How can they name a font Trebuchet? It does not look anything like one. Okay, that was just a gut reaction.
I came to talk about laundry detergent. I was in the Giant, (the ghetto mart, my sister and friends call it because it is poplulated largely by the welfare and black and/ or both.) A lot of times I tell Jeff, "Boy I am so tired of being a poor black woman". I am neither, but to avert resentful reactions from the majority of the people around me, I tend to talk to them in only slightly altered speech so as to seem like one of them. In Ardmore, where everyone is rich and Jewish, I am only one of those things, I tend to look like a mendicant, but there you go.
I go there because it is new, clean, carried gluten free products until I thought I might need them, and has the best produce. Also it is close by.
I went into the laundry aisle and since Oprah told me to get eco-friendly detergent, I thought I would. Actually, that is a sarcastic, or possibly sardonic remark. I do not wait for Oprah to tell me anything, and she has never called.
I usually buy Arm and Hammer detergent which, while not getting any dirt out of the clothing because of either its inefficacy or our hard water, does not irritate my skin. Right above it, on the top shelf where my height generally keeps me from looking, were two brands recommended by all for eco-friendliness. There was 7th Generation which smelled of nothing or white flower/bergamot, which I found to be okay, or some popular citrus based detergent which was selling twice the amount for the same price. The second one smelled of orange which is okay for some things, but Iam not sure I want people around me to ask "Have you just eaten an orange?"all the time, which seems like a thing that might happen to me.
At this point in time I became completely confused and since the Giant does not give free returns because you may not like a product as the CVS does, I could go a lot of ways. The way I chose was probably the one most people would take, I bought the Arm and Hammer which was concentrated, keeping down the purchase of bottles, and they were selling buy one get one free, and they were the same price as both of the eco types. I have not done well with concentrated versions of other detergents, possibly I used too much. I really cannot say.
I know at least one person who will write an excoriating e-mail, and that's your perogative. Until someone helps me out, or sends free samples as method does, I guess I have a lot of detergent to use up. At least I wash .
Sunday, January 06, 2008
Monday, July 16, 2007
Dancing in the dark
I spend a lot of time walking around after the lights are out, and my vision is getting progressively worse. The thing is, I have been practicing to be blind, and it is completely no picnic at all. Sometimes I try to be graceful and wave my arms in a fashion I believe to be smooth and delicate, and at other times I bump into corners and bruise, or worse, miss the last step and almost fall.
I was in the market yet again and there was the bag boy, about 6.6 and with heavy white cataracts covering both eyes. He was trying his best, flailing his arms over the conveyor belt while bent at the waist, a position that I imagine could not be comfortable at all.
Worst of all, the checker was not helping. Were it me, I might shout out the items as I rang them up so that he would know what to flail for: giant paper towels, soda bottles, meat. AAugh! imaging suddenly packing cereal, cookies, spaghetti, and then wet, coldish meat!
The other thing was that the checker packed one bag but failed to remark about its presence to the bagger and so it was that I had to circumvent his flying arms to retrieve my remaining bag. The good part was that I only purchased 5 items.
I do not begrudge getting a blind man a job. I just wish they had found something easier for him. Perhaps gathering carts.
I was in the market yet again and there was the bag boy, about 6.6 and with heavy white cataracts covering both eyes. He was trying his best, flailing his arms over the conveyor belt while bent at the waist, a position that I imagine could not be comfortable at all.
Worst of all, the checker was not helping. Were it me, I might shout out the items as I rang them up so that he would know what to flail for: giant paper towels, soda bottles, meat. AAugh! imaging suddenly packing cereal, cookies, spaghetti, and then wet, coldish meat!
The other thing was that the checker packed one bag but failed to remark about its presence to the bagger and so it was that I had to circumvent his flying arms to retrieve my remaining bag. The good part was that I only purchased 5 items.
I do not begrudge getting a blind man a job. I just wish they had found something easier for him. Perhaps gathering carts.
Monday, April 09, 2007
Tying one on
Yesterday I got a free bowtie. I had to get a shirt and tie for a waitressing job, and went to a tuxedo store.
There were no suitable shirts to fit me.
Being both short and buxom made both boys' and mens' shirts awkward and puffy in all the wrong places.
I turned my attention instead to the ties. There were hundreds of different ties on shelves in peach peck baskets. The salesman wanted me to buy a tie with round edges on the bows; it was gray satin and I did not like it one bit. I chose a sort of double butterfly made of velvet thinking that it might make me adorable in a way that would make me a lot of of money.
The salesman did not like the tie I picked. "That one is really shot", he kept saying, "The snap is right out of that one". The salesman's tie was striped.
I persisted in my desire for the snapless tie.
"Just put it in your purse and walk out of here" he told me, "anyone so insistent on having THAT tie should have it for free.
There were no suitable shirts to fit me.
Being both short and buxom made both boys' and mens' shirts awkward and puffy in all the wrong places.
I turned my attention instead to the ties. There were hundreds of different ties on shelves in peach peck baskets. The salesman wanted me to buy a tie with round edges on the bows; it was gray satin and I did not like it one bit. I chose a sort of double butterfly made of velvet thinking that it might make me adorable in a way that would make me a lot of of money.
The salesman did not like the tie I picked. "That one is really shot", he kept saying, "The snap is right out of that one". The salesman's tie was striped.
I persisted in my desire for the snapless tie.
"Just put it in your purse and walk out of here" he told me, "anyone so insistent on having THAT tie should have it for free.
Friday, April 06, 2007
Seeds of Change
I got an envelope in the mail. It was addressed in block letters which looked to be male, possibly that of my college boyfriend, but that was a stretch.
There was no return address, the postmark was from Philadelphia.
The back on the envelope read: Happy Spring.
Inside the envelope I found a package of Shirley (mom's name) Poppies, named "Falling in Love".
The envelope and seed packet appeared to have gotten at least half wet, been crumpled, and dried that way.
I know who sent them.
I thought these things:
1.Risky
2.romantic
3.under the top?
4.overkill with the falling in love stuff?
5. Oh, for crying out loud!
6. Too little too late?
7. speechless, don't know what to say or think.
8.NOW you're trying to be nice?
9. I wonder how they will grow?
No number 10. What were you expecting?
It turns out I got a call from my sister saying "Didn't you get anything in the mail?" No, I don't think so, I told her. I did get some seeds though. "Wow, you did not know my hand writing? "(she mostly e-mails, and no, I don't) " Well, Shirley, that did not tip you off?" No, I said, they said Falling in Love, and that threw me off.
My sister did the slow burn .
I guess it was just wishful thinking.
There was no return address, the postmark was from Philadelphia.
The back on the envelope read: Happy Spring.
Inside the envelope I found a package of Shirley (mom's name) Poppies, named "Falling in Love".
The envelope and seed packet appeared to have gotten at least half wet, been crumpled, and dried that way.
I know who sent them.
I thought these things:
1.Risky
2.romantic
3.under the top?
4.overkill with the falling in love stuff?
5. Oh, for crying out loud!
6. Too little too late?
7. speechless, don't know what to say or think.
8.NOW you're trying to be nice?
9. I wonder how they will grow?
No number 10. What were you expecting?
