Burt Reynolds is my Fodder

Cheers!

2012-02-06T07:30:00.000-08:00

I'm writing about wine today. It's 7:15am.

I really like wine. I do. Almost all kinds. Just not at 7:15am.

(And no, I'm not drinking. But I could. Research, you know.)

Next week: Beethoven & I get real friendly.

The tank.

2012-02-04T13:54:00.000-08:00

Burt & Shelley have informed me that Burt's cancer is back.

Have you seen Saving Private Ryan? Remember toward the end of the movie, when they've barricaded themselves in the blown-out town? Everyone is in position; the sniper is watchful in the tower. It's so quiet, and they seem ready.

They know the tank is coming, they're waiting for it. The anticipation is deceptively peaceful.

You hear the tank before you see it, before it slogs around the corner. It makes a noise that's sickeningly primordial, like an animal, like a dinosaur. It's a rumble that nauseated me the first time I saw the movie, because it wants only destruction--nothing else.

I know, of course, that the tank is coming. But that doesn't mean I don't feel nauseated when I hear it, because it wants my blood.

Next week: something chipper.

Faulkner for the family.

2012-01-29T09:31:00.000-08:00

Went to a book swap Friday night. The theme for the swap was "family," and while I briefly considered bringing Helter Skelter, I ultimately decided to go with my favorite Faulkner: As I Lay Dying.

As I Lay Dying is about a family transporting their dead mother in a homemade wooden casket across the county in a borrowed wagon, so that she can be buried where she wanted to be buried. Shenanigans befall them, & meanwhile, the weather gets....hot. Mississippi-hot. You get where I'm going with this? Also, there is a river and a certain faulty casket latch. But I'll leave the rest to your imagination.

While exceedingly gothic, the book is also terribly moving.

(One chapter reads only, "My mother is a fish." Damn.)

While I love to make personal playlists, I also love making playlists for others--even if those others are dead (or, um, fictitious). So here's my playlist for the matriarch of As I Lay Dying, Addie Bundren:

Hank Williams Sr., Hey Good Lookin'
Memphis Minnie, Me and My Chauffeur Blues
Tom Waits, You Can Never Hold Back Spring

Next week: The tank.

Lighthearted.

2012-01-23T21:41:00.000-08:00

I find myself in a stellar mood lately:

Details to follow. For now, I'm gonna put on my boots & enjoy it.

Next week: Ready, steady...bookswap!

MLK day quickie.

2012-01-16T16:22:00.000-08:00

I'm going to the Plastic Camera Show this week.

I don't use a plastic camera so I want to see if there's anything I'm missing. I'm trying to feel my way to my next project & I don't want to rule any options out.

One project idea is to take photos of Burt & Shelley...nude.

Like this, but less achingly artful, more exquisitely awkward:

There are several impediments to this project, however:

They haven't actually agreed to it.
It's cold outside, & outside is where I like to take photos.
I'm not sure I could take the photos without damaging my temperament.

I like my temperament how it is. It's been very serviceable.

Thinking about it.

Next week: The camera show...or something else.

I love Jillian.

2012-01-08T12:51:00.000-08:00

I have a girl crush on Jillian Michaels.

Shelley got me a Ripped in 30 dvd for xmas, & Jillian's been kicking my ass on a near-daily basis. The woman does.not.play & she is crunch central, & I like stomach stuff but jesus christ.

What I love most about Jillian is that she's unabashedly attracted to her assistants. She repeatedly pretends she's going to bite their asses while they're demonstrating the moves, & I find this mesmerizing--even when I've done the workout before & know the mock-biting is coming.

Also, she talks about how she used to be fat in high school & I like that.

Now whether I will actually become ripped (or...shredded) in 30 is another matter, b/c I am fond lately of eating Jack in the Box eggrolls at midnight. They are incredible & I can eat 3 of them in about 4 minutes. Less if I skip the sauce. But I love the sauce!

Jillian would totally bite my ass if she knew.

Next week: Up all night.

Happy New Print.

2012-01-02T15:20:00.000-08:00

I was going to write about my road trip with Burt, but it got canceled. And by "it got canceled," I mean I drove back to the bay area by myself after fighting with Burt in the kitchen.

Yes, life with Burt involves a dash of drama.

So instead, I'm going to talk about my fabulous new print. My friend L made it--we're art-swapping. I got to choose one of her amazing prints & she's going to choose a photograph.

The print is like this: imagine if Rothko and the Good Humor Man had a baby.

The baby picks up a Gothic branch and waves it around. Then an earthquake comes and cleaves the earth in two. And that is the print.

I'm currently deciding where its place of honor should be. And L didn't name it, so I will:

Latvian Sorbet Shake.

Next week: Shredded is the new ripped!

I spy a surreptitious Christmas.

2011-12-26T22:59:00.000-08:00

I've added a new tradition to Xmas eve: playing Secret Spies w/ my nephew.

Secret Spies is when you follow your 6-year-old behaviorally-challenged nephew (both of you surreptitious-though-whispering-very-loudly) to the kitchen, then down the hallway, past the bathroom, then onto the floor and crawling down the length of the back of a sofa, in order to listen--secretly--to the family's pre-dinner conversations.

Unfortunately, these conversations do not generally involve any top-secret revelations. Instead, they involve reversible place mats, the restriction of carbs, and the Chicago Bears.

However, I was cheered when my nephew allowed me to play Secret Spies with a glass of vognier in my hand, so long as I held two stormtroopers in the other hand.

"Why are we bringing the stormtroopers?" I whispered.

"Because we're fighting the bad," he whispered back.

"There's a lot of bad in the world," I said. "We could be at it all night."

"If that's what we have to do," he said.

Fortunately, Shelley rang the proverbial dinner bell, like, 10 minutes later.

Next week: A road trip with Burt.

Drives you crazy.

2011-12-18T20:30:00.000-08:00

a) So I went to a cafe today to work on my photo captions. That kind of work is hard enough, but when when you add in a strange man intent on making crazy kissing faces at you, it's exponentially harder. Why don't the crazies ever know the difference between a wanted gesture, and an unwanted one?

Wanted gesture: when you have a crazy crush on someone.
Unwanted gesture: when crazy is standing in the middle of the cafe, talking to himself in his very own bubble of sexual tension, expressing immense feeling via crazy puckered lips. While you're trying to write.

See? There's a difference.

b) Anyway. Burt has decided that he wants to go on a road trip with me. Meaning, he's going to drive back to the bay area with me after Xmas.

As most of you have not been encased in an automobile with my father for 8.5 hours, allow me to share some topics that will likely be addressed:

why is your hair so short?
why don't you go to church anymore?
why do you have such a hard-on for minorities?
why do you always have to be different?
all these other drivers are complete imbeciles
women still hit on me
golf

Next week: A holly-jolly xmas.

San Diego, 11/2011.

2011-12-11T16:18:00.001-08:00

I framed a bunch of pictures yesterday. Took forevah. Now the captions. In meantime, photos from Thanksgiving weekend:

Next week: what's the point in creating an apt you love if you're never home?

Getting von Triered.

2011-12-05T11:54:00.001-08:00

It kills me when strangers sit next to me in a movie theater (people like to sit right next to me...I don't get it...is it my lotion?) and then express (vocal) dismay at the movie--like they didn't know what they'd be getting.

Melancholia is a Lars von Trier movie. Dancer in the Dark? Dogville? Antichrist? Breaking the Waves? Get me?

You don't go to Lars von Trier for a feel-good experience. You go to get punished. You go because you're a bad, bad moviewatcher & you need to be spanked by von Trier's purported misogyny, anti-Americanism, and anti-semitism.

Or something.

Anyway...Melancholia was gorgeous & thought-provoking...I'm still thinking about it. Which is all I ask from a movie. Well, that & an apocalypse. Then I'm good to go.

Next week: How to turn your apartment into a gallery (in 27 easy steps).

Focus on Thanksgiving.

2011-11-29T08:22:00.001-08:00

Question. Why, when Burt & Shelley dropped me off at the airport, did Burt grip me by the shoulders, stare into my eyes, and say: "Don't get into any trouble."

???

Sometimes Burt can be intense.

I took a lot of photos of Burt, Shelley, and even Grandma over Thanksgiving weekend. Mostly of Burt, since he's a camera whore. I got him to hold all manner of objects that have personal meaning for him...and some that have personal meaning for me. More to come (if they turn out).

Shelley can't have her photo taken without smiling really big. I had to dial her back a bit.

Grandma's photos were really easy to focus because her eyes are 100 years old and therefore very watery/shiny. Thanks, Grandma!

Next week: Hard to say.

Brokeback sheep.

