I miss you, Hockley. I love you.
Monday, December 24, 2012
Saturday, December 22, 2012
In Defense of The Santa Clause
Every night during the weeks leading up to Christmas I make myself a cup of tea, curl up with a blanket in a room full of books, and watch Christmas movies. Everything around me is quiet and dark. It's magical, and when my cat decides to grace me with her presence it's nothing short of miraculous.
Sometimes I think it's perfectly normal for an adult woman to indulge in the sheer volume of yuletide cinema that I do. I mean, it's Christmas. Who doesn't love twinkle lights and a hefty dusting of snow? Other times, though, I wonder if I ever progressed mentally past the age of five.
I was six when The Santa Clause came out, a paralyzingly shy little girl with wild hair who found solace in the pages of her picture books. I was a lucky kid. I had wonderful friends. I had a cool older brother who dressed up as a clown and made balloon animals at my birthday parties. I had parents who read me bedtime stories and made sure that I never closed my eyes at night without knowing that I was strong and beautiful. My days were consistent. I loved school. I grew up outwardly timid but inwardly confident that no one had a better life than I did.
It didn't take long for me to find in The Santa Clause what I hadn't even known I was looking for: something unbelievable in which to believe. That's not to say that I was wary of what couldn't be seen. On the contrary, I was a typical child and thus devoured my parents' fanciful tales of fairies who paid for lost teeth and a rabbit whose sole job was to hide candy for small children one day every year. But these stories were for everyone. Everyone who put a tooth under their pillow woke up a little richer. Everyone spent Easter skipping around the house shaking a pink plastic egg filled with jelly beans. I loved The Santa Clause because for me it was a specific, personal experience. Here was this astonishing place called the North Pole that supposedly no one but Santa and the elves ever saw, yet here it was, right in front of me. And here were the reindeer. And they really did fly. It was like my own little secret with Santa: They've never seen you, Santa, but I have.
The Santa Clause purists will scoff at my appreciation for the second movie, which many consider a blemish on the institution of Christmas. And if you haven't already rolled your eyes, this one's for you: I even love The Santa Clause 3, which I don't hesitate to admit is a horrible, horrible movie. One of the worst I've seen, in fact. But it's just so good. My tolerance of the Tim Allen Santa Clause franchise is simply astounding. Whereas the original was a private invitation to believe in what couldn't be proven, the sequels were validation that you weren't wrong to trust a story. However contrived, they were Christmas.
Movies, especially when you're young, have an extraordinary way of trapping a part of you inside them--not enough that you notice the absence, but enough that each time you watch them you recognize in the dialogue and the characters a piece of who you used to be. This is what I feel every Christmas when I watch The Santa Clause. It's the same North Pole, the same elves, the same reindeer. And there's six-year-old Olivia, her curls clipped back in red and green barrettes, mesmerized by a world no human but her had ever seen. That is why I watch: to remember for an hour and a half the girl who didn't know that all she wanted was something to believe.
Sometimes I think it's perfectly normal for an adult woman to indulge in the sheer volume of yuletide cinema that I do. I mean, it's Christmas. Who doesn't love twinkle lights and a hefty dusting of snow? Other times, though, I wonder if I ever progressed mentally past the age of five.
It didn't take long for me to find in The Santa Clause what I hadn't even known I was looking for: something unbelievable in which to believe. That's not to say that I was wary of what couldn't be seen. On the contrary, I was a typical child and thus devoured my parents' fanciful tales of fairies who paid for lost teeth and a rabbit whose sole job was to hide candy for small children one day every year. But these stories were for everyone. Everyone who put a tooth under their pillow woke up a little richer. Everyone spent Easter skipping around the house shaking a pink plastic egg filled with jelly beans. I loved The Santa Clause because for me it was a specific, personal experience. Here was this astonishing place called the North Pole that supposedly no one but Santa and the elves ever saw, yet here it was, right in front of me. And here were the reindeer. And they really did fly. It was like my own little secret with Santa: They've never seen you, Santa, but I have.The Santa Clause purists will scoff at my appreciation for the second movie, which many consider a blemish on the institution of Christmas. And if you haven't already rolled your eyes, this one's for you: I even love The Santa Clause 3, which I don't hesitate to admit is a horrible, horrible movie. One of the worst I've seen, in fact. But it's just so good. My tolerance of the Tim Allen Santa Clause franchise is simply astounding. Whereas the original was a private invitation to believe in what couldn't be proven, the sequels were validation that you weren't wrong to trust a story. However contrived, they were Christmas.Movies, especially when you're young, have an extraordinary way of trapping a part of you inside them--not enough that you notice the absence, but enough that each time you watch them you recognize in the dialogue and the characters a piece of who you used to be. This is what I feel every Christmas when I watch The Santa Clause. It's the same North Pole, the same elves, the same reindeer. And there's six-year-old Olivia, her curls clipped back in red and green barrettes, mesmerized by a world no human but her had ever seen. That is why I watch: to remember for an hour and a half the girl who didn't know that all she wanted was something to believe.
New URL Coming Soon!
Just so everyone knows, beginning on January 1st this blog will have a new URL: www.thoughtsofaroaminglogophile.blogspot.com
(Assuming, of course, that no one steals it before then. No one steal it before then)
(Assuming, of course, that no one steals it before then. No one steal it before then)
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Happy
This song is my newest obsession. I must have listened to it 30 times before I went to bed last night and I'm pretty sure I was singing it aloud in my sleep.
Monday, December 17, 2012
Why I Almost Left
I spent several hours today exploring the features of WordPress with every intention of switching over. After four years I was going to cheat on my blog with another blog. I selected my URL, my template, my color scheme, my header photo. I wrote my first post. I even clicked the option to allow virtual snow to fall on the home page until January 4th, which I guess is either when they predict they'll run out of virtual snow or when they're sure we've all perished in the impending apocalypse on Friday. So you see, I was all set to change.
But then night fell, as it has a habit of doing. Those who know me well know that my mind absorbs information more thoughtfully when everyone around me has gone to sleep. I began to think about everything I've gotten from my blog--everything it has allowed me to do and say, everyone with whom it has helped me keep in touch. It has seen me through two summers on Orcas Island, the second half of my college education, my year in Melbourne. It has tales of very un-Kosher Passovers and emotionally uncomfortable exchanges with strangers on public transportation. It explains why my relationship with my cat is the most complex I will likely ever have in my life. It's too dear to me. I just couldn't do it.
And so I come crawling back, prepared to hurl myself at Blogger's cyber feet and beg forgiveness for even entertaining the thought that I would somehow be a better person by discarding the past four years for the glitz of a new layout and virtual snow until January 4th. I have returned without ever really having left.
If you're curious, by the way, this was my "I'm moving up in the world" post on WordPress:
"Blogger has been good to me for the past four years. It helped me learn that my words have weight, that cyberspace is a vast dimension that belongs to everyone. I read back over my earliest posts there with gratitude (sandwiched between some hefty helpings of self-abasement), and have decided that it is time to move on.
"I am not one for New Year’s resolutions. I believe, with the part of my twenty-four-year-old soul that still lies awake on Christmas Eve listening for Santa, that every day is an opportunity to start over. Sure, January 1st is a great time to set goals for yourself, but so is March 7th or August 29th. This year, though, I’m compelled by an instinct I can’t explain to redefine myself in 2013. For one flawed reason or another I have let go of so many things that are important to me: people I love with whom I’ve lost touch, hobbies that were once my retreats but that I pushed aside and promptly forgot. I want to atone for my mistakes. I want to see new places and taste new foods and read new books. And I want to write all about it.
"Consider this jump to WordPress the first step in reestablishing my online presence. Here’s to a year of remembering what–and who–it is that makes me happy."
But then night fell, as it has a habit of doing. Those who know me well know that my mind absorbs information more thoughtfully when everyone around me has gone to sleep. I began to think about everything I've gotten from my blog--everything it has allowed me to do and say, everyone with whom it has helped me keep in touch. It has seen me through two summers on Orcas Island, the second half of my college education, my year in Melbourne. It has tales of very un-Kosher Passovers and emotionally uncomfortable exchanges with strangers on public transportation. It explains why my relationship with my cat is the most complex I will likely ever have in my life. It's too dear to me. I just couldn't do it.
And so I come crawling back, prepared to hurl myself at Blogger's cyber feet and beg forgiveness for even entertaining the thought that I would somehow be a better person by discarding the past four years for the glitz of a new layout and virtual snow until January 4th. I have returned without ever really having left.
If you're curious, by the way, this was my "I'm moving up in the world" post on WordPress:
"Blogger has been good to me for the past four years. It helped me learn that my words have weight, that cyberspace is a vast dimension that belongs to everyone. I read back over my earliest posts there with gratitude (sandwiched between some hefty helpings of self-abasement), and have decided that it is time to move on.
"I am not one for New Year’s resolutions. I believe, with the part of my twenty-four-year-old soul that still lies awake on Christmas Eve listening for Santa, that every day is an opportunity to start over. Sure, January 1st is a great time to set goals for yourself, but so is March 7th or August 29th. This year, though, I’m compelled by an instinct I can’t explain to redefine myself in 2013. For one flawed reason or another I have let go of so many things that are important to me: people I love with whom I’ve lost touch, hobbies that were once my retreats but that I pushed aside and promptly forgot. I want to atone for my mistakes. I want to see new places and taste new foods and read new books. And I want to write all about it.