It turns out I got a call from my sister saying "Didn't you get anything in the mail?" No, I don't think so, I told her. I did get some seeds though. "Wow, you did not know my hand writing? "(she mostly e-mails, and no, I don't) " Well, Shirley, that did not tip you off?" No, I said, they said Falling in Love, and that threw me off.
My sister did the slow burn .
I guess it was just wishful thinking.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Common Cold Blues
About one o'clock in the afternoon Norris decides to quit malingering and try to make herself useful around the house while waiting for her soup to melt.
Unlike other people, she usually made food from scratch and was comforted by the fact that no mother's presence was required to produce some chicken soup; a sure fire remedy for everything. Her soup had come from the freezer and was still in a solid state now in a pot on the stove.
Norris was no giant, and so it was that staggering around the kitchen in hangover mode that she noticed that the grime atop her small apartment sized refrigerator had reached crisis status. She'd been getting by the last few weeks with hapazard swipes at the accumulating crud, but feeling ill generated an urge to clean house.
I hate being sick in a dirty house, she often reminded herself. If it was not one malady, it was another, and in fact, Norris spent most of her time being nauseous, dizzy or both for reasons she could only guess at, and that numerous doctors had deemed to be non existant, though being frail or a hypochondriac in final analysis amount to the same thing.
Standing on the kitchen stool, Norris discovers that window cleaner and a paper towel are not going to do the job. Why did I have to start this? She wonders about this urge to clean while scrubbing vigorously with ammonia and squinching her face in another direction to avoid the fumes. Finally, she manages to clean the few items that sat on top of the fridge top to her satisfaction; (I'm really getting things done now!)as well as the refrigerator itself.
Moving on to another part of the kitchen, she broke the top of her sugar jar while trying to dislodge a knife jammed in the silverware drainer. It really was a tiny kitchen. She assembled all of the pieces of lid and considered throwing the whole thing out. Then she thought about what it would cost to replace which led to some cogitation about people who keep broken crockery and people who do not keep broken lids but keep things which are obviously missing lids, and so never use the items. It was a gift she had actually liked, which was a rare instance indeed, and that made the whole thing worse.
Weary, she dished out her soup and sat to relax and contemplate the situation further. All this comes of carelessness she thinks, and 2 lousy drinks. Why are there carrot skins in this soup? This doesn't happen at Campbell's. The whole episode truly irritated her.
Norris resolves not to be quite so handy all the time.
Unlike other people, she usually made food from scratch and was comforted by the fact that no mother's presence was required to produce some chicken soup; a sure fire remedy for everything. Her soup had come from the freezer and was still in a solid state now in a pot on the stove.
Norris was no giant, and so it was that staggering around the kitchen in hangover mode that she noticed that the grime atop her small apartment sized refrigerator had reached crisis status. She'd been getting by the last few weeks with hapazard swipes at the accumulating crud, but feeling ill generated an urge to clean house.
I hate being sick in a dirty house, she often reminded herself. If it was not one malady, it was another, and in fact, Norris spent most of her time being nauseous, dizzy or both for reasons she could only guess at, and that numerous doctors had deemed to be non existant, though being frail or a hypochondriac in final analysis amount to the same thing.
Standing on the kitchen stool, Norris discovers that window cleaner and a paper towel are not going to do the job. Why did I have to start this? She wonders about this urge to clean while scrubbing vigorously with ammonia and squinching her face in another direction to avoid the fumes. Finally, she manages to clean the few items that sat on top of the fridge top to her satisfaction; (I'm really getting things done now!)as well as the refrigerator itself.
Moving on to another part of the kitchen, she broke the top of her sugar jar while trying to dislodge a knife jammed in the silverware drainer. It really was a tiny kitchen. She assembled all of the pieces of lid and considered throwing the whole thing out. Then she thought about what it would cost to replace which led to some cogitation about people who keep broken crockery and people who do not keep broken lids but keep things which are obviously missing lids, and so never use the items. It was a gift she had actually liked, which was a rare instance indeed, and that made the whole thing worse.
Weary, she dished out her soup and sat to relax and contemplate the situation further. All this comes of carelessness she thinks, and 2 lousy drinks. Why are there carrot skins in this soup? This doesn't happen at Campbell's. The whole episode truly irritated her.
Norris resolves not to be quite so handy all the time.
Monday, April 02, 2007
Fashionistas
I was in the Salvation army and found a semi attractive dress. When I put it on, I noticed a slight tightness under the arms but it seemed to fit perfectly. I opened the curtain of the dressing room to ask the gaggle of women waiting to try things on what they thought of it.
"Too young?, too frumpy?" I asked.
Oh noooo, it's great, they all agreed.
I pulled the curtain shut and heard: "It looks like it was made for her." and further, " The best part is that it does not look like it's even from here!"
Thus were born the Salvation Army Fashionistas.The reason it fit me was because someone had shortened the straps at the shoulder, shortening the torso, and making it suitable only for someone like myself who is torso-deficient. Thus the under-arm chafing. Now if I can fix that......
"Too young?, too frumpy?" I asked.
Oh noooo, it's great, they all agreed.
I pulled the curtain shut and heard: "It looks like it was made for her." and further, " The best part is that it does not look like it's even from here!"
Thus were born the Salvation Army Fashionistas.The reason it fit me was because someone had shortened the straps at the shoulder, shortening the torso, and making it suitable only for someone like myself who is torso-deficient. Thus the under-arm chafing. Now if I can fix that......
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Two Jeannette stories
While undressing, Jeannette cut her nose on the museum admission button stuck in the buttonhole of her shirt. She had been thinking of changing to a sexy nightgown from the layers of bulky winter clothes she was loosely piled with in order to elicit some interest from David who was as usual glued to the television. Clad in knee socks and panties, she rushed to the mirror to see whether the sharply stinging cut would ruin the effect of allure. Eventually deciding that the house was too cold anyway, she compromised with the ensemble of socks, sexy black gown and topped the outfit with a gray hooded sweatshirt from a college no one they knew had attended.
The sweatshirt was a sore point in that it came via a former boyfriend who had stolen it from an unknown source, which meant that it was from the wardrobe of another woman. It was one of the reasons that she had stopped seeing that guy. His infidelities were legion and he had a habit of adopting clothing from women. He was a small man, and so, could easily fit into a lot of women’s’ clothing. This sweatshirt, however was just the right amount of oversize, and was exceedingly soft, so she kept it although who it smelt like now was up for grabs.
David was absorbed by a nature show; not that it mattered, he alternated between sporting events and nature shows and spent little time conferring with Jeannette about her preferences. For her part, Jeanette saw romance sneaking away once more and turned to contemplate her magazine and the frequent query- When did so many nature shows suddenly appear on TV?
2.
When Jeanette left her husband, it was without premeditation. She left the house and was gone. Disappearing was a skill she had developed as a teenager. Hanging out with a group of kids for hours and suddenly becoming rammy or bored, she would leave a room without fuss or preamble and leave the house as well. Later they would say to her: “It was hours before we realized you weren’t coming back”.
It was hours before you noticed that you weren’t paying attention” Jeannette would reply.
