So Tuesday I had a banjo band practice and I now am learning songs from two books.
After practice, I helped a frail and very elderly lady to her car, carrying her stuff for her. She tried to unlock her door but it was stuck, I tried to unlock it for her but it remained stuck. After 5 minutes of futzing with the door we decided to throw her stuff on the passenger seat from the driver's side. She was saying stuff like, "I'm going pretty good now, but my knees are on fire!" I felt so bad for her.
Another woman who had come to help her, and seemed mere minutes away from that same level of frailty, took advantage of the first lady's hearing loss to yell this to me over the top of the first lady's car as she got in:
"One time we went to a playout, and (name redacted) lost her teeth and glasses! She was like this (sucks in lips and squints)!"
I wondered what would happen to her once she got home, but since that's where she's most adapted and comfortable, I suppose she was better off.
Getting old is not for the faint of heart.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
On feeling moderately better
Wedding scouting takes a lot of footwork. Even in the days of the Internet, there are some places you just need to see to believe, and since we have decided to shackle ourselves in T-town (for convenience's sake for my family) we needed to go check it out.
We started at this place called the Varsity, now the home base of The Vault, which used to be on Pac Ave. and had a really great venue. This one, eh, not so much. It's pretty, don't get me wrong, but the old one had a view of Puget Sound. But it has big windows to let in whatever natural light will avail itself to us. The food at the open house was pretty tasty, I could see us going with some variation on it. The owner, who looked like she'd been smothered by Claire's Accessories and only just fought her way out (I mean this in a good way), was a little hyper. I like that in a food service manager. Ray gets put on edge by people with manic energy. Yet he's marrying me.
Then we went to my good buddy Blackberry's house for enchiladas and more talk about colonoscopies and hysterectomies than you could imagine. Mrs. Blackberry showed me how she got her tummy tuck with her de-organization, and you know what? I'm not a plastic surgery person, but it was tight. No pooch on the hooch. Her naval looked real. I am adding tummy tuck to the short list of plastic surgeries I would consider if I get out of control sagged out bagged out as I gracefully age. Tummy tuck joins eyelid lift and structural hitching up of the girls. Let it be noted that I'm probably too lazy and afraid of surgery for any of the above.
Blackberry is a musician in a band that has played more weddings than you can shake a stick at, and he had some alternative suggestions for venues to hold a reception at. One of which I find oddly compelling though I have not seen its inside.
Luckily, Alicia is on the case and hopes to send inside pics soon. That's what I'm talking about. I got resources, and I work them like a good little reporter.
We also had our first meeting with Dave, the nice minister who will hitch us together. He asked us if we had a "vision" for our wedding, and we looked at each other in horror. I kind of went on a rant about how stupid most weddings are (I didn't mean yours, reader), and somehow all that verbal diarrhea (on the order of, "I hate how it's all about THE COUPLE, well, we're all together in this, and the whole world is sharing love, it's like we're in a river of love, but we're peeing in the river, and we're peeing love, and we're all swimming in each other's love-pee," but not quite so vulgar) transfigured itself into a vision of something that will be probably maybe not too awful. I'm not going to spoil the surprise, but when your honey gives you a, "dang! Nailed it!" look and the minister says, "You don't need to do all this homework after all," I think it's possible to say, oh yeah, we've got the makings of a real barnburner of a wedding. Prepare for shock and awe, y'all.
The chapel is also really pretty. The bridal-prep room doubles as the Muslim room because it is the only one with a washbasin. Take from that what you will, but the University of Puget Sound does not have any muslim students.
Alicia's kids are so freaking big now it's insane. How fast they grow up, yet I remain superfoxy and mentally 13 years old.
We did a chore at the Tacoma Costco and it was horrific there. The traffic, the parking, the people. Inside, it was like piranha feasting on the corpses of a lot of dead cows. The mall parking lot was crammed. What recession? At the REI, site of another chore, I was looking at a bottle and this random dude who was spending WAY TOO MUCH TIME going through water bottle selections completely denigrated the bottle I had in my hand (one of the few with a sippy top) to his lady, then said, "Oh, but you're going to buy that." I said, "Well, I'm not taking it packing, I'm using it indoors." Then, very quietly, I called him a name. I was quite stressed by the traffic and the crush of humanity that had descended on the commercial district of Tacoma, in my defense.