"Consider this jump to WordPress the first step in reestablishing my online presence. Here’s to a year of remembering what–and who–it is that makes me happy."
P.S. Just for the record, Blogger, you're way less complicated.
Monday, December 10, 2012
Poetry Corner Monday
The Quilt
Larry Levis
I think it is all light at the end; I think it is air.
Those fields we drove past, turning to mud in April,
Those oaks with snow still roosting in them. Towns so small
Their entire economy suffered if a boy, late at night,
Stole the bar's only cue ball.
In one of them, you bought an old quilt, which, fraying,
Still seemed to hold the sun, especially in one
Bright corner, made from what they had available in yellow
In 1897. It reminded me of laughter, of you. And some woman
Whose faith in the goodness of the world was
Stubborn, sewed it in. "There now," she might as well
Have said, as if in answer to the snow, which was
Merciless. "There now," she seemed to say, to
Both of us. "Here's this patch of yellow. One field gone
Entirely into light. Goodbye..." We had become such artists
At saying good-bye; it made me wince to look at it.
Something at the edge of the mouth, something familiar
That makes the mouth turn down. An adjustment.
It made me wince to have to agree with her there, too,
To say the day itself, the fields, each thread
She had to sew in the poor light of 1897,
Were simply gifts. Because she must be dead by now, &
Anonymous, I think she had a birthmark on her cheek;
I think she disliked Woodrow Wilson & the war;
And if she outlived one dull husband, I think she
Still grew, out of spite & habit, flowers to give away.
If laughter is adult, an adjustment to loss,
I think she could laugh at the worst. When I think of you both,
I think of that one square of light in her quilt,
Of women, stubborn, believing in the goodness of the world.
How next year, driving past this place, which I have seen
For years, & steadily, through the worst weather, when
The black of the Amish buggies makes the snow seem whiter,
I won't even have to look up.
I will wince & agree with you both, & past the farms
Abandoned to moonlight, past one late fire burning beside
A field, the flame rising up against the night
To take its one solitary breath, even I
Will be a believer.
Larry Levis
I think it is all light at the end; I think it is air.
Those fields we drove past, turning to mud in April,
Those oaks with snow still roosting in them. Towns so small
Their entire economy suffered if a boy, late at night,
Stole the bar's only cue ball.
In one of them, you bought an old quilt, which, fraying,
Still seemed to hold the sun, especially in one
Bright corner, made from what they had available in yellow
In 1897. It reminded me of laughter, of you. And some woman
Whose faith in the goodness of the world was
Stubborn, sewed it in. "There now," she might as well
Have said, as if in answer to the snow, which was
Merciless. "There now," she seemed to say, to
Both of us. "Here's this patch of yellow. One field gone
Entirely into light. Goodbye..." We had become such artists
At saying good-bye; it made me wince to look at it.
Something at the edge of the mouth, something familiar
That makes the mouth turn down. An adjustment.
It made me wince to have to agree with her there, too,
To say the day itself, the fields, each thread
She had to sew in the poor light of 1897,
Were simply gifts. Because she must be dead by now, &
Anonymous, I think she had a birthmark on her cheek;
I think she disliked Woodrow Wilson & the war;
And if she outlived one dull husband, I think she
Still grew, out of spite & habit, flowers to give away.
If laughter is adult, an adjustment to loss,
I think she could laugh at the worst. When I think of you both,
I think of that one square of light in her quilt,
Of women, stubborn, believing in the goodness of the world.
How next year, driving past this place, which I have seen
For years, & steadily, through the worst weather, when
The black of the Amish buggies makes the snow seem whiter,
I won't even have to look up.
I will wince & agree with you both, & past the farms
Abandoned to moonlight, past one late fire burning beside
A field, the flame rising up against the night
To take its one solitary breath, even I
Will be a believer.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Goodbye, Love
Before we begin, I would like everyone to skip ahead to 3:31 in this video and listen to it as you read this post. Anyone with a snarky comment about Rent or how my love for a tree in no way resembles the love of a musician for his girlfriend who's dying of AIDS will be summarily executed.
When I was little I used to climb the giant fir tree outside my bedroom window. I would sit in its branches and talk to the squirrels. I would wake up in the morning to the birds calling out for each other from its branches. One spring I watched a robin's nest fill with tiny turquoise eggs. I loved this tree.
My parents have been talking for a while about how the tree's roots have begun to buckle the concrete floor in the basement and cause minor damage to the drain field. They decided that this winter, perish the thought, they would have the tree removed along with two others near our front door. Being the stubborn ass I am, I refused to acknowledge their plans. My mom would suggest that I take pictures before the tree came down and I would respond with "I know not of what you speak." I was content to deny reality for years to come, but last night, in front of the fire, my mother told me that whether I liked it or not the tree would be coming down. Tomorrow.
Well, today is tomorrow. I lost count of the number of times I woke up last night feeling sick to my stomach and fighting back tears. The tree people showed up at 8:00 this morning and, being too upset to watch the slow death of my childhood, I fled to town to do errands. This tree was full-grown when our house was built over 100 years ago. It had more right to be there than we did. There was no way I was going to watch it come down.
I was in the bookstore reading when my dad called to say the tree was gone and that I could come home. I hung up, pretended like I wasn't crying already, and drove back to my house. I'd like to say that having lived nearly 25 years on this planet has toughened my emotions to those of at least a six-year-old. I'd like to say that when I saw the pile of sawed rounds and the mountain of sawdust that had been, only four hours earlier, my favorite tree, I nodded and said to myself, "Okay." I would love to say that. Instead, I burst into tears. It was like a family member had died, the way I was convulsing and choking on my sobs in such a dramatic fashion. If I had been someone observing the scene I would have rolled my eyes and thought, "Oh get over yourself." But the truth is, it was truly devastating. It still is. The light shines into my room differently now--a blast of brightness that makes me feel exposed and intruded upon, like I'm on display. It was such a beautiful tree. I feel like a monster for letting it be toppled.
When I was little I used to climb the giant fir tree outside my bedroom window. I would sit in its branches and talk to the squirrels. I would wake up in the morning to the birds calling out for each other from its branches. One spring I watched a robin's nest fill with tiny turquoise eggs. I loved this tree.
My parents have been talking for a while about how the tree's roots have begun to buckle the concrete floor in the basement and cause minor damage to the drain field. They decided that this winter, perish the thought, they would have the tree removed along with two others near our front door. Being the stubborn ass I am, I refused to acknowledge their plans. My mom would suggest that I take pictures before the tree came down and I would respond with "I know not of what you speak." I was content to deny reality for years to come, but last night, in front of the fire, my mother told me that whether I liked it or not the tree would be coming down. Tomorrow.
Well, today is tomorrow. I lost count of the number of times I woke up last night feeling sick to my stomach and fighting back tears. The tree people showed up at 8:00 this morning and, being too upset to watch the slow death of my childhood, I fled to town to do errands. This tree was full-grown when our house was built over 100 years ago. It had more right to be there than we did. There was no way I was going to watch it come down.
I was in the bookstore reading when my dad called to say the tree was gone and that I could come home. I hung up, pretended like I wasn't crying already, and drove back to my house. I'd like to say that having lived nearly 25 years on this planet has toughened my emotions to those of at least a six-year-old. I'd like to say that when I saw the pile of sawed rounds and the mountain of sawdust that had been, only four hours earlier, my favorite tree, I nodded and said to myself, "Okay." I would love to say that. Instead, I burst into tears. It was like a family member had died, the way I was convulsing and choking on my sobs in such a dramatic fashion. If I had been someone observing the scene I would have rolled my eyes and thought, "Oh get over yourself." But the truth is, it was truly devastating. It still is. The light shines into my room differently now--a blast of brightness that makes me feel exposed and intruded upon, like I'm on display. It was such a beautiful tree. I feel like a monster for letting it be toppled.
 |
| If anyone goes for my beloved Chinese chestnut tree I will hurl myself into the path of the chainsaw. |
 |
| These giants came down too, but I was okay with that. I actually think it looks better without them. |
Goodbye, love.
Friday, November 23, 2012
Aaaaand Again
We're going to have several trees in our yard taken down this winter and the other day the arborist showed up to inspect them. He knocked on the door and when I went to answer he asked, in a tone very close to condescension, "Is your mom or dad home?"
I AM TWENTY-FOUR F***ING YEARS OLD. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?
I AM TWENTY-FOUR F***ING YEARS OLD. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Me Encanta Duolingo!
My friend Julia recently told me about this website called Duolingo that helps you learn Spanish for
free. It's excellent for me, particularly because I can't seem to motivate myself to do anything that cannot be accessed on the computer. The only problem is that you have to go through the lessons section by section, so even
though I've known the present tense since I was thirteen I still have to
translate sentences like "Quiero nueve fresas" before I can move on to
the more "complicated" stuff like "El perro comio su comida" or--and I
kid you not--"Esos elefantes no tienen ojos." Which is super creepy.
I took the liberty of snapping screen shots of some of the more...colorful questions. You're welcome.
