MetaFilter Junkie
I am mostly a lurker on MetaFilter. I love reading the entries. I think I don’t comment much, in fact I’ve only ever left one comment, because I never feel smarter than the other people already commenting and I’m not sure that what I would add would really be improving things. Thank goodness lots of other people don’t feel the same way as I do.
Recently, there have been two threads of really excellent reading. The first is the sad story regarding a baby that died. The title of the article by Nina Planck is Death by Veganism. Sadly, the death was really by stupid-ism or misinformation-ism. But the conversation that ensues in the comments of the MetaFilter thread are really quite wonderful on many levels, some beyond just entertainment. For example, according to Vegan.org, “A vegan (pronounced VEE-gun) is someone who, for various reasons, chooses to avoid using or consuming animal products.” Which might include a mother’s breast milk if you interpret it that way.
In this particular thread, you go through entire lifetimes of social relationships in a matter of minutes. People get on a soapbox. People reply. People get testy. People get nasty. People get sarcastic. People apologize. People make up. Some people move on. Others come back and won’t let it go. It’s a fascinating commentary regarding online relationships. But, this particular comment, replying to an earlier comment, wins the prize for humor.
And I’d like to know how far Veganism goes myself. Antibiotics? Beer?
The second fascinating thread is this one entitled What it Feels Like For a Girl about an image of Allison Stokke that has been around the world and back again. What I find interesting is that the entry is written quite neutrally. This is the actual verbiage from aerotive:
This photo has launched high school pole vaulter Allison Stokke into Internet memedom. Her reaction: “I worked so hard for pole vaulting and all this other stuff, and it’s almost like that doesn’t matter. Nobody sees that. Nobody really sees me.”
But it only takes until comment two (?) or three for it to get into sexual innuendo. And from that point, it’s anyone’s game. People angry about the way men think about women. People angry that other people are making them out to be sexual assholes. The thread even encompasses what constitutes acceptability regarding ‘asking for it’ when it comes to internet fame. I personally don’t find anything wrong with her father’s watchful eye or their worrying about weirdos. As a mom, I totally get that. As a female I understand getting unwanted ogling and how aggressive men can be scary at times. And as someone who has a tiny understanding of human nature I think that all of their worry won’t matter much in the long scheme of things. She’s a top athlete. She’s trying to be an Olympian. Her photos are going to be on the internet and you can’t stop people from linking to them or thinking she’s sexy. But discounting her feelings of vulnerability seems pretty hardhearted if you believe that everyone has a right to their feelings.
But the Made Me Laugh Outloud award goes to this comment. And, thank you. Thank you. [LOL]
Also see: Ask MeFi, MeFi Music, Podcasts, My interview with Matt Haughey [6/2004]
And I Was All……
Today I’m wearing a bra that is so great at giving support that I’ve gone through college, medical school and an internship by lunch. The other night I was laying on my back on the couch and Joe said, ‘Your breasts are truly amazing in that bra. They are two proud mountains, erect and waiting for someone to climb and conquer them.’
——-
Ty had a huge school project due today for History Day. He worked on it in drips and drabs over the long weekend but there was no convincing him that he should buckle down and do-er till she gets done. ‘This is how I do it, Mom. I think about it and figure it out in my head and then do the actual work the night before it’s due.’ ‘What about sleeping?’ I asked him. ‘Oh, I don’t sleep.’ This brings us to last night, when he ‘accidentally’ fell asleep (stupid body! sleeping!) and woke up this morning in a panic. Or so I hear since he was at his dad’s last night. But as I sat and waited for him to show up at the brunch* held for all the kids that got Student of the Month over the past school year, knowing he was running late and how much he hates being late, I felt like I should have pushed him harder to get the work done over the weekend in between running back and forth to Santa Barbara for his basketball tournament and after he finished the Grisham novel he also had to finish by today. I thought of many ways we could change his homework habits and had my own report on Applying Homework Skills to Avoid Stress and Sleepless Nights written in my head.
When he came in the door of the multi-purpose room, hair still damp from the shower, carrying a poster with glued rectangles of green over white containing text about Joseph Smith, my little speech left my brain. He looked harried and tired and still so handsome all freshly washed that I simply said, ‘I don’t think your way is working for you, Ty.’ He sighed. And then he ate part of a bagel and some fruit. I think it was more than enough, as talks go.