It was much the same with her husband. One day he woke up and leaned over the bed to kiss her sleeping face and beheld her empty pillow. Was she here yesterday he wondered?
The sweatshirt was a sore point in that it came via a former boyfriend who had stolen it from an unknown source, which meant that it was from the wardrobe of another woman. It was one of the reasons that she had stopped seeing that guy. His infidelities were legion and he had a habit of adopting clothing from women. He was a small man, and so, could easily fit into a lot of women’s’ clothing. This sweatshirt, however was just the right amount of oversize, and was exceedingly soft, so she kept it although who it smelt like now was up for grabs.
David was absorbed by a nature show; not that it mattered, he alternated between sporting events and nature shows and spent little time conferring with Jeannette about her preferences. For her part, Jeanette saw romance sneaking away once more and turned to contemplate her magazine and the frequent query- When did so many nature shows suddenly appear on TV?
2.
When Jeanette left her husband, it was without premeditation. She left the house and was gone. Disappearing was a skill she had developed as a teenager. Hanging out with a group of kids for hours and suddenly becoming rammy or bored, she would leave a room without fuss or preamble and leave the house as well. Later they would say to her: “It was hours before we realized you weren’t coming back”.
It was hours before you noticed that you weren’t paying attention” Jeannette would reply.
It was much the same with her husband. One day he woke up and leaned over the bed to kiss her sleeping face and beheld her empty pillow. Was she here yesterday he wondered?
Monday, October 02, 2006
Makes Good Use of Time
A Man A Car, A Plan: Planaman
I was driving home for a change, when I saw something unusual in front of me. A guy on a small motorcycle kept sliding back to have a discussion with a person in a car. I suppose they know each other, I thought, but instead of keeping pace with the slowly moving car in rush hour traffic, the cyclist would bound ahead, and then slip backward for another word or two. This action intrigued me, but it was only a mild aberration.
In another mile, the cyclist veered off, and made a turn and the rest of us in the rat race plodded slowly forward, a metal taffy pull on the highway; go ahead, shrink closer together, etc.
The next thing I noticed was that the guy in the car who had been the friend of motorcycle Bob, let’s call him, pulled up to a truck that was carrying the equipment and workers for a lawn service, and I saw the guy take a business card from the guy in the passenger seat of the truck.
This guy makes very good use of his time, I thought. Here I am just driving home, and this other guy is making friends, getting contacts, contracting work to be done. What else could he do while I drove passively behind? It turns out, that he could go to the drive in dry cleaners and come out ahead of me at the next light, a neat trick. He also picked up some dinner, cleaned the inside of his windshield, went through some mail on the seat next to him, changed his shirt, and tie, combed his hair, applied fresh cologne to disguise what I could only surmise was the accumulated odors of the day, and picked up his date at a bus stop which he probably arranged by cell phone before I pulled up in back of his car.
At this point, I was completely in awe. If he had not already picked up that other woman, I was going to jockey my car so as to get a better view of the guy and meet him myself. After all, a man who was so productive on the road could only be a paragon of efficiency in his home. Unfortunately I was not quick enough to think of that plan in time to catch up with him; also, the road was very crowded, as the rush to home continued for the majority of workers on our route. We continued driving for a while and the girlfriend wrapped a package she had pulled from her tote, changed her outfit, applied makeup, made one or two calls of her own, rummaged in the back seat to come up with a newspaper wherein she appeared to be engrossed in the classified pages, but the light in the car was fading, and my eyesight is just not what it used to be. Perhaps they live in the car, I thought. All they need is a bathroom and a couple of blankets, and they need never leave the car at all. Perhaps he conducts business by phone and laptop while making the rounds of his daily errands. Most other people would feel claustrophobic, but I know of one or two people who have lived in cars, or claimed to do so, and who knows how many people there are who just spend their day in the car? I know a salesman, but he likes getting out of the car to stretch his legs and to do business with his clients. He prefers eating in restaurants, too, as would I in his place, but the couple in front of me seemed perfectly content to conduct all of the business of their lives in the front seat of that small sedan.
Before I could surmise anything else about the two, we came to a stop at a gaper’s delay, and I read his bumper sticker, to wit: You don’t have to believe everything you think. Ain’t that the truth? I thought. Even stopped in traffic, I was being made to think philosophically by his choice of reading material on the car. Wow! I was blown away by the fabulous functioning duo in front of my eyes. It is not often that one gets a show while driving their humdrum route home from the daily toil for cash.
I thought about going further, but was afraid of being at some point disappointed. Surely they would embark at some destination, ruining the invention of my imagination. With some relief, as I neared home, I made my turn, even then wondering about the magical life of the man whose teacher must have written in his report card; makes good use of time.
I was driving home for a change, when I saw something unusual in front of me. A guy on a small motorcycle kept sliding back to have a discussion with a person in a car. I suppose they know each other, I thought, but instead of keeping pace with the slowly moving car in rush hour traffic, the cyclist would bound ahead, and then slip backward for another word or two. This action intrigued me, but it was only a mild aberration.
In another mile, the cyclist veered off, and made a turn and the rest of us in the rat race plodded slowly forward, a metal taffy pull on the highway; go ahead, shrink closer together, etc.
The next thing I noticed was that the guy in the car who had been the friend of motorcycle Bob, let’s call him, pulled up to a truck that was carrying the equipment and workers for a lawn service, and I saw the guy take a business card from the guy in the passenger seat of the truck.
This guy makes very good use of his time, I thought. Here I am just driving home, and this other guy is making friends, getting contacts, contracting work to be done. What else could he do while I drove passively behind? It turns out, that he could go to the drive in dry cleaners and come out ahead of me at the next light, a neat trick. He also picked up some dinner, cleaned the inside of his windshield, went through some mail on the seat next to him, changed his shirt, and tie, combed his hair, applied fresh cologne to disguise what I could only surmise was the accumulated odors of the day, and picked up his date at a bus stop which he probably arranged by cell phone before I pulled up in back of his car.
At this point, I was completely in awe. If he had not already picked up that other woman, I was going to jockey my car so as to get a better view of the guy and meet him myself. After all, a man who was so productive on the road could only be a paragon of efficiency in his home. Unfortunately I was not quick enough to think of that plan in time to catch up with him; also, the road was very crowded, as the rush to home continued for the majority of workers on our route. We continued driving for a while and the girlfriend wrapped a package she had pulled from her tote, changed her outfit, applied makeup, made one or two calls of her own, rummaged in the back seat to come up with a newspaper wherein she appeared to be engrossed in the classified pages, but the light in the car was fading, and my eyesight is just not what it used to be. Perhaps they live in the car, I thought. All they need is a bathroom and a couple of blankets, and they need never leave the car at all. Perhaps he conducts business by phone and laptop while making the rounds of his daily errands. Most other people would feel claustrophobic, but I know of one or two people who have lived in cars, or claimed to do so, and who knows how many people there are who just spend their day in the car? I know a salesman, but he likes getting out of the car to stretch his legs and to do business with his clients. He prefers eating in restaurants, too, as would I in his place, but the couple in front of me seemed perfectly content to conduct all of the business of their lives in the front seat of that small sedan.