I took the liberty of snapping screen shots of some of the more...colorful questions. You're welcome.
 |
| God, why does this have to be so hard? |
 |
| If only I had some kind of clue... |
 |
| If you are a living creature who has gotten to this level of Duolingo and you truly think it's not #1, I weep for you. |
 |
| It's clearly #3. |
 |
| Wait, "chicken" isn't Spanish for "chicken"? (In my defense, I've been doing this for three hours. I don't think I even remember how to dress myself.) |
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
A Year Later
It's not fine, but most of the time I am. I wake up in the morning and eat my breakfast and drink my tea and play my guitar and it's possible, with my nose buried in the pages of a poetry book, for me to forget that I belong to a world in which extraordinary people die.
Then I look at Hockley's picture, as I have every day for nearly a year, and I can't comprehend how there's any good left in this universe without her. I don't want to be part of a world in which a woman as physically and mentally strong as Prudence Hockley, a woman who took no nonsense from anyone, was rendered a victim by a man who was supposed to love her.
I wish I could be one of those people whose anger at being wronged fades with time like a long, slow exhale, and while their hurt never disappears they find it in themselves to forgive. But every time I look at Hockley's picture I am filled with rage and paralyzing sadness. I had a conversation recently with a friend who said he doubted I had it in me to hate anyone. Though I agreed, it was wishful thinking. It seems impossible that I will ever stop hating Johnnie Lee Wiggins for murdering the best teacher I ever had, and one of the most important people in my life. I see her smile and imagine her hopping onto a desk in her four-inch heels to shout Lady Macbeth's "damned spot" soliloquy into the ceiling and the rush of pain is enough, even a year after her death, to collapse me.
I've always shrugged away compliments, but Hockley was the only person who could tell me my ideas were valid and my mind and soul beautiful who I ever believed. When she called me "darling heart" I felt truly valuable. She was proud of me and I can't recall a single day of class during which she did not say so. Even the first day of school when my classmates and I filed into her room a horde of strangers, her first words to us were, "I don't know you but I love you already." It was as if seven seconds in her presence was all it took to make us hers. And it was. And we were. We are.
I think of you every day, Hockley, and I love you with a strength that renews itself each night. I promise to work for the rest of my life to prove myself worthy of the love you gave me and the faith you had in my mind and my heart.
I love you.
Monday, November 19, 2012
How I Carry On
I dwelt in darkness today. Last night my boys' 2-1 win over the LA Galaxy was not enough to bail them out of the 3-0 hole they dug themselves into last weekend, and they fell 4-2 on aggregate in the Western Conference Finals. The rage I feel toward David Beckham, Mike Magee, Robbie Keane, Landon Donovan (I don't care that he didn't even play), and the embarrassingly incompetent assistant ref who called EJ's first goal offsides when replays show he clearly wasn't, is absolutely indescribable. My soul is shattered. After a disjointed night during which I replayed Johannson's handball in the box over and over again, I awoke, depressed, reciting "Yet, or email"--a nonsensical clue to some crossword puzzle I'd invented in my sleep.
I staggered around today in a state of zombie-like heartbreak. Lord knows what people thought of me as I wept quietly into my peppermint hot chocolate at the bookstore cafe. Only time (and career-ending injuries to the Galaxy players) will heal this pain, but these videos, courtesy of the Wait Wait blog, certainly help:
I staggered around today in a state of zombie-like heartbreak. Lord knows what people thought of me as I wept quietly into my peppermint hot chocolate at the bookstore cafe. Only time (and career-ending injuries to the Galaxy players) will heal this pain, but these videos, courtesy of the Wait Wait blog, certainly help:
From now on I'm only saying my name rhythmically, with a head flick and an eyebrow raise.
I know, I know. This is ridiculously adorable. Try to control your emotions.
There's no arguing with her logic: it does make some damn good toast.
For those who thought it couldn't get any cuter than a snoring hummingbird, it just did.
This makes me feel so uncomfortable for the people having real conversations...but it's kind of genius.
![[via crenk.com]](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mcthnyjqBA1rj565do1_500.jpg "[via crenk.com]") |
| This isn't a video (clearly), but boy howdy is it glorious. (Case, this has your name written all over it!) |
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
QI
My friend Sara has recently gotten me hooked on a British game show called QI, hosted by my favorite person in the entire world, Stephen Fry. The premise of the show is this: Stephen asks random, seemingly unknowable questions to a group of four panelists composed mostly of comedians but sometimes a doctor or professor with an impressively acute sense of humor. The panelists banter and snark and earn nonsensical points for answering questions to which no human being on earth should know the answer, like when Daniel Radcliffe launched into a five-minute explanation of magic in ancient Egypt after he was asked the question "What is the oldest trick in the book?"
Here is a smattering of what I have learned so far:
1. Sharks are the only vertebrate without a backbone.
2. The "present" officially began on Sunday, January 1, 1950.
3. A dormouse is not a mouse. (Nor is it, if you were curious, a door.)
4. There were over 7,000 heads of lettuce on the Titanic when it sank.
5. Louis VII's bad haircut started the Hundred Years' War.
6. Iceland has more Nobel Prize winners per capita than any other country on Earth: 1. (The population is 320,000.)
7. The Eskimo Olympics include a game in which two players each hook a looped end of a string onto their ears and pull.
8. Penguins are too light to set off land mines.
9. Queen Victoria had her ice imported from Boston.
10. When Pope Innocent III sentenced every person in the Netherlands to death for heresy, the Duke of Alba ordered 7,000 pairs of ice skates so that when the Spanish came to invade in the dead of winter, the Dutch could skate out along the canals and fight back.
11. Very rarely are igloos actually made out of ice. They're usually made from caribou hide.
12. Back when Coney Island was the most popular entertainment venue in the world, its longest running attraction was babies in incubators. At that time, there were no incubators in hospitals.
13. In Manhattan, where space was at a premium, Eleanor Roosevelt kept her baby in a cage that hung out her window.
14. Louise Brown, the first test tube baby, was actually created in a petri dish.
15. Forty is the only number in the English language whose letters, when written out, are in alphabetical order.
16. "Gymnasium" is Greek for "place to be naked."
17. In the early Olympic Games, medals were awarded for poetry composition. (This fact delights me--a person who will never, as hard as she tries, demonstrate the athletic fitness of a nine-year-old Chinese gymnast, but who can analyze the shit out of a poem written in iambic pentameter.)
Is this not fascinating? Go, get thee to YouTube!
Here is a smattering of what I have learned so far:
1. Sharks are the only vertebrate without a backbone.
2. The "present" officially began on Sunday, January 1, 1950.
3. A dormouse is not a mouse. (Nor is it, if you were curious, a door.)
4. There were over 7,000 heads of lettuce on the Titanic when it sank.
5. Louis VII's bad haircut started the Hundred Years' War.
6. Iceland has more Nobel Prize winners per capita than any other country on Earth: 1. (The population is 320,000.)
7. The Eskimo Olympics include a game in which two players each hook a looped end of a string onto their ears and pull.
8. Penguins are too light to set off land mines.
9. Queen Victoria had her ice imported from Boston.
10. When Pope Innocent III sentenced every person in the Netherlands to death for heresy, the Duke of Alba ordered 7,000 pairs of ice skates so that when the Spanish came to invade in the dead of winter, the Dutch could skate out along the canals and fight back.
11. Very rarely are igloos actually made out of ice. They're usually made from caribou hide.
12. Back when Coney Island was the most popular entertainment venue in the world, its longest running attraction was babies in incubators. At that time, there were no incubators in hospitals.
13. In Manhattan, where space was at a premium, Eleanor Roosevelt kept her baby in a cage that hung out her window.
14. Louise Brown, the first test tube baby, was actually created in a petri dish.
15. Forty is the only number in the English language whose letters, when written out, are in alphabetical order.
16. "Gymnasium" is Greek for "place to be naked."
17. In the early Olympic Games, medals were awarded for poetry composition. (This fact delights me--a person who will never, as hard as she tries, demonstrate the athletic fitness of a nine-year-old Chinese gymnast, but who can analyze the shit out of a poem written in iambic pentameter.)
Is this not fascinating? Go, get thee to YouTube!
Friday, November 9, 2012
Damn Right, Playoff Win!
I know, I know. Get a life.
(But Zach Scott, put some pants on. And Gspurning, take your shirt off.)
Also, I was going to post a post-game interview with our Austrian goalie, Michael Gspurning, but I can't find it. He's the most adorable person ever. When congratulated by the interviewer, Gspurning's response was: "The game from us was actually not so good...but who cares?" I. Love. Him.
Monday, November 5, 2012
Just Kidding
You know how much I've gushed about my cat being the most adorable creature on the planet?
Yeah...
I take that back.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are is Dead
Little Guildenstern Margoshes passed on from this world early yesterday morning, resting among the green leaves of his plastic aquarium begonia.
Guildenstern was a good guppy, a happy guppy. His hobbies included sleeping on top of his water heater, swimming through his Greek ruins, and scavenging the glass stones at the bottom of the bowl for sunken flakes of food. He was also extremely resilient, having survived an apparent suicide leap from the counter to the kitchen floor where the cat was waiting to pounce, and several weeks later bouncing back from an accidental plunge into the open dishwasher. The latter he never fully recovered from, but as his color gradually drained away his spirit did not.
He is survived by his best friend, Rosencrantz Margoshes, and his hungry sister, Taffy.
Rest in peace, little guy.