2011-11-21T05:55:00.000-08:00

There are certain movies I go back to again & again. One of these is Brokeback Mountain. Is it the gay sex scene, you ask? The dialogue? Heath Ledger?

I like all of that...but I'm here to report that I go back for the sheep.

Whenever I can't sleep, I count sheep--just like the cliche. I've seen Brokeback Mountain so many times that I can summon the sheep readily...their daft, obedient, woolly backs swirling en masse up and down the mountain.

I've built a small fence in my mind (or, one serviceable chunk of a fence) and I round them up & make them jump it. I'm unconscious before the 3rd sheep bends his knees. Or, what passes for knees on a sheep.

Try it...for all your unrequited sleep/sheep needs.

Next week: Thanksgiving at the mothership.

More Q, less A.

2011-11-11T11:41:00.001-08:00

a) Darkrooms.
Not a bunch to share yet except that Rayko is polar-icecap-cold inside & I've met some nice people. I've got to work on motion (not my favorite) & depth-of-field (more my favorite) this weekend, so more to come.

b) Photos.
Getting NY photos printed this weekend. Remaining questions:

How many photos?
How big the grid?
Which font for the captions?
Which sequence?

I carry these questions around the way some women carry Louis Vuitton. Joyfully, protectively.

c) Covers.
Went to my teacher's string quartet gig a couple nights ago. They do covers--as of Lady Gaga, Megadeath, & Radiohead (including a shimmering, transcendent version of Nude I thought would finish me off for good).

My teacher can arrange most any music for cello, so I'm thinking about what to supplement Bach with. I do loves me some Bach...but Johann, it's time to mix it up.

Next week: Brokeback sheep.

NY photos, part 4/4.

2011-11-06T09:53:00.000-08:00

Next week: darkroom class.

NY photos, part 3.

2011-11-04T22:36:00.000-07:00

NY photos, part 2.

2011-11-02T19:57:00.000-07:00

NY photos, part 1.

2011-11-01T19:44:00.000-07:00

Quickie photo.

2011-10-30T09:04:00.000-07:00

My photo project has become a creative vortex, the kind of vortex I like best. It's requiring a lot of tiny & very personal decisions. I don't want it to end.

I'll roll out some NY photos in the next few days.

In the meantime, here's my friend from work. He has a gorgeous tremulous quality I wish I could capture (...video!).

Next week: ny photos.

Horsing around.

2011-10-20T22:35:00.000-07:00

So I'm taking riding lessons on Sunday afternoons. I have bruises in isolated, unmentionable places and have developed an intense fondness for the smell of hay, mingled w/ horse sweat.

The riding is becoming instinctive, & I've learned that horses respond to that instinct, & ease. You can't be afraid to move (like Sundance, you're better when you can move).

I told Burt that my teacher said I'm her fastest learner. He answered, "How much did you have to pay her to say that?"

At first I was riled, but then I remembered that I do pay her. So.

Anyway, Sundays have become like church. But more peaceful, more satisfying, & slightly more bruising afterwards.

Riding playlist:
Calamity Jane, Adelyne Hood & Vernon Dalhart
Rawhide, Blues Brothers
Silver Stallion, Cat Power

Next week: Photos of complete strangers.

I [heart] NY, part 2.

2011-10-13T13:21:00.000-07:00

White Horse Tavern. Where Dylan Thomas drank, pre-death. Cheers!

Bill Charlap Trio @ Village Vanguard. They didn't play "Maria"--which is a bummer b/c it's one of my favorites. Used to torture Desi w/ it by singing it around the house (substituting his name).

James Wright's letters, $3.95 at the Strand. Here are 3 lines of a Wright poem (indulge me):

Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.

I f-ing love James Wright:

George Harrison documentary. 3.5 hours long, but no Shoah.

Small's. Open mic, and Ruth Brisbane:

Washington Square Park:

I took a lot of photos here, and I learned things:

take the lens cap off.
watch out for dog shit.
when you take a person's photo, you sort of fall in love with them.

I was falling all over the park.

Next week: The ride.

New York, Take 2.

2011-10-05T13:32:00.000-07:00

This is yet another quickie, as I'm going to NY tomorrow & I still have a sh*t ton to do.

When I told my parents I was going, Shelley said:

"Again?"

Burt said:

"So...you got a special friend there?"

Yes Shelley, I'm going again. No Burt, no special friend there.

Just: MOMA, the Strand, Village Vanguard, Small's, Ear Inn, & hopefully: ingratiating myself to complete strangers who'll let me take their pictures.

Next week: trip report.

Warming the cockles.

2011-09-30T09:12:00.000-07:00

I still don't have internet at my new place, so this is a quickie.

Continuing with my theme, Sh*t I Found When I Moved, I unearthed a Valentine's Day card I received in my locker in junior high.

Let me repeat: junior high.

I transpose it here, verbatim (though, the boldface is mine):

Dear Holly,

I know we do not know each other very well, but maybe we could get to know each other more better at the dance! You've got a super cute ass! How far will you go? I sure hope far enough! I'm not expecting you to f*ck me or anything. But we can give it a try!

Well, see ya at the dance!

Luv ya lots, Jon

(Outcome: I did indeed go to the dance, but didn't get a chance to f*ck Jon. Private note to Jon: I applaud your gumption. Hope you're having a good life. Unless you're in prison.)

Next week: OMG I NEED MY INTERNET.

Dear Diary....

2011-09-22T22:06:00.000-07:00

Part of moving is paring stuff down--so I've been going through my old papers & found my diary from when I was 9.

My favorite themes were food & Preston (who later turned out to be gay). Re food, my palate was not necessarily refined:

"I had a very good lunch today. I had a balonie sandwich with mustard and lettuce."

Keep in mind: I ate this same sandwich every day--and was so intrigued with it that I mentioned it several times in my diary. Insanity.

I was also obsessed with Preston, a 6th grader, for at least 3 months. He was skinny & exceedingly awkward.

April 8: "I held hands with Preston for 10 seconds! And I got to kiss Preston on the cheek! I used to hate him but I love him now!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" [Yes, there were 16 exclamation points. I counted them.]

May 1: "I'm going with Preston! Finally!"

July 2: "I hate Preston."

July 7: "I don't have much to say except my love life is rotten." But don't feel bad for me, because: "My perm is still going strong."

Lastly, there was a small inkling of future interests:

"I am writing 2 books. One is about a girl named Jasmine who runs away to Litchfield, Connecticut and meets a sidewalk artist."

I look back on my flummoxed 9-year-old self and think several things:

Bologna is spelled bologna. And there are other lunchmeats in the world.
Never a good idea to expect carnal affection from the gays (as a girl).
Your hair is straight; get over it.
Litchfield is not a particularly compelling setting. Though a sidewalk artist could definitely be a compelling love interest. Good call.

Next week: My new place.

My Dear Watson.

2011-09-16T19:53:00.000-07:00

This weekend will easily place in my Top 10 Worst Experiences of all time, right up there with cleaning bathrooms at Bookstar, saying goodbye to Grandpa on his deathbed, & walking in on my parents while they're doing it.

Tomorrow, Desi and I are driving Watson to San Diego to live with Burt and Shelley. For reasons that I won't go into here, neither of us can keep him.

It's kind of like Sophie's Choice, but no Nazis, and no other dogs to choose between, and Watson will probably love it there. So I guess it's nothing like Sophie's Choice. Except that I feel like Sophie & then some.

The upside: I'm going to be able to see him. And Burt & Shelley have a big yard, another dog for Watson to play with, and--as mentioned previously--Watson is obsessed with Shelley. He follows her around like a...puppy. Maybe she applies kibble-scented lotion. Hard to say.

Anyway, Watson can follow her around. And he can lie down on Burt's buffalo robe & watch golf tournaments.

But I miss him already. I miss:

his puppy smell (or, his 1.5 yr old smell)
the way he holds onto your hand with his paws when you scratch his chest in the mornings
how when you lie on the floor, he flings himself down next to your head
how he props his back feet up on the wall of his kennel when he's napping

Here he is, one more time:

Ouch.

Next week: When I was 9, I was really dumb.

Shelley is broken up.

2011-09-08T22:06:00.000-07:00

If there's one person my breakup has affected more than any other, it'd have to be Shelley.

Shelley is so incensed that Desi and I have broken up, she's giving me the silent treatment. Even Desi isn't giving me the silent treatment.

I know what Shelley's issue is: she's losing her free IT guy. Who will troubleshoot her Excel documents? Who will load apps onto her ipad? Will she have to read a manual?

Shelley got plenty of free labor out of Desi.

Maybe next time, I should date someone at Apple? Or maybe cut to the chase with someone at Fry's or Best Buy? Tigerdirect.com? Someone truly serviceable, is what I'm thinking.

Next week: Countdown to San Diego.

Byebyeloo.