Either that shows I'm becoming an intolerant bumpkin, or that I'm the same old high-strung Northeastern chick I've been trying not to be. I need to remember that that dumb guy? As well as the old dingleberries who went left around Ray's car while we were about to turn left into a parking space and signaling we were going to do so (parking lots don't have passing lanes!)? They are all swimming in the river of love in my love pee and vice versa. Or something. We all seemed to be feeling pretty pissy, that much I can tell you.
But we're back in the safety of the low-traffic, uncrowded Harbor. And we're more confident about planning Hitchin' Shindig '09.
We started at this place called the Varsity, now the home base of The Vault, which used to be on Pac Ave. and had a really great venue. This one, eh, not so much. It's pretty, don't get me wrong, but the old one had a view of Puget Sound. But it has big windows to let in whatever natural light will avail itself to us. The food at the open house was pretty tasty, I could see us going with some variation on it. The owner, who looked like she'd been smothered by Claire's Accessories and only just fought her way out (I mean this in a good way), was a little hyper. I like that in a food service manager. Ray gets put on edge by people with manic energy. Yet he's marrying me.
Then we went to my good buddy Blackberry's house for enchiladas and more talk about colonoscopies and hysterectomies than you could imagine. Mrs. Blackberry showed me how she got her tummy tuck with her de-organization, and you know what? I'm not a plastic surgery person, but it was tight. No pooch on the hooch. Her naval looked real. I am adding tummy tuck to the short list of plastic surgeries I would consider if I get out of control sagged out bagged out as I gracefully age. Tummy tuck joins eyelid lift and structural hitching up of the girls. Let it be noted that I'm probably too lazy and afraid of surgery for any of the above.
Blackberry is a musician in a band that has played more weddings than you can shake a stick at, and he had some alternative suggestions for venues to hold a reception at. One of which I find oddly compelling though I have not seen its inside.
Luckily, Alicia is on the case and hopes to send inside pics soon. That's what I'm talking about. I got resources, and I work them like a good little reporter.
We also had our first meeting with Dave, the nice minister who will hitch us together. He asked us if we had a "vision" for our wedding, and we looked at each other in horror. I kind of went on a rant about how stupid most weddings are (I didn't mean yours, reader), and somehow all that verbal diarrhea (on the order of, "I hate how it's all about THE COUPLE, well, we're all together in this, and the whole world is sharing love, it's like we're in a river of love, but we're peeing in the river, and we're peeing love, and we're all swimming in each other's love-pee," but not quite so vulgar) transfigured itself into a vision of something that will be probably maybe not too awful. I'm not going to spoil the surprise, but when your honey gives you a, "dang! Nailed it!" look and the minister says, "You don't need to do all this homework after all," I think it's possible to say, oh yeah, we've got the makings of a real barnburner of a wedding. Prepare for shock and awe, y'all.
The chapel is also really pretty. The bridal-prep room doubles as the Muslim room because it is the only one with a washbasin. Take from that what you will, but the University of Puget Sound does not have any muslim students.
Alicia's kids are so freaking big now it's insane. How fast they grow up, yet I remain superfoxy and mentally 13 years old.
We did a chore at the Tacoma Costco and it was horrific there. The traffic, the parking, the people. Inside, it was like piranha feasting on the corpses of a lot of dead cows. The mall parking lot was crammed. What recession? At the REI, site of another chore, I was looking at a bottle and this random dude who was spending WAY TOO MUCH TIME going through water bottle selections completely denigrated the bottle I had in my hand (one of the few with a sippy top) to his lady, then said, "Oh, but you're going to buy that." I said, "Well, I'm not taking it packing, I'm using it indoors." Then, very quietly, I called him a name. I was quite stressed by the traffic and the crush of humanity that had descended on the commercial district of Tacoma, in my defense.