Before I could surmise anything else about the two, we came to a stop at a gaper’s delay, and I read his bumper sticker, to wit: You don’t have to believe everything you think. Ain’t that the truth? I thought. Even stopped in traffic, I was being made to think philosophically by his choice of reading material on the car. Wow! I was blown away by the fabulous functioning duo in front of my eyes. It is not often that one gets a show while driving their humdrum route home from the daily toil for cash.
I thought about going further, but was afraid of being at some point disappointed. Surely they would embark at some destination, ruining the invention of my imagination. With some relief, as I neared home, I made my turn, even then wondering about the magical life of the man whose teacher must have written in his report card; makes good use of time.
Friday, September 29, 2006
On the Radio
Norris was at work, listening to some god-awful caterwauling on the radio. Katherine, working across the table asked "who is that?" Norris's opinion was that it might be Curt Kobain.
"Nope, too happy" was Kath's repy.
"Well, how about Nirvana?" opined Norris.
"Still too happy".
"I don't know," said Norris, "It sounds pretty anguished to me".
"Yeah, but it is still a happier anguish" was Katherine's last take on the subject.
"That could be our band's name" Norris said, knowing that there would not be any band, but saying so anyway. It was kind of like what she used to tell Tessa all the time; "I saw it, and frankly, it was poignant, but boring."
"Nope, too happy" was Kath's repy.
"Well, how about Nirvana?" opined Norris.
"Still too happy".
"I don't know," said Norris, "It sounds pretty anguished to me".
"Yeah, but it is still a happier anguish" was Katherine's last take on the subject.
"That could be our band's name" Norris said, knowing that there would not be any band, but saying so anyway. It was kind of like what she used to tell Tessa all the time; "I saw it, and frankly, it was poignant, but boring."
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Phone Solicitor
Norris was tiring of immersing her hands in water. Talk about sub urbanity she thought. As if in answer, the phone rang, “Hi, I ‘m calling for the children’s hospital” said a young woman’s voice. Norris was let down; it was not a real call from someone good.
“Oboy” she was good at getting rid of telephone solicitors, but did not exactly enjoy it.
The telephone voice giggled at Norris’s dolorous reply and Norris asked “Do you want money?” Just before the girl could resume her memorized speech- “no”
“Well, do you want children?” Norris was thinking ahead here, “Because I don’t have either”.
“No,” the girl replied.
“Well, what is it then?”
“I want to know if you want the paper.” By now the pre written speech was totally out the window and Norris thought why do I want a paper from the children’s Hospital? They put out a paper? Talk about non-sequitur, sheesh, I didn’t mean for this to get out of hand.
“When you get the paper delivered, one dollar goes to the hospital…” the girl seemed to be veering back toward her previous spiel.
“Wait, I pay the hospital?”
“No, you pay the carrier but...”
“The hospital gets the money and I get the paper?” This is not too awful Norris thinks, and then thinks of having her Sunday mornings shattered by the rude blatting of the front doorbell, and having to face some obnoxious adolescent while still in her pajamas. “No, thanks, I’m not here a lot.” (Subject closed)
“Okay,” the phone voice registers, ( lost another one.)
Norris reluctantly returns to submergence.
“Oboy” she was good at getting rid of telephone solicitors, but did not exactly enjoy it.
The telephone voice giggled at Norris’s dolorous reply and Norris asked “Do you want money?” Just before the girl could resume her memorized speech- “no”
“Well, do you want children?” Norris was thinking ahead here, “Because I don’t have either”.
“No,” the girl replied.
“Well, what is it then?”
“I want to know if you want the paper.” By now the pre written speech was totally out the window and Norris thought why do I want a paper from the children’s Hospital? They put out a paper? Talk about non-sequitur, sheesh, I didn’t mean for this to get out of hand.
“When you get the paper delivered, one dollar goes to the hospital…” the girl seemed to be veering back toward her previous spiel.
“Wait, I pay the hospital?”
“No, you pay the carrier but...”
“The hospital gets the money and I get the paper?” This is not too awful Norris thinks, and then thinks of having her Sunday mornings shattered by the rude blatting of the front doorbell, and having to face some obnoxious adolescent while still in her pajamas. “No, thanks, I’m not here a lot.” (Subject closed)
“Okay,” the phone voice registers, ( lost another one.)
Norris reluctantly returns to submergence.
Dinner Plans
and household woes
Hi , I’m really depressed.
Oh? What is it this time?
Well, I just discovered while cleaning the top of the stove, that the funny burning smell we were looking for last night was the brand new counter top and the brand new cutting board. This apartment isn’t even a month old, and already I have ruined something. Lou is going to hit the roof and I don’t know if I can take it.
Did you know that the amazing Ginsu steak knife makes a wonderful wood plane? In fact, it worked better than the actual wood plane I used first. In my usual Lucy tries to hide a cow in the kitchen style, I was hacking burnt wood off the cutting board when I realized that it smelled just like hotdogs.
Does this mean that all these years I have been eating thinly disguised kosher wood chips? NO, what it means is that all those old hot dogs are being made into cutting boards since people got so hinky about nitrates in the food. They chop up the dogs and press them into clever wooden shapes. In fact, I hear they do a mean parquet floor too, but that could be salami. I’ll look into it for you. Does the extra cash I blow on Kosher mean I get hickory instead of knotty pine? What do you think?
Well, I think this is great material for a story- it’s pretty funny stuff actually and you should write it all down like I told you yesterday.
I’m getting ready to go to my new job now. I just love wearing this neat little tuxedo shirt and my patent leather shoes. Do you want to have dinner at the monster inn before the Comet dance at the Planetarium tonight?
Well, here’s where my life is starting to resemble fiction, I already wrote our conversation before calling you. Do you think our lives are losing spontaneity?
And to answer your question, I don’t know if we can afford it; even if we only get the “victim”, we just shelled out 80 bucks for groceries last night and what with the counter and all he’s going to be in one hell of a mood and it will be a miracle if we get to the dance at all.
Maybe you could put a potted plant on the burnt spot.
No, it’s right next to the stove, which would not be good at all.
Okay, so how about a lamp? You have to see well to cook, right?
No, same spot, it’s just awkward. Anything put there would be knocked over by someone’s elbow.
Oh well, Dave and Denise are coming in at 6:30 and we’re going out for dinner and then to the dance.
Yeah, when they say 6:30 that means 9:30 if you’re lucky.
No, they promised to come early which means they could show up on time, and if they don’t show by 8:30, we’re going without them because we promised Timmy and Bagwan we’d be there by at least 10.
Oh. We.., maybe we’ll meet you. Or maybe there will be a national disaster before he gets home and the burnt counter won’t seem so bad. I’m working on dematerializing in case that disaster doesn’t come through. How about that?
Good idea! If you perfect it, let me know. Actually, you could dematerialize over here but I have to clean. I’ll see you tonight. Maureen is coming from the suburbs; I think we can get a ride with her.
Okay. She goes to the phone, calls Tess and reads the story to the phone, and hangs up. No answer. She leaves a message:
Hi, I really don’t have to call you now because I have already written the whole conversation down in case you’re not home…..still, no one answers; how typical. At least I got a few pages of dialogue out of it.
