loose string

"One-way streets and square one, The answers don't come from any one direction"

 

Well the kids are all hopped up and ready to go

Courtesy of the lovely Jennifer of Matilda Zine, I have "Sheena Is A Punk Rocker" stuck in my head.  On continous loop.  All morning.  It is a whole lot better than that time I could not get rid of some damned Journey song.  A. Whole. Lot. Better.   In fact I have no complaints.  It suits my hyper-manic state of mind and aids me on my mission to reorganize the entire universe.  Everything arranged in a color-coded system of my design.

I woke up way too early this morning and sometimes that results in a super-awake state of being.  Or sluggish discontent.  One or the other.  But I have to admit that I have been feeling a bit over-caffeinated in general these past few days.  Despite a fairly minimal actual caffeine intake.  It happens.  When I am overcome with the energy of a thousand children filled with Koolaid and Ho-Ho's, I try to make the best of it.  I make hay while the sun shines.  There will be much accomplished.  There will be cooking and cleaning and shopping and organizing and, if the bubble doesn't burst too soon, there may be decorating.

In the meantime, I am stuck here behind this very immobile desk limited to spit-polishing this little corner of the world.  I have done much filing and reading and some shopping.  But I am itching to move furniture or dig a hole to China. 

I have plans, oh yes, I have plans. 

posted by: loosestring at 12:09 | link | comments |

Watch the little daisies grow, little daisies grow

Here's the thing.  I really like school.  I like doing work and having people say nice things and not nice (but constructive) things. And having papers returned with lovely "A's" on them and comments like "very thoughtful work".  And I love getting the grade report and having all of the affirmation and ego stroking. 

It is hectic and there are many times when I feel as though I don't have enough time or creativity but I enjoy being a student.  I would love to be able to go full-time.  That said, this next semester I have signed up for four classes.  That's twelve credit hours.  That is full-time.

I have debated.  I started out taking only a class at a time.  Then the last two semesters I took two classes.  But this semester I have taken the big plunge.  The reasoning?  Well, I am taking two lecture classes.  These are the kind of classes where you show up and listen and then do some research and write papers.  I figure this will be no problem.  I have many unoccupied hours at work when I will be able to write papers and do Internet research.  They are also very interesting classes.  An Art History class and a Humanities class.  The third class is a Graphic Arts class.  My experience is that there is very little work outside of the classroom.  A little rough design and some minor reading.  No problem.  And the fourth class is a Foundations of Digital Photography class.  I am pretty comfortable with PhotoShop and there will be no darkroom time.  It's always the darkroom time that kills me because I have to work around the darkroom hours.  Not so with the digital because I can do the work at home whenever I want to.

So, I am crazy.  I know this schedule will be a bit hectic.  But I want to make progress.  I want to finish this degree before I am collecting Social Security.  I have to complete this goal before I can begin on the next one.

There is a method to this madness.  I have thought long and hard about the way my mind works (or fails to work) and I have figured out that when I am occupied by things that give me pleasure and engage my intellect and call upon my creativity I am far less moody.  This is not to say that I am not ever crabby or grouchy or just downright loony but I am far less prone to the huge fluctuations in temperament.  The inference that I draw from this observation is that I need to keep myself occupied.  I need to be able to find employment in some industry that utilizes my creativity and my skill set more fully. 

I need to get my degree so that I may get the change started.

In the meantime, the process of obtaining the degree is quite satisfying.  The learning and the experimenting and the creating.

posted by: loosestring at 12:45 | link | comments |

Just a stop frame in time

This weekend - long weekend - was quite nice.  I managed to hold off the Thanksgiving/Holiday blues.  I even managed to have a nice conversation with my mother.  It began on a bit of an iffy note but proceeded nicely thereafter.  I did not choose to accept the guilt trip about my inability to be with her for the holidays.  I did not get defensive about any of the implied ingratitude.  It went quite pleasantly once the ground rules were established.

I went to see the Harry Potter movie on Wednesday night.  It was awesome and scary and appropriately dark.  I keep waiting for them to get these movies wrong and they have not done so yet.  I would recommend this one for any Harry Potter fan.  I think even non Harry Potter fans might like it as well.

We rented Skeleton Key on Friday.  I did not feel up to going out and there was nothing on TV.  It was okay.  A little scary but not too scary.  I saw the ending coming a mile away but it was not a complete waste of time.  We also watched Flight of the Phoenix.  This one was really hokey and cliched.  I like Giovanni Ribisi - despite the possibilty of Scientology involvement - but this one was not one of his best.  It was one of those movies where there are a million moments of foreshadowing done in such a heavy-handed and obvious way.  Apparently the director believes that subtlety would be lost on the average viewer.  I was in a movie viewing frame of mind so I watched a really good documentary called Paper Clips.  It is about a group of middle school students in rural Tennesee who collected six million paper clips to represent the Jews killed during the Halocaust.  It is about much more than that but too complicated to sum up.  If you have an hour and a half to spare this is an interesting movie. 

On Saturday I went to take pictures for my final project.  I am conflicted about the project but I am hoping that I am just being hard on myself.  I tend to think that everything is not good enough.  Then the teacher and my classmates give good feedback and I am okay.

I saw this heron while we were out:

and then I saw another:

and when I developed the roll I found this photo of the last tomatoes of the season.  I brought these in a couple of weeks ago before I cut everything back for the Winter:

Aren't they gorgeous?

posted by: loosestring at 12:08 | link | comments (7) |

A look at the messy world inside my head

I have to say that when I looked out the window this morning and saw the snow and noted that T had scraped off my car before he left it was difficult to maintain the gloomy mood I have been cultivating.  With me it's always the little things. 

Yesterday I was so antisocial that I could not even read the blogs on my list.  I have a little ritual when I get to work.  I read my blogs and check out the news online.  I kept thinking as I was reading, "Good God, when will this end?"  This is no reflection on the writer.  I am just miserable company sometimes and I want silence.  No words.  I want to knit and watch television and eat a Peanut Buster Parfait for dinner.  I don't want to answer questions.  But, thankfully, I am pulling out of the slump.

This latest bout of crappy attitude has a source.  It is a little convoluted.  The basic thing is that Thursday is my father's birthday.  Or would be my father's birthday had he not passed away earlier this year.  I suppose it still is the day he was born.  But there will not be a birthday celebration.  I am not sure how to explain the complex set of emotions this day sets off for me.