Either that shows I'm becoming an intolerant bumpkin, or that I'm the same old high-strung Northeastern chick I've been trying not to be. I need to remember that that dumb guy? As well as the old dingleberries who went left around Ray's car while we were about to turn left into a parking space and signaling we were going to do so (parking lots don't have passing lanes!)? They are all swimming in the river of love in my love pee and vice versa. Or something. We all seemed to be feeling pretty pissy, that much I can tell you.
But we're back in the safety of the low-traffic, uncrowded Harbor. And we're more confident about planning Hitchin' Shindig '09.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Mystery of FB
Who is this Shawn Rivera and why does he want to be my FB friend? We had a really big graduating class, and if he remembers me and I don't remember him I'll feel really bad. But considering his job and maybe mine he is into networking. And by networking I mean attention-getting.
What, me cynical? I have to be. The only other option is that my memory is shot and I knew this kid back in the day.
What, me cynical? I have to be. The only other option is that my memory is shot and I knew this kid back in the day.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Ways to keep me up at night
Scene: late weekday night as my eyes are fluttering closed.
Ray: "What kind of music do you want to play at the wedding?"
Callie: "You mean you *want* to have a DJ now? We can dance?"
Ray: "No, I mean at the *wedding.*"
Callie: "Oh. I hadn't thought about it. Maybe we can get the organist to play 'Light My Fire.' "
Ray: (makes a comment that demonstrates his complete lack of knowledge of The Doors)
Callie: (Educates Ray about The Doors, decides not to bring up other organ-heavy song of the flower child age, "Whiter Shade of Pale.")
Ray: "Oh." (discussion of classic wedding song thingies ensues, as well as fact that we don't need to make any decisions right away)
Callie: "And then there's 'Ave Maria.' Remember on 'Reno 911' when Jim Dangle plays it on the banjo for someone's wedding? I would take that. Or if Here Comes Treble sang a cappella. Actually, that's non-negotiable for me."
Ray: "That's right, he played the banjo at that wedding. Whose?" (We couldn't figure it out. Thanks, Internet, for responding, "Clemmie.") (Ray rolls right over and falls asleep, while I ponder who got married on Reno 911 and really, what kind of song do I want to experience the extreme mortification of being propped up in front of everyone to? Banjo Ave Maria seems about the best option right now. In fact, the more I think about it the more I want it. If Thomas Lennon wanted to show up and play it that would be icing on the cake, but unfortunately, I think something that exciting might tip the wedding into "mandatory best day" territory, and I don't want it going there.)
Am I sick for wanting banjo wedding aisle music?
Ray: "What kind of music do you want to play at the wedding?"
Callie: "You mean you *want* to have a DJ now? We can dance?"
Ray: "No, I mean at the *wedding.*"
Callie: "Oh. I hadn't thought about it. Maybe we can get the organist to play 'Light My Fire.' "
Ray: (makes a comment that demonstrates his complete lack of knowledge of The Doors)
Callie: (Educates Ray about The Doors, decides not to bring up other organ-heavy song of the flower child age, "Whiter Shade of Pale.")
Ray: "Oh." (discussion of classic wedding song thingies ensues, as well as fact that we don't need to make any decisions right away)
Callie: "And then there's 'Ave Maria.' Remember on 'Reno 911' when Jim Dangle plays it on the banjo for someone's wedding? I would take that. Or if Here Comes Treble sang a cappella. Actually, that's non-negotiable for me."
Ray: "That's right, he played the banjo at that wedding. Whose?" (We couldn't figure it out. Thanks, Internet, for responding, "Clemmie.") (Ray rolls right over and falls asleep, while I ponder who got married on Reno 911 and really, what kind of song do I want to experience the extreme mortification of being propped up in front of everyone to? Banjo Ave Maria seems about the best option right now. In fact, the more I think about it the more I want it. If Thomas Lennon wanted to show up and play it that would be icing on the cake, but unfortunately, I think something that exciting might tip the wedding into "mandatory best day" territory, and I don't want it going there.)
Am I sick for wanting banjo wedding aisle music?