She tries calling someone else.
Hi , I’m really depressed.
Oh? What is it this time?
Well, I just discovered while cleaning the top of the stove, that the funny burning smell we were looking for last night was the brand new counter top and the brand new cutting board. This apartment isn’t even a month old, and already I have ruined something. Lou is going to hit the roof and I don’t know if I can take it.
Did you know that the amazing Ginsu steak knife makes a wonderful wood plane? In fact, it worked better than the actual wood plane I used first. In my usual Lucy tries to hide a cow in the kitchen style, I was hacking burnt wood off the cutting board when I realized that it smelled just like hotdogs.
Does this mean that all these years I have been eating thinly disguised kosher wood chips? NO, what it means is that all those old hot dogs are being made into cutting boards since people got so hinky about nitrates in the food. They chop up the dogs and press them into clever wooden shapes. In fact, I hear they do a mean parquet floor too, but that could be salami. I’ll look into it for you. Does the extra cash I blow on Kosher mean I get hickory instead of knotty pine? What do you think?
Well, I think this is great material for a story- it’s pretty funny stuff actually and you should write it all down like I told you yesterday.
I’m getting ready to go to my new job now. I just love wearing this neat little tuxedo shirt and my patent leather shoes. Do you want to have dinner at the monster inn before the Comet dance at the Planetarium tonight?
Well, here’s where my life is starting to resemble fiction, I already wrote our conversation before calling you. Do you think our lives are losing spontaneity?
And to answer your question, I don’t know if we can afford it; even if we only get the “victim”, we just shelled out 80 bucks for groceries last night and what with the counter and all he’s going to be in one hell of a mood and it will be a miracle if we get to the dance at all.
Maybe you could put a potted plant on the burnt spot.
No, it’s right next to the stove, which would not be good at all.
Okay, so how about a lamp? You have to see well to cook, right?
No, same spot, it’s just awkward. Anything put there would be knocked over by someone’s elbow.
Oh well, Dave and Denise are coming in at 6:30 and we’re going out for dinner and then to the dance.
Yeah, when they say 6:30 that means 9:30 if you’re lucky.
No, they promised to come early which means they could show up on time, and if they don’t show by 8:30, we’re going without them because we promised Timmy and Bagwan we’d be there by at least 10.
Oh. We.., maybe we’ll meet you. Or maybe there will be a national disaster before he gets home and the burnt counter won’t seem so bad. I’m working on dematerializing in case that disaster doesn’t come through. How about that?
Good idea! If you perfect it, let me know. Actually, you could dematerialize over here but I have to clean. I’ll see you tonight. Maureen is coming from the suburbs; I think we can get a ride with her.
Okay. She goes to the phone, calls Tess and reads the story to the phone, and hangs up. No answer. She leaves a message:
Hi, I really don’t have to call you now because I have already written the whole conversation down in case you’re not home…..still, no one answers; how typical. At least I got a few pages of dialogue out of it.
She tries calling someone else.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
How to buy spices
An excerpt of the soon to be published Che Sera Cookbook:
When shopping for herbs and spices, get anything that looks good to you, or anybody with you, or the odd bystander in the spice store. Buy lots of colors, shapes and textures- you can find out what to do with them later, and if you don’t you still have the raw material for amusing home décor. Nothing looks better on your kitchen wall than a lot of glass jars full of great looking stuff.
Note: you may want to avoid buying some things which are too hot to serve as anything other than say, paint remover. This is precisely what sales help is for; don’t be afraid to ask for assistance in weeding out the more lethal items and hope this is not one of their “bad” days. If it is, buy stuff anyway, it will cheer you up some; probably nothing will help them.
Should you feel I have been too vague about suggestions, my guideline is:
1. green stuff
2. yellow stuff
3. red stuff
4. leafy substances
5. things that have shape
I don’t bother with labels. It astounds my friends and makes cooking look much more difficult than it really is. People are sure I am psychic. If you want to give this impression but are sure you will put curry into your tapioca, simply label the bottom of the jars. It is mistake proof and you sill still appear to be a culinary genius.
When shopping for herbs and spices, get anything that looks good to you, or anybody with you, or the odd bystander in the spice store. Buy lots of colors, shapes and textures- you can find out what to do with them later, and if you don’t you still have the raw material for amusing home décor. Nothing looks better on your kitchen wall than a lot of glass jars full of great looking stuff.
Note: you may want to avoid buying some things which are too hot to serve as anything other than say, paint remover. This is precisely what sales help is for; don’t be afraid to ask for assistance in weeding out the more lethal items and hope this is not one of their “bad” days. If it is, buy stuff anyway, it will cheer you up some; probably nothing will help them.
Should you feel I have been too vague about suggestions, my guideline is:
1. green stuff
2. yellow stuff
3. red stuff
4. leafy substances
5. things that have shape
I don’t bother with labels. It astounds my friends and makes cooking look much more difficult than it really is. People are sure I am psychic. If you want to give this impression but are sure you will put curry into your tapioca, simply label the bottom of the jars. It is mistake proof and you sill still appear to be a culinary genius.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Sleeping Beauty
We were sleeping in the single bed in my room at my parents' house, and the sun shone on our faces waking us up. My eyes were still closed and you thought I was asleep when you raised up on your elbow and looking down at me , and said "God, you are so beautiful." I moved about acting asleep until you kissed me awake.
That was the first and last time any of my boyfriends said that to me. You thought I did not hear it, but I did. The sad part is that no one of you ever said it in my hearing. Why not?
Yeah, you might have a false memory. It's not you, it's the guy who will probably not read this.
That was the first and last time any of my boyfriends said that to me. You thought I did not hear it, but I did. The sad part is that no one of you ever said it in my hearing. Why not?
Yeah, you might have a false memory. It's not you, it's the guy who will probably not read this.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
The 4th of July
I woke up this morning hearing a band playing. This is not unusual as I often think I hear music in the house, mostly at night. Usually it is a radio left playing upstairs.
I realized it was the parade. I threw on some clothes and went downstairs to find Jeff watching the news in his sweatpants. "Parade" I told him. "I hear the bands". He of course did not believe me, so I wandered down the driveway to see the parade.
It's a small town kind of deal, part of the town marches, children ride bikes and everyone gets a small flag(made in China).
It is the neighborly thing to do unless caught out later, when you can plead the sleeping late defense. This year they gave out balloons, beads (to the faithful, I noticed, as they came from the church) and ice cream sandwiches. Breakfast of champions. When the black high school band passed I smelled pancakes and bacon. I mentioned this to Jane. She asked me what that meant. I said it means someone over there (motioning across the street) is making breakfast. She laughed, glad I was not making a racially biased remark. Small minds, small town USA.
I realized it was the parade. I threw on some clothes and went downstairs to find Jeff watching the news in his sweatpants. "Parade" I told him. "I hear the bands". He of course did not believe me, so I wandered down the driveway to see the parade.
It's a small town kind of deal, part of the town marches, children ride bikes and everyone gets a small flag(made in China).