Guildenstern was a good guppy, a happy guppy. His hobbies included sleeping on top of his water heater, swimming through his Greek ruins, and scavenging the glass stones at the bottom of the bowl for sunken flakes of food. He was also extremely resilient, having survived an apparent suicide leap from the counter to the kitchen floor where the cat was waiting to pounce, and several weeks later bouncing back from an accidental plunge into the open dishwasher. The latter he never fully recovered from, but as his color gradually drained away his spirit did not.
He is survived by his best friend, Rosencrantz Margoshes, and his hungry sister, Taffy.
Rest in peace, little guy.
Monday, October 29, 2012
Really?
About a month ago my mom, cousin Naomi and I took a trip to Watertown, NY to visit family. Along with my grandma, we drove four hours to Niagara Falls for an overnight.
We had just pulled off the freeway en route to our hotel when we noticed a Niagara Falls tourism center (about the size of a hefty drive-thru coffee stand) and parked out in front. The lady who helped us--a jovial, overly made-up elderly woman named Toni--placed on the counter in front of us a brochure that contained information on three different guided tours that explored the falls and surrounding landmarks from various heights and means of transportation.
Toni pointed to the first tour. "This one--" She stopped and quickly scanned our faces. "You're not traveling with anyone under 12, are you?" Her eyes found mine. And stayed there. For an uncomfortable length of time.
"No," we all answered.
Still Toni stared.
I had no choice. "I look 12," I finally said, and saw in Toni's eyes a flicker of victory. "But I'm 24."
Her jaw dropped. Her hand flew to her heart. "No!" she gasped, with an expression that my mother later described as being "decidedly shocked." "That can't be true!"
Having experienced this reaction more times in my life than I care to admit, I have mastered the art of mentally rolling my eyes. I did so then, and offered up an apologetic smile. I felt as though I had somehow disappointed Toni, and disappointing Toni is not something one would ever want to do.
"That's crazy!" she said. Her eyes darted suspiciously from my grandma to my cousin to my mom, daring another confession. "And you?" she asked, settling on Naomi. "I suppose you're..."
"Twenty-three," Naomi answered.
"Oh lord," Toni said.
"And I'm 90," my grandma added.
That about did Toni in. "Oh my god!" she shrieked. "You're 90? Oh, bless your heart! I hope I look that good when I'm 90! Boy, you folks sure are drinking from the fountain of youth!"
We managed to pry ourselves away from the desk before Toni extended invitations to her next family reunion and we walked silently back to the car. Once all the doors were closed we burst out laughing.
Twelve, I thought, shaking my head. That's a new record.
And it is. I believe that guess puts my average perceived age at about 14. Maybe it's time I accept it. If you'll excuse me, I'm off to put my hair in pigtails and dig out that old pair of corduroy overalls I threw into storage 15 years ago.
We had just pulled off the freeway en route to our hotel when we noticed a Niagara Falls tourism center (about the size of a hefty drive-thru coffee stand) and parked out in front. The lady who helped us--a jovial, overly made-up elderly woman named Toni--placed on the counter in front of us a brochure that contained information on three different guided tours that explored the falls and surrounding landmarks from various heights and means of transportation.
Toni pointed to the first tour. "This one--" She stopped and quickly scanned our faces. "You're not traveling with anyone under 12, are you?" Her eyes found mine. And stayed there. For an uncomfortable length of time.
"No," we all answered.
Still Toni stared.
I had no choice. "I look 12," I finally said, and saw in Toni's eyes a flicker of victory. "But I'm 24."
Her jaw dropped. Her hand flew to her heart. "No!" she gasped, with an expression that my mother later described as being "decidedly shocked." "That can't be true!"
Having experienced this reaction more times in my life than I care to admit, I have mastered the art of mentally rolling my eyes. I did so then, and offered up an apologetic smile. I felt as though I had somehow disappointed Toni, and disappointing Toni is not something one would ever want to do.
"That's crazy!" she said. Her eyes darted suspiciously from my grandma to my cousin to my mom, daring another confession. "And you?" she asked, settling on Naomi. "I suppose you're..."
"Twenty-three," Naomi answered.
"Oh lord," Toni said.
"And I'm 90," my grandma added.
That about did Toni in. "Oh my god!" she shrieked. "You're 90? Oh, bless your heart! I hope I look that good when I'm 90! Boy, you folks sure are drinking from the fountain of youth!"
We managed to pry ourselves away from the desk before Toni extended invitations to her next family reunion and we walked silently back to the car. Once all the doors were closed we burst out laughing.
Twelve, I thought, shaking my head. That's a new record.
And it is. I believe that guess puts my average perceived age at about 14. Maybe it's time I accept it. If you'll excuse me, I'm off to put my hair in pigtails and dig out that old pair of corduroy overalls I threw into storage 15 years ago.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Olivia Talks Sport: World Series Edition
Hello and welcome to the first installment of "Olivia Talks Sport," wherein I pretend to be knowledgeable about athletics I only watch when strapped to a chair or when there are no bugs crawling across the sidewalk for me to study.
First, though, this brief note: I am aware that "sport" in this context should be pluralized. If you have not yet been fortunate enough to encounter this video or sound clip, please humor me for six glorious seconds.
Good. Now that that's done, let's jump into today's topic: baseball. I know that nothing is more American than baseball--except for maybe football and super-sizing things, but let's try to limit today's post to just one sport about which I know absolutely nothing, and we'll touch on the obesity epidemic at a later date. Yes, I'm aware that the way I feel about this popular sport is how many people feel about my favorite sport, soccer. A friend once told me that he can't stand to watch the beautiful game because he finds it "ass-numbingly dull." I, of course, take exception to this, but am relieved to know that he feels the same way--if not more strongly so--about baseball.But my point here today is not to bash a game where people stand around with sticks, swing them at things, and then once in a while prance from one while flat thing to the next over the course of, oh, eight hours. My point is to say that if I'm going to find something a colossal waste of time, I should at least educate myself on what exactly it is that makes watching it so excruciating.
In other words, I'm becoming a baseball expert.
Let's start with the fact that I know both of the teams playing in the World Series: the San Francisco Giants and the Detroit Tigers. I know, too, that tonight will be the fourth game, played in Detroit, and if the Giants win this then they win the series. I know that no team in the history of this competition has ever come back from a three games to zero deficit, so things aren't looking too rosy for Detroit. I know that RBI stands for Run Batted In, and I even know what that means. I know, thanks to my patient mother, that pitchers bat in the National League but not in the American League, and I know that for a pitcher to hit an RBI is quite a feat, although such an accomplishment doesn't exactly get me up on my feet waving my logoed hand towel. I know that pitchers have approximately 700 different pitches in their repertoire, some over 100 miles per hour, whereas I have only one: off-target and really really slow. Actually, two. I can also do it underhand. I know that though they have absurd upper body strength and hand-eye coordination I can't even begin to comprehend, I'm fairly certain I could demolish most professional baseball players in a cardio test.
But you see, I snark because I care. (By the way, "snark" is a verb now. Spread the word.) I know that any number of people could spit back at me all the reasons why soccer is useless, and many do. One friend cites the sheer pointlessness of a game that could end in a 0-0 tie, or any tie for that matter. Another finds the sport nothing more than a complex game of ping pong. And no one who's not an avid fan understands the offsides rule, even when I recreate it with condiments at fine dining establishments. What I am doing here is putting a leash on my right to sarcasm, taking it for a stroll around the block, and stopping at the baseball field on the corner to marvel at how the same game was in the bottom of the eighth when I last walked by...the previous week.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Autumn, I Love You
There are a lot of things I don't love about fall. My dresses go into storage. Soccer winds down. I finish lunch and look out the window and see my reflection staring back in the darkness.
But even what I don't love about fall, I love about fall. My summer clothes are swapped out for gloves and hats and sweaters and scarves (and oh how I love scarves). By the time November rolls around my poor little over-stressed soccer heart is pleading for the off-season. Shorter days make it socially acceptable for me to hunker down next to the fire in my pajamas at 4:30 in the afternoon with my cup of tea--all of which are things I do anyway but I particularly appreciate the excuse of darkness to make myself look less like the world's youngest spinster and more like someone who just really likes drinking chai in her sweatpants.
Simply put, autumn is magical. On the trees, color spreads like ripples. The bike trail along the river is covered in such a thick layer of red-golden leaves that you can hardly tell where the path ends and the woods begin. The crisp air brings a numbness to your fingers that only a mug of peppermint hot chocolate can dissolve. Fall in the Pacific Northwest is especially wonderful because you can wrap yourself in layer after bulky layer of black, brown, and dark grey and pay no heed to the 700 fashion crimes you're committing because if you're getting hauled off to style prison, everyone within a 500-mile radius is coming with you. The chill in the air practically begs you to preheat your oven, and during what season is it more appropriate to whip up a honey pear tart with pears poached in white wine and fanned out atop a sweet almond crust? Even the word itself--autumn--is a deep, meditating breath.
So yes, goodbye skirts that billow when I twirl barefoot on the grass. Goodbye Scarves Up and my Sounders cowbell and booing David Beckham (actually, I never stop booing David Beckham). Goodbye sunsets that glow red along the horizon until well after I go to sleep. I will see you next year.
In the meantime, hello to the harvesting of pumpkins and the comfort of fleece and and exquisite earthy scent of the world, once again, changing.
Happy autumn, everyone.