First, I have to explain that for years the holidays filled me with a bit of dread.  Dread because I was going to be expected to call my father and have a stilted conversation about the weather or some other neutral topic.  We rarely spoke at any other time of the year.  There was not a lot of extraneous communication.  There were just these obligatory phone conversations at the holidays.  I hated them.  I avoided them.  Many times I did not call.  And on those occasions, my father did not call me.  These phone calls were clearly my obligation.   And I resented them.  I resented the implication that a dutiful daughter would make the calls and not think twice.  I resented the false face that these calls represented.  I resented the complicated and messy history that they glossed over.  I resented the implied duty.

This year I do not have the phone call to dread.  I do not have to plan what the best topics of conversation will be.  I don't have to procrastinate.  I don't have to regret not having called.  I don't have to resent.

But I do think about what I wanted our relationship to be.  What I needed.  What I had hoped for. 

I want happy, uncomplicated memories.  I want to tell funny little anecdotes about my father.  About his foibles and his humor and his caring.  I want to remember laughter and love and happiness. 

Sometimes I am able to find those things.  Among all of the memories.  Happy little moments.  Rosy with cheer. 

But this time of year is so full of memories of what our relationship was not.  It is so tied up with feelings about what was wrong with us.  It is so representative of all of the bad things and the bad times.

I am trying to be okay with all of this rush of emotion and sadness and complicated feeling.  I am able to look at it from an oblique angle.  Through fingers clasped over my eyes.  I am able to think about it in bits and pieces.  I am able to keep it far enough away from the center of me that it does not send me spinning off balance.  But it takes longer that way.  Like pulling the bandaid off an eighth of an inch at a time.

I am not sure when this stuff ends.   The only thing I know for sure is that it will.

posted by: loosestring at 11:38 | link | comments (3) |

Before Janie Got A Gun

I am beginning to emerge from my murky bird flu/rhinoceros plague fog.  I have discovered the cure.  Please let those folks over at the Center for Disease Control know.  Equal parts couch lounging with puppy lap warmer, pepperoni pizza and peanut butter cups.  Mix well and milk the sympathy of those who love you.

I am kind of tired of this phrase that has been rolling around in my head.  Lots of room to roll and these things make big echo-y crashing noises as they careen about.  It can be a bit distracting.  The phrase is this, "When I was fifteen.."  I suppose this could more rightly be described as a sentence fragment.  But, whatever it is, it is starting to bug me. 

See, here's the thing, I get stories or ideas.  They usually begin with something similiar to this phrase or sentence fragment.  There is a combination of words that comes into my mind and it just sort of grows from there.  The words that come first trigger the words that follow.  They serve as the catalyst.  But I keep thinking, "When I was fifteen..." and that is as far as I get.  I have tried to think of myself at fifteen.  I have tried to think about the things that were going on in my life or the things that happened around me but nothing is jumping out,  I can't think of anything that comes after, "When I was fifteen...".

I was in 9th grade and I was awkward.  Aside from the 9th grade qualifier, this could describe almost any of the years between twelve and nineteen.  Hell, let's be honest, any of the years between four and thirty-four. 

It was 1979.  There was punk rock, the beginning of the high school years, the end of the 70's, death to disco, lots of long bus rides to and from school, feathered hair, the very first inkling of the Reagan era, weekend trips to the rollerskating rink and all of the tedium of being a teenaged girl in a small town.  Nothing stands out.

Now, if the phrase is, "When I was thirteen..." then the ending is, "...my parents got divorced." or, "...I got drunk for the first time."  If the phrase is, "When I was sixteen..." then the ending is, "...I lost my virginity." or "...I had my first real Summer job that did not involve babysitting." 

And the lights have all come on.  I remember.  I remember the thing that happened when I was fifteen.

When I was fifteen I decided that all I wanted for my birthday was to go to a concert.  I wanted to go to a real rock concert.  With several of my friends.  The concert I chose was Aerosmith.

I had listened to Aerosmith with my older sister when I was twelve.  She played Aerosmith and Led Zeppelin in her bedroom when her friend Nancy came to visit.  They sat around and talked about drugs and boys and sex.  They were sixteen and so they were very mature.  And they let me sit and listen to them as long as I promised not to tell and did not talk too much.  In my mind, Aerosmith was a very mature kind of band.  So naturally that was my choice.

I grew up in The Middle of Nowhere, NH.  There were not such things as concert venues in our town.  Or even in the next town over.  In fact, there were no stores other than hardware and grocery, no movie theaters, no bowling alleys, no rollerskating rink, not anything related to entertainment in our small town.  For any of those pursuits it was necessary to drive to another town.  Sometimes 25 miles or sometimes all the way to Boston, MA or Portland, ME.  That was where we would have to go to see Aerosmith.  Portland, ME.  An hour and half drive. 

The first hurdle was convincing my mother that it was a good idea.  The second was convincing her that it was a good enough idea that she should buy tickets and arrange to drive us.  Fortunately, my mother was easily convinced.  The only safety measure she insisted upon was that my stepdad should chaperone us.  This would ensure that we would survive the trip to the big city and not be abducted by drug dealers or white slavers.  It was mortifyingly embarassing that my stepdad had to go with me but the cool factor of the concert was more than enough to compensate.

So it was, on a cold Winter night in December of 1979, me and five of my closest friends found ourselves at our first ever, real live rock concert.  We made our way to our seats in the gigantic Cumberland County Civic Center and settled in for the show.  We arrived early enough that the lights were still up.  There were people milling around.  There was a lot of movement and conversation and excitement.  There was a big crowd on the main floor. 

This was back in the days of General Admission.  Back when you could by a ticket and then fight for a position on the main floor.  Back when you could get crushed and groped, fall in love with a stranger, make out, break up and see a concert all at the same time.  Back before mosh pits.  But there was some aura of danger to the main floor.  There were those kids who got crushed at a Who concert.  So, we were not allowed to go there.  Not this time.  Not yet.

My girlfriends and I chattered excitedly.  We about spun our heads off of our shoulders people watching.  We were so thrilled.  My stepdad settled in for a nap.  A nap.  For the entire concert.  Even through the opening act (Great White), even through the gazillion decibels, even through the screaming crowd.  But this was okay by us.  As soon as the lights went down the cute college boys sitting in front of us offered us a joint.  And we were free to accept because our chaperone was napping.

I do not remember a lot about the opening act.  Perhaps it was the haze of pot smoke that obscures the memory.  But I do remember that it was loud.  And fun.  Really the most excitement I had had in my life.  I knew that I wanted to go to more concerts.  Lots more.  I wanted to see every band.  Ever.

