This weekend, my partner and I had the chance to celebrate the Passover Seder with my friend Brenna and her family. I'm still recounting the experience in my mind, but I was immedately taken with the tradition. I'm trying to figure out what sets it apart from other religious traditions I've celebrated like Christmas. There's the same family aspect, special foods, prayers, rituals. Is it the commercialism that surrounds so many Christian holidays? Even the significance of Easter is overtaken by a bunny with chocolate. I'm not a religious person at all, so why was I moved by this ritual?
And it struck me. It's the story. Whether you believe the story of Passover or care about it, if you participate in a seder, you're a part of the story. It's the talking and listening, the questioning. Brenna and her family are very relaxed about their traditions--and even poke fun at them. How nice though, to have a reason to sit and remember what binds you as a family. The tensions leave the room? The disputes fade? You eat the crappy food and remember how crappy it is, and that you do it every year with these people.
What a great way to pass something from parent to child. What a great way to communicate who you are as a person who you are in relation to everyone else in the world. My parents and I don't talk about these things much. It's like they fade as people into base for-the-moment humor and shopping. They are cut off from the world.
Things I love about Passover:
1. The Afikomen. (I kept thinking of Kofi Annan every time this word was spoken.)
2. The wine. (We did not drink Manischewitz, but lots of other great wine.)
3. The singing and stories, especially the impromptu ones.
4. Leah's version of the Haggadah, which has been used since the 1950's and still had the penciled-in names of her sisters, brothers and parents. (Mort!)
5. Opening the door for Elijah.
Things I do not like about Passover
1. Gefilte fish.
2. Matzo (unless it had jam or chocolate on it).
3. The angel of death.
Monday, April 25, 2005
Sunday, April 17, 2005
SR-14
Leaving work at sunset,
I wind my way down a gray stretch
of road. Scraggly brush and litter at the side
of a swampy ditch--a small metal shed catches
the sunlight just so and is transformed into a brilliant
monolith, like a doorway to another universe.
It's as if there's power in the universe
to remake all of us at sunset
into something better, more brilliant.
I can feel myself changing, stretching
out like a phoenix to catch
what’s left of the light I still have inside.
Some days, I feel like I've been turned sideways.
It's not as if I'm the only person in the universe
to feel this way. Amidst the rubble we strain to catch
a warm flicker of fire before the sun sets,
sending us into the night--darkness stretching
out before us in sable brilliance.
The trick is to not let the brilliant
aching of monotonous routine sidle
up to you. To keep the days from endless stretching
out like a ticking clock. To remember that the universe
has more in mind for us. Like a metal shed at sunset,
we are both glowing and dim, and mostly caught
somewhere in between. The catch
is to remember that brilliance
can happen near a swampy ditch, or a in car at sunset.
That whoever you appear to be on the outside,
you are more like a streaming comet, circling the universe
than cold metal, by a long stretch.
It's the space between your ribs as you stretch
that holds oxygen to fan the fire. Release the catch
on the door, and breathe into the universe
a sigh that strains forth, brilliant
in its desire, exhaling and expanding inside,
a glowing sphere of fire at sunset.
The sunset, a blazing pink so brilliant
it catches the tree tops and makes them glow, stretching
out besides me like a fiery sign from the universe.
I wind my way down a gray stretch
of road. Scraggly brush and litter at the side
of a swampy ditch--a small metal shed catches
the sunlight just so and is transformed into a brilliant
monolith, like a doorway to another universe.
It's as if there's power in the universe
to remake all of us at sunset
into something better, more brilliant.
I can feel myself changing, stretching
out like a phoenix to catch
what’s left of the light I still have inside.
Some days, I feel like I've been turned sideways.
It's not as if I'm the only person in the universe
to feel this way. Amidst the rubble we strain to catch
a warm flicker of fire before the sun sets,
sending us into the night--darkness stretching
out before us in sable brilliance.
The trick is to not let the brilliant
aching of monotonous routine sidle
up to you. To keep the days from endless stretching
out like a ticking clock. To remember that the universe
has more in mind for us. Like a metal shed at sunset,
we are both glowing and dim, and mostly caught
somewhere in between. The catch
is to remember that brilliance
can happen near a swampy ditch, or a in car at sunset.
That whoever you appear to be on the outside,
you are more like a streaming comet, circling the universe
than cold metal, by a long stretch.
It's the space between your ribs as you stretch
that holds oxygen to fan the fire. Release the catch
on the door, and breathe into the universe
a sigh that strains forth, brilliant
in its desire, exhaling and expanding inside,
a glowing sphere of fire at sunset.
The sunset, a blazing pink so brilliant
it catches the tree tops and makes them glow, stretching
out besides me like a fiery sign from the universe.
Saturday, April 09, 2005
Root
This is a screenshot from one of my new favorite websites the Visual Thesaurus. It visually maps out a word and its synonymns. There's an "autopilot" setting where it moves through a chain link of one word to the next. It's amazing to see how you can get from "rug" to "lilac." A little wordy six degrees of separation for ya.
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Things I wore that now embarrass me
I used to experiment with clothes. I came up with some really cool things sometimes. (I painted a monster on pair of jeans with a hole in the knee to look like the hole was the monster’s mouth; I made some Jackson Pollack-inspired Chuck Taylors, I had these awesome yellow and white classic Hush Puppies that I’d love to have today.) Sometimes, my experimentation didn’t work out so well.
1. Fifth grade ultimate outfit. I wore this outfit every M, W, F, as if no one would notice just because I was alternating on T, Th with different clothes. A yellow Icelandic-style sweater, and pinstriped jeans. (Remember those?)
2. Sixth grade mish-mash outfit. I think I put these three pieces together because they all were in the same color range. A pair of melon-colored Esprit cropped cargo pants, that were really ballooney. A button down shirt, also melon-colored with green and yellow (?) stripes. On cold days, I would layer a pinkish mohair cardigan over the button down. I believe the cardigan was originally my mother’s from the 60’s. I think I spilled maple syrup on in at some point because I remember it smelled maple-sweet.
3. Earrings that I made from two halves of a ring that broke in two (it was made of cheap metal. I was wearing these when I had my 7th grade class photo taken.
4. If my mom would have let me, I would have taken one of her silk scarves, wrapped it around my waist and fastened with a safety pin, and worn it as a skirt. I really would have. I’m so glad she caught that one.
5. In our school, an 8th grade middle school tradition of sexism was that the boys’ basketball team would play against the teachers during a school assembly. Several of my girlfriends and I decided to be cheerleaders during the event, and we made t-shirts that we wore during the game. I think Brian Logel’s name was scrawled across my chest, and other weird stuff that made my infatuation with him apparent.
6. This strange outfit that consisted of two polo shirts, a red one layered OVER a yellow one, tight khaki pants, and red Chuck Taylors.
1. Fifth grade ultimate outfit. I wore this outfit every M, W, F, as if no one would notice just because I was alternating on T, Th with different clothes. A yellow Icelandic-style sweater, and pinstriped jeans. (Remember those?)
2. Sixth grade mish-mash outfit. I think I put these three pieces together because they all were in the same color range. A pair of melon-colored Esprit cropped cargo pants, that were really ballooney. A button down shirt, also melon-colored with green and yellow (?) stripes. On cold days, I would layer a pinkish mohair cardigan over the button down. I believe the cardigan was originally my mother’s from the 60’s. I think I spilled maple syrup on in at some point because I remember it smelled maple-sweet.
3. Earrings that I made from two halves of a ring that broke in two (it was made of cheap metal. I was wearing these when I had my 7th grade class photo taken.
4. If my mom would have let me, I would have taken one of her silk scarves, wrapped it around my waist and fastened with a safety pin, and worn it as a skirt. I really would have. I’m so glad she caught that one.
5. In our school, an 8th grade middle school tradition of sexism was that the boys’ basketball team would play against the teachers during a school assembly. Several of my girlfriends and I decided to be cheerleaders during the event, and we made t-shirts that we wore during the game. I think Brian Logel’s name was scrawled across my chest, and other weird stuff that made my infatuation with him apparent.
6. This strange outfit that consisted of two polo shirts, a red one layered OVER a yellow one, tight khaki pants, and red Chuck Taylors.
Monday, April 04, 2005
Sunday, April 03, 2005
1986
I knew exactly what to wear: my black shirt with the big white polka dots, and my white pants with the little black polka dots. My mom had bought them from RAVE, my favorite store. My hair would be just perfect, and I had the best make-up idea from Seventeen.
I dialed my pink phone.
“Hello?”
Hi, Heather?”
“Yeah! Hi !”
“So what time are you going to pick me up tomorrow?”
We were going out to Akron, the town she had moved from just three months ago. It was the kind of place where kids went to 4-H meetings and wore cheap clothes from Ames. Heather still went to 4-H in our town, but at least now she had a sweater from The Limited.