Simply put, autumn is magical. On the trees, color spreads like ripples. The bike trail along the river is covered in such a thick layer of red-golden leaves that you can hardly tell where the path ends and the woods begin. The crisp air brings a numbness to your fingers that only a mug of peppermint hot chocolate can dissolve. Fall in the Pacific Northwest is especially wonderful because you can wrap yourself in layer after bulky layer of black, brown, and dark grey and pay no heed to the 700 fashion crimes you're committing because if you're getting hauled off to style prison, everyone within a 500-mile radius is coming with you. The chill in the air practically begs you to preheat your oven, and during what season is it more appropriate to whip up a honey pear tart with pears poached in white wine and fanned out atop a sweet almond crust? Even the word itself--autumn--is a deep, meditating breath.
So yes, goodbye skirts that billow when I twirl barefoot on the grass. Goodbye Scarves Up and my Sounders cowbell and booing David Beckham (actually, I never stop booing David Beckham). Goodbye sunsets that glow red along the horizon until well after I go to sleep. I will see you next year.In the meantime, hello to the harvesting of pumpkins and the comfort of fleece and and exquisite earthy scent of the world, once again, changing.
Happy autumn, everyone.
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
Quick Question
What the hell, Glade Sense & Spray?
I'm sorry, but how did the design of this air freshener ever strike anyone as a good idea? I look at this product and see one thing (and let me tell you, it's not something I care to display on my coffee table or bathroom counter. I wouldn't even display it in my garbage can.)
And, if possible, it looks even more X-rated in its packaging. The little parentheses to indicate the motion sensor? Yeah. Why? Am I the only one seeing this? Please tell me I'm not the only one seeing this.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Poetry Corner Monday Tuesday
Cancer
By Stanley Plumly
Mine, I know, started at a distance
five hundred and twenty light-years away
and fell as stardust into my sleeping mouth,
yesterday, at birth, or that time when I was ten
lying on my back looking up at the cluster
called the Beehive or by its other name
in the constellation Cancer,
the Crab, able to move its nebulae projections
backward and forward, side to side,
in the tumor Hippocrates describes as carcinoma,
from karkinos, the analogue, in order to show
what being cancer looks like.
Star, therefore, to start,
like waking on the best day of your life
to feel this living and immortal thing inside you.
You were in love, you were a saint,
you were going to walk the sunlight blessing water,
you were almost word for word forever.
The crown, the throne, the thorn--
now to see the smoke shining in the mirror,
the long half dark of dark down the hallway inside it.
Now to see what wasn't seen before:
the old loved landscape fading from the window,
the druid soul within the dying tree,
the depth of blue coloring the cornflower,
the birthday-ribbon river of a road,
and the young man who resembles you
opening a door in the half-built house
you helped your father build,
saying, in your voice, come forth.
By Stanley Plumly
Mine, I know, started at a distance
five hundred and twenty light-years away
and fell as stardust into my sleeping mouth,
yesterday, at birth, or that time when I was ten
lying on my back looking up at the cluster
called the Beehive or by its other name
in the constellation Cancer,
the Crab, able to move its nebulae projections
backward and forward, side to side,
in the tumor Hippocrates describes as carcinoma,
from karkinos, the analogue, in order to show
what being cancer looks like.
Star, therefore, to start,
like waking on the best day of your life
to feel this living and immortal thing inside you.
You were in love, you were a saint,
you were going to walk the sunlight blessing water,
you were almost word for word forever.
The crown, the throne, the thorn--
now to see the smoke shining in the mirror,
the long half dark of dark down the hallway inside it.
Now to see what wasn't seen before:
the old loved landscape fading from the window,
the druid soul within the dying tree,
the depth of blue coloring the cornflower,
the birthday-ribbon river of a road,
and the young man who resembles you
opening a door in the half-built house
you helped your father build,
saying, in your voice, come forth.
Monday, September 24, 2012
Adventures in the Crawl Space (Part II)
Previously on Adventures in the Crawl Space...
An officious odor in the house led me to a rotting mouse in the crawl space under the pantry trapdoor.
All I had to do was release the trap, dump the mouse into a plastic bag, and toss it in the trash. Easy, right? In theory. But in case I haven't made it clear, I am petrified of the crawl space. I will make things as difficult as they can possibly be if it means avoiding a trip to the seedy underbelly. For the next several minutes I brainstormed all the ways I could retrieve the mouse without actually setting foot under the house. What if, I thought, I fashioned a pair of oversized tongs out of the mop and the broom and scooped up the rodent and the trap? But then what? Would I carry it through the kitchen and risk dropping a maggot-infested rodent on the tiled floor? I'm ashamed to say that the tongs idea was the extent of my ingenuity--one of the many pitfalls of majoring in English. I would have to once again lower myself through the dark portal and into the tarp-lined bowels of my abode. "I am not having fun!" I announced on my way down, just so matters were perfectly clear.
My fear of dead rodents in traps is easy to explain: I'm terrified they're not actually dead and when I go to lift the spring the creature will hurl itself at my face. (Easy to explain, yes. Rational, absolutely not.) For some reason, the task of releasing the mouse from the trap in the confines of the crawl space was profoundly more unsettling to me than releasing the mouse from the trap in the freedom of the backyard. I lifted the whole contraption--mouse attached--into a plastic bag, hoisted myself up into the pantry, and marched outside with the bag as far in front of me as I could hold it.
I dumped the contents onto the grass and squatted next to it, my upper lip curled in disgust. I inspected the trap, searching for a way of lifting the metal lever without actually touching the mouse. Finding none, I slid my finger under the bar and into the fleshy stomach of the rotting rodent. When I pulled the lever up a patch of grey and white fur came up with it. Sick, I thought, and then said it aloud three times in quick succession. I held the trap open with one hand and dumped the mouse into the plastic bag I was holding with the other. Just to be safe I knotted the bag and dropped it into a bigger paper bag. Good riddance to bad rodents, I thought, and flung it into the trashcan. I went inside and took a long hot bath.
Oh how I wish I could say that was enough crawl space for one day, but apparently it was not. Several hours later my brother came over to do some work on the floor in the laundry room. Soon after I received a lesson on how to remove a toilet from the floor, I got a call on my cell from my brother. "Come to the crawl space," he said when I answered, his words garbled like he had something in his mouth. "The pipe burst."
I raced to the pantry and dropped into the seedy underbelly where my brother was on his side in a pool of rat pee and murky water with a flashlight in his mouth. "You have to turn the water off," he said. His flashlight was pointing to a knob behind me. The thickest, grimiest spider web I've ever encountered in my life hung between me and the valve, but with water spewing from the pipe above my brother's head I had no time to circumnavigate the arachnid death trap. I lowered my head and plowed right through it.
"Thanks," my brother said as soon as the water had stopped. I nodded and surveyed the dozens of miniature lakes that had formed across the tarp. "Well," I said, "good thing I already got that mouse." The faint smell of decaying rodent lingered in the air. I'm gonna need another bath, I thought.
It didn't dawn on me until five minutes later that I'd just turned off the water.
Friday, September 21, 2012
Adventures in the Crawl Space (Part I)
Around lunchtime yesterday I started smelling a foul odor in the kitchen. The kitchen being a place where foul odors are not always entirely foreign (rotting food in the refrigerator, rotting food in the cupboard, that disgusting tofu marinade I made the other day using maple syrup that I suspect has been open in the pantry since Clinton was in office), it took me until this morning to identify the smell: rodent. Maggoty, rotting rodent. Unfortunately, I know it well.
I sat around for a couple more hours hoping that I was odor-hallucinating. After I was sure of what it was, I sat around for another hour convinced that the smell must be coming from the wall--a location I could not reach--rather than the crawl space underneath the house--a location very much accessible but also very much disgusting and terrifying.
Now, as I've already established on this blog, I am a strong, self-sufficient feminist. I don't believe in being "rescued" by a man when I am perfectly capable of handling the situation on my own.
My dad picked up on the fourth ring. "Hi, Daddy," I said. "There's a dead rodent under the house. Do I have to go get it?" Even I knew the rat wasn't going to walk out on its own. "We've got lots of plastic gloves in the shed," my dad answered. "And don't forget a flashlight."
I pulled on my ratty paint pants and an old sweatshirt and tied the hood so that only my eyes and nose were exposed. I slipped on a pair of latex gloves, slipped on a second pair for good measure, and grabbed a flashlight from the cabinet outside the bathroom.
There are two entrances to the crawl space: one is through the room at the bottom of the basement stairs and the other is through a trapdoor in the floor of the pantry. Because I smelled the odor most strongly when I stood at the top of the basement stairs, I figured I'd start there. There is no door separating the crawl space from the basement room--all you have to do is climb up onto a landing that's about four feet off the ground. Unfortunately, the path to this landing is blocked by a junk pile that is utterly Himalayan in size. With one hand on the thick pipe protruding from the wall, I lifted one foot onto a set of flimsy plastic shelves that sagged and nearly buckled under my weight while my other foot managed to find one square inch of floorboard between several empty canning jars and a saute pan with a glass lid. Ifell catapulted myself into the emptiness in front of me and miraculously entered the crawl space without causing any sort of damage.