It is the neighborly thing to do unless caught out later, when you can plead the sleeping late defense. This year they gave out balloons, beads (to the faithful, I noticed, as they came from the church) and ice cream sandwiches. Breakfast of champions. When the black high school band passed I smelled pancakes and bacon. I mentioned this to Jane. She asked me what that meant. I said it means someone over there (motioning across the street) is making breakfast. She laughed, glad I was not making a racially biased remark. Small minds, small town USA.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Email Woes
Nory questions her contacts.
Nory, tired of forwarded messages and terse responses, asked Tom to write her a story. What she got in response was a series of the usual inane and whiny messages. A story, she thought, has characters and a narrative. These puny messages, while original to the writer, could be improved upon if he tried. She could not complain much, however, because hardly anyone but Linda wrote cogent letters.
Linda’s letters were so pleasurable to read that there was an impulse to save them for posterity. Nory did have a small cache of hand written letters from Linda and a few others that she could not discard. The only hand written note she possessed and had ever received from Tom, was a scrap of paper which read: Back in a wink of a quark’s life. When she found it, he had gone out to get provisions for breakfast that they would share, or perhaps it was something else, she could no longer remember; it was that long ago. She thought at the time, that a quark might be some kind of bird. In the years which passed between then and now, she had learned via several sources that the quark lived in space, and was not so much a bird as a particle; of what she had no idea, nor did she wish to find any more information about it. If she asked, she would receive a ream of research on the subject. Sometimes she asked for stuff just because she was too lazy, and he was so good at finding the information she wanted. The note itself remained in the shoe box with the other hand written letters and cards she had deemed worthy of saving.
At least I get multiple notes to amuse me, was Nory’s opinion. She thought Tom might agree, although he rarely concurred with anything she wrote to him, she felt that his disagreement was calculated so that she would write again to counter his remarks, or to defend herself
. She had learned over time, that to argue with anyone at all was probably not worth the time and energy expended, but Tom made her experience her feelings on a more dramatic level than others did, and she was not sure of why that should be. Still, she had started to realize when she was being baited, and replied to him with the same kind of banter he used on her. He did not like it much, and had begun to complain about her replies, calling her “glib”.
Not thinking that glibness was a problem, she stayed her course, and eagerly awaited further correspondence.
Nory, tired of forwarded messages and terse responses, asked Tom to write her a story. What she got in response was a series of the usual inane and whiny messages. A story, she thought, has characters and a narrative. These puny messages, while original to the writer, could be improved upon if he tried. She could not complain much, however, because hardly anyone but Linda wrote cogent letters.
Linda’s letters were so pleasurable to read that there was an impulse to save them for posterity. Nory did have a small cache of hand written letters from Linda and a few others that she could not discard. The only hand written note she possessed and had ever received from Tom, was a scrap of paper which read: Back in a wink of a quark’s life. When she found it, he had gone out to get provisions for breakfast that they would share, or perhaps it was something else, she could no longer remember; it was that long ago. She thought at the time, that a quark might be some kind of bird. In the years which passed between then and now, she had learned via several sources that the quark lived in space, and was not so much a bird as a particle; of what she had no idea, nor did she wish to find any more information about it. If she asked, she would receive a ream of research on the subject. Sometimes she asked for stuff just because she was too lazy, and he was so good at finding the information she wanted. The note itself remained in the shoe box with the other hand written letters and cards she had deemed worthy of saving.
At least I get multiple notes to amuse me, was Nory’s opinion. She thought Tom might agree, although he rarely concurred with anything she wrote to him, she felt that his disagreement was calculated so that she would write again to counter his remarks, or to defend herself
. She had learned over time, that to argue with anyone at all was probably not worth the time and energy expended, but Tom made her experience her feelings on a more dramatic level than others did, and she was not sure of why that should be. Still, she had started to realize when she was being baited, and replied to him with the same kind of banter he used on her. He did not like it much, and had begun to complain about her replies, calling her “glib”.
Not thinking that glibness was a problem, she stayed her course, and eagerly awaited further correspondence.
Saturday, January 07, 2006
Ya call that music?
It's official, there is no music on late night television that I want to hear.
In fact, it may be safe to say that there is little new music that I wish to listen to at all.
It may just be the unnatural ringing in my ears (tinnitus) that is worse the last month or so, but I think it is just bad musicianship.
Have you any recommendations for movies I might like that I could rent? I am enjoying netflix, you get movies in the mail, and send them back. no human interaction required. No smell of rancid popcorn or rugs which smell of feet.
Evidently, the old ucch sound that you make that I make has been replaced partially by the newer and equally expressive yeish. Not quite sure how to spell it, but Jeff seems unable to resist repeating it after I say it. Sort of like Renee Chenault Fatah, whenever she is on I cannot resist yelling FATAH!!! and a woman on public radio : Latch mi Singh, Andy and I hear her at work and are powerless not to echo her name in unison.
In fact, it may be safe to say that there is little new music that I wish to listen to at all.
It may just be the unnatural ringing in my ears (tinnitus) that is worse the last month or so, but I think it is just bad musicianship.
Have you any recommendations for movies I might like that I could rent? I am enjoying netflix, you get movies in the mail, and send them back. no human interaction required. No smell of rancid popcorn or rugs which smell of feet.
Evidently, the old ucch sound that you make that I make has been replaced partially by the newer and equally expressive yeish. Not quite sure how to spell it, but Jeff seems unable to resist repeating it after I say it. Sort of like Renee Chenault Fatah, whenever she is on I cannot resist yelling FATAH!!! and a woman on public radio : Latch mi Singh, Andy and I hear her at work and are powerless not to echo her name in unison.
Monday, November 07, 2005
Otto & Minton
The news that Otto Steerage and Minton Mention was burbling some dritz was wasted on me. “Burble burble at the drive-in with a vengeance sez Otto”
“Yez man, and’ double the dritz on that burger adds Minton, not one to be left out of a conversation for long.
Mitzi Maison Mint Mention was home cryin the fer god sake’s blues over the toilert. “I bin peein’ ever’ 5 minutes fer 3 days strait, an’ them two never stopped to pass the time, let alone, never you mind, sleepin. My only consolation here is the more I cry, the less I gotta pee.
The fact is, that’s been life as I ‘d known it in these parts for more time than I care to remember, so leaving the status quo, I perambulated over the Marie’s to find her contemplating which of a vast collection of brilliant striped bikini panties to wear that day. I liked Marie because she did as she pleased. She is a commercial artist and works out of the house. Yesterday’s temperature zoomed clear past 96 and possessing that knowledge and secure in the belief that it would do so again today, I showed at my more or less regular hour to watch Marie, hanging herself over that drawing board in those multi shade undies, drawing a ad for ether white toe polish an’ flippin’ the sweat off the underside of her tits with the back of her hand without smudging the tempera; no mean feat.
I wasn’t due at my job at the Once Around the Track Dress Shoppe & Hardware for another 3 or 4 hours and knew Marie’s was as cool a place to hang out flickin the sweat off as any other. Besides, that panty trick in the beat the heat weather had been mine before it was hers, and Minton an’ Otto was wise to me an’ started their burbling activities out in my front yard pretending to have joined up with the friends of the animals and sneaking peeps from the ladders that went up to all the plastic bird feeders left out by Mrs. Bendheim-Fiduciary of the Third National Truss.
