One thing about the hiatus is that I’ve had a guilt-free great time being extra-close to all my face-time dear friendohs recently. They’re amazing, insightful, fantastic, and get me through everything with grace and good humor. Big ups to all my wonderful friends; I don’t know how you guys put up with me. Really.
But, that said, internet homies, it’s been a super-tremendously rewarding day back in the journal’s saddle. Though they’ve all been ghost posts which I’ve written the night before, I’ve really liked it. Let’s never part ways again. Butterfly kisses.
Got to set off some soosh bombasticos with panda tonight, so I’ll catch you on the flip!
edit: Since this post’s original appearance, I’ve been reclassified as a Leo by … the sometimes-I-tune-in Zodiac powers that be? Not actually sure whom. Fellow fabulously-damaged Virgin Panda tried to explain it to me over soosh bombasticos last week but she is much, much better at understanding this stuff than I am.
This post originally appeared on February 7, 2010 at 9:14 a.m., so practically one year ago. Synchronicity in Yesterday’s News!
Romance, science, and zodiac quackery in Une femme est une femme/A Woman Is A Woman (Godard, 1961).
Virgo is a hard worker, a neglected mother, a quotidian task master, and a selfless martyr. Virgo is also a reality TV train wreck, a drunken psychopath, and a self-abusing anorexic. Virgo is analytical on a good day. Virgo is self-critical, self-loathing, self-deprecating, self-flagellating, and self-defeating on a bad day.
The Virgin, contrary to what her title may suggest, is the resident cock gobbler of the zodiac — never a topper, always a bottom. If you’re looking for a woman who will abuse herself, party like it’s Greek harvest time and she’s drunk on mead, please you sexually without so much as a nod to her own hungry genitalia, and perform all the humiliating duties you’ve assigned to her as wife and mother, look no further than the drunken Virgin of the zodiac.
And yes, more often than not, this naughty little maiden is getting crunked at the club or downing daiquiris at the Mommy and Me block party, an attempt to drown to death the echoes of self-loathing that usually prevent her from embodying the female charm and charisma she labors to possess.
The Virgo vibratory pattern is restrictive, effective, judgmental, exact, helpful, and neurotic. Virgos are a lot of things, socially charismatic not being one of them.
Usually, when I meet a Virgo, my natural reaction is, ‘this person must have Aspergers.’ They fixate on minutiae like Rainman [and] have more clicks and ticks than a malfunctioning android attempting to process human emotion.
Virgos rule the house of diet, perfectionism, and nourishment. Just glance at a list of famous Virgos and you’ll find more self-flagellating, adulthood suppressing skeletors than you can shake a stick at: Amy Winehouse, Rachel Zoe, Nicole Ritchie, Karl Lagerfeld, Twiggy, Fiona Apple, Aimee Mann, Peggy Guggenheim, etc.
[personally adding Anne Bancroft, Evan Rachel Wood, Lauren Bacall, Ricki Lake, Greta Garbo, and Rose McGowan to that list].
Yes, that is pretty much the way of it.
Virgo is the embodiment of human turmoil.
Insightful and amusing zodiac sign analysis by Carly, whose blog “Do you think I’m smart? Astrology and other Ass Munchery” is right here on the wordpress. Usually I say that I don’t believe in all that large astrological nonsense, but I have to admit that’s the first one I’ve ever read that was right on. Maybe I just needed to read all the horrible things I already know about myself confirmed, instead of the butt-licking backhanded compliments in most horoscopes, in order to start giving it some credence.
Final thought.
How to Spot a Virgo Woman:
They have an eating disorder.
They give rigorous handies.
They have acid reflux.
They’ll do “anything for my man.”
They want your love, but don’t deserve it.
(more, if you’re into that — she is very clever and scathingly funny)
The warmth of your love
is like the warmth of the sun
and this will be our year
took a long time to come
I haven’t been writing much lately, not because I have nothing to say, but because I have had too much to say, and too little free time in which to say it. But thankfully I’ve had the chance to talk things over with good friends both in person and on the telephone this week, and that’s released a tremendous amount of pressure.
Don’t let go of my hand
now darkness has gone
And this will be our year
took a long time to come
Besides the counsel of Miss D, which is always uplifting, I also got to hang out with Panda Eraser, Mr. Kite, and the Mister earlier this week. Lady K called several times and I also got to talk to the o.g.b.d., who was again surprisingly encouraging, kind, and thoughtful. They all really helped me clarify the things that were on my mindgrapes and squeeze some goodness out of them.