2011-09-02T21:29:00.000-07:00

After much discussion, Desi Arnaz and I have decided to part ways.

We commemorated our breakup by taking our coin jar to Coin Star, then buying stiff artisan drinks & blistery-crusted pizza. We're friendly that way.

Now comes the scintillating part: moving.

Next week: New digs.

Questions.

2011-08-28T15:06:00.000-07:00

"Would you love me more if I were a robot?"

"No," Desi said.

"Would you love me more if I were a replicant?"

"Like the Nexus-6 from the Tyrell Corporation?"

"Yeah."

Desi thought about this a while. "No," he said.

After this exchange, Desi tried to get Watson to play with an uncut honeydew melon. It sort of worked.

Next week: Busy like a bee who is busy even for bee-caliber standards.

Back in the saddle.

2011-08-20T11:35:00.000-07:00

I told Burt I'm going to take a horseback riding lesson. I thought he'd be interested, as he's obsessed with all things western & outdoorsy. Not only does he think he's Burt, he thinks he's Jeremiah Johnson:

Burt was indeed interested, but more interested in trying to get me to take golf lessons. That way, I could play golf with him & Shelley when I visit them in San Diego.

Um, no way. I don't want to be Tiger Woods; I wanna be a cowgirl.

On other exercise fronts, I've been doing a Jillian dvd.

I respond to Jillian's particular brand of sadism. Whereas others might tell me to do "surrenders" (an infernal, torturous maneuver) & I'd say "f*ck you," Jillian tells me & I do it. And when she says, "Gimme all you got," I sort of love her. Not sure why she's the boss of me, but my body hasn't felt this good since high school swim.

So hopefully the horse doesn't kick me in the head tomorrow. We'll see.

Next week: Robots & melons.

The music post.

2011-08-13T13:23:00.000-07:00

a) Playing.
I graduated to Suzuki book 3. That means I'm, roughly, as good as a 5th grader now. It also means I'm that much closer to where I was when I quit 4 yrs ago...4 years of looking at my untouched cello & feeling shame. That was a lot of shame.

b) Listening.

Someone recently asked me if I'd been a fan of the Backstreet Boys. I ask you: do I seem like a person who'd fall under the spell of a boy band? Then he mentioned Morrissey (um, that one's closer to the mark--especially circa There is a light that never goes out).

Anyway, it gave me an idea for a list... & I love to make lists. Below, my top 5 past musical phases and top 5 current phases--with commentary, but no apologies, on 8/13/11:

Past phases (in alphabetical order):
1. Elvis Costello. My angry-young-man phase.

2. Judy Garland. Off the hook.

3. Lauryn Hill. Beautiful voice, amazing timing.

4. Ricki Lee Jones. Idiosyncratic voice, impeccable feeling.

5. Van Morrison. Spiritual in the best ways--& none of them religious.

Current phases:
1. Bjork. I love almost everything she does.

2. Bon Iver. Completely smitten.

3. Norah Jones. Effortless.

4. Radiohead. Almost too beautiful, but I'm in.

5. Tom Waits.

Next week: Checkin' in with Burt.

Shelley, the Alarmist.

2011-08-08T12:30:00.000-07:00

My mother, a professional alarmist, likes to give me bad news about stuff that hasn't happened yet.

Example:

"Our plane's engine had a crack in it. We could've died."

Now maybe I'm insensitive, but I don't want to hear about any engine cracks that didn't result in actual bodily injury. If Shelley and Burt were to die in a plane crash, trust me--I'd hear about it. Doesn't the coroner or Alaska Airlines or whatever call you up when that happens?

There are plenty of other things Shelley tells me that I don't want to hear, many of which involve sickness, death, and/or mayhem:

"Your father is having memory issues today. It's probably not a stroke."
"If I ever get really sick, I give you permission to smother me with a pillow."
"When I die, you're in charge of my ashes."

Sweet, right? Here, look...I found an urn I could talk back to:

It's an urn...and a planter! I love dual purposes.

Segue: I had someone else read my new story (the filthy one) and he liked it. I'm beginning to think that people just like smut. Who knew?

Next week: Pablum Casals graduates to Book 3. I might be as good as a 5th grader!

Special Guest Star: Dave Hayward

2011-08-02T20:45:00.000-07:00

I had lunch (or, chips) with my friend Dave this past weekend. I always look forward to seeing him & always feel inspired afterwards.

Dave wrote Heads You Lose w/ his friend, Lisa:

Apart from writing books, this is what Dave is good for:

buying me chips
witty asides
advice, minus the judgment
encouragement

Dave is one of the only people I know who encourages me to write what I'm afraid of, & that's priceless to me. Most people want to shield you; Dave wants you to shed your skin & profane the moon. It's scary, and awesome.

Next week: Distraction...it's the new black!

Vancouver is nice. Literally.

2011-07-29T10:33:00.000-07:00

So I got back from Vancouver last night, & my primary impression is this:

it's disturbingly un-hostile there.

The city felt like a combination of Berkeley & New York--but no aggression. I did hear someone honk their horn. Once.

(I live in Oakland, so I'm used to a fair amount of open hostility. In fact, I don't feel quite right without it.)

Also, there were tons of trees. Mature trees. I don't seek out vacation spots on the basis of trees, but it was a definite plus.

Also, I went to this bookstore:

Look at this place. If I fell down in here, I'd disappear; they'd pile their Canadian Maritime History section on top of me & it'd be over.

Also, I discovered what vacations are actually for: ready, steady access to so-bad-it's-good TV. I indulged in My Strange Addiction, My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding, 16 & Pregnant, and Jersey Shore. In fact, if they'd been showing a Jersey Shore marathon, I probably wouldn't have left the hotel room.

Yes, I know I have a problem.

Next week: A very special guest star.

Vancouver, eh.

2011-07-21T08:22:00.000-07:00

So I don't have much to say at the moment b/c I'm going to Vancouver/Seattle for a week. Apparently, Vancouver looks like this:

Also, they have japadogs:

Beyond that, dunno. Maybe I'll run into Alice Munro?

LOVE Alice Munro.

Next week: a scintillating trip report.

Shelley's Brisket.

2011-07-14T05:15:00.000-07:00

Shelley is going to make brisket for her & Burt's gourmet group next week. And when Shelley is grappling with a new recipe, she performs a "trial run" on the family (and in this case, on my niece's British soccer coaches...wtf?).
Anyway, she told me that the brisket didn't turn out to be tender enough, and I can tell you why: not enough fat. Shelley bought the leanest cut of meat she could find, b/c she low-faticizes (I know, but work with me) everything.

She'll even low-faticize something that you planned on being fattening--as when I made enchiladas for Burt's birthday. She offered to do the grocery shopping for me...nice, right? But then she bought all the low-fat stuff: cheese, sour cream, even tortillas (ew). I know Burt's on a diet, but it was his birthday, people!

There's another reason why Shelley's brisket may not have turned out the way she wanted. If a woman is interested in the domestic arts, she would surely be humiliated by this disclosure. But Shelley is wholly disinterested in these arts, so I can say it:

Shelley does not make food with love. She makes it with dispatch.

My childhood was a litany of easy/quickies: spaghetti, english-muffin pizzas (I know), tacos, and on cursed nights: tuna casserole (if both tuna casserole and creamed corn showed up on the same plate, my sister would be euphoric & I'd want to kill myself).

And then...we got a microwave. Shelley's mood improved. Dramatically. For days.

Next week: Vancouver.

I am evidently polarizing.

2011-07-07T05:22:00.000-07:00

Weeks ago, I finished a story (about a museum guard, a grandfather, and a born-again Christian) and sent it to my readers, per usual. How does it happen that a writer gets such polarizing feedback?

At one end of the spectrum, a female reader wouldn't engage. "Why do you write about this stuff?" she asked. She thought it was offensive, and why did I have to write it?

At the other end, a male reader thought the story was "done." He thought I should change one sentence & send it out.

Why so polarized? Is it subject matter? Gender issues? Personal experience? Sensibilities?

Me don't know. Me confused.

Next week: Shelley's brisket report.

Losing my head.

2011-07-02T14:08:00.000-07:00

I've been completely distracted lately for no reason I can explain. And feeling this way is not so productive when I have to, for instance, write knock-knock jokes on deadline (true).

Instead, I'll write about last night, when Desi & I went out for mai tais & then to the bookstore across the street. I found this:

This is my friend's (and his friend's) new book! I had no idea it was out yet. I went to school w/ Dave, a phenomenal poet. And, he just moved nearby so I'll get to see him more often...I hope. (Dave, are you reading this?)

Therefore, Heads You Lose is bumping Moby Dick for now. (No...I'm still not done with Moby Dick. Sigh.)