"Okay, dead rat," I said aloud, "show yourself." I took one step and slammed my forehead into a beam. (As it turns out, it's called a "crawl space" for a reason.) Harnessing my mild irritation into a determination to get the hell out of there as fast as possible, I crouched down and hobbled forward with renewed vigor. "Here, dead rat," I called. "Here, you filthy deceased rodent." I took a few steps and shuffled in a circle with the flashlight. A few more steps and another circle. Ten minutes and no dead rat later, I reached the conclusion that the smell was not coming from the crawl space. Never have I been happier to know that the rodent decaying in my house was inside a wall. God knows how I descended Mt. Basement Crap without breaking an ankle, but seven minutes later I was upstairs in clean clothes drinking tea and watching Arrested Development.
The horrid smell had reached the living room but there was nothing, short of starting up the chainsaw and hacking a hole in the wall, that I could do about it. A half-hour later the stench was almost unbearable. With a heavy sigh I pulled on my dusty, cobwebby crawl space ensemble and headed to the pantry. The instant I lifted the trapdoor the odor was overwhelming. I stepped aside to let the pantry light enter what I called the "seedy underbelly" of the house and there, three feet below me, pinned in the steely maw of an unbaited mouse trap, was a rotting mouse. "I'm so glad I thought to look here before I tried the basement," I said to an empty pantry. A tiny maggot, caught in the beam of my flashlight, crawled across the mouse's exposed eye.
I sat around for a couple more hours hoping that I was odor-hallucinating. After I was sure of what it was, I sat around for another hour convinced that the smell must be coming from the wall--a location I could not reach--rather than the crawl space underneath the house--a location very much accessible but also very much disgusting and terrifying.
Now, as I've already established on this blog, I am a strong, self-sufficient feminist. I don't believe in being "rescued" by a man when I am perfectly capable of handling the situation on my own.
My dad picked up on the fourth ring. "Hi, Daddy," I said. "There's a dead rodent under the house. Do I have to go get it?" Even I knew the rat wasn't going to walk out on its own. "We've got lots of plastic gloves in the shed," my dad answered. "And don't forget a flashlight."
I pulled on my ratty paint pants and an old sweatshirt and tied the hood so that only my eyes and nose were exposed. I slipped on a pair of latex gloves, slipped on a second pair for good measure, and grabbed a flashlight from the cabinet outside the bathroom.
There are two entrances to the crawl space: one is through the room at the bottom of the basement stairs and the other is through a trapdoor in the floor of the pantry. Because I smelled the odor most strongly when I stood at the top of the basement stairs, I figured I'd start there. There is no door separating the crawl space from the basement room--all you have to do is climb up onto a landing that's about four feet off the ground. Unfortunately, the path to this landing is blocked by a junk pile that is utterly Himalayan in size. With one hand on the thick pipe protruding from the wall, I lifted one foot onto a set of flimsy plastic shelves that sagged and nearly buckled under my weight while my other foot managed to find one square inch of floorboard between several empty canning jars and a saute pan with a glass lid. I
"Okay, dead rat," I said aloud, "show yourself." I took one step and slammed my forehead into a beam. (As it turns out, it's called a "crawl space" for a reason.) Harnessing my mild irritation into a determination to get the hell out of there as fast as possible, I crouched down and hobbled forward with renewed vigor. "Here, dead rat," I called. "Here, you filthy deceased rodent." I took a few steps and shuffled in a circle with the flashlight. A few more steps and another circle. Ten minutes and no dead rat later, I reached the conclusion that the smell was not coming from the crawl space. Never have I been happier to know that the rodent decaying in my house was inside a wall. God knows how I descended Mt. Basement Crap without breaking an ankle, but seven minutes later I was upstairs in clean clothes drinking tea and watching Arrested Development.
The horrid smell had reached the living room but there was nothing, short of starting up the chainsaw and hacking a hole in the wall, that I could do about it. A half-hour later the stench was almost unbearable. With a heavy sigh I pulled on my dusty, cobwebby crawl space ensemble and headed to the pantry. The instant I lifted the trapdoor the odor was overwhelming. I stepped aside to let the pantry light enter what I called the "seedy underbelly" of the house and there, three feet below me, pinned in the steely maw of an unbaited mouse trap, was a rotting mouse. "I'm so glad I thought to look here before I tried the basement," I said to an empty pantry. A tiny maggot, caught in the beam of my flashlight, crawled across the mouse's exposed eye.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Modern Love
I don't know how it took me so long to discover this song, but it didn't even take seven seconds for me to fall in love with it. This music video is the sweetest, most heartwarming I've seen in a long time. It's so nice to be reminded of the good in humanity.
"Modern Love" - Matt Nathanson
Monday, September 17, 2012
Poetry Corner Monday
It's been a while since I did a song for PCM so I thought I'd change that this week. This is one of my favorites of all time: "Miss Me" by Joe Purdy. I first heard it when I was studying in Melbourne and I fell in love with the lyrics because I felt like they were telling the story of my life. I'm learning it on the guitar right now and let's just say that it doesn't sound quite as good as the original. I hope you love it.
Some movie star told you this ain't where it's at
so you packed your bags and one night you headed out.
Said these small town blues got you going insane,
gonna move to the city, gonna change your name.
You'd never look back at where you came,
swore you're never gonna be the same.
Do you miss me?
You're a big girl now, got your big girl shoes
and you're running around with your big girl blues.
And I know you don't doubt yourself anymore,
when you feel like like leaving you walk out the door.
And I bet you ain't got nothing left to learn
and it's better that way 'cause you never get burned.
And you try not to think about what might have been,
'cause you know this town is just sink or swim.
Do you miss me?
Well the last time I saw you you were waving goodbye
from the back of a train with a tear in your eye.
Now I hear you're in love with some big-city man,
together you're making your big-city plans,
and you hope he don't find out about who you are,
that we used to catch fireflies in mason jars.
We used to go down to the county fair,
we listened to bluegrass in the summer air
and we danced all night as the rain came down,
and you held my hand as we slept on the ground.
We wrote our names in the old oak wood,
I guess some things don't work out like they should.
Do you miss me?
Some movie star told you this ain't where it's at
so you packed your bags and one night you headed out.
Said these small town blues got you going insane,
gonna move to the city, gonna change your name.
You'd never look back at where you came,
swore you're never gonna be the same.
Do you miss me?
You're a big girl now, got your big girl shoes
and you're running around with your big girl blues.
And I know you don't doubt yourself anymore,
when you feel like like leaving you walk out the door.
And I bet you ain't got nothing left to learn
and it's better that way 'cause you never get burned.
And you try not to think about what might have been,
'cause you know this town is just sink or swim.
Do you miss me?
Well the last time I saw you you were waving goodbye
from the back of a train with a tear in your eye.
Now I hear you're in love with some big-city man,
together you're making your big-city plans,
and you hope he don't find out about who you are,
that we used to catch fireflies in mason jars.
We used to go down to the county fair,
we listened to bluegrass in the summer air
and we danced all night as the rain came down,
and you held my hand as we slept on the ground.
We wrote our names in the old oak wood,
I guess some things don't work out like they should.
Do you miss me?
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Monday, September 10, 2012
Poetry Corner Monday
Two Halves
-Gardner McFall
Half of me bore a suspicion
the other half denied, trying
to loosen it like a knot in a chain,
a suspicion as black as the tarmac
my father crossed to his fighter jet.
The world would be impossible
without him, half of me thought,
but the inkling, once sprouted, started
to spread like bamboo, cluttering
and choking the grassy bank
until it becomes a landscape, a fact.
Why think of this now?
half of me asks, craving knowledge.
The other half draws a blank.
-Gardner McFall
Half of me bore a suspicion
the other half denied, trying
to loosen it like a knot in a chain,
a suspicion as black as the tarmac
my father crossed to his fighter jet.
The world would be impossible
without him, half of me thought,
but the inkling, once sprouted, started
to spread like bamboo, cluttering
and choking the grassy bank
until it becomes a landscape, a fact.
Why think of this now?
half of me asks, craving knowledge.
The other half draws a blank.
Sunday, September 9, 2012
This Post Will Probably Get Me Smited
At the beginning of August I received my first jury summons in the mail. It came over a month before the day I was due to arrive in the courthouse, so I tossed it aside and let it sit for five weeks collecting dust on the corner of my desk. As the date approached, though, panic set in. Friends I didn't even know I had emerged from oblivion to tell me their jury duty horror stories. One was sequestered overnight. One sat on a murder trial that lasted six weeks.
I was doomed. My only shot at freedom was to pull a Liz Lemon:
I texted several friends about my predicament. One suggested I "use Liz Lemon's way of getting out of it." Another wrote "I don't think it's fair for you to be on jury duty because you're a hologram." (I'll have it known that I suggested this very approach to my dad when he was summoned several months ago and he didn't even consider it. Rude. Also, thank God I have friends who get me!)
My mother was also a huge help.
Finally the Day of Duty arrived. It began as no day should ever begin: at the unholy hour of 5:00 am. I ate breakfast, made lunch, showered, decided against the bathing suit/snorkel mask/rain boots ensemble, practiced my "Excuse me, Imperial Guard?" intonations, and headed to the bus stop.
I arrived at the King County Superior Court in Seattle at about 7:45. After I passed through security I got in line at the Information Desk to ask the whereabouts of the Juror Assembly Room (JAR). The woman in front of me had asked the same thing and when it was my turn I pointed down the hall and said, "I'll just follow her." She slowed down so I could catch up. "Do you not want to be here either?" I asked, and she thrashed her head from side to side, her eyes wide.