Then the opening act was done.  The lights came back up.  My stepdad slept on.  We became even more excited about seeing Aerosmith.  If the opening act was good, Aerosmith was going to be great.  Mind-blowing.  Stupendous.

The lights went down.  The crowd went crazy.  The hooting and hollering and stomping and whistling was deafening.  Then the band took the stage.  The familiar opening strains of "Back In The Saddle" started and the crowd quieted a bit and the lights went up.  There was Steven Tyler.  In all his rock-excess glory.  The Steven Tyler we had listened to for years.  It was way too much.  I think there may have been some peeing of pants.  I am not going to point fingers.

The first song ended and Steven Tyler mumbled something unintelligible.  Then they lanched into the second song.  And the third.  About ten seconds into the third song Steven Tyler did this slow motion slump to the ground.  He just sort of faded away for a nap.  It took the band a couple of seconds longer to realize that he was no longer with them.  Then lots of people rushed on stage and took Mr. Tyler away.  And the lights went back up.  There was a buzzing commotion of speculation.  This went on for about twenty more minutes.  During which time my stepdad woke up and wanted to know what was going on.  Apparently he could not sleep without the soothing sounds of metal feedback.

Finally someone came out and announced that Mr. Tyler was not feeling well.  The show was going to be cancelled.  There would be a rain date announced.  Thank you all and good night.

It was a bit of a let down.  A bit of a buzz kill.  But it was a great story.  Our very first concert involved a first hand experience with rock-excess.

Of course, we went to the rain date.  It was good.  Pretty darned good. And all of the band members remained concious throughout the entire show.  This time we did not have to have the chaperone.  My stepdad and my mom went to hang out at a bar while we went to the show.  We did not have to wait for anyone to fall asleep before getting high with the boys sitting in front of us.

So, that solves the mystery of what happened when I was fifteen.

posted by: loosestring at 13:10 | link | comments (3) |

It's another beautiful day

I got nothing people.  Less than nothing.  And yet I feel like I should post.  Must be the drugs talking.  Not good drugs, nothing hip or trendy, just plain old cold meds.  I am fighting my annual bout with the plague.  In fact I feel like a shit sandwich.  And T has been kind enough to comment on just how bad I look.  I am sure that it is meant in the best way possible.  But I feel bad enough without the commentary on just how bad I look.

This is all coupled with a huge drop in the temperature around here.  I woke up this morning and I saw bright sunshine out my window.  I was pretty cozy in the flannel sheets and down comforter.  For a moment I had the illusion of a beautiful day.  Instead it is that over-bright pointy kind of sun that makes your head hurt.  And the air is so cold that it hurts to breathe it in.  I dug out the gloves. 

So, it's official.  It is Winter.  Every year I have a little game I play.  I pretend that the ever plunging temperatures are not foreshadowing Winter.  It's just a temporary thing.  I want someone to come over to my house and explain how I can expedite some global warming.  Just around my house.  I want my own personal hole in the ozone.  Right above my house.  Or perhaps I could just build a greenhouse over my entire yard and house.  I think I could get along quite well without ever leaving the house.

In addition to the cold, I am heading into the dreaded end of semester crunch.  Projects due and work to be done.  I am too busy whining about the weather and the plague and the damned Winter to do anything else. 

In other news, I am going to be doing a Christmas Card mailing to a bunch of online people.  As I mentioned before I am making the cards for one of my classes.  If anyone is interested in receiving a lovely holiday card they can send me the address at: forknitting@yahoo.com.

I must go now to snuffle and move the three gallons of snot around in my head. 

 

posted by: loosestring at 13:35 | link | comments (1) |

Confession

I am sad to say that I have a confession to make.  Right here on this Internet.  I am willing to leave myself open to your scorn.  This may take the shine off of your high opinion of me. 

Sorry.

Lately, the highlight of my day is going home and slipping into my comfy pyjamas and settling down on the couch to watch Tivo.  But not just any Tivo.  I have a season pass to "Rebecca's Garden" and "Crafters Coast to Coast".  Or as I like to call it: Crappers Coast to Coast.  That's right.  I watch this stuff.  Voluntarily.  With planned forethought to do so.  With pleasure.

I am not proud.

It all started when the Tivo decided that I might like to watch the Crappers Coast to Coast.  I scoffed.  Ha!  Tivo you have some malfunction in your algorithms.  You can not possibly think that a steady diet of CSI and Law & Order and the occasional bad reality show on VH1 could suggest that I would be interested in the Crappers?  I like programs about Art and History and all of that highbrow stuff.  I am not interested in your HGTV Crafting shows.  Do not get me wrong.  I am a crafter.  But not a toilet-tissue-cover-knitting  crafter.  Not a plastic canvas crafter.  I make jewelry and paint and knit and make cards and other useful things.  I am an artistic crafter.  I am far too sophisticated for Crappers Coast to Coast.

Then, so that I could mock, I watched it.

 I would be lying if I said I was not almost immediately hooked.  I have no illusion that this is great art nor would I say that the program has really high production values.  But among the crap there are some really interesting ideas.  Sure, you have to sit through a lot of people being "kooky" and "wacky" and "entertaining" but sometimes I get some good ideas.  And I like to know how things are done.  I am interested in how things work.  I will watch almost any kind of program if it explains how something came to be or functions or is created. 

So, now I am watching The Crappers everyday.

But there is a glitch in the timing of this show.  It does not begin and end precisely on the hour or half hour.  Not a problem for me.  I am Tivo literate.  I set my Tivo to begin recording five minutes early.  That way I would not miss a single second of Crapping goodness.

Because it was starting early, however, I was getting the last few minutes of the preceding show.  The aforementioned "Rebecca' Garden".  At first I was fast-forwarding through this but then something caught my interest.  I think she was doing a segment on ponds or pruning or something equally fascinating.  And there she had me.  Sure I tried to resist the charms of the weird lady with the big jaw and the, "until next time, keep those hands dirty" tag line.  But I am not made of stone, people.  I love me some gardening and flowers and planting and dirt.  I think about my garden all year round.  Today I read the word "lilacs" and I got a bit verklempt thinking about how long I have to wait until the lilacs bloom.

So, now we have "Rebecca's Garden" and "Crappers" on season pass.  By "we", of course, I mean I.  And there is a sacred moment in my day.  A blissful moment of no talking and no interruptions.  When I watch these fine programs.  And just relax. 

Oh, Tivo, you know me better than I know myself. 