Next week: Focus, focus, focus.

Father's Day.

2011-06-22T20:48:00.000-07:00

So I was in San Diego for Father's Day, and I learned a couple things:

Burt, when a boy, kept a 3-legged skunk in their garage. He fed it chicken.
Burt's dad (Grandpa) used to come to Burt's football practices and berate his coaches for their incompetence. Then, Burt wouldn't get to start the games. Burt didn't like that.

I spent more one-on-one time with Burt than usual. He got coffee with me (he hates coffee). He helped pick out the wrapping paper for the 3D cardboard buffalo head I got for him. He went to Old Navy with me. We went to the bookstore; he looked at his gun magazines.

I felt like he wanted to spend more time than usual. Which made me happy. And sad.

Bonus: found a picture of the men I used to hang with on Waikiki. Large, protective chess players make the most excellent babysitters.

Next week: Ch-ch-ch-changes.

Measure #18.

2011-06-13T06:35:00.001-07:00

So the cello recital was this past Saturday. Highlights:

the boy with the "Young, Gifted, and Black" t-shirt playing Smooth Criminal
the nerdy girl (yes, I know she's not the only one) playing the Harry Potter theme
watching the kids' faces when they knew they were playing really well
the fact that when I f*cked up measure #18, it coincided with a group of people walking in the front door--so that it seemed like I was distracted. I was not distracted. I f*cked up.

Smooth Criminal inspired me. Next time, I'm gonna play some Radiohead. Or Beatles. Something that sounds good on cello. The Passenger?

Next week: Father's Day in San Diego. Buffalo alert!

The weak link.

2011-06-08T12:45:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, I had a rehearsal at my teacher's house to practice for our recital.

I'll be playing in a quartet--4 cellos--with my teacher...and a 13 & 11 yr old. And yes, they're better than I am. I am the weak link.

Also, the entire group of students will be playing "What a Wonderful World." I shared a music stand with a 9-year-old boy and he very helpfully pointed out what measure we were starting on with his bow. He then proceeded to play a ton of wrong notes. My teacher was turning to look at the two of us to see where the horrendous sounds were coming from and I wanted to shout,

"It's not me! It's the 9-year-old boy! It's the 9-year-old boy!"

But I didn't.

I totally choked in the middle of the quartet (a Telemann concerto). But the beginning & ending were tight & I couldn't believe the sounds we (they) were making. It was rapturous & the best musical experience of my life (so far).

Then our teacher made us pizza and gave us cookies and we went outside to play with her rabbit.

Next week: The recital. Will someone wet their pants?

Seals and Sharks.

2011-06-03T13:50:00.000-07:00

I have a friend at work who shared an interesting theory with me. He says that, sexually, we are all either seals or sharks.

The shark is the one that tosses the seal around and has its wicked way with it. The seal, conversely, gets throttled and bandied about and inevitably submits to the shark.

My friend explained that, historically, he has been the seal--women like to bat him around. He says stuff like, "It was crazy that night."

This is what my friend looks like:

I think there are a few things wrong with the theory. It doesn't account for different sessions, different moods, or different wine.

Also, it doesn't account for headgear.

Also this:
He just wants to cuttle.

Next week: A humiliating cello rehearsal.

Burt & Shelley forever.

2011-05-27T10:21:00.000-07:00

So Burt got an encouraging blood test the other day. His "bad protein" (direct, infantilizing quote) is down and his mood is up!

Since he's bought more time, does this mean that he'll stop, for instance, pressuring me to do this (see below)?

Not likely.

I'm not sure why Burt is so eager for me to emulate his & Shelley's matrimonial relationship.

They are definitely well-matched. But from my vantage point, much of Burt & Shelley's marriage has consisted of:

Shelley asking Burt to squeegee the shower door
Church
60 Minutes
Frequent and public gropes in the kitchen

Gropes are surely the glue of marriage.

But what if you can grope your cow for free?

Next week: Seals and sharks.

Obey.

2011-05-20T15:17:00.000-07:00

On Saturdays, we take Watson to class where we learn obedience.

He is frequently made an example of, behavior-wise. As in, the teacher leads Watson to the front of the room, Watson jumps on the teacher, and then the teacher says:

"This would be an example of how you don't want your dog to behave."

Then, Desi and I experience shame.

Also, Watson occasionally howls during class to get attention.

This past Saturday, Watson howled and then the man with the chihuahua gave Watson a dirty look, and I experienced something which I can only assume was akin to motherly instinct--as if I'd given birth to our ill-mannered Watson. (Ew.)

I almost said, "F*ck you! Watson is 10x cuter than your dog and his howl is genius."

Instead, I mutely rewarded Watson's howling by petting him frantically in an attempt to quiet him down.

Parenting is hard, people.

Next week: Burt & Shelley forever.

Burt and Shelley on vacation.

2011-05-13T14:57:00.000-07:00

Burt and Shelley are playing golf. In Maui.

They go to Hawaii often, and when they do, they like to call me from the beach where they are invariably:

drinking mai tais
sitting side-by-side in matching beach chairs
reading crime (Shelley) and mountain man (Burt) paperbacks.

Burt left me a message, since I was too busy working to take their mai-tai-addled phone call.

Burt: "We're on the beach in Napili! The turtles are bobbing in the waves! We just played 18 holes and now we're drinking mai tais! We're trying to have a good time but it's tough! Aloha!"

Aloha indeed.

Next week: Watson gets (barely) obedient.

Burt's birthday present.

2011-05-06T06:49:00.000-07:00

So what gift do you get Burt on what he tells you will be his last birthday?

a Corvette?
diamond-encrusted bullets?
a year's supply of medical-grade pot?

No. I opted for a t-shirt. Kind of like a paperweight, except that you wear it.

I got it at the Field Museum in Chicago. It has a picture of their Tyrannosaurus Rex on it.

Burt left me a voice message about it [insert Southern accent]:

"Hey, Holl. I got the shirt. I like it. Bye."

Translation: this is my last year on earth and you got me a t-shirt?

But if Burt looks closer, he'll notice that the Tyrannosaurus Rex is King of the Dinosaurs. The most menacing, the most feared.

Next week: Burt and Shelley on vacation.

He is risen. Where's my candy?

2011-04-29T05:24:00.000-07:00

Rather than work on a sex scene I'm having trouble with (being both graphic & indirect is hard), I thought I'd blog about Easter.

I don't go home for Easter anymore, so Shelley sends a plastic egg in the mail with cold hard cash inside it, and some treats for Watson.

Back when my sister and I lived at home, Easter was an event. Meaning, it was the chance to eat your own weight in candy and then lie on your back until ham.

Burt and Shelley spoiled us on holidays, because it is a known fact that the way to your kid's heart is via presents, and plenty of them. It also ensured our allegiance for at least two hours.

We'd go to church ("He is risen...He is risen indeed" etc.), & then we'd come home and my sister & I would look for the Easter baskets that Burt and Shelley had hidden around the house. There were approximately 15 for each of us (no joke), ranging from large to micro-sized. They were full of plastic eggs w/ nickles in them (for nickle slots, I'm thinking), chocolate eggs, Peeps, and usually some type of bonus candy.

In a good year, the bonus candy would be M&Ms. In a bad one, the bonus candy would be oddly textured mock-peanuts with an unidentifiable flavor:

I would then proceed to eat all my candy (mock-peanuts included) before my relatives came over. Then we'd have the egg hunt, the ham, & so forth--but by that time I was in an insulin stupor and couldn't really process those things. It's a wonder I didn't give myself the diabetes.

...And that is the amazing story of Easter.

Next week: Burt receives his birthday gift. A month late.

Chicago is f*ing cold.

2011-04-23T14:30:00.000-07:00

So my main comments about Chicago are these:

It's colder than any city has a right to be in April.
The art is world-class.
If you happen upon an Art Institute student show, make time for it.

Re the latter: I stumbled into the Spring Art Show & saw some amazing stuff. The best business card was ET Chong's. It said:

"People like you should f*ck people like me."

Awesome.

The art I was most struck by was Brittany Zagoria's. Here are 2 portraits, the latter of her mother:

These next two are from her series "Digital Identities." She transforms girls' self-conscious relationships w/ digital media into paintings to give their self-portraits validity & permanence (that's a paraphrase from her site).

Zagoria is very articulate about her subject matter and I've no doubt she'll go far. Many more paintings & other media on her site...amazing.

Also, re art: I discovered Thomas Ruff at the MCA & his digitally modified porn images. I could show one here, but then I'd (finally) have to change my blog settings to "dirty."

Here's a taste of one:

Next week: Burt & Shelley do Easter.

I love you Mark Hogancamp.