“What are you going to wear?”
“ My pink Limited sweater.”
She was psyched when I told her about my polka-dot outfit.
“That’s so cool! Laura is gonna die!”
Laura was her old best friend from Akron. I imagined her with long, feathered hair, blue eyeshadow and really tight jeans. Heather told me that Laura already had a boyfriend. His name was Mike and he was older and had a job and a license. I bet he drove a Camero or something.
“So like, when we get there, what are you gonna say to Laura?”
“Oh, I dunno. I kinda thought I’d act all normal. But just talk about how cool Aurora is and be like, ‘Akron’s gay.’”
“Cool. We should act like we have boyfriends.”
“Yeah! Mine’s name will be Tim. What will yours be?
”Matt.”
Heather and her mom picked me up the next morning for the long drive out to Akron. I wondered if the highway would end and we’d have to drive down a dirt road or go past cow pastures. But Angie’s Roller Rink and Game Center was on a normal looking road with a bank and a Burger King across the street. Heather’s mom dropped us off and promised to be back at two.
Inside, there was a giant fluorescent Pac-Man on the wall and a disco ball in the middle of the skating rink. That stupid song by Jefferson Starship was blaring “We built this city….” I hated that song. We got our skates.
“These look dorky with my outfit.” They were totally spoiling my look.
The other kids there looked pretty normal. The girls were wearing stirrup pants and baggy sweaters, the boys weren’t skaters like the boys in Aurora, but they were cute.
Laura was in the corner with a couple of other girls. She was slight and pretty with long blond hair. I was at least five inches taller than she was.
“Hi Laura!” Heather said.
“Hi!.”
“This is Pam.”
“Hi!”
“Hi.”
I felt like a monster. I was still wearing my big winter coat because there was no where to put it. My hair had turned out frizzy and stupid. It was awkward.
“Come on, Heather. Let’s skate.” I said.
“Laura, do you want to skate with us?” Heather was trying to be nice, I didn’t know why though.
So the three of us make our way to the rink. Michael Jackson’s Thriller came on.
“Aw man, I love Michael Jackson!” I said. I started to skate backward.
“No way,” Laura said, “Boy George is way cuter.”
“Heather, I can’t believe you used to live here. I said. “There aren’t even any cute boys, like Tim and Matt.”
“Who are they?” asked Laura.
“They’re our boyfriends. See? Look at those two boys over there playing Asteroids. They’re like the cutest boys in here and Tim and Matt are waayyy cuter than that.”
Laura said she was tired, and went to sit down. We kept skating.
“So like, Heather. Do you know those boys? Do you liiiike them?”
“Ewwww. No! The one in the baseball hat, that’s Brian. He was in my class. And that’s Phillip next to him.” Brian was pretty cute. I kept looking over there every time we skated by. I thought maybe they were looking at me a little too.
We went to get some pop. Heather’s mom had given her enough money for two small pops, but I really wanted some candy too. It sucked.
And then I saw Brian get in line. He was getting pizza! I didn’t want to look over at him, but I really wanted to see if he was watching me. I could feel my cheeks getting red hot. I felt like I was standing strangely, like lopsided or something.
Heather ordered two small orange pops and I was embarrassed. What if Brian heard her asking for orange pop? He would think I was poor or something. I tried to act really cool as I took my pop from the concession man. I wanted to look like I didn’t even care about the pop. I stood up tall and tried to swiveled around on my heel and walk away. But the man wouldn’t let go! I gave him a dirty look.
“Say “thank you’,” he said. He raised his eyebrows and waited.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
I got away quickly and sat down. Laura and some other girls must have seen the whole thing. They were whispering and giggling and walking toward the video arcade. Heather didn’t say anything.
“Oh my god, I’m sooo embarrassed!”
“No one saw,” she said.
“I’m going to die! Is it almost time for you mom to get here? I hate this place. It’s boring.”
“It’s only one o’clock. We have another hour.”
I hated my outfit, I hated my stupid hair. I hated this stupid town. I wasn’t even sure Heather was the greatest friend. She only had one Limited sweater after all.
I dialed my pink phone.
“Hello?”
Hi, Heather?”
“Yeah! Hi !”
“So what time are you going to pick me up tomorrow?”
We were going out to Akron, the town she had moved from just three months ago. It was the kind of place where kids went to 4-H meetings and wore cheap clothes from Ames. Heather still went to 4-H in our town, but at least now she had a sweater from The Limited.
“What are you going to wear?”
“ My pink Limited sweater.”
She was psyched when I told her about my polka-dot outfit.
“That’s so cool! Laura is gonna die!”
Laura was her old best friend from Akron. I imagined her with long, feathered hair, blue eyeshadow and really tight jeans. Heather told me that Laura already had a boyfriend. His name was Mike and he was older and had a job and a license. I bet he drove a Camero or something.
“So like, when we get there, what are you gonna say to Laura?”
“Oh, I dunno. I kinda thought I’d act all normal. But just talk about how cool Aurora is and be like, ‘Akron’s gay.’”
“Cool. We should act like we have boyfriends.”
“Yeah! Mine’s name will be Tim. What will yours be?
”Matt.”
Heather and her mom picked me up the next morning for the long drive out to Akron. I wondered if the highway would end and we’d have to drive down a dirt road or go past cow pastures. But Angie’s Roller Rink and Game Center was on a normal looking road with a bank and a Burger King across the street. Heather’s mom dropped us off and promised to be back at two.
Inside, there was a giant fluorescent Pac-Man on the wall and a disco ball in the middle of the skating rink. That stupid song by Jefferson Starship was blaring “We built this city….” I hated that song. We got our skates.
“These look dorky with my outfit.” They were totally spoiling my look.
The other kids there looked pretty normal. The girls were wearing stirrup pants and baggy sweaters, the boys weren’t skaters like the boys in Aurora, but they were cute.
Laura was in the corner with a couple of other girls. She was slight and pretty with long blond hair. I was at least five inches taller than she was.
“Hi Laura!” Heather said.
“Hi!.”
“This is Pam.”
“Hi!”
“Hi.”
I felt like a monster. I was still wearing my big winter coat because there was no where to put it. My hair had turned out frizzy and stupid. It was awkward.
“Come on, Heather. Let’s skate.” I said.
“Laura, do you want to skate with us?” Heather was trying to be nice, I didn’t know why though.
So the three of us make our way to the rink. Michael Jackson’s Thriller came on.
“Aw man, I love Michael Jackson!” I said. I started to skate backward.
“No way,” Laura said, “Boy George is way cuter.”
“Heather, I can’t believe you used to live here. I said. “There aren’t even any cute boys, like Tim and Matt.”
“Who are they?” asked Laura.
“They’re our boyfriends. See? Look at those two boys over there playing Asteroids. They’re like the cutest boys in here and Tim and Matt are waayyy cuter than that.”
Laura said she was tired, and went to sit down. We kept skating.
“So like, Heather. Do you know those boys? Do you liiiike them?”
“Ewwww. No! The one in the baseball hat, that’s Brian. He was in my class. And that’s Phillip next to him.” Brian was pretty cute. I kept looking over there every time we skated by. I thought maybe they were looking at me a little too.
We went to get some pop. Heather’s mom had given her enough money for two small pops, but I really wanted some candy too. It sucked.
And then I saw Brian get in line. He was getting pizza! I didn’t want to look over at him, but I really wanted to see if he was watching me. I could feel my cheeks getting red hot. I felt like I was standing strangely, like lopsided or something.
Heather ordered two small orange pops and I was embarrassed. What if Brian heard her asking for orange pop? He would think I was poor or something. I tried to act really cool as I took my pop from the concession man. I wanted to look like I didn’t even care about the pop. I stood up tall and tried to swiveled around on my heel and walk away. But the man wouldn’t let go! I gave him a dirty look.
“Say “thank you’,” he said. He raised his eyebrows and waited.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
I got away quickly and sat down. Laura and some other girls must have seen the whole thing. They were whispering and giggling and walking toward the video arcade. Heather didn’t say anything.
“Oh my god, I’m sooo embarrassed!”
“No one saw,” she said.
“I’m going to die! Is it almost time for you mom to get here? I hate this place. It’s boring.”
“It’s only one o’clock. We have another hour.”
I hated my outfit, I hated my stupid hair. I hated this stupid town. I wasn’t even sure Heather was the greatest friend. She only had one Limited sweater after all.