I would like to know, however,  just who you are recording all of the movies from the Spanish HBO for?  Is there someone else?  Am I not enough for you?  Why must you rub my face in your sordid affairs?

posted by: loosestring at 13:42 | link | comments (3) |

If my wings should fail me lord Oh, please meet me with another pair*

I was trying people, really trying, to remain in a good mood so that I could ride the good mood train into this weekend.  Why do you have to make it so damned hard on me? 

I attend classes at a community college nearby.  I started out taking classes for general interest.  To learn some new things.  To expand my mind a little.  Then I got really interested in Photography.  So much so that I decided that I would pursue a degree.  I also decided to hedge the educational bet with some Graphic and Web Design classes.  I made this decision in September.

About that time I received a letter from the school.  They were pleased to announce that my GPA was such that they wanted me to think about their Honors Program.  I love to have my ego stroked as much as the next guy.  I love to have people tell me I am smart and deserving.  But mostly I like the fact that the Honors classes are tuition free for students who maintain a 3.5 GPA.  Sweet deal.  I get to take all of the General Education requirements on someone else's dime.  Plus, they put my name on lists and I get a little boost from that kind of thing. 

I called the number provided in the letter and inquired about the process of being added to the Honors Program.  It seemed simple enough.  I had to take a short writing test, I had to get an unofficial copy of my transcript, I had to bring that transcript to the Honors Office and I would be given a permit to enroll in Honors classes.   This sounds so very simple. 

I went a couple of weeks ago but when I arrived at the Honors Office there was a sign posted on the door informing me that they were sorry for the inconvenience but they had to close early.  I went back a week later and the very same apologetic note was on the door.  So, on Wednesday, I called their office and spoke with someone who apologized for the inconvenience but assured me that there were no plans to close early this week and assured me that I would be able to take care of everything if I came in on Thursday.  On Thursday I made my way to the counseling offices, got the transcript, went to the testing office, passed the test and proceeded to the Honors Office.  Only to find - you guessed it - an apologetic note attached to the door stating that they had closed early.

I hate to have my time wasted.   I hate being at the mercy of someone else's lack of work ethic or lack of competence or lack of caring.  I hate to feel like I am getting jerked around. 

So, I went to find someone who was in charge.  Someone who could make this process move along a little more smoothly.

I managed to track down someone in the Student Affairs Office.  She took my name and all of my information and assured me that she would contact the appropriate party in the morning and find a way to make the whole thing happen without me having to make another trip in to the school.  I was skeptical but I took her name and hoped for the best.  When I received a call this morning from the Honors Office I was happy to have  my skepticism proved wrong.  I was beginning to feel that this may have been a simple bump in the road and we were moving onto fresh pavement.

I was assured that I was properly entered into the database and I all I would need to do was call and sign up for the class.   I knew it would not be that easy.  But I was feeling bad for having been so skeptical before and being proved wrong in my skepticism.  I had to give them the benefit of the doubt.  Right?

I hung up and waited about an hour and then I called Registration.  After waiting on hold for about ten minutes and woman answered and asked how she could help.  I explained that I wanted to enroll in an Honors class.  She asked for my name.  I was a little bit thrown by this because everything at this place is by Social Security number.  Everything. But I gave her my name.  I even spelled it for her.  I do not have an uncommon last name.  I have a pretty easy last name.  She kept repeating the spelling to herself and muttering for a couple minutes.  So, I offered my Social Security number.  What a novel idea.  Another couple of minutes of muttering and repeating my name later, she informed me that I was not in the Honors Database.  Then she transferred me.  To a busy signal.

I hung up and called back to the Honors Program.  Where I was assured that I was in the Database.  Where I was offered a million excuses.  Throughout all of this I remained calm.  I decided to go with the articulate and quietly angry voice.  This tends to work better than the apoplectic and shrill ranting voice.  Not once did I get any answer other than the assurance that I was in the database and I should call back to Registration.  So, I decided to give that a try. 

What the hell?  If it did not work this time I could always go down there with my nunchucks and go killer ninja on someone.  I found this thought oddly comforting.

I called Registration, waited the requisite month on hold and finally got through to a human person. She asked what she could do and I told her that I wanted to enroll in an Honors class.  I did not give her any of the history of this situation.  I was going to remain calm.  Unless she said she could not help me.  Then I was going ninja.  But, I was reassured a bit when she asked me for my Social Security number.   There was typing and then a hesitant, "And what was your name?".  I spelled it out and then there was more typing.  And then, "I'm sorry, you are not in the Database."

I weighed my options.  I thought about the ninja massacre scenario.  I thought about screaming.  I thought about giving up.  Then I had an idea.  A little ray of hope that shone through.  I asked if she could call the Honors Program and verify my eligibility.  And, wonder of wonders, she agreed to give it a try.  I was on hold for just a minute and then she was back and she was saying that she had me enrolled and everything was going to be a-okay. 

So, in the end, it all worked out.  I got enrolled and added and made official.  But why do I always seem to find myself in these clusterfuck situations?  Why am I always being assured that this is not the way it usually works?  That most people just waltz through the situation without the headaches and the crazy-making ineptitude.  That most people have no problems at all.  That most people are met with sunshine and cheery goodwill throughout the process.

It's just a small thing.  It's just a small thing.  It's just a small thing.

But the killer ninja idea is always a possibility.  I am keeping the nunchucks polished just in case.

* I am recommending The Be Good Tanyas' version of this.  I have had it in my head for the last week.

posted by: loosestring at 14:45 | link | comments (3) |

Make of it what you will

For the last couple of years I have rarely had a dream that I remembered upon waking.  I don't know why this is.  I have no complaints.  Sometimes when I wake from a particularly vivid dream I do not feel very rested. 

The dreams I do have these days tend to be short and nonsensical.  Someone tells me something that contradicts what I know to be true.  Usually an insignificant thing like that cats live in colonies on the bottom of the ocean.  Nothing too disturbing.  Mostly just absurd. 

I had a dream the other night that a blogger was helping me clean out my car.  We were cleaning up marshmallow cream that almost completely filled my car.  I do not know why my car was full of marshmallow or why this blogger whom I do not know in real life was helping me.  Maybe my subconcious has decided that she would be the perfect car cleaning companion. 

I have been having far more vivid and involved dreams in the past few days.  Long drawn out dreams with plots and sub plots and a supporting cast of thousands.  And I remember them in detail when I wake up.  With so much detail that it is hard to decide what parts were real and what parts were not.  I am angry at people with whom I have been arguing in a dream.  People I have not seen for a lot of years.  Of course my rational fully awake mind knows that this is absurd.  But still I am having a hard time shaking the bad dream hangovers.