And I won’t forget
the way you held me up when I was down
and I won’t forget the way you said,
“Darling, I love you,”
You gave me faith to go on
My grandmother has been staying with us. It was a move that was supposed to be a brief visit but is now most likely going to be as permanent as possible. While her physical health is still great, her mental decline is staggering. She had always had a sharp tongue, a quick mind; if I had ever dreaded her visits or had negative feelings about her in the past, it was because we had equal minds and could clash over things (especially her daughter, my mother, of whom I was defensive and felt she was too critical). That mercurial and impish figure of my youth is gone. My grandmother now is a million miles from the Dorothy that I thought would be living with me. I am so glad she’s here, and that I’m able to have with her even those few minutes of a time where she has drifted “in,” but the pain of the remainder of her waking hours, her confusion and fear, her redundancy and pacing, is sometimes breathtaking.
Now we’re there
and we’ve only just begun
This will be our year
took a long time to come
What I am now fearing even more than the pressure of her moments of anxiety and loss now is when a physical declination in her health sets in; when I and, when she’s free, my mother are no longer adequately equipped to provide for her physically. I hate to picture her completely unaware of her surroundings, somewhere where no one knows her. I know places like that are full of loving and compassionate people, but what scares me is the times when Grandma has enough on the ball to know that she is in an unfamiliar place, and expresses fear and the sense of being lost.
The warmth of your smile
smile for me, little one
and this will be our year
took a long time to come
She told me several days ago when I came in to get her ready in the morning that she’d woke from a nightmare and been up for several hours, reading, to settle her nerves. “Bethy,” she said, “I dreamt I flew home and I didn’t know a single soul that was in my house. It didn’t look like my house. Other people lived there, people that I had never seen. It was all completely strange to me.” She said the worst part was that then she woke up here, and she thought her dream had come true until she saw a picture of my daughter and I on her nightstand and remembered she was here for what she thinks is a visit. (Given her nightmare, I suspect part of her knows this visit could be permanent.) She concluded by saying, “I don’t mind telling you — I’ve never been so frightened in my life.”
That’s what I’m scared of. That’s why I feel like no matter how hard it is, or how hard it continues to get, I can’t let her go.
You don’t have to worry
All your worried days are gone
this will be our year
took a long time to come
And that’s why I value so greatly all the kind ears of my friendohs right now. I am so lucky to have a support system to whom I can slip away and bitch and moan and noise my anxieties. Whether it’s over sushi, pints, the phone, or wherever, thank god for them. I had thought last year was going to be the most challenging of my life, but this year is shaping up to build on the growing I did then (to put a positive spin on it, rather than say, “this year sucks too”).
And I won’t forget
the way you held me up when I was down
and I won’t forget the way you said,
“Darling, I love you”
You gave me faith to go on
One of the things I’ve been doing to keep Grandma from getting agitated and restless during the day, which is when she paces the house and starts to worry about her money, her belongings, how she is going to get a plane ticket home, etc, is I’ve begun taking her on little day trips and out to stores and such. Even to just window shop, because a) to be brutally frank she does not know the difference whether we buy something or not, and b) it is not as if either of us is made of money and she is happy to people watch.
Tonight, I’m taking her to a vintage-through-the-present hair show at Panda’s cosmetology school, and she seems to be looking forward to that, because she keeps asking me when it is; if they will be videotaped or live models; and whether we have the tickets already. (“7:00 pm,” “live,” and essentially “yes.”) So that’s hopefully going to go well!
Now we’re there
and we’ve only just begun
and this will be our year
took a long time to come
This Sunday, after church, the o.g.b.d. is taking kidlet and I to lunch, and then much later in the day he and I are going to what is probably the last theater in America showing Sherlock Holmes right now. I’m looking forward to seeing it one last time before it leaves theaters. He had expressed interest in it last week after surprising me by suggesting we catch a movie sometime together when my mother was free, to give me a break from caring for my grandmother and have a fun night out, but he said that he was pretty sure it was no longer showing in our area. So he was super-pumped and surprised when I talked to him today to confirm our lunch plans with kidlet and told him that I’d found a nearby second-run theater that was still showing it through this weekend. The way Robert Downey, Jr. plays Sherlock as very herky-jerky, pugilistic, intense, and accidentally brutally honest really, really, really reminds me of the o.g.b.d.; I wonder if he will notice it, himself. I’m not going to say anything and we’ll see if he brings it up first.