*When did Brunch start including 8am breakfasts?
——-
When the kids walk out the door I become a pillar of slow moving sludge on the couch. I sit as if a statue, doing various internetty things of no consequence which expend as little energy as possible and still be alive. I forget to eat. I forget to hydrate. I almost forget to relieve my bladder. My fingers clicking the keys are the only way one might know my heart is beating.
And then, when the kids walk through the door, I’m suddenly careening back into the movement of life, staggering on legs that have fallen asleep and smacking the dust out of the corners in my brain with the palm of my right hand against my forehead. As my engine revs up, I continue going faster until I’m almost going normal speed – going normal speed – attempting to pass on the right and then finally, breaking the speed limit and accidentally knocking the side view mirror off by hitting the mailbox. I’m doing the dishes. I’m folding the laundry. I’m looking at the vacuum and thinking really hard about getting it out. I’m straightening the cupboard. I’m putting the whites in the washer. I’m fluffing the pillows on the couch. I’m fixing a snack for Alex. I’m looking at the vacuum again. I’m sorting through mail. I’m fixing a snack for the boys. I’m slamming the garage door shut so I don’t have to look at the vacuum anymore. And most of all, I’m not thinking. I’m just doing. And very most of all, I’m not feeling. Alex is telling me about so-and-so and I’m um-humming, but I’m not feeling anything. I’m marinating steaks and cutting brussels sprouts into quarters and listening to what Dev tells me about the wonderful qualities of the Hookah and I’m nodding and occasionally rolling my eyes but not feeling anything beyond very mild sarcasm. I’m wiping counters and putting in a new trash liner and giving Tony advice on older women but I’m not feeling anything. I’m cutting up tomatoes for the Pico and Ty walks in, taps my shoulder from behind on the right, then sidles quietly to my left, waiting for me to turn and see no one so he can smile at me. And I think, ‘I sure wish I could feel something. This would be the moment to feel something. Right now.’ But I don’t, so I smile and hope he can’t tell.
And then they leave and go to their dad’s home. And I sit down on the couch to do my best impression of Timpanogos.
——-
Devon, aged 18, says, ‘You should try Disarono. It’s kind of cherry tasting. It’s very good.’ And damned if he wasn’t right.
——-
I’m not going to write about moving or moving boxes or the not unpacking of said moving boxes anymore. Because seriously, who cares? I’m bored and I live here. There are more important things to worry about. Like, why my underage sons knows what Disarono tastes like.
——-
Alex puts on the blue shirt with white polka dots and the white sweater. She takes it off and puts on the black tank top with the white sweater. She takes it off and puts the blue shirt with the white polka dots on over the black tank top. Then she adds the white sweater. ‘Mom, which of these looks better?’ ‘What are you trying to say? Friends or Flirty?’ ‘Um, probably mostly friends with a little bit of flirty.’ ‘I like the blue with polka dots and the white sweater. It says: You like me but I don’t want to date you so don’t ask me out or I’ll have to say no and then we can’t be friends anymore since we’ll both feel weird.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Awesome.’
——-
The bird with no name sits on my shoulder and nibbles my ear. He nestles up under my chin. He makes tiny chirping noises and puts his beak by my lips, craning his neck so I will scratch his head. He makes soft kissy noises of love. Then he shits on me.
LA Angst, The First
The good news is that our first reading is going to be held this Sunday, the 3rd, 8pm at the Liquid Kitty. The great news is that Ariel Meadow Stallings will be there to help us launch. Ariel hosts the Salon of Shame in Seattle. (If we could get Sarah here, all would be perfect.)
Sign up! Come and read your angst! Come and listen! And let me know you’re coming.
Cycles
For further proof that I am the World’s Most Amazing Mom, I instantly disliked my son’s new girlfriend. She’s perfectly fine. Nice. A little nervous. But, nice. And they are both all giggly and lovey-dovey and it’s cute and I’m happy for him. But in the back of my mind I’m thinking, Really? Her? Oh, ok then. And while they sat on the couch with his arm around her shoulders I realized that it wouldn’t matter who she was or how perfect she was because I’m guessing I just wouldn’t like her no matter what. She could come with Barbie’s complete safari outfit, the Jeep, the pool and the salon accessories and I still wouldn’t like her much. Just because he really does. And that is sick. This is his first real girlfriend and consequently my first brush with my lameness in this area.