Thursday, March 31, 2005
The remarkable mundane
I'm reading this book, _The Hours_ which was turned into the recent film. It is a great book--and very spooky, because practically every paragraph contains something that I've thought before. Like, just this week, I was at the library downtown,and standing in the vestibule, just beside the door, but not in the way of the door. I was putting on my gloves and thinking "This is what normal people do...they stand to the side and put on their gloves and take out their umbrella. Glad I got that covered, and accomplished it so normally." Because, really, don't you feel sometimes just on the verge of madness? What is keeping you from throwing yourself into the bushes, or grabbing the stranger walking by? It feels like an act sometimes--and you're simply mimicing what other "normal" people do (Judith Butler, thank you very much). And so the books goes, "On the steps of Hogarth House, she pauses to remember herself. She has learned over the years that sanity involves a certain measure of impersonation, not simply for the benefit of husband and servants but for the sake, first and foremost, of one's own convictions." So...yeah...sometimes just the act of walking down the street in a regular fashion seems a remarkable feat.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Barf
"Name's Barf. I'm a mog. Half-man. Half-dog. I'm my own best friend."
Spaceballs, the Movie
Always on the couch. The new couch. My first piece of grown-up furniture (“grown-up” equals not a hand-me-down and not purchased from a second-hand shop). It’s as if the mishaps of the universe are intentionally directed toward the nicest furniture.
Not even a week after the couch was delivered, we had a wine scare. Erika. On couch with red wine in hand. Bela, excited by a new person in the house. Jumps on Erika. Wine spills on couch. I must proudly admit, I could have gone into convulsions on the floor, but I kept it together. Some warm water vinegar, and a whole lot of salt later, the stain was miraculously gone. Disaster averted. Friendship with Erika maintained. Dogs banned from sitting on the couch. (They ignore this rule when we are out).
Last night, it was barf.
And not just your average barf. Bee barf. Let me explain.
About a week ago, Tom, our friendly bee-keeper came to check out our hive. It is doing wonderfully. It is so healthy in fact that we may have to divide the hive into two and re-queen the original. Lots of new baby bees in there. Also, lots of honey and beeswax.
Tom scraped the frames and left pieces of beeswax in the grass. Neat! You can pick up the pieces, pocked with honeycomb chambers. They smell like honey, of course. Lovely evidence of the ingenuity of insects.
Bela obviously appreciated the bees' hard work too, because she ate the beeswax. How do I know? We came home last night to piles of oddly chunky barf. Imagine melting your favorite Crayola crayons (in maize, gray and sepia tones), letting them harden, and then cracking the wax into hundreds of tiny bits. That’s what the barf looked like. And the dead give away...there were dead bees in it.
She bee-barfed her way from the couch to the oriental rug, catching the hand-crocheted afghan in between.
The dogs are now banned from the living room altogether. I vow to never spend another evening daubing at the couch.
The experience and my reaction to it is proof that I have entered the adult world. Now I know why my mother was such a freak about the furniture, the cabinets, the rugs, curtains, pillows and everything else. I hear her voice when I scream, “Good god! Can’t I have anything nice around here?!”
Spaceballs, the Movie
Always on the couch. The new couch. My first piece of grown-up furniture (“grown-up” equals not a hand-me-down and not purchased from a second-hand shop). It’s as if the mishaps of the universe are intentionally directed toward the nicest furniture.
Not even a week after the couch was delivered, we had a wine scare. Erika. On couch with red wine in hand. Bela, excited by a new person in the house. Jumps on Erika. Wine spills on couch. I must proudly admit, I could have gone into convulsions on the floor, but I kept it together. Some warm water vinegar, and a whole lot of salt later, the stain was miraculously gone. Disaster averted. Friendship with Erika maintained. Dogs banned from sitting on the couch. (They ignore this rule when we are out).
Last night, it was barf.
And not just your average barf. Bee barf. Let me explain.
About a week ago, Tom, our friendly bee-keeper came to check out our hive. It is doing wonderfully. It is so healthy in fact that we may have to divide the hive into two and re-queen the original. Lots of new baby bees in there. Also, lots of honey and beeswax.
Tom scraped the frames and left pieces of beeswax in the grass. Neat! You can pick up the pieces, pocked with honeycomb chambers. They smell like honey, of course. Lovely evidence of the ingenuity of insects.
Bela obviously appreciated the bees' hard work too, because she ate the beeswax. How do I know? We came home last night to piles of oddly chunky barf. Imagine melting your favorite Crayola crayons (in maize, gray and sepia tones), letting them harden, and then cracking the wax into hundreds of tiny bits. That’s what the barf looked like. And the dead give away...there were dead bees in it.
She bee-barfed her way from the couch to the oriental rug, catching the hand-crocheted afghan in between.
The dogs are now banned from the living room altogether. I vow to never spend another evening daubing at the couch.
The experience and my reaction to it is proof that I have entered the adult world. Now I know why my mother was such a freak about the furniture, the cabinets, the rugs, curtains, pillows and everything else. I hear her voice when I scream, “Good god! Can’t I have anything nice around here?!”
Thursday, March 17, 2005
Doodle
Templates, ink plates,
tin cans, red hands, summer tans,
plumbers, morticians, x-ray technicians,
dumb luck, nip-n-tuck,
awe-struck, give a fuck,
drink a shot, pick your snot,
leave to rot, fucking cock,
don't you knock?
Full sail, gun whale
locked in jail, bound to fail,
dog fart, donkey cart,
saucy tart,
but is it art?
Meth-head, fall out of bed,
king is dead, she said he said,
Q-bert rock, eat my sock,
dumb jock,
Dark sable, kitchen table,
Clark Gabel, Tower of Babel.
tin cans, red hands, summer tans,
plumbers, morticians, x-ray technicians,
dumb luck, nip-n-tuck,
awe-struck, give a fuck,
drink a shot, pick your snot,
leave to rot, fucking cock,
don't you knock?
Full sail, gun whale
locked in jail, bound to fail,
dog fart, donkey cart,
saucy tart,
but is it art?
Meth-head, fall out of bed,
king is dead, she said he said,
Q-bert rock, eat my sock,
dumb jock,
Dark sable, kitchen table,
Clark Gabel, Tower of Babel.
Saturday, March 12, 2005
A Story I Shouldn't Have Written
"She’s like a colt," he thought. Standing across the room, he watched her shake her long, brown hair. She was surrounded by men, a manhattan in one hand and a fist in the other. She was pretending to be a prize fighter, delivering the knockout punch. They loved her bravado and it was clear she enjoyed the attention.
He sipped his martini. He pinched himself so that his swelling erection would be less noticeable. "She’s brash. A young, female lawyer who’s out to prove she has balls just like the men."
She saw him watching her. "The stupid, fat fuck," she thought. "He just shovels those hors d’oeuvres into his gaping maw like some sort of retard. I wouldn’t be surprised if he started drooling." She was used to getting attention. "Look at me, I’ve got three of the most powerful trial lawyers in the city laughing at my jokes."
“Oooh. Better get out the taser! Kelli’s in the house,” she heard one of them say. They loved it. She wasn’t afraid to be a bitch and they ate it up.
‘Oh, come on, Mark. You know I can kick your ass,” she threatened.
All the posturing, the brawling. It was more than just an act. It was a tribal ritual. An admission price. Sure, there were senior women lawyers in the firm, but they were tokens. They had succeeded by adopting the motherly role. She had seen them working late nights and had witnessed the sacrifices they made. But they never had access to the real power. They never participated in the raunchy, brutish conversations that happened behind closed doors. Those women were teaching younger lawyers how to be good little attorneys while the real decisions were getting made by the men.
She saw him coming toward her, pushing his way into the circle, his martini slopping over the rim of the glass.
“Hey, Kelli, great party! The firm really goes all out for Christmas!” he said.
“Yeah, Dave. You’re lucky we let you come.” He was oblivious.
“They have Stoli, which is great, because I only drink martinis with Stoli vodka.”
Everyone was abandoning her. She was trapped alone by this Homer Simpson look-alike yammering on about vodka. Not even a very good vodka.
“How’s life? You got any interesting cases?
“Oh you know. An asbestos class action here, a lead poisoning case there. How are you? How’s your little harem?” She noticed him wince. He was a special breed. One of those men who was never really in a position to conquer the king, so he established his own little fiefdom. He surrounded himself with pert young women, hiring them just out of college. He gave them titles like “specialist” and “manager” to fool the firm into thinking he had brought them there to do work rather than what was obvious—he just wanted to swing his dick around.
“My harem? Oh.” He gave a knowing little laugh. “You mean my staff. They’re good girls. Working hard.”
He saw her looking past him impatiently. Her drink was still half full. He knew she was groping for an excuse to abandon him for the bar, so he lept. “Oh yeah. My harem. They’ll do just about anything for me.”
“Oh really? They’ll do your laundry for you?”
“Actually, one time Stacie did bring my shirts to the dry cleaners and picked them up for me.”
She could see that his shirt had rings of sweat beneath his armpits. She had to get him to go away. “Wow, Dave…how about your coffee?”
“Grande Americano. Everyday.
“Well, well, well. Sounds like they do just about everything but bend over.”