Anna Karina with Jean-Claud Brialy.
Yeah, we only just begun
yeah, this will be our year
took a long time to come.
I had talked with Panda about how I am persona non grata with all the women in his life, and, just by talking about it, I started feeling less horrible about it. As Panda pointed out, even if I don’t understand it and it hurts me, the bottom line is I can’t change someone else’s mind, and I’ve done my best. And we agreed, as I had done last weekend with the LBC and Miss D before the drag races, that probably his wife will come around, and she is only acting this way because she is still hurting from whatever chain of events lead to their split (I have not felt it was polite to pry into any specifics about that). I pray that will be the case, but it’s good to know all my girlfriends agree on this, too. So I’m hoping to have the opportunity to talk to him about these revelations, because I really feel like we are in this cool new place where we are a simple team again, in our queer and broken way.
All in all, I’ve had time to adjust to these new turns of events and I think I am going to pull through. And thank god for it.
I want a little sugar
in my bowl
I want a little sweetness
down in my soul
I could stand some lovin’
Oh so bad
I feel so funny and I feel so sad
I want a little steam
on my clothes
Maybe I can fix things up
so they’ll go
What’s the matter, Daddy,
Come on, save my soul
I need some sugar in my bowl
I ain’t foolin’
I want some sugar in my bowl
You been acting different
I’ve been told
Soothe me
I want some sugar in my bowl
I want some steam
on my clothes
Maybe I can fix things up so they’ll go
What’s the matter, Daddy,
Come on save my soul
I want some sugar in my bowl
I ain’t foolin’
I want some sugar – yeah – in my bowl.
A few weeks ago, the o.g. babydaddy treated me and the kidlet to lunch at the Soosh Gardino. He and his wife are mysteriously on the outs this month, I’m not sure what’s going on, but I’ve been trying to be neutral and supportive. They’re not living together any more, though, so I’m not sure what to make of it all.
I drafted her a friendly and supportive Valentine’s card and left it at a place where I knew she had a gig that night; a few days later she wrote me thanking me but then added some surprising stuff about “needing time as newlyweds.”
This was confusing to me because I had just talked to kidlet’s father the day prior and he said in no uncertain terms that he would only take her back to avoid living with his mother … then the next day he phoned and I asked if they had patched things up and he said sort of, but not really, then the following week he said they had certainly not, and were still living apart, so like I said, I am just staying out of it. Because I truly don’t know what’s going on.
I wish there was a way for me to wave a magic wand or wish on some special star and make things perfect for both of us, but I don’t have those kinds of means at my disposal, and I have never been much of a great shakes at relationship stuff.
Apparently neither has the o.g.b.d., for which I can vouch at least during our time together lo five years ago, and also because he asked me abruptly on our way to the Gardino, “Can I ask you something? It’s bad.” He is in the habit of blurting things out so I wasn’t as surprised as I would’ve been with someone normal. I said okay and he asked me, “What happened? With your marriage?”
My stomach lurched but as my kidlet’s father and knowing he wants to support her and be able to be a sounding board for her anxieties and dreams just the same as I do, so why would I not arm him with all information possible in order for him to succeed?, I felt like he deserved a specific reply and not my usual shrug or head shake. I answered as best I could without going in to too many details, but as directly as possible because the o.g.b.d. has a lot of tics and one of them is a strong dislike of roundabout bush-beating. I’ve always thought that was a fair bugaboo and done my best to respect it. I wound down my short explanation as we pulled in to the lot of the Soosh Gardino by saying:
Woman as banquet.
“You know how it is.” (he does) “Growing up, people like us don’t plan on someone loving us, because that means letting them know us. I thought I could let someone in and it didn’t work out. For right now, I’m just not interested even at all in trusting another person, not like that. The jury is out for me on the human race.” He made a tsking sound and started to shake his head, and I held up my hand and said, “Just for now. We’ll see. But maybe I was right, all those years; maybe I am supposed to just be alone.”
Still from Pierre le fou.
I had just parked and killed the engine so I was able to look him in the eye when he suddenly grabbed my hand. He said urgently, “No. Beth — don’t say that.” This is not a story about how I got back together with the o.g.b.d., or how there is still some unwritten chapter about us. I just realized that might be inferred.
