboard wall. A diorama of sorts. I wanted to see more of this little scene, but traffic started pushing through the light and I was forced to join in the fray. As I drove past, I could see some large crooked little-boy writing in the bottom of the box, the upstage wall, if you will. The action figure was placed carefully to the side of this writing, so I sensed it was some kind of ad, something meant to draw passersby to the little boy with his apple and his box and his action figure. Because it was Sunday and the Farmer’s Market swarmed nearby, there was no way to drive around again to see what, exactly, the little boy was doing on the sidewalk there. Maybe he was selling the action figure. Maybe he was engaging in some action figure street theater. I won’t ever know for sure. Whatever it was, I drove away smiling and rooting for the little boy and his box in the hot baking sun.

~ Several times a week, MB and I see them. Our neighborhood’s wandering elderly couple. They look like Hume Cronyn and Jessica Tandy and they are everywhere, all the time. We can be in the car, running a single errand, and see them more than once, such is the scope of their roaming. They wear khaki pants and white turtlenecks. Tennis shoes. Baseball caps. Her angel white hair sticks out from under her cap in a lump. This is their uniform, every time we see them. It makes me hot to look at them. I feel sweaty just thinking about them. Initially, we thought they had to be homeless because, literally, their clothing never changes. Her khaki pants are sort of graduated in color, grubbier and grubbier past the knee, as if she’s slogged through mud. He, on the other hand, seems quite neat, quite aware of the striking look of his tidy monochromatic attire.

After a couple of days of seeing them, we decided that they were working out. Power walking, I guess, based on the bend and movement in their arms. Or else perpetually late for the bus. Hume, I’ve noticed, always strides several paces ahead of Jessica, forcing her to trot and skip to catch up to him. He seems utterly focused on some imaginary journey in his head, obsessed with staying the course. Whatever this journey is, poor Jessica seems completely in the dark as she patters forever behind him. Just the rhythm of her steps seems to say wait for me wait for me wait for me. I’ve seen them so often I now have anxiety for her, for her balance, for her well-being. I watch her feet, hidden under the darkening khaki swell of her pants, move much faster than his and yet always always steps behind. He will never slow down and she will never catch up and I will have to accept that. Whenever I see them, I can hear that dreary Frau Schmidt from The Sound of Music drone inside my head, “The Von Trapp children don’t play. They march.” It feels a bit like that, like Hume is enforcing this eternal khaki march. I don’t know where they’re headed but, wherever it is, they are never there. I find myself wondering if they’re an old married couple. Or if they’re just friends. I wonder if he’s her personal geriatric trainer constantly pushing her harder and harder and harder. I wonder if she begs him to slow down and he simply can’t hear her. I wonder if he’s just a jerk. I wonder why his whites are so white and hers are so dingy. Some day, I’m afraid — because I occasionally have impulse control issues — I will roll the car window down and cry out from the depths of my well-intentioned buttinsky soul, “Slow down, Hume! You are marching poor Jessica to death! Slow DOWNNN, for the love of God!”

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football sunday

ME: I think we play the Chiefs this week.

HE: Didn’t we play them last week?

(pause)

ME: Well, if you want to get technical about it.