I think the blogging dreams are the best.  But it is strange to dream about people you do not know.  Not like dreaming about a movie star or a rock star.  Just regular folks.  Perhaps my subconcious has designated them as blog stars.

Last night I had a dream that I was driving home from a concert with my son and T when I decided to drop in on a blogger.  I did not know this person outside the reading of her blog but I knew where she lived based on the descriptions from her blog.  In my dream this made sense.  I was driving home through Cleveland (I live in the Chicago area and I know absolutely nothing about Cleveland).  There were all kinds of  minute details that I had squirreled away about the hill beside her house and the tree in the front yard.  Plus it seemed perfectly normal to drop by unannounced and at a very late hour.  I arrived and was warmly received by this blogger.  She invited me in and introduced me to her boyfriend.  She also let me use the ATM in her dining room.  Because I needed to pay a bill.  Then she invited all of us to spend the night.  The next morning the ATF busted down the door and arrested her boyfriend for distributing crystal meth and semi-automatic weapons.  After they took him away we all went out for breakfast.  Where we were joined by her family.  She had three sisters.  Her Mom and Dad were there also and they wanted us to go line dancing after we finished eating.  While we were line dancing her family started to argue.  Mostly just the sisters and the mom.  The father pulled out a flask and started to drink.  Then he started crying and telling me about growing up in an orphanage.  The police showed up to break up the argument that had escalated between the women.  Then the father of a girl that I was friends with in more than twenty years ago came to take us all to school.

That was when the alarm went off.

I am kind of bummed because I wanted to see if I got an A on my test.

posted by: loosestring at 14:04 | link | comments |

Daylight savings time and performance art

Today I am on  vacation.  Not the kind of vacation that involves a trip to a sunny, warm place or even the kind of vacation that involves staying home and watching "Law and Order" all day.  But a day without my boss.  In my book, that qualifies as a vacation.  Of sorts.

I am using my vacation to read blogs and the news and to play endless games of Test Twist and to check my email.  Pretty much what I do every day but without my boss creeping up behind me and talking very suddenly and loudly in order to make me jump.  Because that amuses him. 

I love this job.

Last night, on my way to school, I observed one of the many neighbourhood dogs out for a walk with his or her owner.  This is not an uncommon sight as there are a lot of dogs in our neighbourhood.  What took me a minute to process, however, was that the owner was holding a flashlight as a spotlight on the dog as the dog took a crap.  Again, not uncommon to see the owner standing by with plastic bag in hand waiting to clean up after the dog.  But why was the spotlight necessary?  Is the dog afraid of pooping in the dark? Does the dog expect a round of applause and a call for an encore when he completes his business?  Does the owner get off on watching the dog crap?  I am sad to say that these were the thoughts that occupied my mind for the rest of the trip.

posted by: loosestring at 12:34 | link | comments (2) |

Usually I am fairly straightforward kind of person. If someone pisses me off or does something that hurts my feelings I let them know.  I do not hold grudges often.  I address the issue and move on.  You will always know where you stand with me.  I like people to be similiarly upfront with me.  I appreciate the directness.  I like to talk things out and hear your side.

There are a couple of situations that seem to call for passive aggressive behaviour in my opinion.  Most of them have to do with traffic and driving.  If you tailgate me I will push in the clutch and slowly coast down to five or ten miles per hour slower.  If you persist in tailgating I will slow to a crawl.  Never touching my brakes to alert you that I am slowing down.  If you honk your horn at me I will smile really big and wave cheerfully back at you.  Feigning ignorance of your rudeness and choosing to act as though I think you might be a friend saying hello. This is a sure fire way to  make me feel a little better.  If you go away thinking that I am stupid all the better.

Recently I applied this passive aggressive approach to a situation at work.  Mostly because it was an awkward situation and I did not want to make a big deal out of it.  I was opening the mail as I do every day and I found a letter addressed to my boss.  It started out with, "Thank you for speaking with me regarding a part-time clerical position with your company..." and there was a resume attached.  No problem.  Except that there is only one clerical position in our company: mine.  And there is not enough work to justify having a second person.  And the letter referenced a specific conversation about employment.  It did not seem to be just an unsolicited resume.

Hmmmm.  This sets my little mind to wondering.

I think everything is going okay with my job.  My boss and I get along fairly well.  I do my work and I am always there.  No problems have been brought to my attention.  So then I do what I always do which is to ask myself if what appears to be the explanation fits with the character of the person involved.  I find that I can dismiss a fair amount of bullshit using this screening method.  If I hear something or am told something about someone I know or work with I first try to determine if this information fits with what I know about the person in question.  If it does not seem likely I usually dismiss it.  Or I ask directly but in a very ".....I heard this and it seemed wrong or not like you." kind of way. 

My boss is very likely to be sneaky about this sort of thing.  I have listened to him make this sort of plan before.  But there was usually some indication that there was a problem.  So, there is a bit of a conflict going on here for me.  I am inclined to throw the resume in the garbage and forget about it.  But that seems like the wrong thing to do.  My natural instinct is to approach him and ask about it.  But that seems too confrontational.

My passive aggressive solution?  Put the resume in his in box neatly paper-clipped.  And wait for him to explain. 

This morning one of the first things he says to me is, "I wanted to tell you about this resume..."   Bottom line he is not looking for a replacement.

Passive aggressive.  Hmmmm.  It works sometimes.

posted by: loosestring at 15:11 | link | comments (3) |

Paradise by the oven light

We have indeed begun the flurry of nut gathering and storing that accompanies my Fall mania.  As the weather turns chill and the leaves turn yellow and red and gold and crimson I begin to feel the need to cook.  Not just a meal or the occasional box of macaroni and cheese but stews and roasts and mashed potatoes and soups and hearty meals to feed the men folk over the winter. 

Yesterday I made a pork roast with garlic and rosemary, mashed sweet potatoes, homemade stuffing with mushrooms, a big pot of Chicken Tortilla soup (and the fried tortilla strips to go with it), a large container of fresh salsa, a small container of red chile sauce and an asparagus, broccoli and pepper quiche.  Granted that this was not all intended for one meal.  But there is currently enough food in my refrigerator to feed a small army quite well.  I am already planning the carnitas that I will be making with the left over pork roast later this week.  Does anyone need me to come over to cook for them?  I specialize in comfort food with lots of garlic and butter and fresh herbs. 