He giggled nervously at her remark. "A six-foot giant who giggles like a little girl," she thought. “Dave, you can’t be suggesting that you’re getting it on with them.”
He couldn’t believe it. She was flirting with him. "A little sly banter, some sexual innuendo...." He could see the lace of her bra from his height. She wore the same power suits as the other female attorneys, but buttoned her dress shirts low. He had heard some of the male attorneys talk about the way she dressed. They would laugh about taking a break from billing for a peep show in Kelli’s office.
She drained her manhattan. “Well, Dave,” she drawled, “I’ll tell you what. You prove that you got one of them to sleep with you, and I’ll sleep with you myself.”
His fat paws clung to his martini glass. She wanted to rip it from him and smash it over his head.
“How can I prove it?” he choked.
“Like they do in the movies, you big stud. You gotta bring me some panties.”
She backed away from him slowly and made her way to the bar. She sat down next to a and ordered another drink. “Two cherries this time,” she said loudly, and looked over her shoulder at him.
And though he was now standing by himself in the middle of the room, he couldn’t move. He saw the girls on his staff sitting in the corner of the room. They had each brought a date to the party—some young kid with a hot car and a low paying job. They were all shit-faced. Silly little girls. He hated to seem them go off with those punks, drunk and helpless. "I’m like a father to them," he thought.
He had the outdated notion that they’d be off to neck somewhere in the back of a car. Things would maybe go a bit too far. What kind of panties did they wear? Could he pay one of their dates to bring him a pair?
The next day was excruciating for him. People were clearing out early for the holidays. His girls rolled in late, bragging about who had the bigger hangover.
He saw her in the lobby several times, always with clients. She didn’t look at him. He had brought a pair of his wife’s underwear with him that morning. They were in his pocket, and he fingered them as he watched her. She would have to make good on her promise. He fantasized walking into her office, closing the door, and dangling them in front of her face. Would they do it right there? Would she insist on a hotel room?
He walked by her office once every hour. Every time the door was closed. At the end of the day, he shoved the underwear in an interoffice envelope and placed it in the mail.
When she opened the envelope the next day, she pulled out the underwear. It was gray and stretched thin, the elastic sagging. A post-it note was enclosed. It read, “Your place or mine?” and had a smiley face drawn in the corner.
He was called into the managing partner’s office that afternoon. The envelope sat between them on the desk. “Since you’ve been harassing not only attorneys but your employees as well, you’ve are no longer welcome at this firm,” the managing partner said. “You should know she’s considering some sort of legal action. You should think about retaining a lawyer.”
The underwear were just visible from where he was sitting. They were stuffed at the bottom of the envelope. He was hoping he could get them back. Would his wife notice they were gone?
“Besides, Dave, what were you thinking? Don’t you know that Kelli and I are together? I’m divorcing my wife. Kelli and I have been living together for months.”
He could barely breathe.
He sipped his martini. He pinched himself so that his swelling erection would be less noticeable. "She’s brash. A young, female lawyer who’s out to prove she has balls just like the men."
She saw him watching her. "The stupid, fat fuck," she thought. "He just shovels those hors d’oeuvres into his gaping maw like some sort of retard. I wouldn’t be surprised if he started drooling." She was used to getting attention. "Look at me, I’ve got three of the most powerful trial lawyers in the city laughing at my jokes."
“Oooh. Better get out the taser! Kelli’s in the house,” she heard one of them say. They loved it. She wasn’t afraid to be a bitch and they ate it up.
‘Oh, come on, Mark. You know I can kick your ass,” she threatened.
All the posturing, the brawling. It was more than just an act. It was a tribal ritual. An admission price. Sure, there were senior women lawyers in the firm, but they were tokens. They had succeeded by adopting the motherly role. She had seen them working late nights and had witnessed the sacrifices they made. But they never had access to the real power. They never participated in the raunchy, brutish conversations that happened behind closed doors. Those women were teaching younger lawyers how to be good little attorneys while the real decisions were getting made by the men.
She saw him coming toward her, pushing his way into the circle, his martini slopping over the rim of the glass.
“Hey, Kelli, great party! The firm really goes all out for Christmas!” he said.
“Yeah, Dave. You’re lucky we let you come.” He was oblivious.
“They have Stoli, which is great, because I only drink martinis with Stoli vodka.”
Everyone was abandoning her. She was trapped alone by this Homer Simpson look-alike yammering on about vodka. Not even a very good vodka.
“How’s life? You got any interesting cases?
“Oh you know. An asbestos class action here, a lead poisoning case there. How are you? How’s your little harem?” She noticed him wince. He was a special breed. One of those men who was never really in a position to conquer the king, so he established his own little fiefdom. He surrounded himself with pert young women, hiring them just out of college. He gave them titles like “specialist” and “manager” to fool the firm into thinking he had brought them there to do work rather than what was obvious—he just wanted to swing his dick around.
“My harem? Oh.” He gave a knowing little laugh. “You mean my staff. They’re good girls. Working hard.”
He saw her looking past him impatiently. Her drink was still half full. He knew she was groping for an excuse to abandon him for the bar, so he lept. “Oh yeah. My harem. They’ll do just about anything for me.”
“Oh really? They’ll do your laundry for you?”
“Actually, one time Stacie did bring my shirts to the dry cleaners and picked them up for me.”
She could see that his shirt had rings of sweat beneath his armpits. She had to get him to go away. “Wow, Dave…how about your coffee?”
“Grande Americano. Everyday.
“Well, well, well. Sounds like they do just about everything but bend over.”
He giggled nervously at her remark. "A six-foot giant who giggles like a little girl," she thought. “Dave, you can’t be suggesting that you’re getting it on with them.”
He couldn’t believe it. She was flirting with him. "A little sly banter, some sexual innuendo...." He could see the lace of her bra from his height. She wore the same power suits as the other female attorneys, but buttoned her dress shirts low. He had heard some of the male attorneys talk about the way she dressed. They would laugh about taking a break from billing for a peep show in Kelli’s office.
She drained her manhattan. “Well, Dave,” she drawled, “I’ll tell you what. You prove that you got one of them to sleep with you, and I’ll sleep with you myself.”
His fat paws clung to his martini glass. She wanted to rip it from him and smash it over his head.
“How can I prove it?” he choked.
“Like they do in the movies, you big stud. You gotta bring me some panties.”
She backed away from him slowly and made her way to the bar. She sat down next to a and ordered another drink. “Two cherries this time,” she said loudly, and looked over her shoulder at him.
And though he was now standing by himself in the middle of the room, he couldn’t move. He saw the girls on his staff sitting in the corner of the room. They had each brought a date to the party—some young kid with a hot car and a low paying job. They were all shit-faced. Silly little girls. He hated to seem them go off with those punks, drunk and helpless. "I’m like a father to them," he thought.
He had the outdated notion that they’d be off to neck somewhere in the back of a car. Things would maybe go a bit too far. What kind of panties did they wear? Could he pay one of their dates to bring him a pair?
The next day was excruciating for him. People were clearing out early for the holidays. His girls rolled in late, bragging about who had the bigger hangover.
He saw her in the lobby several times, always with clients. She didn’t look at him. He had brought a pair of his wife’s underwear with him that morning. They were in his pocket, and he fingered them as he watched her. She would have to make good on her promise. He fantasized walking into her office, closing the door, and dangling them in front of her face. Would they do it right there? Would she insist on a hotel room?
He walked by her office once every hour. Every time the door was closed. At the end of the day, he shoved the underwear in an interoffice envelope and placed it in the mail.
When she opened the envelope the next day, she pulled out the underwear. It was gray and stretched thin, the elastic sagging. A post-it note was enclosed. It read, “Your place or mine?” and had a smiley face drawn in the corner.
He was called into the managing partner’s office that afternoon. The envelope sat between them on the desk. “Since you’ve been harassing not only attorneys but your employees as well, you’ve are no longer welcome at this firm,” the managing partner said. “You should know she’s considering some sort of legal action. You should think about retaining a lawyer.”
The underwear were just visible from where he was sitting. They were stuffed at the bottom of the envelope. He was hoping he could get them back. Would his wife notice they were gone?
“Besides, Dave, what were you thinking? Don’t you know that Kelli and I are together? I’m divorcing my wife. Kelli and I have been living together for months.”
He could barely breathe.
Strangest Dream
I've told many people about this dream, but can never remember the details as I'm telling it (dreams are like that). The good thing is that I wrote the dream down in my journal, right after I dreamed it. Here's the entire thing, from start to finish.
I was a young asian girl. I fell out of a high-rise and into the the ocean below. As I was falling, I prepared myself for the shock of the water. I swam to land, through a canal between high buildings. There was a team of divers, with fins and gear all swimming to shore. I yelled to them for help, pulling on their legs when they ignored me. They were deaf: smiling but unhelpful.