So I say “Look, Marie, I know I started this business but did you have to make it into such a goddam fetish?” And she says” Yes, well,” in that prissy way of hers, “well if a girl’s only going to wear one garment, it might as well be flattering” and I counter with “You got enough eye makeup on to constitute at least 3 garments already. What is this? We havin’ a session with Playhorse Magazine this afternoon or what?” And she says “yeah, well at your age I guess a little too much makeup could be a bad thing but….”
“This wouldn’t mean you have loosed the news to the ‘friends of the animals” that this is where the birds come and cool their feather now that they invested in all those ladders in my yard would it?”
So Marie, she goes: “a girl’s got to look her best at all times, you know” and I figure it’s time I invested in a swimsuit and a lawn chair anyway, bohemian life going downhill at the current rate that it was. I double back just in case Mitzi has quit cryin’ the by god etc. etc. which she has since I offered her something constructive to do instead, namely; spending the none too hard-earned cash of her just about fictitious husband since most of his time was pent on burbling activities anyway, which everybody pretty much knew. Not that burbling actually needed to take up so much time in the life of a full grown man, but there it was, ugly as a scabbed up knee and as unstable as the afternoon heat, Minton was booked up with this erstwhile & Otto burbling which actually no body knew what that amounted to.
Hearing the ladder crash out in the yard brought to mind that metallic sound of long icicles crashing off the treetops on to the roof in winter. We heard some muffled cursing & took off out of there at a run. Let the neighbors deal with the mess. Prob’ly not even need of an ambulance.
“Yez man, and’ double the dritz on that burger adds Minton, not one to be left out of a conversation for long.
Mitzi Maison Mint Mention was home cryin the fer god sake’s blues over the toilert. “I bin peein’ ever’ 5 minutes fer 3 days strait, an’ them two never stopped to pass the time, let alone, never you mind, sleepin. My only consolation here is the more I cry, the less I gotta pee.
The fact is, that’s been life as I ‘d known it in these parts for more time than I care to remember, so leaving the status quo, I perambulated over the Marie’s to find her contemplating which of a vast collection of brilliant striped bikini panties to wear that day. I liked Marie because she did as she pleased. She is a commercial artist and works out of the house. Yesterday’s temperature zoomed clear past 96 and possessing that knowledge and secure in the belief that it would do so again today, I showed at my more or less regular hour to watch Marie, hanging herself over that drawing board in those multi shade undies, drawing a ad for ether white toe polish an’ flippin’ the sweat off the underside of her tits with the back of her hand without smudging the tempera; no mean feat.
I wasn’t due at my job at the Once Around the Track Dress Shoppe & Hardware for another 3 or 4 hours and knew Marie’s was as cool a place to hang out flickin the sweat off as any other. Besides, that panty trick in the beat the heat weather had been mine before it was hers, and Minton an’ Otto was wise to me an’ started their burbling activities out in my front yard pretending to have joined up with the friends of the animals and sneaking peeps from the ladders that went up to all the plastic bird feeders left out by Mrs. Bendheim-Fiduciary of the Third National Truss.
So I say “Look, Marie, I know I started this business but did you have to make it into such a goddam fetish?” And she says” Yes, well,” in that prissy way of hers, “well if a girl’s only going to wear one garment, it might as well be flattering” and I counter with “You got enough eye makeup on to constitute at least 3 garments already. What is this? We havin’ a session with Playhorse Magazine this afternoon or what?” And she says “yeah, well at your age I guess a little too much makeup could be a bad thing but….”
“This wouldn’t mean you have loosed the news to the ‘friends of the animals” that this is where the birds come and cool their feather now that they invested in all those ladders in my yard would it?”
So Marie, she goes: “a girl’s got to look her best at all times, you know” and I figure it’s time I invested in a swimsuit and a lawn chair anyway, bohemian life going downhill at the current rate that it was. I double back just in case Mitzi has quit cryin’ the by god etc. etc. which she has since I offered her something constructive to do instead, namely; spending the none too hard-earned cash of her just about fictitious husband since most of his time was pent on burbling activities anyway, which everybody pretty much knew. Not that burbling actually needed to take up so much time in the life of a full grown man, but there it was, ugly as a scabbed up knee and as unstable as the afternoon heat, Minton was booked up with this erstwhile & Otto burbling which actually no body knew what that amounted to.
Hearing the ladder crash out in the yard brought to mind that metallic sound of long icicles crashing off the treetops on to the roof in winter. We heard some muffled cursing & took off out of there at a run. Let the neighbors deal with the mess. Prob’ly not even need of an ambulance.
Monday, October 24, 2005
Satin Chickens
Written 25 years ago…..
I got a note from my lover, vacationing in Austria. It was not the purple prose of a man in love; it was not the letter I thought I’d like to get.
I had a man who lives in Connecticut who used to write me these be-bop kind of letters that stretched my heart all out of shape and strained something in my throat. Those were the kind of letters a girl might expect from a man in love.
The day I got the postcard from Jonas he was to return from Austria, and laying around the apartment, waiting for his phone call, I got more and more upset and nervous. Where was he?
I had been thinking about this earlier letter writing person for several days because of a song on the radio. Steven used to use phrases of songs in his conversations, or in his letters, and not let on that they were not his own words. Often they were very cryptic, like the one about “satin chickens” and then, weeks or months later, I heard it, Lou Reed singing some thing about satin chickens, maybe an allusion, but there it was.
So, here I am, five, maybe eight years into my life and no real problems to speak of and here comes this Brooke Benton piece over the airwaves….”Ain’t it funny how time just keeps on slippin’ right away, and it stands out so clearly in my mind from one of those lost letters in a shoebox I keep stashed around here someplace.
For two or three days I try to remember the maiden name of Steven’s grandmother so that I can reach his cousins who live in the summer house down by the lake which is about a block away from the winter house up on the hill.
Eventually I come up with Mc Coy, how unlikely is that? I wonder, but it works and I reach Pierre, as I called the trombone playing cousin, and he says “This is so weird, Steve and Ruth just got married two days ago.” This is just too much for me, and having no decorum I ring up this two day bride who I probably got out of bed and say, voice from the past, not to worry. Steve was never one of your real big talkers and always kept up a strong guard. I don’t know what was going on there or how things were going , but as it was one of your four person weddings, I’d say she was pregnant (I was wrong) and that after living together the last few years, they had decided to get married.
I have to say that his voice on the phone did not give the impression that they were having any kind of a party.
It turns out he had been denied his unemployment benefits from the golf course and that eight years of college had not produced the famous fine artist I had envisioned him to become. “You pick the strangest times to call than anyone I’ve ever known” he told me. I apologized and explained that I really only wanted to talk about stuff, not get back together. He seemed so far removed and pretty cool, but I guess what else could he be?
Meanwhile I am annoyed at Jonas for not getting off the plane and rushing to phone me with his coat still on. I wonder where he is. When he left, his plan was to come back and live with me. Could be there’s a new plan in mind. Meanwhile, I’m lying here writing, thinking; ain’t it funny how time just keeps slippin’ right on away……
I got a note from my lover, vacationing in Austria. It was not the purple prose of a man in love; it was not the letter I thought I’d like to get.