I am a decent enough cook.  I actually enjoy the process of chopping and dicing and peeling.  I love the smell of sauteeing onions and garlic.  I love to watch people dig in and enjoy.  I am not a recipe following kind of cook.  I usually make brief references to check cooking temperatures and times for a roast or to check over a list of ingredients if I think I might be missing something but I rarely follow a recipe to the letter.  I like to improvise. I like to make it up as I go along.  Usually it works out fairly well.  I watch cooking shows.  Sometimes I make a note or two.  But usually I just sort of riff on what I saw and tweak it to suit my taste.

The first time I ever cooked a meal was when I was eight years old.  It was for a Girl Scout badge.  I had to prepare a meal for my family with minimal supervision from my mother.  I was very excited.  Good Lord...this is how the indoctrination begins.  Anyway, I decided to make a meatloaf and mashed potatoes with a vegetable.  You may think that meatloaf is a fairly pedestrian meal.  Then again, you have probably never had mine.  One of my favorite meal when I was younger was meatloaf and mashed potatoes with corn or peas.  I liked to use the forkfuls of mashed potatoes to pick up the corn or peas.  I still do.

Back to the meal.

I went to the grocery store with my mom and she showed me what we needed to buy.  Then we went home and started mixing.  When I broke the eggs and added the bread crumbs and splooched in the ketchup I felt like Rembrandt.  Squishing the gooey hamburger meat with my carefully washed hands.  Carefully molding it into the loaf pan.  Setting the oven timer.  Cubing the potatoes and putting them on to boil.  Adding heaps of butter and cream and mashing the potatoes smooth.  And then setting the table and calling everyone to come and eat.  My father seemed skeptical as he lifted the first forkful of loafy goodness to his lips and then he smiled and told me it was delicious.  I was filled with a huge sense of accomplishment.

I still love to make a meatloaf.  In fact, it is one of my number one most requested meals.  Things have changed a bit over the years.  I add a little barbeque sauce and worchestershire sauce to the meatloaf.  I add a bit of cream cheese to the mashed potatoes and sometimes I leave the skins on.  But it is essentially that same well-received meal.  With the same smiles and compliments.  And the same warm sense of accomplishment.

posted by: loosestring at 13:34 | link | comments (1) |

lets fire it up and wind it out

It has been a dark and stormy day.  It did not impede my plans in anyway, nor did it discourage me from venturing forth.  I just thought it was worth mentioning.  And because my diploma from the Snoopy School of Writing was issued with the understanding that I would use this sentence as often as possible. 

I went to the flea market today.  I knew it was going to rain and I knew it was outside but I did not care.  I kind of like when it rains on flea market day as long as it is not miserably cold blowing rain.  I cuts down on the number of shoppers and increases the bargaining leverage.  It really is my little world you are permitted to live in.  I am pretty low maintenance in the fashion and hair department and I usually don't mind getting a little water on me.  Wonder of wonders - I actually had an umbrella.  I am not sure how it got into my car.  I don't even think I own an umbrella.  Maybe the good umbrella elves stashed it there because I have been such a good girl.

I managed to find a couple of really nice large containers for planting outdoors.  One of them is copper.  I have a copper thing going in the front yard.  So, I will fill it with bulbs and it will be a lovely Spring container.  I also bought a cutting board. That does not sound very thrilling but it is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.  It is made of alternating bands of purple heart wood and ash.  Yes, I am able to find joy in the most simple things.  I am not lame, I am well-balanced.


You know you wish you had one.  The picture does not do justice to the lovely purple color.

I am definitely moving out of the grieving phase of my adjustment to Fall and into the acceptance phase.  This change occurs every year right around the time we set the clocks back.  I am just foolish enough to believe that I benefit from Daylight Savings.  Whooooooopee! A whole extra hour of sleep.

Generally the acceptance phase is marked by an increased interest in decorating and crafting and creating.  Perhaps this is what prompted me to have T hang some of the pictures that have been sitting around waiting to be hung since we moved in two years ago.  It may also have been what prompted me to sign up for an Christmas card exchange through one of the blogs I read.  I am not a big fan of Christmas and I gave up on mailing out Christmas cards many years ago.  This year though I have to make a card or some sort of project for my Graphics class and this seems like a good way to motivate myself.  This is the rationale that goes on behind my constant need to over commit and over extend myself.  Everything always seems so do-able until the point at which it is actually due.  Then there will be bitching and moaning and a return to my usual bah-humbug self. 

This bout of craft fever has necessitated several recent trips to the Crap Store.  You may recall that I have had some problems at the Crap Store but I have managed to emerge from these latest visits relatively unscathed. There was, however, a close call.

On Thursday I went to get a few things and I had to drag my son along because I was stopping on my way home.  There are few things that strike the same level of distress in my son as the words, "I just have to stop by the craft store."  Perhaps, "I just have to stop by this nursery." comes close.  He was a pretty good sport about the whole thing and I managed to find the things I was looking for and a few I was not because I never stick to the list.  I was feeling a bit yucky because my blood sugar was dropping so I wanted to get in and get back out as quickly as possible.  This is the point at which I should have taken heed of the screechy, discordant violin music that began to play in the background.  I think I may have even missed hearing the narrator foreshadowing my impending doom and the audience's collective gasp.

I took my purchases up to the cashier for that which should be the easiest thing about shopping: checking out.  There was only one cashier but there was also only one customer ahead of me.  She was in the process of paying so I assumed that things should move quite quickly.  Then I noticed that the one cashier was the very same one that I almost had to kill the last time.  The very same damned one  with the talking and the slowness and the general ineptitude.  I picked up a candy bar to curb the blood sugar plummet and prepared to remain calm.  But, of course, I had managed to pick up an item without a price tag.  There is nothing so new-fangled and fancy as a UPC scanner at this store.  Each item must be entered by hand on the register based on the information on the price tag.  But there was no price tag.  Whatever should we do?

The inept cashier called  for a price check.  Not until she pulled out a piece of paper with names and times on it to consult who to call.  Not until she explained to me in detail how the lady who is in charge of that area was not there.  Not until she explained that she was going to call for a price check.  Then, after she called and described the item to the price checker, she proceeded to make small talk.  About what a long day she was having and how much she wanted to go home and how her feet hurt.  It looked as though we might be in for the long haul so I opened the candy bar and took a couple of bites.  For strength.  For the strength to not say mean things.  For the strength and patience to wait.  While this woman chewed my ear off and my son smirked at me because he knows how very much this sort of situation bothers me and he loves to watch me squirm.  Rotten child!