I got to land and there was a man there. There were many children with him. He might have been a teacher. He asked me what had happened, and I told him I had just swam from Canada to the United States. (By this time, I was myself and not an asian girl.) He offered to give me a ride, and I got into his car. I was dripping wet. He left the children behind. His car was an orange gremlin and he turned the wheel very gingerly as he backed out of the lot.
Along the way, we passed a woman with a suitcase. She was wearing orange high heels and looking miserable. She was walking in the opposite direction with a squirt gun in her hand.
As were were driving, all of a sudden these animals came up behind us. There were dozens of them. They looked like a cross between a wolve and a kangaroo. They were moving very fast and passing us, but going in the same direction. Next, came these long, tall flowers. Uprooted and passing us too. They were menacing, a sign of something gone wrong.
The man told me that the woman in orange heels had predicted this. Her squirt gun was to protect her from the flowers. She was a prophet and everyone had thought she was crazy.
I looked in someone's house to see if people were taking notice. They were watching television and talking on the phone.
Then I noticed a big field and a crowd of people standing there, looking up at the sky. That's when I noticed that the sun was black and bloody. I said to myself, "oh my god, it's judgement day."
Then I woke up.
I was a young asian girl. I fell out of a high-rise and into the the ocean below. As I was falling, I prepared myself for the shock of the water. I swam to land, through a canal between high buildings. There was a team of divers, with fins and gear all swimming to shore. I yelled to them for help, pulling on their legs when they ignored me. They were deaf: smiling but unhelpful.
I got to land and there was a man there. There were many children with him. He might have been a teacher. He asked me what had happened, and I told him I had just swam from Canada to the United States. (By this time, I was myself and not an asian girl.) He offered to give me a ride, and I got into his car. I was dripping wet. He left the children behind. His car was an orange gremlin and he turned the wheel very gingerly as he backed out of the lot.
Along the way, we passed a woman with a suitcase. She was wearing orange high heels and looking miserable. She was walking in the opposite direction with a squirt gun in her hand.
As were were driving, all of a sudden these animals came up behind us. There were dozens of them. They looked like a cross between a wolve and a kangaroo. They were moving very fast and passing us, but going in the same direction. Next, came these long, tall flowers. Uprooted and passing us too. They were menacing, a sign of something gone wrong.
The man told me that the woman in orange heels had predicted this. Her squirt gun was to protect her from the flowers. She was a prophet and everyone had thought she was crazy.
I looked in someone's house to see if people were taking notice. They were watching television and talking on the phone.
Then I noticed a big field and a crowd of people standing there, looking up at the sky. That's when I noticed that the sun was black and bloody. I said to myself, "oh my god, it's judgement day."
Then I woke up.
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
Stuffed
We took the birdhouses down from the garage roof and cleaned them. We took off the roofs and saw each house was stuffed full of feathers and grasses. There was hardly room for birds. A tiny space was left in which a family of four could snuggle in for the night. How long had it taken? Had they spent years getting the layers just right? The perfect mix of lint and string, feathers and weeds? Or did they spend each spring cleaning out the old and bringing in new?
We emptied the stuffing and repainted the little houses. We replaced the rotten wood with new, strong boards. This weekend, we'll put them back up and a new family can move in. They will have a lot of work to do to get it just right.
We emptied the stuffing and repainted the little houses. We replaced the rotten wood with new, strong boards. This weekend, we'll put them back up and a new family can move in. They will have a lot of work to do to get it just right.
Saturday, March 05, 2005
100 Things
1. I grew up in East Aurora, New York, a small town South of Buffalo.
2. But I was actually born near Chicago, Illinois. I spent the first six years of my life there.
3. East Aurora is the home of the Roycroft Movement, an arts and crafts movement led by 19th century philosopher and writer, Elbert Hubbard. The style of the period is carried on today by the potters, furniture makers and silversmiths that still work on the Roycroft Campus.
4. I lived in a total of four different homes in East Aurora. One that my mom and dad bought when we moved there (Elmwood), one my mom bought when she and my dad divorced (Sycamore), the one we moved into when she married my step-dad (South Street), and the one we moved into when she got sick of feeling like South Street was never really her home (The Meadows).
5. The houses on Elmwood and South Street were haunted.
6. I consider my mom and dad’s divorce a good thing. I don’t know who I would be today if they had stayed together.
7. I wasn’t invited to the wedding, nor informed when my dad remarried. I found out by guessing and then confronting him. We were at his company picnic, and people kept congratulating him. His new wife had a ring on her left finger. Geez, I was 12 but I wasn’t stupid.
8. I also found out that my dad had moved from his home in Belfast, NY to Chicago, IL on my own. I hadn’t been able to contact him for some time—no one was answering his phone. So I called his office. The receptionist was appalled that his own daughter hasn’t been told.
9. I have one brother, Stephen.
10. He’s a performance artist. If you click on the Cupola Bobber link, you can view his website.
11. I have many step-siblings. Corie (34), Michael (31), the twins, Gregory and David (26) are my step-dad’s children. Brandon and “Randy J.” are my dad’s step-children. I have never met Randy J.
12. Stephen and I moved in with Mike, Dave, and Greg when I was a junior in high school. Corie was already in college.
13. I had to share a bathroom with all of them. It sucked. The toilet would get clogged a lot.
14. Mike stole my jewelry. I suspect he took it for beer money. My mom had to put a deadbolt on her bedroom door so he couldn’t steal her money.
15. I was always hungry living with so many boys. My best friend at the time bought me food for my birthday.
16. I still horde food.
17. Everyone thought I was a goody-two-shoes. In reality, I drank a lot and got myself into all sorts of compromising situations.
18. I have played many competitive sports: ice skating, swimming (free and fly) soccer (fullback), skiing (downhill and cross-country), tennis, and volleyball. I also danced.
19. I consider this the reason that I am still so athletic. I ran Hood to Coast last year, and race in triathlons and other events each summer.
20. I just started taking yoga. I love it!
21. I went to college at the mid-sized research institution, University of Rochester.
22. At first, I thought I wanted to be a biologist.
23. But then I started talking English and women’s studies classes. My science days were over.
24. By the time I graduated, I hated men. I has two crappy boyfriends while I was there. A possessive and physically-abusive Cuban man, and the aforementioned now-gay man.
25. I read a lot of feminist philosophy and listened to a lot of Ani DiFranco at that time.
26. However crappy they were, they each introduced me to one thing that today I still love: café con leche (the Cuban), and NPR (the gay man).
27. I managed to study abroad in Bath, England for the first semester of my senior year.
28. I loved Bath as much as I now love Portland. I had the best time just walking through the streets.
29. I survived by drinking tea and eating digestive biscuits (cookies, really). There is nothing else to eat in all of England. ‘Cept maybe a pork pie.
30. I spend a miserable year after college working at the University of Buffalo’s medical school.
31. Some days, I would tell my boss I was going to the library to do some research, and I would fall asleep in the stacks.
32. I was relieved when I was accepted into the graduate English program at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign.
33. Grad school was the first place I felt like I fit in. For the first time, I was surrounded by people who didn’t give me weird looks when I said I liked books, and that my favorite one was written by Edith Wharton.
34. My two best friends and I were labeled “the troika” by a group of horny, young, male grad students. It made me feel like a James Bond girl, dangerous and desirable.
35. For the first time, I partied more than I studied.
36. I discovered the pleasures of Bell’s beer, gin and tonics, swing dancing, and pool.
37. I met my partner, Tony, there.
38. Our first encounter was near the English building, as I was walking along with one of those horny, young, male grad students, Dan Yezbick. Dan knew Tony and said hello. Tony had long hair pulled back in a ponytail. He was dressed in a dress shirt and long pants and was carrying a leather shoulder bag. Mind you, this was a college campus in August.
39. I would see Tony every T, Th, as he taught his rhetoric section right before mine in the same classroom.
40. Our first conversation was about his being in grad school to “escape the inevitable,” (???).
41. I thereafter called him “Mr. Bitter Man.”
42. We’ve been together for almost eight years.
43. We left grad school together and moved to Cleveland, Ohio for a year.
44. Cleveland is a death trap. It almost killed me.
45. While there, I worked for a dot.com called “Gooey Industries.”
46. Gooey’s logo looked like a dog turd with eyes.
47. I was hired as “copywriter.” When I left, my title was “Executive Vice President of Marketing and Sales.” This took me nine whole months to achieve.
48. Everyone smoked there. They smoked at their desks and in meetings. If I get lung cancer, I’m going to sue them.
49. You can read about the company insanity on www.fuckedcompany.com by searching the archives for “Gooey.”
50. A Jehovah’s Witness just came to my door and wanted to read me a scripture. He asked me if I had problems with the government.
51. I have many problems with our government. I’m not about to talk them over with a Jehovah’s Witness.
52. We get a lot of religious missionaries here. We live near a big evangelical church called the “Apostolic Church of Christ.”