That’s not at all the way of it. You don’t know him — everything he does is spontaneous, overemotional, and urgent. He can’t even brush his teeth without doing it slightly “off” like he is coming down off of heroin or flashing his eyes around like Rudolph Valentino. He’s an intense guy, that o.g.b.d. It was one of the things that attracted me so strongly to him when we were together: he is not like other people. He’s more vibrant. Like other people are watercolor and he is painted in oils.
Rudolph Valentino smoking a cigarette with probably much greater restraint than the o.g.b.d. might — less wild gesticulation and hair pulling — but the eyes are the same.
What this story is about is this: You are pretty low when your recently-split, moving-back-in-with-his-mother, hated-you-for-years ex feels sorry for you. I thought, “Wow. Maybe we are moving in to a new phase of our lives where he will be a good friend and confidante to me. That would be pretty unexpected and neat!”
After lunch, we went to a park and it turned out he’d been drinking sub rosa from a fifth of whiskey all day. I was kind of bummed that I’d thought we’d been doing so well and it might have not really been heartfelt on his half. Quelle surprise, I guess. I will never learn, it seems. I don’t want to sound pathetic, I just felt pretty stupid for thinking someone gave a crap about me.
I found this out when he took a hit out of the bottle in his pocket. In front of a bunch of kids. I said, “Um, no thanks, dude.” He said, “Oh, I know. I wasn’t offering. You’re driving.” He had me there: I was indeed driving. And it was a visit we were both in charge of. And he’d literally split from his wife the day before. And the day before happened to be Valentine’s. So I’m not going to judge or flip out unless it happens again. “Everybody gets one,” right, Spider-man on Family Guy?
The point is: Yep. Probably meant to be alone. At least for a good long while.
It’s lonely to want some sugar in the bowl, sure, but the trouble is it’s tough to tell the sugar from the rat poison. Better safe than sorry.
Tonight I’m meeting up to set off soosh bombasticos for probably the last time in a bad long while with Jonohs Welchos, Esq., aka the MWP, aka Junior Quizboy. (He didn’t know about that last one.) I’m also returning the last of the books he loaned to me over the course of our friendship, God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater and Mother Night.
Click to enlarge.
I’m inexpressibly sad that he’s moving away and I didn’t make better use of my time with him, but I’m glad to have got to benefit from his centered-yet-unpredictable company and sound advice even for a short time. My brief association with Jonohs has taught me many valuable things.
Two heads are better than one when it comes to cryptic crosswords.
I am not alone on Spaceship Earth in thinking Achewood is worth buying shirts over. (Mine is from my husband and features Roast Beef Kazenzakis saying “what we need more of is science”; Jonohs’ is even older school and has the “equation of the day.” We knew one another for several months before it even came up.)
There is such a thing as acai berry beer.
From a BevMo visit with Jonohs in September. Left: Acai berry beer. Right: The hard shit, only recommended for true HST gonzos who are ready for some serious bat country driving.
Don’t discount anyone based on age or the suspicion you yourself will be discounted based on age.
Not every coffee shop in Motown is full of hipster douchenozzles, and, even if it were, I still have the right to sit there and read about opera with my friend.
Wonderful new people can pop up into my life in the least likely places, even places I’ve searched a thousand times (aka the pub).
Some lost summer night of trivia and shenanigans.
There is a secret menu at Miki from which only Jonohs, like a g, can order and convince the waitress to convince the chef to make food that technically no longer exists at their restaurant. It is a powerful display of confidence. Peanut sauce, ahoy.
I apologize too much.
Graciously serving as my candy corn vampire date at Paolo and Miss D’s wedding.
Candy corn vampires suck much less than the trite usual kind, and are ultimately far superior to sparkly vegetarian douchebags.
Kurt Vonnegut wrote novels that were as good as his short stories and are well worth my time.
I deserve and should expect fidelity in all my relationships. I have to stop assuming I am not worthy of good things.
Jonohs as That Guy at chili cookoff.
Even my best drawings of the flux capacitor look more like a crude sketch of a uterus and fallopian tubes.
No matter how complete you think your circle of friends is, there is always room to make it even better-rounded.
The Gentlemen and I first met Jonohs when he stepped in for Ronald as the quizmaster one trivia night at the pub — calendar check — last April, specifically April 27, 2009. Man. So much in my life has changed since then, but I definitely would not change having gotten to know Jon and become friends. I’m really going to miss the prospect of seeing him weekly. I guess the final lesson I’ve learned from getting close to a new friend as a fully-formed adult is not to take people’s presence in my life for granted. Even though I had a great time with him and he constantly surprised me by showing me new things I didn’t already know about the area, or had never tried, I still wish I’d made more use of our time together.