We made our way to the JAR where we handed our dinky paper badges to the lady at the desk who scanned them and told us to pick up an information pamphlet and have a seat. The JAR was long and narrow with about 25 rows of ten seats extending back into the bowels of the courthouse. The chairs all faced forward toward a podium and there were TVs mounted on the wall every three or four rows. After I read through the hot pink juror information sheet I wedged my NPR tote bag (which I had taken to make myself look smart so they wouldn't pick me) between my legs and the armrest and pulled out my book (which I had taken to make myself look smart so they wouldn't pick me).
At 8:15, without a word from anyone with authority, the lights went out and a video started. A grainy image of the Constitution served as a backdrop, and as the camera zoomed in to highlight the words, a very slow, deliberate female voice declared "We the People" as though she were being scored on enthusiasm. I laughed and then promptly shut up when I realized that in a room of 250 people I was the only one who found it entertaining.
The video, which lasted roughly ten minutes, covered all the details of how we were chosen for the jury pool and the entire procedure of whittling down hundreds of people to get the final twelve jurors. When the video ended we had a short break and the judge approached the podium and covered all the details of how we were chosen for the jury pool and the entire process of whittling down hundreds of people to get the final twelve jurors. (What she discussed was almost literally word-for-word what was said in the video, so, you know, that was necessary.) Partway through her speech an elderly man toward the front of the room raised his hand and shouted "I can't hear you!" The judge adjusted the microphone and promised to speak up. She then launched into a lecture on the history of juries, which date all the way back to ancient Greece and "a play by Sophocles about a jury." At the end of her spiel she told us, "I can find out the name of that play by Sophocles if anyone's interested." First of all, don't everyone rush up at once. Secondly, Your Honor, maybe you should learn your Greek playwrights before launching into an oration on literary history. The play is actually a trilogy by Aeschylus, not Sophocles, and it's called Oresteia. (And while we're at it, it's Pike Place Market, not Pikes Place Market. You live in Seattle, for God's sake.)
We were then introduced to the bailiff, a fast-talking woman with a short, frizzy brown triangle of hair that fanned out midway down her ears and narrowed to a point at the top of her head. A minute into her talk the same elderly man raised his head and once again shouted "I can't hear you!" I decided then and there that I would like to adopt him as my grandfather.
Then came the important stuff. "Most trials run for about a week and a half," the bailiff told us, "but your trial is special." I shrank into my chair, knowing full well that in this context "special" was not the same word spelled out in daisies and teddy bears on stickers at the top of my first-grade homework assignments. "As you all know," the bailiff continued, "today is Friday. Normally we do not have sessions on Fridays. We only have sessions on Fridays for two reasons: One, it's a high-profile case." Shit, I thought, I'm going to be looking at positive rape kit results and photos of dead babies and bloody, mangled limbs. "Two," she said, "it's a long case. Now, I already said that normally trials run a week and a half." I held my breath. "This trial will run through the end of the year." A collective groan swept across the room. "So let me get this straight," whispered a man in the row beside me. "If I refuse jury duty, the amount of time I spend in jail will be less than the amount of time I would have to spend on the jury."
Because not all of the 1,000 potential jurors summoned to the courtroom last week would be able to serve from 9:00am to 4:30pm, Monday - Thursday, for ELEVEN EFFING WEEKS, we each received Undue Hardship forms to fill out in case sitting in a courtroom for the rest of 2012 would put a significant damper on our lives. (Side note: Is it not alarming that there are people for whom this would not cause undue hardship? This perplexes me.) The bailiff had told us to be specific in our responses so I laughed when I received my form and saw that they had provided only five lines spanning half the width of the paper. In college, "be specific" meant a seven-page paper. In my most compact handwriting I began to explain that I had plans to fly to New York at the end of this month to visit my 90-year-old grandmother (this is actually true, so if I have to go back on Tuesday that judge is heartless). I still had another reason for dismissal but I had run out of room on the form. I leaned over to the woman next to me--the one I had followed to the JAR--and asked, "Do you think we can write on the back of this?" She raised an eyebrow. "Are you writing an essay?"
I turned in my form and sat through yet another talk on when and where to find out if we had to go back on Tuesday, which included the same elderly man raising his hand and shouting, "Last time they rejected me!" which was by far the highlight of my King County Superior Court experience. After seven people had all asked when the trial would start, we were free to go.
And now I wait.
I was doomed. My only shot at freedom was to pull a Liz Lemon:
I texted several friends about my predicament. One suggested I "use Liz Lemon's way of getting out of it." Another wrote "I don't think it's fair for you to be on jury duty because you're a hologram." (I'll have it known that I suggested this very approach to my dad when he was summoned several months ago and he didn't even consider it. Rude. Also, thank God I have friends who get me!)
My mother was also a huge help.
Me: What if I wear like nine different prints?
Mom: And twitch.
Me: What should I wear? I need something that says "I'm crazy, but not so crazy that I'm embarrassed to walk around in this."
Mom: I don't think you can accomplish both.
Me: What if I showed up in a bathing suit and snorkel mask? And my polka-dotted rain boots! Or high heels!
Mom: Go with the rain boots.
Me: Is it too late for me to have Lynn (my doctor) write a note saying I'm schizophrenic?
Mom: You'd have to convince her first.
Me: But I hear voices!
Finally the Day of Duty arrived. It began as no day should ever begin: at the unholy hour of 5:00 am. I ate breakfast, made lunch, showered, decided against the bathing suit/snorkel mask/rain boots ensemble, practiced my "Excuse me, Imperial Guard?" intonations, and headed to the bus stop.
I arrived at the King County Superior Court in Seattle at about 7:45. After I passed through security I got in line at the Information Desk to ask the whereabouts of the Juror Assembly Room (JAR). The woman in front of me had asked the same thing and when it was my turn I pointed down the hall and said, "I'll just follow her." She slowed down so I could catch up. "Do you not want to be here either?" I asked, and she thrashed her head from side to side, her eyes wide.
We made our way to the JAR where we handed our dinky paper badges to the lady at the desk who scanned them and told us to pick up an information pamphlet and have a seat. The JAR was long and narrow with about 25 rows of ten seats extending back into the bowels of the courthouse. The chairs all faced forward toward a podium and there were TVs mounted on the wall every three or four rows. After I read through the hot pink juror information sheet I wedged my NPR tote bag (which I had taken to make myself look smart so they wouldn't pick me) between my legs and the armrest and pulled out my book (which I had taken to make myself look smart so they wouldn't pick me).
At 8:15, without a word from anyone with authority, the lights went out and a video started. A grainy image of the Constitution served as a backdrop, and as the camera zoomed in to highlight the words, a very slow, deliberate female voice declared "We the People" as though she were being scored on enthusiasm. I laughed and then promptly shut up when I realized that in a room of 250 people I was the only one who found it entertaining.
The video, which lasted roughly ten minutes, covered all the details of how we were chosen for the jury pool and the entire procedure of whittling down hundreds of people to get the final twelve jurors. When the video ended we had a short break and the judge approached the podium and covered all the details of how we were chosen for the jury pool and the entire process of whittling down hundreds of people to get the final twelve jurors. (What she discussed was almost literally word-for-word what was said in the video, so, you know, that was necessary.) Partway through her speech an elderly man toward the front of the room raised his hand and shouted "I can't hear you!" The judge adjusted the microphone and promised to speak up. She then launched into a lecture on the history of juries, which date all the way back to ancient Greece and "a play by Sophocles about a jury." At the end of her spiel she told us, "I can find out the name of that play by Sophocles if anyone's interested." First of all, don't everyone rush up at once. Secondly, Your Honor, maybe you should learn your Greek playwrights before launching into an oration on literary history. The play is actually a trilogy by Aeschylus, not Sophocles, and it's called Oresteia. (And while we're at it, it's Pike Place Market, not Pikes Place Market. You live in Seattle, for God's sake.)
We were then introduced to the bailiff, a fast-talking woman with a short, frizzy brown triangle of hair that fanned out midway down her ears and narrowed to a point at the top of her head. A minute into her talk the same elderly man raised his head and once again shouted "I can't hear you!" I decided then and there that I would like to adopt him as my grandfather.
Then came the important stuff. "Most trials run for about a week and a half," the bailiff told us, "but your trial is special." I shrank into my chair, knowing full well that in this context "special" was not the same word spelled out in daisies and teddy bears on stickers at the top of my first-grade homework assignments. "As you all know," the bailiff continued, "today is Friday. Normally we do not have sessions on Fridays. We only have sessions on Fridays for two reasons: One, it's a high-profile case." Shit, I thought, I'm going to be looking at positive rape kit results and photos of dead babies and bloody, mangled limbs. "Two," she said, "it's a long case. Now, I already said that normally trials run a week and a half." I held my breath. "This trial will run through the end of the year." A collective groan swept across the room. "So let me get this straight," whispered a man in the row beside me. "If I refuse jury duty, the amount of time I spend in jail will be less than the amount of time I would have to spend on the jury."