However, I’m really, really familiar with this same lameness in the moms of boys I’ve known in my life. I’ve been on the receiving end of this many times. And it’s really not fun to be That Girl. That Girl my son is dating. That Girl my son is marrying. That girl. So, in the name of all that is holy and good, I’m manifesting a kinder, gentler America going forward. I will learn to love all the girls my sons bring home. At least the ones they really like. And if I don’t love them right away I’ll keep telling myself I do until it’s true. Because they all deserve it.
Only Slightly Crazy
I’ve got dirt under my fingernails. The plants are finally repotted and they just won’t shut up with their thanking me for all the new and wonderful root space.
I finally gave up on my awesome, vitally important plan to go through all boxes, gleaning the good and tossing the chaff, and having the entire house completely organized so that when the earthquake comes and the power goes out and it’s the middle of the night and you can’t see anything and you have to find your shoes, a flashlight (should be in the garage, 2nd shelf on the left after the detergent), the spare batteries (should be in the hallway drawer, 3rd down from the top in a sandwich-sized ziplock), a snack pack of animal crackers (should be in the long cupboard in the kitchen, behind the soups), and the binder fully organized with all our important papers including passports, (DOES NOT EXIST), I know exactly where everything is. Now? We’ll never make it out alive and it’s all my fault. Also, now that the boxes are jammed into the garage I can see how much birdseed is all over the carpet. Awesome.
This weekend I’m going to pretend to be normal. Wish me luck.
All Kinds of Frustrated
We had our second craft trade day the other day. The people in the group are just fantastic and I really enjoy the whole idea and the community and everything. But I’m having a huge problem with the limitations of Ning. The same things that make Ning perfect for LA Bloggers Live and LA Angst are the things that make it so hard for Crafts.
Ning has created an incredibly adaptable setup. They make it super easy to select pre-made components and slide them in and out of your design. You can choose to allow your members to have their own blogs and pull the feeds to the front page. You can have a forum. I have both of those going on Crafts. But because I don’t know how to code well enough, I’m afraid to really dip into the code and try and change things up. I know it’s possible because some of the other sites are doing great things. It’s like – so close, yet so far away. But even if I did know how to code really well, I don’t think I could get the functionality I want for Crafts.
What I need is something more friendly for the members to see what is going on on trade days. A main page where all the items are displayed as thumbnails and you can ask for a trade just by clicking. After a trade is accepted, the thumbnails would disappear so others wouldn’t think they were still available but the member’s page would keep the photos so they have a catalog history of what they’ve put on the site. The forums seem to be confusing people on Ning instead of making it easier. And the photo page is buried a few clicks away.
Overall, I’m happy with Ning for my other projects. Just not for Crafts. I feel like if I can’t get the functionality where it needs to be, there isn’t much point in continuing to frustrate the members. I’m not sure what to do at this point.
2 of 2 New Projects
Remember the 1st one? Well, we already have 16 members, including one that looks like George Clooney, so yes, I think gangbusters applies.
And, here is #2. LA Angst.
Based on Cringe and Salon of Shame, LA Angst wants more than anything to laugh (with you) at your most embarrassing moments. Do you live in the Los Angeles area? Are you coming to visit and want to read? Email me and I’ll sign you up.
LA Angst is a monthly reading series hosted by Leah Peterson in the greater Los Angeles area on the first Thursday of each month. We gather together to read our most embarrassing, humiliating, angst ridden and otherwise absolutely wonderful writing from our youth. Every month, selected readers comb through their middle school and high school writing and pick something that represents how completely impossible it is to grow up without looking back in shame. Join us for some entertaining, therapeutic and hysterical fun!
I’ve noticed that most people feel drawn to either one group or the other. Is it weird that I love both?
The Tables Have Turned
Here’s a little known fun fact – I home schooled my two oldest kids while we lived in Germany and it was one of the best times we all had together. The kids still talk about all the fun projects we did and the stuff they learned.
I don’t get interviewed very often, since I’m usually the interviewer. But I couldn’t refuse Matthew, who’s putting together a book of interviews for a school project. He’s a pretty cool kid with a pretty cool mom, who home schools him. Thanks for interviewing me, Matthew.