Just all by myself exactly and with kind of a science type question…
On that note, I’m going to go make something out of this cloud of frizz I call hair, and scootch by the bank to deposit a check from subbing — I’m treating the Man With the Plan, if he will allow it (we’ll see), to some serious soosh bombasticos. Have to make the best of the last time I will be able to get the secret menu stuff!, and I plan to guzzle “crispy” beers the size of his new-job-seeking head. Catch you on the flip side!
Just heard from Miss D and she had great news today which she desperately needed after the poo sandwich of her Sunday. Now have bathed and prepped dinner for kidlet and am off to set off post-holiday soosh bombasticos with the Panda Eraser. Hopefully things will slowly but surely continue to look up!
Lily Allen + panda suit = Perfectly cramazing!
Catch you guys later. I’m sending good vibes into the universe without hope for karmic payout but I wouldn’t mind if it were a byproduct — join me!
I realized that the last time I was jawing at you about young, offbeat hipster Canadian cuties Mother Mother, I streamed basically the entirety of their new album (but I wisely did not throw up the mp3s and make them available to download; look who’s NOT getting her narrow ass sued today! me! I am the one!), but, other than “Dirty Town,” I almost totally ignored their first-ish album. It was a retool in cooperation with the label of an earlier, limited self-release. The album is called Touch Up, and while I don’t think it has the same naked genius and confidence of O My Heart, it is still infinity plus one times better than most of the slop the pretty people shove down our throats on the reg.
Jasmin Parkin, proving me right that the recent absconsion of strawberry blonde Debra-Jean Creelman could be easily combated by one of the tow heads dyeing her hair a little red.
One of my favorite songs in the world is “Mr. Sandman,” of which I have many covers. This frenetically paced track makes wide reference to it. It’s a crazy song and I do not at all recommend it if you are hung over, but it’s awesome if you’re on the natch and looking for a little ear candy.
Mother Mother – Tic Toc
I included it first here because I think it’s the best track of the lot for the distinctive harmonics and characteristically shifty orchestration, which is still emerging on this album and reached full fruit on the more recent LP O My Heart. I love that every time you think you have a bead on the different instruments, something gets cut and something crazy and new gets thrown in, although consistent throughout is that great plucky cotton-picking acoustic sound that makes all music good for me; some things just speak to your soul and that is apparently my soul’s style.
Congruently, it’s almost becoming signature to me in Ryan Guldemond’s compositions to hear that fluid time signature; always jerking the rug out from beneath us, these kids. Also, as usual, some surprisingly good lyrics, I really feel like the songs “Wrecking Ball” and “Burning Pile” on their sophomore release picks this theme back up, enough so that I’m starting to want to sit down and have a couple pints with Ryan G and nail down some solid plans for anarchy (oxymoron intended).
All this talk, all this ticking, all this shit talk
I’m staying in bed today
And it doesn’t matter what they’ll have to say to me
No I do not care just what they’ll have to say to me
Cuz I am not listening
Big hand, little hand, no hand, slow hand
Sitting in my hand is the sand of a shattered hour glass
And I throw these grains of sand into the wind and laugh
And I do not care just what they’ll have to say about that
Cuz the sand man told me, there’s no use in listening
I am not listening to you
Molly Guldemond and Debra-Jean Creelman.
Another standout track is “Love and Truth.” The ladies take the lead on this song, and it’s a shiny little pretty gem on a decent but occasionally rough and uneven album.
Mother Mother – Love and Truth
Is my life not all that I thought it would be?
Is it simply ordinary?
Oh, is it far from all my fantasies?
Love and truth
Why are they so hard to achieve
Love and truth
They’re such hot commodities
But come in such small quantities
Love and truth where are you? …
Oh, love and truth
If everything was up to me
I’d make sure that there was plenty of love and truth
Love and truth where are you?
Molly Guldemond at the Central Jazz Fest in Gastown, photographed by Krystal Shea.
Hilarious and honest and surprising with vocals that rip through like from underwater to squawk the cocky lyrics at you, with the girls’ harmonic back-ups in styles that vary from the Ronettes to the ladies’ choir vox on Duran-Duran’s “Come Undone,” really funny and unflinching at the same time. I wonder what conversation lead him to write those lyrics. I want to meet that chick.