53. It doesn’t look much like a church. It looks a little like a military compound.
54. One day at Gooey, I just got sick of it and quit.
55. I had decided to move to Portland, Oregon.
56. It was the gardens that convinced me.
57. While living here, I’ve worked for a big four accounting firm (okay but bland), a regional law firm (spawn of Satan) and now I have my dream job as a writer.
58. I take that back. My dream job is Poet Laureate.
59. During my time at the law firm, I was sexually harassed by both my boss and some of the lawyers.
60. Two lawyers decided to make a bet about whether I would flash them during a firm-sponsored run.
61. One of the lawyers was a woman. If she lost the bet (meaning that the male lawyer convinced me to flash), she was supposed to run naked.
62. I don’t think she ever intended to run naked. She just wanted to embarrass me.
63. The male lawyer was just a jerk.
64. My friend’s theory was that she did it because I was like a governess. Not a lawyer, and not a secretary (not a wife, not a mother, not a hooker) but something in between. It made me a threat.
65. I found this to be an interesting theory.
66. I now work for a creative agency where I feel appreciated.
67. We do lots of work for BIG technology companies and BIG financial companies.
68. But I have one really cool project right now writing bios for well-known authors. I am writing bios for Robert Pinsky and Anchee Min.
69. They are amazing people.
70. Jesus. It is really hard trying to get 100 of these!
71. I live in the southeast part of Portland.
72. It’s less yuppie than other parts of the city.
73. I like it because you can still see 1970’s VWs or Toyota trucks here. Volvos and Chevys too.
74. We have a bee hive in our back yard.
75. Last year, during the hottest weeks, the bees would form a “beard” on the outside of the hive to keep the hive cool.
76. The hive also fell over one day. Tony had to stand it upright again. He got stung a few times.
77. I am waiting for the day when one of my uptight neighbors knocks on the door and tells me I need to get rid of the bees.
78. People tend to freak out about bees, though I like them.
79. We also have two cats and two dogs.
80. Domi, a fourteen year-old terrier, chases bubbles, eats poop, and scratches his butt on the couch.
81. Bela, a four year-old lab/shepherd, wakes me up every morning as soon as the sun comes up. She likes to eat my socks. She also ate my Mont Blanc fountain pen!
82. Wyley, an eight year-old calico drinks directly from the faucet.
83. Harley, a fourteen year-old orange tabby, drools when she is happy.
84. I’d like to get a bat house next.
85. A word I hate: slacks
86. A word I love: neutical.
87. If I were on death row, I’d request a ploughman’s lunch for my last meal, as well as a pint of good beer. Don’t forget the pickle.
88. I dream often of ghosts.
89. I once dreamed of the apocalypse.
90. When I’m stressed, I dream of dirty public bathrooms (hello, Freud?).
91. If I could invite anyone to dinner, dead or living, I’d invite Patti Smith, Francis McDormand, Peggy Guggenheim.
92. If I were stranded on a desert island, the one book like to have with me is The Hours.
93. Can I change my mind? A survival guide. Duh.
94. I love stories of people stranded on desert islands. I even liked Castaway. I was fascinated by the scene where Tom Hank’s character removes his own tooth.
95. If I were an animal, I’d probably be a cat.
96. Tony would be a shark.
97. I believe in astrology. Aquarius. Aries rising, Taurus moon.
98. I like to guess the sign of people I’ve just met.
99. I’m suspicious of Cancers and Libras.
100. I’ve never met a Gemini or Sagittarius I didn’t like.
2. But I was actually born near Chicago, Illinois. I spent the first six years of my life there.
3. East Aurora is the home of the Roycroft Movement, an arts and crafts movement led by 19th century philosopher and writer, Elbert Hubbard. The style of the period is carried on today by the potters, furniture makers and silversmiths that still work on the Roycroft Campus.
4. I lived in a total of four different homes in East Aurora. One that my mom and dad bought when we moved there (Elmwood), one my mom bought when she and my dad divorced (Sycamore), the one we moved into when she married my step-dad (South Street), and the one we moved into when she got sick of feeling like South Street was never really her home (The Meadows).
5. The houses on Elmwood and South Street were haunted.
6. I consider my mom and dad’s divorce a good thing. I don’t know who I would be today if they had stayed together.
7. I wasn’t invited to the wedding, nor informed when my dad remarried. I found out by guessing and then confronting him. We were at his company picnic, and people kept congratulating him. His new wife had a ring on her left finger. Geez, I was 12 but I wasn’t stupid.
8. I also found out that my dad had moved from his home in Belfast, NY to Chicago, IL on my own. I hadn’t been able to contact him for some time—no one was answering his phone. So I called his office. The receptionist was appalled that his own daughter hasn’t been told.
9. I have one brother, Stephen.
10. He’s a performance artist. If you click on the Cupola Bobber link, you can view his website.
11. I have many step-siblings. Corie (34), Michael (31), the twins, Gregory and David (26) are my step-dad’s children. Brandon and “Randy J.” are my dad’s step-children. I have never met Randy J.
12. Stephen and I moved in with Mike, Dave, and Greg when I was a junior in high school. Corie was already in college.
13. I had to share a bathroom with all of them. It sucked. The toilet would get clogged a lot.
14. Mike stole my jewelry. I suspect he took it for beer money. My mom had to put a deadbolt on her bedroom door so he couldn’t steal her money.
15. I was always hungry living with so many boys. My best friend at the time bought me food for my birthday.
16. I still horde food.
17. Everyone thought I was a goody-two-shoes. In reality, I drank a lot and got myself into all sorts of compromising situations.
18. I have played many competitive sports: ice skating, swimming (free and fly) soccer (fullback), skiing (downhill and cross-country), tennis, and volleyball. I also danced.
19. I consider this the reason that I am still so athletic. I ran Hood to Coast last year, and race in triathlons and other events each summer.
20. I just started taking yoga. I love it!
21. I went to college at the mid-sized research institution, University of Rochester.
22. At first, I thought I wanted to be a biologist.
23. But then I started talking English and women’s studies classes. My science days were over.
24. By the time I graduated, I hated men. I has two crappy boyfriends while I was there. A possessive and physically-abusive Cuban man, and the aforementioned now-gay man.
25. I read a lot of feminist philosophy and listened to a lot of Ani DiFranco at that time.
26. However crappy they were, they each introduced me to one thing that today I still love: café con leche (the Cuban), and NPR (the gay man).
27. I managed to study abroad in Bath, England for the first semester of my senior year.
28. I loved Bath as much as I now love Portland. I had the best time just walking through the streets.
29. I survived by drinking tea and eating digestive biscuits (cookies, really). There is nothing else to eat in all of England. ‘Cept maybe a pork pie.
30. I spend a miserable year after college working at the University of Buffalo’s medical school.
31. Some days, I would tell my boss I was going to the library to do some research, and I would fall asleep in the stacks.
32. I was relieved when I was accepted into the graduate English program at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign.
33. Grad school was the first place I felt like I fit in. For the first time, I was surrounded by people who didn’t give me weird looks when I said I liked books, and that my favorite one was written by Edith Wharton.
34. My two best friends and I were labeled “the troika” by a group of horny, young, male grad students. It made me feel like a James Bond girl, dangerous and desirable.
35. For the first time, I partied more than I studied.
36. I discovered the pleasures of Bell’s beer, gin and tonics, swing dancing, and pool.
37. I met my partner, Tony, there.
38. Our first encounter was near the English building, as I was walking along with one of those horny, young, male grad students, Dan Yezbick. Dan knew Tony and said hello. Tony had long hair pulled back in a ponytail. He was dressed in a dress shirt and long pants and was carrying a leather shoulder bag. Mind you, this was a college campus in August.
39. I would see Tony every T, Th, as he taught his rhetoric section right before mine in the same classroom.
40. Our first conversation was about his being in grad school to “escape the inevitable,” (???).
41. I thereafter called him “Mr. Bitter Man.”
42. We’ve been together for almost eight years.
43. We left grad school together and moved to Cleveland, Ohio for a year.
44. Cleveland is a death trap. It almost killed me.
45. While there, I worked for a dot.com called “Gooey Industries.”
46. Gooey’s logo looked like a dog turd with eyes.
47. I was hired as “copywriter.” When I left, my title was “Executive Vice President of Marketing and Sales.” This took me nine whole months to achieve.
48. Everyone smoked there. They smoked at their desks and in meetings. If I get lung cancer, I’m going to sue them.
49. You can read about the company insanity on www.fuckedcompany.com by searching the archives for “Gooey.”
50. A Jehovah’s Witness just came to my door and wanted to read me a scripture. He asked me if I had problems with the government.