A Party??
While I was following the deep labyrinth that is the blogroll from site to site, I found L.A. Daddy. He’s married to L.A. Mommy. And they are having a blogger party on June 2nd. Yay! for parties!
I think I had a whole lot of other stuff to write but I can’t remember any of it at the moment. Joe comes home tonight. Maybe my brain will come home soon, too.
End-of-the-Weekend Poop Talk
There are slugs with more motivation than me. The boxes – still there and unchanged in any regard. They are gathering a layer of dust
I showered today and I assure you that the pizza delivery teen was appreciative of that, even if he didn’t know it. The nameless bird is quite cute. He poops every 20 minutes, which is highly appropriate for him. I remembered earlier today, as I was grinding tissue bits into my jeans, that the reason it wasn’t so annoying last time I had a bird was because I had wipes everywhere in the house. The two oldest kids were 2.5 years old and 8 months old. They were, in and of themselves, pooping machines and wipes were to be found in every single room of the house along with most of my coat/jacket pockets, all purses and both diaper bags along with a couple of pairs of boots, the camera bag and anything else that had a pocket. Currently? All kids wipe their own butts so I own no wipes. I’m going to have to get some because they got the birdy poopy out of my clothes so much easier and with much fewer tiny bits of ground up poopy tissue all over the carpet.
Since we’re talking about poop, I’d like to ask who would build a house where the company half bath has a mirror directly across from the toilet and is the perfect height to watch yourself while sitting on the pot? Who does that? Why? Freaks. Freaks who want to think about their company coming over and having to watch themselves while on the toilet.
Not just that, but look what we found? These two guys conveyed along with the freakish company bathroom, the broken and rusty BBQ and the spider, snake and rat habitat the previous owners called a wood pile.
1 of 2 New Projects
I decided to start two new projects. Why? Because I’m me. This one is called LA Bloggers Live! and if you live in the Los Angeles area, you can come and listen to your favorite bloggers reading their own words. I know, right? Awesome. And if you are a blogger in the Los Angeles area or visiting the LA area, you are invited to come and read, also!
Update regarding the 2nd project soon.
(ALSO: Craft trading is happening RIGHT NOW!)
Craft Trade Day II
Craftzine linked to the Craft Trade site yesterday. Here is the link. Welcome, all you new members! Trade Day II is this Friday and I’m trading Bonprons.
The Flip Side
Dude. Where is the flip side, people? I could use some good news.
First of all, Schmutzie has long been one of my web favorites. When I was scouring the internet looking for people to interview, I found her and then hung on because wow, she’s original and compelling and real and funny. And a little wacky. And super smart. Put all together, you get the inimitable Schmutzie, whom I love with abandon that would probably scare the cat. I don’t want her to have cancer but just so you know, what I want means nothing. If it would help I might even consider becoming Mormon again. That is how much I love her.
Then you have Susan’s mom, Ginny, whom I never met in person but got to know so well through Susan’s Flickr. Susan showed the good, bad, ugly and the beautiful through her images and captions. Sometimes, all you could do was read and cry, which would turn into laughter at some point because Ginny was such a wild card. Taking care of an aging parent who has lost their ability to be a part of their own care-giving is an enormous drain and continuing learning experience for the people around them. But, besides all that, it’s also just what we do for those we love when the Universe presents us with that opportunity. I hope someday Susan writes a book about the experience. I’m sure many people would benefit and would love to read it. I got to meet Susan’s brother and sister and friend last weekend for lunch. It was right after Ginny had died and I wasn’t sure what to expect. The only way to summarize the experience is to quote my son as we walked out of Seaport Village – “I was worried it might be awkward, but mom, they were great. I hope when I get to be their age I’m fun and vibrant even when things about your life are hard.’
I got sick towards the end of Mother’s Day, barely sitting through dinner before beginning the puke-fest, and unfortunately couldn’t make it to Ginny’s Funeral Party on Monday in San Diego. From what I hear, it was really awesome.