Mother Mother – Verbatim
I wear women’s underwear
And then I go to strike a pose in my full length mirror
I cross my legs just like a queer
But my libido is strong when a lady is near, ya
What defines a straight man’s straight?
Is it the boxer in the briefs or a twelve ounce steak?
I tell you what a women loves most
It’s a man who can slap but can also stroke
Goin’ in the wind is an eddy of the truth and it’s naked
It’s verbatim and it’s shakin’ backupNo, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no more getting’ elated
No more listless invitations
And every day I go out walking past its sickly windows
I see people dying there
But my tender age makes it hard to care
Incinerator and a big smoke stack
It’s a phallic symbol and it makes me laugh
All I need is a heart attack
C’mon, humble my bones with a Cardiac
For the love of fuck
For the sake of Pete
Did you ever really think you’d love a guy like me?
I am the rooster in the morning
I’m the cock of the day
I’m the boxer in the briefs
I’m a twelve ounce steak
Eh-oh
Yabo
Ya, it’s verbatim
And ya, and it’s naked
And ya, and it’s shakin’
It shakes, shakes shakes
That’s it for me, I need to do a little laundry so I have something to wear when Panda and I go out for some soosh bombasticos tonight, as planned. It’s going to be a slaughter! That sushi restaurant will rue the day I heard of it.
Paging Dr. Freud. I’m making lasagna right now. Here’s why.
Okay. So. I have a recurring dream that my father is shot and killed by someone wandering on to the campus where he teaches. In the dream, I am always at my parents’ home in their room, taking care of laundry (the curtains are always down in the dream, I get the impression they are being washed as well) when the kitchen phone rings and a call comes to report that he’s died.
Just before the phone rings, I am always thinking two things: first, that once that load of laundry that’s in the washer is done, I’m going to shower, and second, I wonder what the Detwiler twins are doing lately? — these are two girls around five years younger than me that we used to babysit in San Jose, who moved to the Valley around the same time we did. This is very consistent, no matter how many times I dream it: I am always thinking those two things as I fold sheets.
Right when I think the last bit of that thought about the twins, a weird presentiment of dread comes over me, like I am remembering already that I’ve dreamt this, and the phone is about to ring with terrible news. The dream is very vivid, down to the dim light from the overcast sky and the muggy, heavy feeling in the air through the open, uncurtained windows. I look up from my folding and the phone rings. I hear my mother pick up the kitchen extension and I know that she’s being told my father has been killed. I wake up.
All right, I told you that story so I could tell you this one:
After I finished school and moved to Portland with my husband, I figured I was off the hook forever from this dream coming true, as I was a married lady and all grown’z up and would never again be in a position to be home, folding laundry on my parents’ bed, when the kitchen phone would ring and someone would say he’d been killed.
Then I took this lovely nerve-wracking break from marriage and moved home with the kidlet. Things have been pretty good with my folks considering they’ve taken in an adult child and her child, but he and I argued last weekend and things have been “off” since then. I said passionate and unfair things to him like, “I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment. I know you think I’m a failure and that my feelings are only an inconvenience to you,” and I even managed to bring up the time that he told me offhandedly that my mom loved me more than he did.
That always stuck with me because I am one of those sick women that believes their father hangs the moon and would never steer me wrong, say something false, or make a wrong decision, so if I perceive that he disapproves of me or thinks I am not living up to my potential, as he is God, that makes him right, which makes me crap. To get mad and yell at him is like throwing rocks at Heaven, for me. (Yes, I am aware that I need to acknowledge his flaws and humanity if I want to have any kind of ordinary relationship with men other than him. Why don’t you suck it? I’m working on it!) Anyway, we dropped a whole strafing series of bombs rife with psychological napalm at one another for a while. We eventually ran out of gas, apologized, and made up. But it’s hung over my head since then.
So, now, I told you that story so I could tell you this one:
I was folding laundry about an hour ago and the phone rang. It was not sheets, the curtains were up, my mother was not home, and I answered the phone; not the kitchen extension, but an extension they have in their room now. It was a robo-call from my father’s school district offices. It was a recording of his principal, reporting that the school had been on lockdown earlier because of an adult intruder, and the lockdown has now been lifted and parents can come get their kids if they want. I know, right?! I freaked out. Apparently, it was necessary because of some jerky vagrant who came on campus, got in a fight with security, and was quickly apprehended by police and never even got the chance to enter a classroom.