After I finished the candy bar.  And assured the cashier that this was not what I was eating for dinner.  I decided that it was going to be more effective to walk back to the far corner of the store and do the price check myself.  Sure enough, when I got back to the aisle, the price checker was carefully reading every label of every item on the aisle and had yet to get anywhere near the item in question.  I grabbed one with a sticker on it and took it back up to the front of the store where I had abandoned my smirking son with the cashier.  Teach him to mess with me.  We quickly concluded  the transaction at that point and I almost ran out to the car.  Wiping my brow and thanking my stars for another crafting nightmare narrowly averted.

In the car my son informed me that the cashier was " a little creepy".  When I agreed he explained that the talking and the ineptitude were not the big problems he had with her.  It was that when I went to do the price check she referred to me as his girlfriend.

Suddenly I am not hating on the cashier quite so much.

posted by: loosestring at 01:16 | link | comments (4) |

Let me remember things I love

I have begun to realize that a lot of this year has been spent revisiting some of the music of 1984-1985.  This is not a bad thing.  I liked some pretty good music back then.  I still like most of the bands and performers that I was listening to at that time.  I got to see The Blasters, The Knitters, Dave Alvin, Elvis Costello, Richard Thompson, Arlo Guthrie and Bob Dylan just to name a few. 

When I was twenty I was living in Albuquerque, New Mexico.  I was going to school and working and living on beans and rice and ramen noodles.  I was running on caffeine and nicotine and sleep-deprivation.  There were not enough hours in the day to do everything I wanted to do or see and hear everything I wanted to see and hear.  Mostly I decided that there would be plenty of time to sleep when I was old.  This was the period of time when it seemed completely rational to do things like take my friend's parents' car without permission, pool all of our available cash and drive to Denver to see GBH because that was where they were playing.

I was being introduced to a lot of new (to me) music.  There was Jimmy Cliff, Patsy Cline, Aretha Franklin, Run DMC, Richard Thompson, The Violent Femmes (before the frat boys appropriated them), Echo & the Bunnymen and just too many more to name. 

I already had pretty diverse taste for someone from Buttfuck, New Hampshire.  I liked all of the "Capital R" Rock I had grown up on.  I was just not satisfied that was all there was.  I listened to a college radio station that broadcast out of Maine.  Late at night, alone in my room.  I had heard The Ramones, The Talking Heads, Peter Gabriel, The Clash, The Police (before Sting became a huge, pathetic asshat), The Sex Pistols, David Bowie, Elvis Costello and all of the great new music that was happening.  I saw an interview with Johnny Rotten and PIL on The Tom Snyder Show.  I caught glimpses of these bands on late night television shows.  Suddenly, my dissatisfaction and disconnection had a name: Punk.  I became the lone, self-proclaimed Punk in my little town.  I had never been closer to a punk rock band than my stereo or television.  But I spiked my hair and dressed from the thrift shop and listened to things no one else was listening to and it gave me comfort.  I was odd and I did not fit in but there was an explanation.

When I moved to Albuquerque I met my first real Punks.  I suppose you could debate the validity of the Punk title.  I could parse out all of the reasons why these people were not really Punks beginning with the fact that we were in Albuquerque in 1984.  All of those arguments aside, I had finally found my people.  They were dissatisfied and disconnected and wanted something different. 

This was the heyday of Hair Metal and Albuquerque was primarily a Metal kind of town.  Or a boots and belt buckles kind of town.  But definitely not a Punk Rock kind of town.  Bands like Warrant and The Scorpions filled the local colosseum while The Meat Puppets and Black Flack and The Descendents and The Dead Kennedys played VFW halls and people's garages.  We had a small but dedicated group of folks that loved the music and showed up for every show no matter where it was.  We had only the word of mouth and the flyers that appeared on telephone poles around campus to show us the way.  We had tiny little mosh pits and six inch stages and a big crowd numbered about a hundred people.  Countless numbers of musicians crashed on our floors.  I once even had a band play in my studio apartment.  They played inside the apartment and the crowd watched from my balcony.

The first really big name band that I saw during this time was Black Flag.  Everyone knew Black Flag.  Everyone loved Black Flag.  I was on the fence.  I liked the music but I did not love it.  Until I saw them live.  None of that energy and anger and pure pent-up rage could ever translate to something as tame as black vinyl.  They took the stage and the music hit you like a wall of densely charged air.  But they were musical.  They were thrashing and screaming and Henry Rollins must have thrown off three gallons of sweat.  The tendons in his neck stood out and the vein in his temple was pulsing to the beat and it was intensity unlike anything I had ever seen. I knew all of the songs and I was grooving along and really enjoying things and then they did something magical.  Something that changed the whole thing for me.  They played "Green River" by Creedence Clearwater.

It was not uncommon for bands to cover some songs from that era.  But usually it was something that translated pretty clearly.  The popular favorite cover was "Stepping Stone" by the Monkees.  It was an angry song when the Monkees sang it, it was a perfectly reasonable Punk cover.  But "Green River" was not an angry song.  But the cover that they did was spot-on perfect and balanced between both worlds.  It connected all of the music that I loved with my little hippy heart to all of the music that I loved with my jaded punk rock heart.  Good music is good music.  Punk rock is not fashion.  Pretty simple concepts but when you get it all in the course of about two and a half seconds it is stunning.

After the show was over I had the opportunity to goup and talk to Henry Rollins.  I was a little bit drunk for courage and I was highly concerned that I would not remember how to speak words and form sentences.  But I tapped him on the shoulder while my girlfriends stood by giggling in a group watching me.  He turned and for a brief moment I was speechless.  The thing is that he is one of those people who is highly focussed.  So, when he is talking to you you feel as though you are the only person in the room.  It is disconcerting.  I managed to stammer out some semi-coherent compliments about the show and a question about tattoos.  He was polite and answered my questions and thanked me for coming to see them. 

Last night, more than twenty years later, I went to see Henry Rollins.  He is doing a spoken word tour.  I was really excited and I have been anticipating this from the day we got the tickets.  I have been counting down until the show.  My anticipation was rewarded.  Despite a late arrival and much confusion we were able to see the majority of his show.  I am still rolling the words around in my head.  He is engaging and witty and crude and passionate and angry and wryly observant and self-deprecating and oh so much more than I could have hoped for.  I love this man and what he has to say and how he says it.  I briefly flirted with the idea of giving up my job and the house and my life to follow him on tour like a Grateful Dead fan.  I mentally designed a WWHD (What Would Henry Do?) bracelet that I would sell from my car to support my travels.