That brings us to Suebob. I read her blog but don’t comment often. Pretty much what I do everywhere on the internet. Suebob’s sister had pneumonia and then just kept declining. Every day I’d go and hope to read how she might be getting better and pulling out of it. But that wasn’t what happened. Having a few sisters of my own, I can only imagine how awful it is to lose one, leaving behind children and a husband. I can’t think about it for too long.
And now for JPGMag. I LOVE JPG. Love. Love the idea of it. Love the creators of it. Loved working with them, editing for them, interviewing for them and even submitting photos, none of said photos were ever selected, but it didn’t matter. There was always next time. There was always the thought in the back of my mind that if I just kept shooting, learning, taking the opportunity to find interesting things to photograph, my photo might get selected next time. It wasn’t impossible because look at all the evidence! Other amateurs were getting their photos published every issue. The community was a living breathing thing and it was fun to be a part of it.
As a person that comes up with ideas myself, a cultivator, if you will, I’m always interested to get to know others of my species. The people that think it is a good idea to throw the next few years of their life into something because it makes them happy and probably not much money at first. The people that get excited about doing something right, even if it takes longer. The people that bring the people they know along with them because they like to feel like a family. That surround themselves with other passionate people because it feels good. That care about the end product or experience being solid and quality. That want to involve the community in new, interactive ways and explore how things can grow. These are my people.
All the time I was a part of any part of JPG magazine thus far, I have very much appreciated. I will no longer be submitting any images to JPG. I will no longer be interviewing or submitting stories. Because if it was such an easy thing to erase two of the core founders and their contributions, how can my little contributions have any chance of longevity at all? If I can’t trust that my submissions and contributions will be treated with respect, I don’t want to play anymore. To pretend that the first 6 issues of JPG don’t exist is to say that all the people in the community that participated had no value. What a shame. I kept my account open because I wanted my small voice to be heard there. Heather’s words. Derek’s words.
What I wrote over at the JPG site:
I almost deleted my account last Sunday when I got an email from Derek explaining what had happened. I’m still so shocked that someone’s labor of love can be ripped away from them in this way. Instead of deleting, however, I decided to publicly say how wrong I feel it is. I will no longer be contributing to JPG.
The roots of something should never be forgotten, changed, erased or buried. The end result, which is then basically a lie, will never be as strong, genuine or connected to.
End of story.
For Mother’s Day I got a new Feist CD, some beautiful picture frames, a balloon, a dinner out and a baby boy cockatiel, who currently has no name.
But mostly, I got to spend lots of time with the people that I love and that love me. At one point, after dinner on the drive home, I realized I wasn’t really feeling any of it. I wasn’t feeling. I could have cried if I’d only had the feelings to do so. Instead, I just looked out the window at the lights.
Update: And now Eden’s dad?? Are you kidding me, Universe? XO, Eden. Lots of them.
B
I usually have my phone with me all the time. I want it near in case my kids text me. I feel a little naked because my phone is somewhere downstairs. Probably under a bucket or a box or a blanket. Or something else starting with the letter B. I’m upstairs. In Bed. Also brought to you by the letter B. It’s most likely dead, since I forgot to bring it up here last night to charge it. Right after I barfed. Also, the letter B.
Yesterday was lovely and I’ll tell you all about it. Probably tomorrow. Sometime soon. After I get out of bed.
ps. I got a bird! And no, it is not the Avian Flu.
Look, It's a Survey
Over there on the right side column at the very top you’ll see a survey. If you have ten minutes of your life that you weren’t using for anything important it would be awesome if you would click that link and answer some questions. In the long run, it helps the ads on this site be more relevant. In the short run, it could keep you from doing the dishes or folding socks or finishing that TPS report.
And by way of complete honesty, if you don’t do it, I totally understand because I probably wouldn’t do it on your site, either. But because I totally appreciate Blogads and how they hook me up, I thought I’d ask.
Yes, I am not much of a salesperson.
Phone, Again
Remember my funny, funny phone? Oh my gosh, has it just been a ton of laughs. At some point, when the people were fiddling with it over and over and insisting that pressing just ONE MORE combination of buttons would fix everything (hint – not.), someone placed the wrong number inside a deep code that sends out my phone’s signature to the heavens. Now, normally, going incognito wouldn’t bother me. I mean, who cares if your vacuum wants to pretend to be a toilet paper holder for a few days? Wouldn’t you? My side table is always masquerading as the trash and I know it likes it that way sometimes. Like a dirrrty vacation. Heck, sometimes I pretend to be a functioning human being.