Left Behind
So today I went to the Day of Action, where a bunch of educators from eight local school districts got the day off to tell lawmakers that they don't want school funding cut. They did this in Olympia, which is known as a place that's kind of a pill to get around in and especially park, especially while the lege is in session and moreso when there are so many inaugurations going on. So my editor and I decide I'll drive down and park at the former Mervyn's at Capital Mall, where there will be shuttle buses waiting to take us to the event.
Mission accomplished. Total success. I got on no problem and signed in at the sign-in sheet. Which was heartening, as was the ditzy-looking bus monitor's announcements that we were on bus 153 and needed to remember that, it was very important, and we'd be loading the bus at 12:45 p.m. and returning to the lot at 1 p.m.
Well, the rally went a little faster than expected, because it was really cold and everyone was stamping their feet and it was windy and my face turned about three shades of red from windburn (my hands got even colder). So on the way back there was a ton of time for the 12:45 departure. I stopped in at Wagner's for a latte and a few minutes of warm air. Well, all of Grays Harbor ended up in there for lunch or lattes as well, so I chatted a little with the teachers. But I was soon a little overwhelmed by all the educators and felt surrounded by sources in a non-sourcy place so I had to beat it and I was on my little jaunt back to the buses. It was maybe 12:20/12:25ish (earlier than I had initially planned to leave), so I knew I had tons of time yet the pace I set was pretty brisk because so was the weather.
I could see the buses across the way on Deschutes. I was heartened by the fact that these people do field trips all the time and need to corral little kids — how hard could it be with self-regulating and mature adults? I wondered. Well, as I was a few clicks from the buses one of them took off. So I started booking it, startled as heck. As I just get to the buses another three take off.
There are monitors there, so I ask, "Where are those buses going? I need to get to the mall." And they say they don't know, what, like it's their job to make sure people are on the buses they need to be on?
"Where's this bus going to?" I ask. Montesano, it turns out. (I know this because the driver is right there and can answer) "Where are the other two buses going?" (no one knows.) Then suddenly THOSE two buses take off.
In a burst of common sense, I say, "Oh, well, those buses to the mall must be coming back, right?" I mean, you don't just leave that early and then not expect some people to show up a little late, I mean, that's just life, right? I mean, I wasn't even late!
"No. They're not." The finality and utter confidence with which this phrase was said was in total contrast to everything else I had heard to that point.
"That's crazy," I say. "The scheduled departure time was 1." I get looked at like I have autism or something. Why is this chick so obsessed with bus schedules? There must be some kind of perceptual problem in her head.
Holy crap, it's me and one bus to Monte. My car is stuck at the mall. My face is obviously the face of the freaked-out, so one of the monitors says, "Don't worry honey, we'll get you where you need to go. You just go back over where the U-Haul is" way down at the park, I'm not so sure anyone will be there when I get there "and there'll be someone who can drive you."
The hell I'm going to leave this bus and embark on a journey that could burn me. I also realize at this exact moment that my cell phone is charging on the table upstairs and NOT in my purse and if I need to call someone to find out which exact bus it is that runs to the Capital Mall and where the stops are I am totally hosed. I kind of just want to go all Keenan whateverhisname is on SNL and scream "FISSIT!" at the bus monitor. It is totally their fault that I am standing there at 12:30, a full half hour before the announced departure time, and there are no buses there.
The Monte bus driver tells me the mall is on his way and he can drop me off. God bless you, bus driver. So I get on the Monte bus and am taken to the mall. Ironically, even though my bus left at least five minutes after the other buses, we get there before the other buses — MY bus included. I'm walking across the parking lot as I see them come in.
Well, I'm relieved, but I'm also totally pissed off, and I really feel the need to tell these dummies that they had given fairly explicit instructions and there was a reasonable expectation that some teachers would linger in a warm coffeeshop before heading to the bus drop. So I found one bus monitor and said, "Is the bus monitor on 153? Because I got left behind." This other lady totally could not process that because I was here now, wasn't I? I may not have explained that the GOODNESS of ONE MAN'S HEART gave me a lift to a place not totally out of his way, but I was angry and confused and a little worried that other people may have taken these other people at, oh, I don't know, THEIR WORD. (side note: the teachers on the bus say sometimes on field trips they're so aware of having to get all the kids they forget the chaperones. No good deed, people. No good deed.)