Because not all of the 1,000 potential jurors summoned to the courtroom last week would be able to serve from 9:00am to 4:30pm, Monday - Thursday, for ELEVEN EFFING WEEKS, we each received Undue Hardship forms to fill out in case sitting in a courtroom for the rest of 2012 would put a significant damper on our lives. (Side note: Is it not alarming that there are people for whom this would not cause undue hardship? This perplexes me.) The bailiff had told us to be specific in our responses so I laughed when I received my form and saw that they had provided only five lines spanning half the width of the paper. In college, "be specific" meant a seven-page paper. In my most compact handwriting I began to explain that I had plans to fly to New York at the end of this month to visit my 90-year-old grandmother (this is actually true, so if I have to go back on Tuesday that judge is heartless). I still had another reason for dismissal but I had run out of room on the form. I leaned over to the woman next to me--the one I had followed to the JAR--and asked, "Do you think we can write on the back of this?" She raised an eyebrow. "Are you writing an essay?"
I turned in my form and sat through yet another talk on when and where to find out if we had to go back on Tuesday, which included the same elderly man raising his hand and shouting, "Last time they rejected me!" which was by far the highlight of my King County Superior Court experience. After seven people had all asked when the trial would start, we were free to go.
And now I wait.
Monday, September 3, 2012
Poetry Corner Monday
Thanksgiving
By Aimee Nezhukuatathil
The only year I don't remember the turkey
was the year I first dined with the man
I would marry. Blessed be the bowl
of sweet potatoes, mallow melted
in a pool of swirly cream. Blessed be no
seating assignments so I could sit
next to him. Around the table: a physicist,
an engineer, a philosopher, another poet,
a harpist. There were others, too, but
I don't remember what weepy thanks
was offered, what linens, or whether
the china was rimmed with a neat print
of ivy or gold. But I've committed the soap
and clean blade of his neck to memory.
I know the folds of his oxford, a bit
wrinkled from a long drive. During dinner,
the physicist said A cricket won't burn
if it is thrown into a fire. Everyone laughed.
Some wanted to find a cricket to see
if it was really true. But this man--the man
I married--he grew quiet. Concerned. He's the kind
of guy who would've fished the cricket out of the flame.
By Aimee Nezhukuatathil
The only year I don't remember the turkey
was the year I first dined with the man
I would marry. Blessed be the bowl
of sweet potatoes, mallow melted
in a pool of swirly cream. Blessed be no
seating assignments so I could sit
next to him. Around the table: a physicist,
an engineer, a philosopher, another poet,
a harpist. There were others, too, but
I don't remember what weepy thanks
was offered, what linens, or whether
the china was rimmed with a neat print
of ivy or gold. But I've committed the soap
and clean blade of his neck to memory.
I know the folds of his oxford, a bit
wrinkled from a long drive. During dinner,
the physicist said A cricket won't burn
if it is thrown into a fire. Everyone laughed.
Some wanted to find a cricket to see
if it was really true. But this man--the man
I married--he grew quiet. Concerned. He's the kind
of guy who would've fished the cricket out of the flame.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
I Love Sporcle and You Should Too
In my daily unemployed house-bound daze I have been obsessively playing geography games on Sporcle.
As of this past week I have learned all the countries in the world, their capitals, how
to spell them, and where they are. At trivia last week at Red
Hook Brewery, I told my friends that I would be utterly useless unless there was
a question on countries, in which case I would own it. I was
feeling pretty pleased with myself as I dug into my nachos, only to have my friends' friends show
up soon after and spend a good five minutes listing off all the European countries that
end in -ia. Eff my life.
This afternoon I was playing a game on Sporcle in which I had to list the top baby names from 2000-2009 that are also countries. (Can you tell how much of a life I don't have?) I guessed the obvious ones--Chad, Jordan, Georgia--before I ran out of ideas and started listing Slovakia and Liechtenstein and St. Kitts & Nevis. If you guessed a country that was not among the top baby names but about which the creators of Sporcle (to whom I will collectively refer as "Mr. Sporcle") found something snarky to say, they would include the country at the bottom of the list, unnumbered, with their comment.
I guessed China and Mr. Sporcle told me that "Grace Slick named her daughter this, but it never caught on." After Cuba he wrote, "I loved him in Jerry Maguire." (And holy crap, Mr. Sporcle, did you see Radio?) After Cameron, "The country is Cameroon." Thanks, jackass. I know.
My favorite was when, running out of time, I guessed Seychelles and he pointed out, "Someone should name their kid Seychelles." The same went for Kyrgyzstan. "[Duke basketball] Coach Krzyzewski should have totally named his kid Kyrgyzstan." Yes and yes.
There was sass shooting in from all angles on some of the tamer countries, but Mr. Sporcle was disappointingly silent on such guesses as Democratic Republic of the Congo, North Korea, Kiribati, and Cote d'Ivoire. And seriously, over 7 billion people in this world and not one of them is named Federated States of Micronesia?
Unrelated to this topic, but related to Sporcle: I just found a game called "A-less countries." The directions tell you to "name the countries that do not contain the letter A for each letter," followed by a list of all the letters with a blank space after them. This list of letters? It starts with A. Now, I know some pretty damn intelligent people in this world but I don't think even they could name a country, beginning with the letter A, that does not contain the letter A. Correct me if I'm wrong.
This afternoon I was playing a game on Sporcle in which I had to list the top baby names from 2000-2009 that are also countries. (Can you tell how much of a life I don't have?) I guessed the obvious ones--Chad, Jordan, Georgia--before I ran out of ideas and started listing Slovakia and Liechtenstein and St. Kitts & Nevis. If you guessed a country that was not among the top baby names but about which the creators of Sporcle (to whom I will collectively refer as "Mr. Sporcle") found something snarky to say, they would include the country at the bottom of the list, unnumbered, with their comment.
I guessed China and Mr. Sporcle told me that "Grace Slick named her daughter this, but it never caught on." After Cuba he wrote, "I loved him in Jerry Maguire." (And holy crap, Mr. Sporcle, did you see Radio?) After Cameron, "The country is Cameroon." Thanks, jackass. I know.
My favorite was when, running out of time, I guessed Seychelles and he pointed out, "Someone should name their kid Seychelles." The same went for Kyrgyzstan. "[Duke basketball] Coach Krzyzewski should have totally named his kid Kyrgyzstan." Yes and yes.
There was sass shooting in from all angles on some of the tamer countries, but Mr. Sporcle was disappointingly silent on such guesses as Democratic Republic of the Congo, North Korea, Kiribati, and Cote d'Ivoire. And seriously, over 7 billion people in this world and not one of them is named Federated States of Micronesia?
Unrelated to this topic, but related to Sporcle: I just found a game called "A-less countries." The directions tell you to "name the countries that do not contain the letter A for each letter," followed by a list of all the letters with a blank space after them. This list of letters? It starts with A. Now, I know some pretty damn intelligent people in this world but I don't think even they could name a country, beginning with the letter A, that does not contain the letter A. Correct me if I'm wrong.
Monday, August 27, 2012
Poetry Corner Monday
This week I'm posting some pieces (full and excerpted) by Jim Moore, who I discovered by chance when I pulled a book of his poems off of a shelf in my library's threadbare poetry section. The first two are single stanzas plucked from larger pieces, but the final two are complete. Enjoy!
Love in the Ruins
1
I remember my mother toward the end,
folding the tablecloth after dinner
so carefully,
as if it were the flag
of a country that no longer existed,
but once had ruled the world.
Five Charms in Praise of Bewilderment
3
Sitting quietly at dusk, I'll admit
my life goes like this:
dark branches
scratching the still darker window.
(I dedicate this next one to my darling Casey. Case, I love you very very much but when I move to Melbourne I don't give a good damn how much you hate flying, you ARE coming to visit me. It's a 15-hour flight--start prepping now.)
Waiting to Take Off
I try not to listen to the direction
to the emergency exits,
how close they are,
how very well lit.
Those Others
We lived at the end of an empire.
Sometimes we gathered in huge auditoriums
and tried to understand.
Our shame did not save us,
nor our sadness redeem us,
as we came to understand
how others, far into the future,
would look back at us,
shaking their heads: we hoped
in sorrow; more likely, anger.
Love in the Ruins
1
I remember my mother toward the end,
folding the tablecloth after dinner
so carefully,
as if it were the flag
of a country that no longer existed,
but once had ruled the world.
Five Charms in Praise of Bewilderment
3
Sitting quietly at dusk, I'll admit
my life goes like this:
dark branches
scratching the still darker window.
(I dedicate this next one to my darling Casey. Case, I love you very very much but when I move to Melbourne I don't give a good damn how much you hate flying, you ARE coming to visit me. It's a 15-hour flight--start prepping now.)
Waiting to Take Off
I try not to listen to the direction
to the emergency exits,
how close they are,
how very well lit.
Those Others
We lived at the end of an empire.
Sometimes we gathered in huge auditoriums
and tried to understand.
Our shame did not save us,
nor our sadness redeem us,
as we came to understand
how others, far into the future,
would look back at us,
shaking their heads: we hoped
in sorrow; more likely, anger.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Current Musical Obsessions
You're welcome!
Brandi Carlile - "Before it Breaks"
Gorgeous lyrics, gorgeous voice. Plus she's adorable.
Missy Higgins - "Hello Hello"
There is nothing I don't love about her. Nothing.
Islands - "Hallways"
This song just oozes summer, though I could do without the mutinous dancing skeletons, all of whom have better rhythm than me.
Sara Bareilles - "King of Anything"
I know this has been out for a while, but I just can't get over it. Or the music video.
Scars on 45 - "Change My Needs"
They're British, they're beyond adorable. I dare you to find something wrong with this.
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