So, there’s my phone, blipping out its signature to The System, and it’s off by just one number. Not too much, you might think, but enough to be The Wrong Number. Enter Trish. Hello, Trish. We spent many a long day together. You fending off calls and text messages that were meant for me and me trying not to flip my top because my voice mails and texting wouldn’t work? Good Times.
I had thought we were equal in our frustrations. I called Sprint. You called Nextel. We both yelled and cried and pulled our hair out. You got a new phone. And mine was on the way. Phew. Odd that your sister-in-law is named Leah and my kid’s step-mom is named Trish.
But, that was before you got rude with my daughter, who called me but got you through the system screw-up, and thinking it was me, started pouring out her heart about school stuff only to be sternly spoken to. She entered the Twilight Zone for a second and it left her a little off all day. I have to say that if your child, although I doubt very much you are a mother, called me, I would not have yelled and made her feel terrible because she is a KID who started the conversation with Hey MOM no matter how frustrated I was. Can I get an amen?
Anyhoo, I got my new phone. This new phone has no static. It also doesn’t have some of the same ring tones and alert sounds, which I don’t understand since supposedly it is the same phone. This has created an environment where I do not understand and cannot relate to my phone. I don’t recognize it, even after programming it as close to the old one as possible. I’m not even as competent as the penguins that find their children months later by listening to their cries. I hear blipping and bleeping and odd trailing whoo-de-dooing and I look around, blaming the remote or the camera or a stray sock.
My new phone also does not call Trish anymore when I call my voice mail. Nope. On the way home from the very inconvenient and very far away official technical phone fixing office, I checked my voice mail. I just wanted to be sure. I hit the 1 and enter and it promptly called Jeff. Hi Jeff.
Emotions
I’m slowly losing it. I feel isolated, worthless, sad and confused. Since I am surrounded, now more than ever, by people that love me, it would seem to be out of place. Logically I know that. And I’m so tired of this train of thought I could throw up.
The mind is such an odd thing. I can tell my mind what it should be doing and tell my body how I should be feeling and it makes no difference. No difference at all.
I feel like no one cares about me and then I see my mom’s number come up on my cell phone three times in five hours but I don’t answer. I burst into tears just looking at her name on the display and I don’t want to scare her with my completely random weeping so I wait a few hours until I can manage a Hello and a How are you and mostly the Things are fine without tears. And then my son calls, asking me to make some adjustments to his suit. It would be so easy to ask him to come over and spend some time with me as I measure and sew. But, I don’t. I cry quietly to myself and tell him it’s fine to just drop the suit off in the morning on the way to school. Because by this time, after the better part of two days, I’m in no condition to see any of my kids, with my red eyes and puffy face and never-ending tears, especially the child that needs stability more than the others. If there is one thing I’m not exuding, it’s stability.
I look around the house and remark to myself how little I’ve accomplished in the past two days. Joe likes to say it’s because I’m being more of a mom, running more errands with them, giving them rides here and there and generally being more available, while wearing dark sunglasses. But in my heart I know that the reason the office is still entirely in boxes and the closet upstairs has shelves completely empty after a week is because I can’t manage to do much more than look around me and cry.
This week, the one thing I will do, is see the doctor about my thyroid dose. If that isn’t the issue, I may seriously need a trip to Hawaii or Australia. However, I hear that no matter where you go, there you are. So that wouldn’t solve anything.
Karaoke Etc.
Alex and her friends have been trying to go to this karaoke place for weeks. Something always happens like boys, other friends, family or bad hair. But, last night at 5pm, Alex said, ‘We’re going!” At 6:15, she said, ‘We aren’t going anymore.” At 7:00pm, she stated “We’re SO going!!” Then she went over to her dad’s for a couple of hours, called to say she changed her mind and they were staying in. At 9:05, she came over, all dressed up and announced that not only were we going, we were going NOW.