I called my father immediately on his cell phone and he didn’t seem too shaken up, but he did ask that I not go out with Panda Eraser tonight, as I’d been planning. I am okay with that; this week has been so-so for me other than going to mall with Miss D, so I’d have been not very upbeat company, anyway, probably. She wouldn’t mind, she’d understand, but I’d have felt bad for being a downer. So I texted Panda to see about making it up to her by treating her to sushi on Monday, which is her day off from the Cosmetology School That Shall Not Be Named.
Finally, I told you that story so I could tell you this last one:
I’m making him lasagna now. I’m much more shaken up than he is. I have a couple scheduled posts that will appear later. That’s it from me today, though. I am way too much of a Daddy’s Girl to do anything but sit around cooking for him and fretting. I feel like if something had happened to him, I would’ve done it somehow via the evil eye, like invited the retribution from the fact of being so rude and ungrateful as to get sucked in to a fight with him this weekend. In general, he’s kind of a grouchy, contentious, loveable curmudgeon and I try to ignore the baiting, which is good-natured more than anything else, but I was on edge and lost my temper, a total lapse in grace. Naturally, that means that fight we had makes this all my fault. You see? Hence the lasagna. That will make it all better.
Suddenly I’ve got a lot of little details to attend to today. And I’m elated to say that later in the day I’m going to rendezvous with the Gentleman for some Zombieland, soosh-bombasticos at the ol’ Gardino, and hopefully some very-much-needed heavy, deep, and real chitty chat, not to mention crispy Japanese beers big as my head. All this in mind, I’m handing over the reins for the day to the auto-posting feature.
Ladies and gentleman, the lovely and talented Tina Fey!
“I used to dress up in my best nightgown, which was a peach-colored rayon number with a matching robe, and I would drink soda out of a champagne glass in the dark while I watched The Love Boat. I pretended I was on the cruise. That was so classy.”
Today, Special K sprung from school (last year before college auuugh!) at 1:05 and she and I had plans to go to Maisie’s Sushi, a newish place near downtown that I’ve been wanting to give another spin since the Gentleman and I went a few months back and found it to be, like, “on its way” but not “there” yet, if that jives. However, that plan fell through pretty much immediately as we were unaware that there is a special ordinance in Motown forbidding the operation of a sushi restaurant between 2:00 and 5:00 of a Friday afternoon. Did you know? We did not. We’re not certain, but it’s all we can conjecture given that literally every mothereffing sushi joint in the entire city was closed.
And here is the kicker: three of the some four or five we thought of and buzzed past still actually had their signs on and doors unlocked from lunch. We’d walk in and they’d shake their heads and ruefully claim they were closed. Really? Because there are literally people eating right there at that table. No lie, there were people looking at us with their mouths full of food as we were told no sushi for us. Total sass. Special K remarked as we left Soosh Gardino, “It’s no wonder that restaurants have the highest fail rate of all new businesses,” and we agreed actually being open is always the first step in increasing your customers.
Aye, Kathleen, I guess we will have to try again someday when they are serving the Irish.
So we were like, well, screw sushi then, apparently, and, partly because I wanted to take her somewhere new, partly because we weren’t too far from it, but mainly because Mr. Kite and I were talking about China and the recent 60th birthday of its form of communism, I took her to an old favorite, Beijing. The restaurant, not the city. She has been to the city of Beijing before and I wanted to take her someplace new, remember? You think I’m kidding but I’m not, my girl is a straight-up citizen of the world! I bought her a messenger bag to that exact effect, and put a long crinkly hot pink scarf with black music notes on it inside, because I am pretty sure it is bad luck to give someone an empty purse.
Kidlet asleep on a rug, giggling and moving legs in her sleep. Difficult not to draw comparisons to a puppy.
Special K just called to cancel cause she missed school again, sounded legit sick. Sounded really awful. I’m a POS for thinking she needed a Truancy Talk. Gal is sick-ers and that’s that. Hoping to take her to either Osaka or Soosh Gardino for dinner tomorrow night to assuage inner guilt.
Pops not due home for hour, dinner already pre-made and mug for him in freezer.
Looks like I got this shit unexpectedly all nailed down.
What’s a kitteh-lady to do? Why, would you look at that, in the corner of the garage is a twelver of Corona… calling my name… (Eliiiiiiizzzzzabeeeeth….)
I hear you, guys, and don’t fret — I’m on the case!
The Thought Experiment 