I had this moment when twenty and forty came together.   I am happy to report that my twenty year old self approves of my forty year old self.   And my twenty year old self was a judgemental bitch.

posted by: loosestring at 11:47 | link | comments (1) |

Memory feeds imagination

When I was a little girl my father was in the Navy.  I remember living in Oakland, California on the Naval Base while he was overseas in Vietnam.  My first memories are from this period.  I remember wandering around pretty freely.  It would have been about 1968 and there was not as much paranoia in the world about the safety of children and the bad scary people who are determined to hurt them.  Or maybe my mother was just a trusting soul.  More likely I was supposed to be out behind our house in the community playground/backyard but I got curious and wandered off. 

I remember a big house with lemon trees.  The trees were in the backyard and the backyard was surrounded by a wall.  Somehow we got over the wall and picked the tiny little lemons.  About the size of a walnut.  We at them. Skin and all.  They were very sour and yet somehow a little sweet.  Like really good homemade lemonade.  The yard was full of trees, not just lemon trees and it was shady and peaceful. 

I remember my very angry mother coming to retrieve me after one of the neighbours alerted her to the fact that I had left the house topless.  I was blithely playing with my friends.  I could not see the big fuss over a top.  Most of my friends were boys and we all looked the same with or without the shirts.  Plus it was cooler without. 

I remember one 4th of July.  My father and mother had been down to Tiajuana.  My father must have been on leave.  They brought back fireworks.  Sparklers and firecrackers and small rockets.  We invited all of the neighbour kids over or maybe they just ended up in our part of the backyard area.  We were running around like maniacs swirling our sparklers.  Writing words and making pictures in the air.  Screaming when the firecrackers popped.  Standing quietly in anticipation as my father lit the fuse on the bottle rockets.  Giggling madly as they took off whistling and leaving a trail of sparks to mark their paths.

I remember being on a bridge in the car with my mom.  In my memory it is the Golden Gate Bridge.  I am not sure if that is a real memory or something that got added after the fact.  When I became aware that there was something called the Golden Gate Bridge.  I think about that bridge and riding in the back seat of my mom's car whenever I hear "Bridge Over Troubled Waters".  No concrete evidence that it happened but that is also the song that is on the radio in my memory.

I have some confusing and yet very vivid memories from this time also.  I am sure that being young has skewed these memories.  Probably at the beginning of memory, at the beginning of concious thought, I  made a lot of incorrect conclusions about what was happening around me due to the lack of experiential references.  But still these memories are clear and I cannot forget them. 

I saw a cat set on fire.  I believe at the time I thought that the kids who set the cat on fire were hippies.  They had kind of long hair and they dressed sort of like the hippies we had seen in San Francisco.  I can't help but think that the term "hippies" had been spoken before in my presence.  Perhaps with a certain note of disapproval and a certain inference that they would be the group to hold responsible for all that was wrong in our world.  My older self realizes that these were not in fact hippies.  I think that cat immolation would be an unlikely activity for a group of hippies.

I remember sitting on the swings in the playground area.  All alone.  I remember being not sad but maybe a bit melancholy.  I remember the feel of the cool chain against my cheek.  I was not swinging high but just pushing back and forth with my feet in the dirt.  Looking down at my shoes and singing a song.  Making up words to a song.  Thinking about the words and the sad tune and how the words needed to be sad to match.  My very first dirge.

I remember being in someone's garage.  I know it was one of the house's on the base and across the backyard area from our house.  There were a bunch of older boys.  Older than me.  Some young teenagers.  They were sniffing paint or glue or maybe both.  I don't know why I was there.  I did not sniff the paint or glue but I did stand and watch.  Quietly.  I did not ask questions.  I tried to be invisible.  I recall being very puzzled over all of the laughing.  But certainly if the boys were laughing then what they were doing was not a bad thing.  But I knew it was not a tell your parents thing.  It was secret.  A secret that I was trusted to keep.  I felt grown up.

posted by: loosestring at 11:50 | link | comments |

Coming up for air again and again

For the last week or so my brain has felt a bit sticky and gritty.  Sort of like it somehow fell out my ear while I was sleeping and rolled around under the bed and the couch and maybe through the laundry room by the cat box and gathered bits of cat hair and dust bunnies and cat litter and cookie crumbs and then rolled back into my head for use during the day.  Now that gives you a world of information not only about my imagination but also about my housekeeping skills.  Or is that skillz?  'Cause I am oh so very with it.

Anyway, back to my brain.  Anyone who has read more than one post here knows that I moodswing like a motherfucker.  I never know which personality will wake up and take charge of the day.  I have grown accustomed to this fluctuation.  I work with it. Lately, however, I have been more than just moodswinging, I have been mood shuffling.  My temperament changes from moment to moment.  It is quite exhausting work to compensate for this changeability.  Mostly I attempt to avoid human interaction as much as possible.

I'm just saying. 

Last night was Halloween for those of you who may have missed it.  We actually live in a neighbourhood full of kids and so we got a good number of trick or treaters.  I think the best are always the little ones who are kind of new to the whole experience.  One little tow-headed boy dressed as a Buzz Lightyear bellowed, "Trick or treat!" and stood completely amazed as I offered up the candy bowl.  Then he scurried back to show his mom and dad what he had gotten.  I heard him say, "She gave me two!", with a glee usually reserved for something larger than a fun-sized candy bar.  I wish that I could travel around with a never-ending supply of fun-sized candy bars to hand out to people.  If only I could be assured that they would be half as delighted as that young guy. 

The puppies were deliriously happy with all of the activity.  They are always thrilled when company stops by.  They are convinced that anyone who visits our house has come to see them.  So, everytime the doorbell rang, they barked and ran to check out the visitors.  They were mightily perplexed that we seemed to be giving away perfectly good food.  The upside was that the kids were mostly younger so the crotch-sniffing opportunities were abundant.  Poor, short-legged little doggies hardly ever get to sniff a crotch.  They managed to scare one little girl with their barking.  She got to the top of the steps and turned and ran crying back to her mother in the face of such ferocious beasts. 

+++The editors would like to correct an error in our previous post.  It has been pointed out that our sister is only going to be 39 this year.  We have never been good at math.  She will be hopelessly old next year.

posted by: loosestring at 11:25 | link | comments |