2011-04-10T15:36:00.000-07:00

I'm bumping James Franco--I discovered something far more interesting today:

Mark Hogancamp is a photographer. He was beaten almost-to-death by 5 men 11 yrs ago, & lost his memory. His former life included the navy, homelessness, & a sh*tload of alcohol.

He was in a coma for 9 days. When he woke up, he built a 1/6 size WWII town in his trailer & yard, and he photographs it. It calms him; he has PTSD & brain damage. He calls the town "Marwencol": a combination of his own name, and Wendy & Colleen...2 women he's had crushes on. He's like a WWII-obsessed, male Cindy Sherman--one of my other favorite photographers:

Oh: and when Mark woke up from his coma and went back to his trailer, he found a ton of women's shoes. He asked people who they belonged to--did he have a wife?

"They're yours," they told him. Turns out that he was, & is, a cross-dresser, and that's why the men almost beat him to death.

Galleries are exhibiting his photographs now, & there's a documentary coming out ("Marwencol").

This is Mark dragging one of his WWII jeeps behind him as he walks to the store. It makes him feel safe.

Here's the article:
http://www.nytimes.com/2011/04/07/garden/07marwencol.html

Next week: Chicago.

Incredulous Quickie.

2011-04-08T15:13:00.001-07:00

Has anyone ever told this guy no?

I know. But come on.

Next week: The windy/Oprah city.

I love Roseanne.

2011-04-01T06:05:00.000-07:00

Lately, I've been watching reruns of Roseanne.

Burt hates Roseanne. He thinks she's rude and has a foul mouth--which is entirely true. Burt doesn't know this, but he also has a problem with Roseanne because she's:

fat
takes no shit
not conventionally attractive

But you didn't hear it from me. It's kind of like when some people said they hated Hillary Clinton because of her waffling on Iraq issues, and then they talked some more and it became evident that the thought of a female president aggravated their undiagnosed mommy issues. But you didn't hear it from me.

P.s. There is someone in my family who is so large that boys threw eggs at her in a parking lot.

Next week: Lighter fare.

This Mothership is making me queazy.

2011-03-26T22:16:00.000-07:00

I'm in San Diego right now, at the mothership.

Burt and Shelley's favorite new show is "1000 Ways to Die."

People die in various vile & disturbing ways and then a "doctor" comes on screen with a couple diagrams and a hunk of cheese or such & explains why a body falling on you from an overpass kills you.

Our big family outing was dinner at Pinnacle Peak's.

The best way to describe this restaurant is that it's where white trash go to get their ties cut off--& I'm not actually kidding. If you enter this restaurant wearing a tie, they cut it off and hang it on the wall. Since 1969!

Note the African-American and Asian fellows in the photo below. I did not see any actual non-white people at Pinnacle Peak's.

We used to go to Pinnacle Peak's when I was a little kid, and the drive took so long that I thought it was in Texas. But really, it's just 15 minutes away from Burt & Shelley's house.

It's kind of like a chuckwagon--lots of steak, ribs, red & white checked tablecloths, wet wipes, and...my 5-yr-old nephew threatening people with his steak knife.
P.s. Shelley thinks "transitions" are my nephew's biggest problem, as in transitions between different activities in school. I myself think that sheer animal hostility is his biggest problem. Fortunately, they've upped his meds.

Next week: Sue the dinosaur.

The cannabalism post.

2011-03-19T09:31:00.000-07:00

There's a Chinese elm in Burt and Shelley's backyard, stately and permanent. One year, hundreds of black caterpillars crawled down its trunk simultaneously. Shelley gave me a jar, and Burt punched holes in the lid.

I put at least 30 caterpillars in the jar. And one leaf.

Have you seen Soylent Green? I watched it at Jon's house--he was my nursery school boyfriend (early bloomer).

It was, perhaps, inappropriate viewing material for a 4 year old. But it did teach me that Soylent Green is people, which has been surprisingly relevant to my life.

Next week: Back at the mothership.

Burt's mouth.

2011-03-11T18:58:00.000-08:00

Burt has some mouth issues right now. He had to get a root canal, and he also has a (separate, lingering) mouth infection.

That's 2--count 'em, 2--things wrong with his mouth. Which is a sensitive (and in Burt's case, loud & profane) place.

To add insult to mouth-injury, Burt is a slow healer due to the chemo and can't take any meds that interfere with the regular meds.
Cancer sucks, in case you haven't heard. It sucks a big morphine lollipop.

In the meantime, he's playing golf, in pain. I'd be in pain, too, if I were playing golf--but for entirely different reasons.

Next week: It's time for the Cannibalism post.

Sick of being sick.

2011-03-04T18:08:00.000-08:00

This is a quickie, because I have a cold and I'm in a foul mood about it. I'm sick of being sick, in other words.

One of the worst parts of being sick is that when my voice starts to go, it sounds like Shelley's.

Shelley has a hoarse & raspy voice. My guess is that it started out normal, but was ravaged by years of haranguing people to clean out their closets. On sunny Saturdays.

If I feel better, Desi and I are driving up to Geyserville on Sunday to pick up our wine club wine.

And now you know our weekend plan, plus the state of my health. Happy?

Next week: Better writing.

Evidently, I'm an addict.

2011-02-26T15:14:00.000-08:00

I've never been a big fan of drugs. I'm no Christophah, in other words:

But after taking a cold hard look at my expenditures this past month, it's time to face facts. As a starlet to percs, as Christophah to H, as Burt to half gallons of vanilla ice cream--held on the lap with plenty of Hershey's nearby--so am I addicted to coffee.

This will come as no surprise to those of you who know me. For those who don't:

I drink 3 cups before work
I buy a latte on the way to work
I get another cup when I get there (there's a Peets in our lobby)
I get at least two more cups during the day

I count...7. Minimum. You do the math, fiscally-speaking. Plus, I'm a big tipper. And I've been wondering where my cash goes? Um, it's lining Peets' coffers, hello.

Goal: make my own coffee at work from those disgusting little portable packets.

P.s. Don't tell me to drink tea. Tea is way too soothing for me. It's not the beverage of the intense. It's the beverage of the blissed-out, the serene, the enlightened...

No thanks.

Next week: Desi and I venture out into the 3-dimensional world.

Desi is swell.

2011-02-18T16:28:00.000-08:00

For Valentine's Day, Desi got me a heart that swells to 600 times its actual size.

We'll have to get a fish tank to house it. It can bob in there, as in a pericardium.

He also got me a red plastic ring that says LOVE.

Desi knows what I like (read: toys).

Next week: The first step is admitting you are powerless. Nice, eh?

I Love You. Here's Your Check.

2011-02-11T05:14:00.000-08:00

Burt and Shelley have an interesting habit. When it's a holiday, they send a card.

Nice, right?

However, they also send a check. For every holiday. Easter. Valentine's Day. National Swordswallower's Day.

Ok, not the last one. But you get me.

What's the problem, right?

Well...I'll tell you (duh). These checks have a voice. Shelley's voice, specifically.

You might think your Valentine's check would say, "I love you. Please treat yourself to $75 worth of candy."

But this is what your check is actually saying (cue Shelley's voice):

"I love you, here's your check. You can buy $75 worth of candy but that would be foolish and gluttonous. I prefer this check to compensate for any purported childhood slights. Also, I eventually want to live with you. I will require a separate entrance, plasma TV, and organic comestibles. I do not want to live with your sister; her house is too loud and she doesn't cook. I sense that your house will be peaceful, with savory aromas. We will share the master bedroom and Desi can have the spare. Ok thanks bye."

And that is why Valentine's Day checks are horrifying.

Next week: V-Day for real.

I am no Pablo Casals.

2011-02-04T08:30:00.000-08:00

I just started taking cello lessons again, after a 4 year hiatus.

I was no Pablo Casals before, but now I'm worse. Now, I am Pablum Casals.

I can play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, and I'm attempting to master Go Tell Aunt Roady (her goose is dead--haven't you heard?)

Here are some jokes I made up about cellists:

Q: How many cellists does it take to screw in a light bulb?
A: None. The violist already changed it b/c violists are total bottoms.

Q: Why did the cellist cross the road?
A: Because Pablum Casals was practicing and it was real unpleasant.

Next week: The check is in the mail.

Burt and Shelley are saps.

2011-01-28T08:28:00.000-08:00

Burt and Shelley got a new dog.

They selected this particular dog because:

a) She was attacked by another dog & got a chunk bit out of her shoulder and nose,

b) Her former owner fell down, broke her back, and became paralyzed and can't take care of her.

(Heartwarming story, isn't it? Should I tell it again?)

Anyway, Tootsie (yes, that's her name...my parents don't believe in changing animals' names after they've been pre-assigned, which is why their previous dog's name was Fancy) looks sorta like this:

She is already:

eating off the kitchen counter
jumping into other people's cars
sleeping in Burt & Shelley's bed

Such is life with Burt and Shelley.