I had a man who lives in Connecticut who used to write me these be-bop kind of letters that stretched my heart all out of shape and strained something in my throat. Those were the kind of letters a girl might expect from a man in love.
The day I got the postcard from Jonas he was to return from Austria, and laying around the apartment, waiting for his phone call, I got more and more upset and nervous. Where was he?
I had been thinking about this earlier letter writing person for several days because of a song on the radio. Steven used to use phrases of songs in his conversations, or in his letters, and not let on that they were not his own words. Often they were very cryptic, like the one about “satin chickens” and then, weeks or months later, I heard it, Lou Reed singing some thing about satin chickens, maybe an allusion, but there it was.
So, here I am, five, maybe eight years into my life and no real problems to speak of and here comes this Brooke Benton piece over the airwaves….”Ain’t it funny how time just keeps on slippin’ right away, and it stands out so clearly in my mind from one of those lost letters in a shoebox I keep stashed around here someplace.
For two or three days I try to remember the maiden name of Steven’s grandmother so that I can reach his cousins who live in the summer house down by the lake which is about a block away from the winter house up on the hill.
Eventually I come up with Mc Coy, how unlikely is that? I wonder, but it works and I reach Pierre, as I called the trombone playing cousin, and he says “This is so weird, Steve and Ruth just got married two days ago.” This is just too much for me, and having no decorum I ring up this two day bride who I probably got out of bed and say, voice from the past, not to worry. Steve was never one of your real big talkers and always kept up a strong guard. I don’t know what was going on there or how things were going , but as it was one of your four person weddings, I’d say she was pregnant (I was wrong) and that after living together the last few years, they had decided to get married.
I have to say that his voice on the phone did not give the impression that they were having any kind of a party.
It turns out he had been denied his unemployment benefits from the golf course and that eight years of college had not produced the famous fine artist I had envisioned him to become. “You pick the strangest times to call than anyone I’ve ever known” he told me. I apologized and explained that I really only wanted to talk about stuff, not get back together. He seemed so far removed and pretty cool, but I guess what else could he be?
Meanwhile I am annoyed at Jonas for not getting off the plane and rushing to phone me with his coat still on. I wonder where he is. When he left, his plan was to come back and live with me. Could be there’s a new plan in mind. Meanwhile, I’m lying here writing, thinking; ain’t it funny how time just keeps slippin’ right on away……
Monday, October 03, 2005
Bonnie's Farm
So, the last time I saw Bonnie, her phone rang and rang, making it almost impossible to finish a sentence. We tried, but kept losing track of our thoughts and had to start over a dozen times.
Then, one of her neighbors, a Nordic or German woman with sort of half a dog came by. The dog was some variety of Bassett hound, and his back end was held up by a harness.
He had to be heavy, and the womanwas struggling with him a bit. She said he was incontinent, mostly in the house. She could not make herself have the dog put down, and Bonnie, a pacifist and animal lover, said that even she would have had the animal put to sleep long ago.
We were in the yard where there were boxes of broken glass, frosted by the wash of water over long periods. She had gleaned them from beaches and water ways to use in her art projects. We were going to sort it except that we kept being interrupted.
I accidentally pushed bon's little white dog who was wet, a wiry compact little circus kind of dog, off the mini trampoline I was sitting on, and into a box of her glass that was all over the yard. The fact that there were copious amouts of seaglass and a trampoline in the yard was confounding enough but seemed normal, knowing Bonnie.
Eventually she said “all I really need is permission to throw it all away." I said "I think you can throw this away", but needed to choose a few choice pieces to take with me.
After that, the guy who rents a parking space dropped by for a chat and Bon insisted that “It is never like that here.” The parking guy agreed that the yard is usually quiet.
I felt like I was at a very sub-urban circus with all rings going at once.
The dog suddenly had blood flecks all over it, and we thought it was from the glass but no, just a snake for crap's sake, he had caught a snake in the yard, and the snake was bleeding.
We were just getting over that when her husband (the chef) came home with takeout, looking pissed and complaining that she had not answered the phone. They had not been married long, and he did not know me but appeared to suspect that it was my fault that everything had gone awry. I made away not liking the vibe at all.
There was some mention that he was closing the restaurant and making a full time job of music. Perhaps that would be a good reason to be cranky, but I had nothing to do with that.
I wonder how they are doing.
Then, one of her neighbors, a Nordic or German woman with sort of half a dog came by. The dog was some variety of Bassett hound, and his back end was held up by a harness.
He had to be heavy, and the womanwas struggling with him a bit. She said he was incontinent, mostly in the house. She could not make herself have the dog put down, and Bonnie, a pacifist and animal lover, said that even she would have had the animal put to sleep long ago.
We were in the yard where there were boxes of broken glass, frosted by the wash of water over long periods. She had gleaned them from beaches and water ways to use in her art projects. We were going to sort it except that we kept being interrupted.
I accidentally pushed bon's little white dog who was wet, a wiry compact little circus kind of dog, off the mini trampoline I was sitting on, and into a box of her glass that was all over the yard. The fact that there were copious amouts of seaglass and a trampoline in the yard was confounding enough but seemed normal, knowing Bonnie.
Eventually she said “all I really need is permission to throw it all away." I said "I think you can throw this away", but needed to choose a few choice pieces to take with me.
After that, the guy who rents a parking space dropped by for a chat and Bon insisted that “It is never like that here.” The parking guy agreed that the yard is usually quiet.
I felt like I was at a very sub-urban circus with all rings going at once.
The dog suddenly had blood flecks all over it, and we thought it was from the glass but no, just a snake for crap's sake, he had caught a snake in the yard, and the snake was bleeding.
We were just getting over that when her husband (the chef) came home with takeout, looking pissed and complaining that she had not answered the phone. They had not been married long, and he did not know me but appeared to suspect that it was my fault that everything had gone awry. I made away not liking the vibe at all.
There was some mention that he was closing the restaurant and making a full time job of music. Perhaps that would be a good reason to be cranky, but I had nothing to do with that.
I wonder how they are doing.
The New Scentsation
Perfume makes me gag. I used to wear a lot of it and made other people sick and did not understand their problem. Now it is my compaint too. I get a lot of magazines because they are a cheap diversion. Mostly I look at the pictures. The cats like the subscription inserts which can be wadded up into toys.
Most of these journals include a number of perfume samples which even when removed from the magazine, leave their essence lingering, giving my perusal a vaguely nauseating effect above and beyond the effects of the drivel offered up as prose.
Strangely, all of the scents smell the same to me. I keep meaning to write a short story where a young woman commits suicide with one of these perfume inserts. She slashes her throat with a fatal paper cut. Live fast, die young, and leave a good smelling corpse, that kind of thing.
Most of these journals include a number of perfume samples which even when removed from the magazine, leave their essence lingering, giving my perusal a vaguely nauseating effect above and beyond the effects of the drivel offered up as prose.
Strangely, all of the scents smell the same to me. I keep meaning to write a short story where a young woman commits suicide with one of these perfume inserts. She slashes her throat with a fatal paper cut. Live fast, die young, and leave a good smelling corpse, that kind of thing.
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