The karaoke SLASH pizza joint was almost empty but for the people that worked there, the woman (who sang a lot of Melissa Etheridge*) with her two girls (Who sang a lot of obscure-to-me Disney music from Mulan and that native American one with the river in it) that runs the karaoke machine on Saturday nights, and a lady who watched her daughter sing Don Quixote three times with such admiration that it makes me really wonder what’s wrong with me. If Alex sang Don Quixote more than once I think I might have ripped the microphone out of her hands. I think even once would have been too many times. The screaming and AyAyAying at the end……I prefer Like A Virgin. To counteract all the Don Quixote and angry lesbian songs in the air, Alex and I sang Love Will Keep Us Together and I tried to eat the microphone.
There is so much more I could say about Saturday night and the odd peoples that populate that pizza place, but instead let me just say that we’ll be going back at our earliest opening. It was that much fun.
Also, our new place came with these:
And I brought one of my own:
And there is a lawn of sorts:
*Isn’t it weird that the entire staff and the lady running the machine were all in the singing rotation? It just seemed like, as we were running out of time and there was no more room on the list for new songs to be added, that they would have let the paying customers have more turns. Or is that wrong? Who am I to get in the way of more Don Quixote?
¿Dónde están los novios de las calcetines?
Joe asks, “Where are the matches to these socks?”
“In a box. Somewhere.” I say.
Dinner With Grace
Grace told me a few weeks ago she was going to David Sedaris and I begged and pleaded to go with her. Mr. Sedaris was going to be appearing in Santa Barbara with the wonderful Sarah Vowell and it was all just too much to bear: Grace, Sedaris, Vowell, all within my grasp only a hop skip and a jump away. The wonderful woman that she is, Grace graciously (get it??) allowed Joe and I to come along. Eden was there as was her friend Jennifer. Also, Grace’s daughter, Jenn, and her boyfriend, who’s name I’ve forgotten. (That’s how great of a friend I am. Invite me again!)
Dinner was lovely. There was wine.
Sedaris and Vowell were hysterical but dinner was better.
Found
We’re finally, mostly, for sho moved in. What that really means is that all the furniture and boxes are in one house instead of two. The garage is almost solely a storage unit, but there is a tiny aisle you can walk through if you have balls of steel and don’t mind heavy boxes of books falling on your toes.
After so many days of strenuous physical labor, today was quite light. I’ve just been walking around the house placing things here and there. Moving a pile from one side to the other. Picking up a stack from one room and sticking it on a table in that one. The kitchen is almost really done. I found most of what should be in there but somewhere under piles of cardboard boxes full of cables and cleaning products and shoes there is a box of plates. Until I find it, I hope you washed your hands real well since you’ll be holding all your food between your interlaced fingers.
I did find the coffee maker, though. And the bean grinder, which I almost didn’t need since my teeth have been doing just fine. I also found about 25 jars that once held jam, mayonnaise, olives and probably pickled pigs feet for all I know. 25 jars that Joe saved after they were empty because he can use them again for SOMETHING. 25 jars that sat in the cupboard until I got the chance to throw them away. 25 jars with lids, carefully and lovingly wrapped in paper and bubble wrap by my daughter, her friend and her cousin. Two boxes worth. I can just picture them in the kitchen (while I was upstairs rolling bedspreads and sheets into one giant taco roll and tossing it over the balcony) encouraging each other to make sure and take enough of the $115/yard bubble wrap to carefully enclose each and every beautiful inch of the jar that once held creamy white waves of mayo. So we could carry the boxes into the truck. And move them. And carry them again. And unpack them. And then throw them away. Or better, pack them up again and haul them to Goodwill. Didn’t you just say the other day that you wanted 25 used jars? Some still have the labels on them.
But every once in awhile, while rummaging for socks or toilet paper or hand soap or fingernail polish remover (JUST GO TO THE DOLLAR STORE AND BUY NEW!!! IT’S FASTER!!) you find something really important. Something that will make every day from now on so much better. Thanks goodness.
New/Old, Whatever. Just Get Me Some Coffee.
In case you were wondering, downsizing from a huge house to one half as big sucks. Now you know. You’re welcome.
Here is the old entry way:
And here is the new entry:
Tiny new living room:
Here is the old kitchen:
And the new one:
I’m going to miss our old huge bathroom. But being a few blocks away from where my ex lives saves everyone a huge amount of time and gas. We’re also close to their schools. As soon as I find my makeup, the iron, my comfortable shoes, the coffeemaker and my anti-psychotic medication, things are going to be fine.