(Damn. I wish I had a picture with Burt Reynolds and Shelley Long in the same frame...would make this blog so much easier.)

Next week: Getting humbled.

Bears are people too.

2011-01-21T06:41:00.000-08:00

I'm on a self-improvement kick this month. Two of the affected areas (ew) are exercise & reading. I've started swimming after work, & I'm reading Moby Dick. It's very mannered, but...funny. Who knew?

So I have a little aquatic theme going, and the one is enriching the other.

But I don't have enough Moby Dick-related knowledge to talk about whales yet. I'd rather talk about bears.

Am I wrong, or are polar bears actually people in bear-suits?

Also this:

And this:

Here's their crazy feet. I don't even know what width this is. E to the infinity?

Wouldn't like to be his dance partner! (Wait...yes I would.)

Next week: Burt's new dog.

A conversation with Burt.

2011-01-15T08:56:00.000-08:00

A few days ago, I had an email conversation with Burt about how his love of guns got started.

He wrote back in all-caps:

ITS JUST A MAN THING.

I asked him about his first gun.

MY FIRST GUN WAS A 22 RIFLE MY DAD GOT ME FOR MY 11 OR 12 BIRTHDAY

IT CAME FROM SEARS AND I STILL HAVE IT.

I asked him where he keeps it.

MY DAD GAVE IT TO ME AND THAT MEANS SOMETHING NOT LIKE WHEN I GET YOU STUFF AND YOU BREAK IT OR DESTROY OR WHATEVER

I asked what he was referring to.

ONE TIME I GOT YOU AN ICE CREAM CONE AND YOU DROPPED IT ON THE GROUND.
I told him that was an accident.

YOU HAD A LOT OF ACCIDENTS. YOUR MOTHER AND I WERE NOT SURE IF YOU WOULD EVER GET POTTY TRAINED, WE WERE REAL WORRIED, HA HA!

Such is the course that conversations sometimes take with Burt. It is the risk one takes.

Next week: Bears are people too.

Chocodiles Never Die.

2011-01-06T12:14:00.000-08:00

Burt and Shelley had to put their dog to sleep a few days ago. She looked like this:
Am I wrong, or does it seem like everything we care about dies?

Duh.

Here are some things I cared about that died:

a) My grandparents.

b) All my previous pets.
c) Some choice relationships.

d) Old-school phones.

e) The Gilmore Girls. A slow, substandard, horribly-written death in this instance.

f) Paul, the genius octopus.

So everything dies. Except Chocodiles. They go on & on. They have a nearly Blattarian ability to adapt. Toothsome!

Next week: A conversation with Burt.

Happy New Cold Sore.

2010-12-31T20:03:00.000-08:00

It's New Year's Eve, and I have a cold sore.

I have several theories as to why said cold sore might have decided to make an appearance:

a) Desi forced me to play an hour & a half of Mortal Kombat. I trounced him, but still.

b) My new, riveting book about life & death on K2. Can't put it down.

c) Found out that Shelley has been storing my vintage kitchen table & chairs outside, under an ill-fitting tarp.

d) Watson had a bad poo and then licked it. I called his name during the licking and he turned toward me, exposing his appalling poo-face.

Any of these events could've brought on a cold sore. However, I'm currently drinking champagne and just about to delve into Haagen Dazs' Chocolate Chocolate Chip & English Patient special features--so why should I care if my face looks like it's been around the block?

Next week: Happy Blogiversary.

Merry Burtmas.

2010-12-25T14:48:00.000-08:00

I'm currently at the mothership, attempting to process the day's events.

The most appalling development has not been:

a) Having to yell into my 99-yr-old grandmother's one "good" ear what everyone got & who it was from.
b) Realizing that my sister had spent approximately $7.50 on me.
c) Watson spray-peeing my niece.

No. By far, the most appalling, irredeemable moment came when I noticed that Watson was following my mother around the house, everywhere that she went. Happily.

Those of you who have delved into my blog most likely realize that I have a somewhat "nuanced" relationship with Shelley.

Realizing that my pride & joy is seeking out--nay, enjoying--the company of my mother--well, this is a hairy little pill to swallow.

And unlike other dog owners who seem to revel in their dog's purported superior intelligence, I will be the first to tell you that my dog must be slow. Or has bad taste. Something.

There must be a reason, there must be a reason.... [fade out into a tamale-addled, bloated holiday haze]...

Next week: The last cold sore of 2010.

May the Geekiness be with you.

2010-12-16T05:49:00.000-08:00

If you're like Desi and me, you make frequent, inefficient trips to Safeway to pick up things you've forgotten to have on hand. Theraflu. Ben & Jerry's S'mores ice cream (with the oddly granular ripple). Beef jerky as thin as a fat pencil.

Then, when you get back in the car and Desi tells you that you sound like Yoda when you get upset, the 2 of you automatically segue into Yoda impressions, using the beef jerky as an unwieldy & ineffectual cane.

10 minutes later, you will probably feel spent. And euphoric. And ashamed.

Next week: The descent to the mothership.

The Season of Neglect.

2010-12-10T08:31:00.000-08:00

Upon waking at 1:30am last night, I realized that if I didn't immediately drink an entire pitcher of water, that I was going to have a wicked & punitive office-party hangover come morning. So I drank one, and also contemplated this Season of Neglect.

List of things I've been neglecting lately:

my blog
my sobriety
the dishes--including a gnocchi pan with an oily green scuzz
a load of dark laundry, including favorite knickers
a story about Burt seeing his first dead body
Smelly Belly's bath schedule
the photographs I was supposed to print for the strange man in Austin
Desi's xmas gift
putting the remainder of my cds on my i-pod in order to compile the Ultimate Workout Play List
performing any kind of workout whatsoever, apart from procuring coffee
writing to my ancient grandmother

So, as you can see, the Season of Neglect is also the Season of Guilt. Merry Christmas!

Next week: A timely and scintillating blog entry.

An unsentimental education.

2010-11-30T20:56:00.000-08:00

When I go home to San Diego, I often learn things. This Thanksgiving was particularly fruitful in the learning department.

a) If you have cancer and you're still alive, others with cancer will make a pilgrimage to your house to see how come. They will often be chatty and paradoxically optimistic.

b) Sometimes, new colostomy bags leak. This can be remedied with an old jelly jar.

c) If you accidentally refer to your mother as the "undead," she and your father will probably pretend they didn't hear you.

d) A 5 year old may require additional medication in order to make it through an entire evening at Benihana.

e) Most chefs at Benihana are Latino. Which I prefer.

f) Giving a bunny to a 2-year-old is like giving a delectable roast chicken to a peckish wrestler.

g) Never get old.

Next week: The Season of Neglect.

You poor, poor fools.

2010-11-22T21:14:00.000-08:00

Shelley was recently made Head of the Committee to Seek a New Pastor at her & Burt's kooky church.

What, in God's name, were the other committee members thinking?

Allow me to share some fun facts about my mother:

She is very comfortable with power. Kind of like God is.
She is so organized that her organizational systems can make a person spontaneously bleed from their eye holes. That's like a miracle.
She is never wrong. Like Jesus was never wrong. Except for the one time when He got mad at the tax collectors and upended their tables and spilled their coins--but He later apologized for that.

Now that you know these fun facts about my mother, Committee Members, do you think you might consider demoting her to a position of less influence?

Didn't think so. God help you.

Next week: Grandma turns 99, Thanksgiving turns gluttonous.

Desi is a better writer than I am. Sucks.

2010-11-15T19:40:00.000-08:00

What happens when you're a writer...and then you suddenly find out your bf is a better writer than you are?

Desi comes up with gold, nearly every day.

When I traded him computer-gaming-time for walking-around-the-lake-time, he said:

"We share experiences... and experience points!"

[If you don't understand that, you're not geeky enough.]

Also, he calls Watson "Smelly Belly." Which fits, by the way:

Also, when Watson sticks his tongue in our ears (I know), Desi has coined it a "Wet Watson."

Desi is putting me to shame. I'd better retire. Or maybe I can get a job watching reruns of the Gilmore Girls, 'cuz I'm really good at that lately.

Next week: Shelley whips her church into shape.

Quickie Excuses.

2010-11-10T05:14:00.000-08:00

So I've been rather neglectful of my blog lately, but I have excuses:

a) My writing group is a prolific bunch.

b) Watson is emotionally needy and insists we play "Rope." Every night.
c) After 3 glasses of fume blanc, all you want to do is watch the episode of Gilmore Girls where Luke's uncle dies and is buried with his baseball cards in a Big & Tall casket, and Rory is secretly falling for Jess because he stole her copy of Howl and writes notes in the margins before giving it back to her.