51. I have many problems with our government. I’m not about to talk them over with a Jehovah’s Witness.
52. We get a lot of religious missionaries here. We live near a big evangelical church called the “Apostolic Church of Christ.”
53. It doesn’t look much like a church. It looks a little like a military compound.
54. One day at Gooey, I just got sick of it and quit.
55. I had decided to move to Portland, Oregon.
56. It was the gardens that convinced me.
57. While living here, I’ve worked for a big four accounting firm (okay but bland), a regional law firm (spawn of Satan) and now I have my dream job as a writer.
58. I take that back. My dream job is Poet Laureate.
59. During my time at the law firm, I was sexually harassed by both my boss and some of the lawyers.
60. Two lawyers decided to make a bet about whether I would flash them during a firm-sponsored run.
61. One of the lawyers was a woman. If she lost the bet (meaning that the male lawyer convinced me to flash), she was supposed to run naked.
62. I don’t think she ever intended to run naked. She just wanted to embarrass me.
63. The male lawyer was just a jerk.
64. My friend’s theory was that she did it because I was like a governess. Not a lawyer, and not a secretary (not a wife, not a mother, not a hooker) but something in between. It made me a threat.
65. I found this to be an interesting theory.
66. I now work for a creative agency where I feel appreciated.
67. We do lots of work for BIG technology companies and BIG financial companies.
68. But I have one really cool project right now writing bios for well-known authors. I am writing bios for Robert Pinsky and Anchee Min.
69. They are amazing people.
70. Jesus. It is really hard trying to get 100 of these!
71. I live in the southeast part of Portland.
72. It’s less yuppie than other parts of the city.
73. I like it because you can still see 1970’s VWs or Toyota trucks here. Volvos and Chevys too.
74. We have a bee hive in our back yard.
75. Last year, during the hottest weeks, the bees would form a “beard” on the outside of the hive to keep the hive cool.
76. The hive also fell over one day. Tony had to stand it upright again. He got stung a few times.
77. I am waiting for the day when one of my uptight neighbors knocks on the door and tells me I need to get rid of the bees.
78. People tend to freak out about bees, though I like them.
79. We also have two cats and two dogs.
80. Domi, a fourteen year-old terrier, chases bubbles, eats poop, and scratches his butt on the couch.
81. Bela, a four year-old lab/shepherd, wakes me up every morning as soon as the sun comes up. She likes to eat my socks. She also ate my Mont Blanc fountain pen!
82. Wyley, an eight year-old calico drinks directly from the faucet.
83. Harley, a fourteen year-old orange tabby, drools when she is happy.
84. I’d like to get a bat house next.
85. A word I hate: slacks
86. A word I love: neutical.
87. If I were on death row, I’d request a ploughman’s lunch for my last meal, as well as a pint of good beer. Don’t forget the pickle.
88. I dream often of ghosts.
89. I once dreamed of the apocalypse.
90. When I’m stressed, I dream of dirty public bathrooms (hello, Freud?).
91. If I could invite anyone to dinner, dead or living, I’d invite Patti Smith, Francis McDormand, Peggy Guggenheim.
92. If I were stranded on a desert island, the one book like to have with me is The Hours.
93. Can I change my mind? A survival guide. Duh.
94. I love stories of people stranded on desert islands. I even liked Castaway. I was fascinated by the scene where Tom Hank’s character removes his own tooth.
95. If I were an animal, I’d probably be a cat.
96. Tony would be a shark.
97. I believe in astrology. Aquarius. Aries rising, Taurus moon.
98. I like to guess the sign of people I’ve just met.
99. I’m suspicious of Cancers and Libras.
100. I’ve never met a Gemini or Sagittarius I didn’t like.
Thursday, March 03, 2005
Blink
I'm about one-third of the way into Malcom Gladwell's Blink and I'm quite absorbed. If you haven't heard of Malcom Gladwell, you've likely been living in Elbonia for the last three years. He's so cool he's uncool that this point. But he's a damn good writer.
His theory (or I shouldn't even say "his" theory, because what Gladwell is, is a very good journalist and synthesizer of information. He does not do any of his own research. He just asks questions and then brings in the research of others to support what he thinks is the answer.) or the premise that the arguement is built on is that we all have mechanisms that work below the surface of our consciousness, to help us make decisions. Many times, these snap judgements and instantaneous analyses are correct. We know things without knowing how we know them. For example:
1. I knew that my last boss would be a manipulative beast the very first time I met him. A quote from my journal at the time: "I can't work with an egomanical chauvinist. Which is actually what my impression of him is. Should I follow my instinct?"
2. One of my ex-boyfriends is gay. I knew this when we were dating, even though I never really knew it. Another journal quote, "If James were a woman, Adam would want to be with him. Maybe even if James weren't a woman." I was jealous of James. I always felt that Adam was interested in him in a way he was never interested in me. We broke up six months later. It wasn't until many years went by that he finally came out to me. I wasn't shocked.
What I'm hoping Gladwell will cover is how to harness those flashes of intuition and use them to one's advantage. I'd certainly like to never have another gay boyfriend, that's for sure.
His theory (or I shouldn't even say "his" theory, because what Gladwell is, is a very good journalist and synthesizer of information. He does not do any of his own research. He just asks questions and then brings in the research of others to support what he thinks is the answer.) or the premise that the arguement is built on is that we all have mechanisms that work below the surface of our consciousness, to help us make decisions. Many times, these snap judgements and instantaneous analyses are correct. We know things without knowing how we know them. For example:
1. I knew that my last boss would be a manipulative beast the very first time I met him. A quote from my journal at the time: "I can't work with an egomanical chauvinist. Which is actually what my impression of him is. Should I follow my instinct?"
2. One of my ex-boyfriends is gay. I knew this when we were dating, even though I never really knew it. Another journal quote, "If James were a woman, Adam would want to be with him. Maybe even if James weren't a woman." I was jealous of James. I always felt that Adam was interested in him in a way he was never interested in me. We broke up six months later. It wasn't until many years went by that he finally came out to me. I wasn't shocked.
What I'm hoping Gladwell will cover is how to harness those flashes of intuition and use them to one's advantage. I'd certainly like to never have another gay boyfriend, that's for sure.
Sunday, February 27, 2005
Itchin' for some stitchin'
They say it's a zen exercize. Repetition. Tacticle. Soft wool. Colors. Rows bloom like flowers one after the other. Time to connect with friends. With ways of the past. Mothers. Babies. Loved ones. Warmth. Comfort. Protection. Deep sleep. Love. Chatting with sisters. An intimate affair. Daydreaming. Time to gab. Time to be silent. No awkward silences. The yarn fills them. No bordeom. Time to sort out worries. What was she thinking about as she knit this? Look how she took the knots from her furrowed brow and placed them into the fabric. The cloth that bind us. Heirloom treature. Beauty with age.
My grandmother crocheted a blanket for me when I was an infant. As I grew up it was always folded neatly on the end of my bed. Zig-zaggy rows of minty green, pink, yellow and white. (Blue? I don't remember blue though it must have been there.) Even in high school, I would still curl up under it on breezy summer days. The perfect weight for a nap. It's likely now sitting in a moldy box in my mother's basement.
I should call my grandmother today. She's in her 80s. Sick and living with my Aunt and Uncle near Detroit. She's the woman who in her youth played the ukelele! Who scratched my back with her long nails. I remember being shocked when one day, during my mother and father's divorce, she started crying. Her tears were black from her mascara. I had only seen something like that happen on television, and I recall thinking it meant the woman was bad. But there was my own grandmother, crying black tears. Was she bad too? I was confused. She ushered my brother and me upstairs as my mom and dad fought in the kitchen. We had just returned from celebrating my 10th birthday at Chuckee Cheese.
I don't talk about my dad very often. Sometimes people ask. Now that I'm older, they mostly don't. He's retired and living in a rural part of New York State. I haven't spoken to him since 1997. I've heard that since he retired he lifts weights to stay in shape. I am not sure if he helps out with my grandmother.
My grandmother crocheted a blanket for me when I was an infant. As I grew up it was always folded neatly on the end of my bed. Zig-zaggy rows of minty green, pink, yellow and white. (Blue? I don't remember blue though it must have been there.) Even in high school, I would still curl up under it on breezy summer days. The perfect weight for a nap. It's likely now sitting in a moldy box in my mother's basement.
I should call my grandmother today. She's in her 80s. Sick and living with my Aunt and Uncle near Detroit. She's the woman who in her youth played the ukelele! Who scratched my back with her long nails. I remember being shocked when one day, during my mother and father's divorce, she started crying. Her tears were black from her mascara. I had only seen something like that happen on television, and I recall thinking it meant the woman was bad. But there was my own grandmother, crying black tears. Was she bad too? I was confused. She ushered my brother and me upstairs as my mom and dad fought in the kitchen. We had just returned from celebrating my 10th birthday at Chuckee Cheese.