Next week: Something less Gilmore.

Life is Scary.

2010-10-29T16:00:00.000-07:00

In honor of Halloween this weekend, I thought I'd write about recent scary events.

a) Lady-Parts Cancer.

My aunt has finished her first round of treatment, including the grand finale: a red hot poker shoved up her hoo-ha. Which to me sounded like a joke that Satan himself made up.
I'm trying to remember if she ever slighted anyone. You know, to deserve it.

b) Harvest Fair Horrors.
Below are photos of hand-made creations from the Sonoma Harvest Fair. I will now name them what I believe they should have been named, underneath each photo.

Jazzy-Mummy-Pumpkin-Face.

Pretty-Prostrate-Cookie-Lady-in-a-Bag.

Extremely-Literal-Gingerbread-Gravestone.

I-Don't-Even-Know-What-The-F*ck.

Soft-sculpture-likeness-of-me-after-trying-to-understand-the-appeal-of-soft-sculpture.

c) My Nephew.

My nephew is 5 and on the bleeding cusp of getting thrown out of kindergarten for biting, kicking, and calling the Vice Principal a "nitwit."

P.s. Who uses the word "nitwit" anymore?

I'm not going to show a photo of him, so let's just say he looks a little like this:

This is Damien, from The Omen. Damien, unfortunately, is possessed by Satan.

Desi empathizes, because when he was a little kid in Catholic school, he bit an overweight kid's arm and jumped on a developmentally-disabled boy's shoulders. Without permission.

Happy Halloween!

Next week: Balls and whistles.

I [heart] NY.

2010-10-18T05:08:00.000-07:00

So I've been a bit neglectful with my blog lately. Part of that is due to planning--then taking--my first adult trip to NY.

Here is my personal Best of NY list:

Best Celebrity Sighting: Lou Reed. And... scene.

Best Mind-Blowingly-Intact Egyptian Figurines: The Met.

Best Jazz Set: Jason Moran channeling Bjork at the Village Vanguard.

Best Nap: Nazi Doctors at the Film Forum.

Best Block Prints I've Ever Seen: Kathe Kollwitz', at the MOMA.

Best Sunday Morning: reading a physical copy of NYT in the village.

Best Hot Dog: the "Brooklyn"....in Brooklyn. Mustard, onion, sauerkraut, & celery salt.

Best Last Day Surprise: the Dead or Alive exhibit at the Arts & Design Museum.
Next week: Harvest Fair horrors.

Fall means Big Apples.

2010-10-04T20:33:00.000-07:00

It's October, & that means it's time for my first trip to New York as an adult.

I went once before when I was 15...for one day. Burt and Shelley took my sister and me, and this is what we did:

Stood in line for the Statue of Liberty. All f*ing day.
Spent the night in Queens.

But this time I'm going by myself, and that means 3 things:

Museums.
Village Vanguard.
Entirely too many hot dogs.

Next week: My Best of NYC.

Don't be a Minnie.

2010-09-24T08:10:00.000-07:00

So Burt's sister has cancer now. My family's falling over like a bunch of bowling pins. Happy Friday!

I've been trying to think of the real-life character that exemplifies my aunt. Minnie Pearl, I think.

Let me just say this, Ladies: Get a pap smear every year. If Minnie had done that (in 14 years) she wouldn't be in this rapidly-dividing mess.

I think it's the name PAP SMEAR that puts people off. (Or, maybe it's when you get a really mean practitioner and she judges your sex life and abrades your insides and makes you bleed unnecessarily...but I digress.)

Let's make "pap smear" a little more appealing. Let's call it...the Glitter Swirl.

So don't be a Minnie. Get your Glitter Swirl every year.

This is Mariah Carey. She gets one, like, every day.

Next week: I might heart NY.

Desi's Perfect Day.

2010-09-13T20:56:00.000-07:00

So it was Desi's birthday this past Saturday. Therefore, we did everything Desi wanted to do. Within reason.

He began the day with one of his songs:

"I'm making a house!
A big fantastic house!
With lots of lice
and lots of mice
and lots...of...rice!"

He didn't explain which house he was referring to. But I loved the song nonetheless.

Then we went to Berkeley for chicken & waffles. Heaven.

Then we went to Fry's. Also heaven. For Desi. He likes to show me stuff like motherboards, $400 gaming headphones, and robot kits.

Then we went home and he made me play Warcraft. I rode a steed and a gryphon and killed 2 spiders and a wolf. I cast a Frost Bolt and created an Ice Barrier. Also, I teleported.

For dinner, we got Korean food. You cook your own beef on your table's cooktop. It's like a meal and also an activity.... love it.

For the finale, Desi brushed Watson's teeth with poultry-flavored toothpaste.

Happy Birthday!

Next week: Cancer is hysterical.

Unhappy Hour.

2010-09-08T06:07:00.000-07:00

I saw my grandma in San Diego this past weekend. As I've mentioned previously, she's ninety-f*ing-eight.

Back when my grandfather was alive, they'd have happy hour every evening before dinner, usually a stiff vodka martini.

My grandmother still has a drink before dinner. She calls it the Unhappy Hour.

When my parents picked me up from the airport Friday night, Grandma was in the car. Tanked. Seems she'd had a rather long Unhappy Hour before my parents took her out to eat. Then she'd had wine with dinner. A lot of wine.

She was sitting next to me in the car--playing with her seatbelt, feeling around the seat for something that wasn't there, chewing her nails, and saying things like: "This is where I am now."

We had lunch later in the weekend & I tried to talk her into getting a Life Alert, of "I've fallen and I can't get up!" fame.

But she said that if she falls, she doesn't want to get up.

Next week: Desi's perfect day.

Watson is "assertive."

2010-08-30T21:21:00.000-07:00

This is yet another quickie--as a new dog is hard work, my friends.

(This isn't Watson, below, but looks a little like him--same breed):

We took Watson for his orientation appointment at Doggie Daycare. They took him into another room to see if he plays nice with other dogs.

When they brought him back, they told us that Watson is, ahem, "assertive." Translation: Watson climbs on other dogs' heads.

Also, his red rocket is always coming out.

Also, he doesn't listen.

Also, he may not know his name yet.

Next week: I visit Burt & Shelley. Let the undermining commence!

Burt loves church humor.

2010-08-20T20:18:00.000-07:00

Recently, Burt emailed me a list of church newsletter "bloopers."

The following are my favorite examples, complete with my blasphemous commentary.

"Ladies, don't forget the rummage sale. It's a chance to get rid of those things not worth keeping around the house. Bring your husbands."

[Why do Christians think my-spouse-sucks jokes are so funny? This is why I'm afraid to get married.]

"Please place your donation in the envelope along with the deceased person you want remembered."

[Christian cadaver jokes.... awesome.]

"The church will host an evening of fine dining, super entertainment, and gracious hostility."

[Now that sounds like church...]

"The ladies of the Church have cast off clothing of every kind. They may be seen in the basement on Friday afternoon."

[Jesus was crucified on a Friday. Coincidence? I think not...]

Next week: Watson misbehaves. A lot.

Our dear Watson.

2010-08-14T11:30:00.000-07:00

So we got a dog and named him Watson. He is our bumbling sidekick.

This is Watson sleeping:

I don't have any pictures yet of Watson chewing on our coffee table, lunging through the air at his toys, or attempting to bypass his cone and lick his surgically altered balls--though these are also the things he does on a regular basis.

And, he smells. He smells bad. They didn't give him a bath at the pound & we can't bathe him until after his incision heals. So he's got piss and shit and god knows what else in his extraordinarily matted fur ("like a caveman's dingleberries," Desi said. Oh ew.).

But love is blind. And olfactorily-impaired.

Next week: Burt shares his church-related humor.

Burt needles me.

2010-08-07T11:36:00.000-07:00

I called Burt and Shelley this morning to wish them a Happy Anniversary.

Shelley was out shopping. She shops every Saturday morning, after eating scrambled eggs. You can set your watch to it.

But Burt was home, so we had a very productive conversation.

I told him that I'm going to New York in October, to see some museums.

"Watch out for the needles," Burt said.

"What needles?" I asked.

"Everywhere," he said. "Where are you staying?"

"Chelsea."

"They've got a lot of needles," Burt said.

"I'm staying in a nice place," I said. "I will be sharing a bathroom, however..."

"There's gonna be needles in there," Burt said. "Kick 'em to the sides."

Then we talked about Caddyshack.

Next week: Meet our dog.

Love us. Love our dog.

2010-08-01T20:40:00.000-07:00

We're getting a dog.

This is a big step for Desi and me, because we'll be parents. (Yes, I will anthropomorphize my dog. And infantilize. And triangulate...)