I don't talk about my dad very often. Sometimes people ask. Now that I'm older, they mostly don't. He's retired and living in a rural part of New York State. I haven't spoken to him since 1997. I've heard that since he retired he lifts weights to stay in shape. I am not sure if he helps out with my grandmother.
Monday, February 21, 2005
Only Connect
A strange thing has happened since I started this Blog. I find myself checking it several times a day, although I have nothing to post, and a total of four people know about it. Rationally, I know that nothing will change unless I change it. But I'm craving comments, interaction, recognition. Something more than just my own voice.
I almost sent an e-mail out to my friends and family yesterday, giving them a link to the blog, and asking them to read my writing. But I hestitated. The self-promotion felt awkward. I didn't want my friends to feel I was putting a blog in place of real one-on-one communication with them (like some people do with junk e-mail and chain letters). Also, I felt like maybe I should keep this private. What if I want to rant about someone that's pissed me off? I'd only be able to do that in my old-fashioned, off-line (read: paper) journal, and not on this blog. And I felt I might want to do that here at some point, though I know when it comes time, I'll be too chicken-shit to do it.
Blog space is a hard thing for me to negotiate. Sitting here in the privacy of my living room compels me to reveal truths about myself. But this is public, and the truth is a little freaky. Or mean. Or boring. I abandoned my first blog because I couldn't deal with the fact that my friend Scott was reading it. It was more a personal journal than this is, and I was bitching about Tony, and I'd never bitch about Tony to Scott in real life, so it felt terrible to be doing it virtually. And though it was public, I felt like my privacy was invaded. How dare he read my blog! I didn't want someone I actually knew to read it. I only wanted people I didn't know to read it. I wanted anonymous connection.
***
It's so easy as an adult to drift away into this adult land where you only talk about interior decoration, or travel abroad, or dogs or kids or whatever. I can't remember the last time I had a totally intense, all night, heartwrenching conversation with someone. Where's that connection? That heart in your throat moment when you know someone else is right there with you? (Maybe that wasn't connection. Maybe that was hormones.)
Aren't there just those moments where you're sitting around with the people you love, and you're thinking, "Okay...this is a pleasant conversation, but what do you really think?" If you were to really say that, your companions would probably say, "What do I think about what?" And you would say, "I don't know. About anything. Tell me what you really think." What you would want from them is something dark and deep. Or maybe you just want them to tell you that they have always been in love with you but never had the guts to tell you. Or maybe you don't know what you want, you just think there needs to be more than this. That, before we die, we need to say something real. Something that's more than dogs, or couches or jobs. Say something that hums just like sex, or tastes better than chocolate, and pulls you to me and keeps us there forever.
I almost sent an e-mail out to my friends and family yesterday, giving them a link to the blog, and asking them to read my writing. But I hestitated. The self-promotion felt awkward. I didn't want my friends to feel I was putting a blog in place of real one-on-one communication with them (like some people do with junk e-mail and chain letters). Also, I felt like maybe I should keep this private. What if I want to rant about someone that's pissed me off? I'd only be able to do that in my old-fashioned, off-line (read: paper) journal, and not on this blog. And I felt I might want to do that here at some point, though I know when it comes time, I'll be too chicken-shit to do it.
Blog space is a hard thing for me to negotiate. Sitting here in the privacy of my living room compels me to reveal truths about myself. But this is public, and the truth is a little freaky. Or mean. Or boring. I abandoned my first blog because I couldn't deal with the fact that my friend Scott was reading it. It was more a personal journal than this is, and I was bitching about Tony, and I'd never bitch about Tony to Scott in real life, so it felt terrible to be doing it virtually. And though it was public, I felt like my privacy was invaded. How dare he read my blog! I didn't want someone I actually knew to read it. I only wanted people I didn't know to read it. I wanted anonymous connection.
***
It's so easy as an adult to drift away into this adult land where you only talk about interior decoration, or travel abroad, or dogs or kids or whatever. I can't remember the last time I had a totally intense, all night, heartwrenching conversation with someone. Where's that connection? That heart in your throat moment when you know someone else is right there with you? (Maybe that wasn't connection. Maybe that was hormones.)
Aren't there just those moments where you're sitting around with the people you love, and you're thinking, "Okay...this is a pleasant conversation, but what do you really think?" If you were to really say that, your companions would probably say, "What do I think about what?" And you would say, "I don't know. About anything. Tell me what you really think." What you would want from them is something dark and deep. Or maybe you just want them to tell you that they have always been in love with you but never had the guts to tell you. Or maybe you don't know what you want, you just think there needs to be more than this. That, before we die, we need to say something real. Something that's more than dogs, or couches or jobs. Say something that hums just like sex, or tastes better than chocolate, and pulls you to me and keeps us there forever.
Friday, February 18, 2005
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Busses and Bugs
The other day, I was waiting for the bus and I saw an earthworm by the side of the road. It was struggling to get somewhere moist and dark, but presently was covered in dry dirt and grit. I wanted to lean over, pick it up and fling it into the grass. But standing there was that guy with the long black braids and the eyeshadow and the combat boots. I would have felt self-conscious picking up a dirty worm in front of him.
And then I saw the bus coming toward me. It was a moment of crisis. Should I pick it up? Would it get run over by the bus? Maybe the bus would just narrowly miss it and the worm would have a chance.
It was agonizing, because the bus kept getting closer and the earthworm was still nowhere near the edge of the curb. And then it was too late! The bus was there and its wheel had stopped right before the worm.
As I climbed up the stairs, I knew that I was witnessing the worm's last moments. It would soon cease to struggle.
I don't know why I feel guilty about stuff like that. One time, there was a guy sitting in front of me on the bus and he had a bug crawling around on the back of his jacket. I wanted to say something, but somehow I felt weird about saying, "there's a bug on your jacket," and touching him to flick it off. So I just sat there and watched it crawl around. It was a harmless little bug, not like a bee or a brown recluse spider.
I saw the guy the next day on the bus again and I still felt bad about it.
And then I saw the bus coming toward me. It was a moment of crisis. Should I pick it up? Would it get run over by the bus? Maybe the bus would just narrowly miss it and the worm would have a chance.
It was agonizing, because the bus kept getting closer and the earthworm was still nowhere near the edge of the curb. And then it was too late! The bus was there and its wheel had stopped right before the worm.
As I climbed up the stairs, I knew that I was witnessing the worm's last moments. It would soon cease to struggle.
I don't know why I feel guilty about stuff like that. One time, there was a guy sitting in front of me on the bus and he had a bug crawling around on the back of his jacket. I wanted to say something, but somehow I felt weird about saying, "there's a bug on your jacket," and touching him to flick it off. So I just sat there and watched it crawl around. It was a harmless little bug, not like a bee or a brown recluse spider.
I saw the guy the next day on the bus again and I still felt bad about it.
Sunday, February 13, 2005
Untitled
Crooked tree,
you seemed two things to me at once.
Growing from a crevice in the rock,
your trunk echoing your gnarled root:
it had to wind through stone to taste earth.
An old and hardened man,
yet stooped and fragile.
I knew you!
My friend?
There was something deep
inside that made me think
you loved me,
though you gave me nothing but silence.
What happened to you when I had gone?
Was the winter wind too cold?
I said goodbye,
though I never wanted to leave you alone.
you seemed two things to me at once.
Growing from a crevice in the rock,
your trunk echoing your gnarled root:
it had to wind through stone to taste earth.
An old and hardened man,
yet stooped and fragile.
I knew you!
My friend?
There was something deep
inside that made me think
you loved me,
though you gave me nothing but silence.
What happened to you when I had gone?
Was the winter wind too cold?
I said goodbye,
though I never wanted to leave you alone.
Wild Ginseng
A secret place, so deep in a thicket
of brambles and thorns, that only the deer
know. Green, tender shoots and knobby roots mirror
a bitter, bright taste that is eaten quick.
Who knows how they feel? Rough tongues chewing love
and swallowing earth's gift of contentment.
Do they sigh with each bite, inhaling the scent
of spring, a belly full of just enough?
Do they whisper thanks, and stop to wonder
how it all came to be? This lovely wood,
that clear cool brook, how is it all so good?
Perhaps it's just like any other
meal, and they graze on toward bark and sweet grass
with no memory, each bite like their last.
of brambles and thorns, that only the deer
know. Green, tender shoots and knobby roots mirror
a bitter, bright taste that is eaten quick.
Who knows how they feel? Rough tongues chewing love
and swallowing earth's gift of contentment.
Do they sigh with each bite, inhaling the scent
of spring, a belly full of just enough?
Do they whisper thanks, and stop to wonder
how it all came to be? This lovely wood,
that clear cool brook, how is it all so good?
Perhaps it's just like any other
meal, and they graze on toward bark and sweet grass
with no memory, each bite like their last.
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