Desi and I are such saps that instead of choosing our dog, we're driving to several shelters and letting the dog choose us. For this is the best way to ensure utter and complete co-dependence.

And I should know...as Burt and Shelley were somewhat expert in this subject matter.

In their (our) household, dachshunds were king. Er, kings. To wit:

They slept in Burt and Shelley's bed. Um, ew.
They shit on the carpet and never apologized. We would step in their soft, steamy shits with our bare feet. I've never gotten over it...clearly.
They routinely stole food from the coffee table. Often, the best stuff.
And, one of them bit our Japanese exchange student. Ugly American dog!

They had run of the house, in other words. On their short, petulant legs.

While Desi and I will love our dog, he or she will not have "run of the house," per se.

Now you'll have to excuse me, as I need to hurry & stock up on ingredients for homemade, organic, gluten-free dog biscuits.

Next week: Checkin' in with Burt.

Henry Miller was high.

2010-07-25T20:57:00.000-07:00

This is a quickie about our weekend in Big Sur.

After one has seen this:

and this:

There is not a lot to do down there. Unless you're interested in the Pink Floyd tribute band + laser show. Just sayin'.

Next week: A new addition to our family.

We got good jeans.

2010-07-17T21:42:00.000-07:00

Desi and I went jeans shopping today, because I write for a clothing company & get a discount. I don't like to buy clothes without the discount, because a) discounts are awesome, and b) I'm frugal, except where things like marshmallows are concerned.

Desi and I went shopping together, because we like to get adjacent dressing rooms and try jeans on and then look at each other's butts. It's hard to bend around and see your own butt, and salespeople always tell you the same damn thing--that you have a "slammin' wicked ass." At least, that's what they always tell me.

If I don't take Desi with me, it's like torture, because I don't like shopping. I know that makes me unwomanly, but shopping makes me seriously irritable and hella thirsty. Not sure why but it's aggravating.

So we got some jeans and also some boxers for Desi with bugs on them, because Desi likes bugs. Whenever we find a bug in the house (hey--it happens), he whips out his Audubon book and identifies it.

Because he's a nerd. And I should know.

Next week: Hello, Big Sur!

I have entered Adulthood!

2010-07-10T12:37:00.000-07:00

We just bought our first Adult Couch.

Previous to this we had a love seat, upon which Desi and I would sit next to each other, elbows locked firmly against our own rib cages out of sheer necessity.

Previous to the love seat, I had my futon from college. It was made of splinter-inducing pine and the mattress weighed approximately 800 pounds. I'd locked it in its upright position and covered it with a motley remnant of bile green pseudo-suede.

It was upon this futon that I first told Desi I loved him.

"I love me, too" he answered. Ah, memories.

So our new couch is red, sort of like a light at the end of a tunnel, and the tunnel is on fire and the light at the end is burning your retinas bloody.

It's what they call a Statement Piece, and its statement is this:

You are now an adult, and I am here to assault your sensibilities.

Next week: Desi and I go to the mall. Hilarity ensues.

Burt outs Winnie.

2010-07-03T20:45:00.001-07:00

So in case you don't know: Winnie the Pooh is gay.

Burt confirmed it, in my most recent conversation with him.

"He likes honey. And, he doesn't wear any pants," Burt said.

"You like honey," I said.

"But I don't carry it around with me," Burt said. "And, I wear pants."

"What about Paddington?" I asked. "Is Paddington gay?"

"Him too," Burt said. "All that marmalade. And the rubber galoshes. Who wears those?"

"It rains in England," I said.

"They're all gay," he said.
Next week: My first adult couch.

I Got You, Babe.

2010-06-26T09:58:00.000-07:00

We were never an "I love you" family, but since Burt has been sick, he's started to include it when we say our goodbyes on the phone & in person.

Being Burt, he adds some flair. He says: "Love ya, Babe."

Which somehow makes me feel like this:

Meaning, it makes me feel like I am perched in distractingly odd red tights, waiting around for a man to tell me he'll take me out for Sidecars--if I put on a skirt & be quick about it.

Shelley does not say "I love you," except when she's drunk & slips up.

Burt and I watched the U.S. Open together last weekend. Breaking news: I was able to confirm that golf is indeed "a good walk spoiled."

Golf courses are so scenic; why would you ruin it by donning an uncomfortable and exceedingly ugly outfit and squinting at balls all day? And why do they always make out with their trophies?

Awkward.

Next week: Burt outs some beloved storybook icons.

Yes. I flaked.

2010-06-17T13:16:00.000-07:00

I missed a week, for the first time in over a year.

But I have very valid excuses.

a) I'm still doing this:
b) I have this (yet again):

c) I'm preparing to see these this weekend:

d) Plus, I don't have the Internets at our new place yet:

I'll catch up soon. In the meantime, look at this:

You're welcome.

Next week: Actual prose.

The Quickest of Quickies.

2010-06-05T14:14:00.000-07:00

So we're in the midst of putting stuff into boxes:

and we have dinner reservations tonight:

So this is a quick and nearly effortless post. Satisfying--like a quickie--in only a perfunctory way.

Next week: Our new place.

Adventures in Crematoria.

2010-05-29T18:03:00.000-07:00

My grandmother is 98. In case you don't know: that is ancient in people-years. It's decrepit.

Grandma has always reminded me of Ethel Mertz:

An enthusiastic, self-effacing sidekick. Good manners. Capable of biting sarcasm, particularly when inebriated.

Grandma has decided she doesn't want to live anymore. Living's been done to death. She wants to go to sleep and not wake up.

To this end, she's compiled a list of highly useful information for Shelley, her daughter, to use on the occasion that Shelley discovers her dead body.

Some of the entries on the list are items you'd expect. Bank account information. Safety deposit box numbers. Where to find the bulk Kleenex.

But Grandma has also been kind enough to select her own undertaker. You know--the guy she wants to come over and zip her up in the bag.
Grandma has also selected her crematorium. Shelley can even push the button if she wants to. (That reference is for 6 Feet Under fans.)

Look at Shelley. Wouldn't you want Shelley to push your button?

Yeah, me neither. Shelley would probably push my button before I was all-the-way dead. (Kidding. Sorta.)

I like that Grandma is prepared. How does one choose their own undertaker? Proximity? Empathy? Dexterity with zippers? Me don't want to know (yet).

Next week: The big move...2 blocks away.

The Big People.

2010-05-22T20:27:00.000-07:00

This is a post about our neighbors, 2 sets of them. Both sets are high, but in distinctly different ways.

a) The Big People.

The Big People live across the street. They are the bulkiest family we have ever seen. I don't know how many people make up a defensive line, but if it's four, then the Big People are ready to rumble.

Everything about them is big. Shoulders. Cars. House. Furniture. We are intimately familiar with all aspects of their bigness, because we routinely stare at the Big People from our window. Desi doesn't like me to initiate it, because I do it wrong. It has to be the right time of day, the blinds turned in the proper direction. One must stand in the ideal location, and look through the appropriate holes. It is very involved (and intensely rude).

Last week, the husband-half of the Big People lumbered across the street to accost Desi and me as we stood in our driveway. We thought he had decided to eat us. But he only wanted to let us know that he'd caught a guy trying to break into our building.

Which brings us to our other neighbors:

b) The High People.

These other neighbors seem to be living an episode of Intervention, but without the actual intervention part. I won't go into much detail here, but suffice it to say: we're moving.

Also, there is a pig involved that likes to climb forcibly onto a dog's back. This is probably most enjoyable to watch when one is screamingly high. Hard to say.

Next week: Adventures in Crematoria.

Getting back to the garden.

2010-05-15T22:00:00.000-07:00

Those of you who prefer Burt Reynolds' naked arse to gardening chat, you'd best turn away now.

This is what Desi's & my garden looks like, as of last week:

The sweet alyssum (read: white flowers) along the border of the box was Desi's idea.

Kind of hard to see the different plants from the photo, but the biggest ones are arugula. We seem to have a special talent for arugula--it's growing faster than we can eat it. Mind you, arugula is practically a weed. But still.

This is a brief post, but next week I'll be back with a vengeance. Or something less ominous-sounding.

For now, I'm going to finish my dinner:
Next week: Our neighbors...the Big People.

The popular kids.

2010-05-08T18:39:00.000-07:00

The popular kids have accepted me into their group!

I'm joining a group of highly accomplished fiction writers. There was a vetting process worthy of Sarah Palin. No wait--worthier.

I had to submit two short stories. Not one. Two.

I would hope that the room in which the meetings are conducted will look like this:

Throughout, we will consume things that look like this:

And afterwards (as all writers do), we will imbibe things that look like this:

Then, I will come home to this.

I will eat this.

And I will watch this.

Next week: Boogaloo, for reals.