So this bus monitor #1 is with me when I see the glassy-eyed bus monitor of bus 153. And I do mean that when you look into her eyes, you don't see in. They are as reflective as those of a fish, a drowned man, a zombie. Kind of like the way Roald Dahl describes the eyes of the witches in "The Witches." I am a little freaked out by them, but angry enough to say, "Hey, I was supposed to be on that bus. I got left behind."
And of course since I don't say I had to catch a lift, this chick totally cannot process how I've been left behind because after all I am right there. Here is a reconstruction of the incident, I speak first.
"Why did you leave so early? You said the bus would load at 12:45 and leave at 1. It's not even 12:45."
"That's right."
"Right, it's not even loading time. I wasn't late and you guys had taken off."
"Oh, well, if you check the time (looks at watch) see, it's 12:45." (this is not perfect, the real conversation was SO much stupider and head-banging than that it is literally too stupid for me to recall)
"Right. NOW it is 12:45, the loading time. I thought I had extra time to get to the buses. But you took off, you totally abandoned me."
"Oh I SEE what the problem is. I did a headcount. We had 30 people."
"You took my name down. Did you call the roll?"
"What? No. We did a headcount. I counted 30 people. And some people said they weren't coming back with us." (This is a rally of about 500 people. I would think the sheer number of people shifting whether or not they are going to get to the bus and maybe not getting on the same frigging bus would encourage a little bit of sensitivity to making sure we all get out of Oly)
"But you didn't wait. That didn't occur ..." I am so mad now I am literally shaking with anger.
"We had thirty people! (Laughs) That's what happened!"
"Well, are you going to send some buses back in case..." "No." Yet another incredibly final and confident phrase after so much stupid twitterpating.
I can't tell you how mad I was at these stupid bus monitors. The ONLY thing they have to do is make sure they get people back where they belong and they screw it up on what I think could be an epic level (how many other coffee-drinking teachers were there waiting until not the last minute, but something near that? Or even last minute). They are all the worst stereotypes of the kind of people certain public education hating types point to as problems in the system, people who can't do, so they teach. They can't even say, "Oh, crap, we left you behind? I'm sorry." They don't care how it happened, it was just clearly my fault for listening to their stupid instructions. Like every other dang encounter I had with authority in my K-12 education, there was no rhyme, no reason and no apology. But plenty of hypocrisy to go around!
The only thing I find less comprehensible than the stupid bus monitors are the teachers who all got back on time and none of whom had the common sense to say, "Well, wait a minute, we said we'd take off at 1, shouldn't a bus stick around and wait for any possible latecomers? This has been a big rally with a lot of people going in and out and we should take every precaution." But it's possible that they all just really wanted to get back to their cars so they could go to the mall or Target. Because they had the day off and I can't really blame them. I had to go to Target, which was next door to the mall, to walk off my frustration and look for shelf organizers (they don't really have them).
Note to parents: Don't ever be a chaperone on your kids' field trip. If you are left behind the teachers will think it's funny and possibly, from what I observed today, not go back to pick you up.
Again, THANK YOU MONTE BUS PEOPLE. Your kindness shown brightly among the dimbulbs and greatly relieved my mind.
Mission accomplished. Total success. I got on no problem and signed in at the sign-in sheet. Which was heartening, as was the ditzy-looking bus monitor's announcements that we were on bus 153 and needed to remember that, it was very important, and we'd be loading the bus at 12:45 p.m. and returning to the lot at 1 p.m.
Well, the rally went a little faster than expected, because it was really cold and everyone was stamping their feet and it was windy and my face turned about three shades of red from windburn (my hands got even colder). So on the way back there was a ton of time for the 12:45 departure. I stopped in at Wagner's for a latte and a few minutes of warm air. Well, all of Grays Harbor ended up in there for lunch or lattes as well, so I chatted a little with the teachers. But I was soon a little overwhelmed by all the educators and felt surrounded by sources in a non-sourcy place so I had to beat it and I was on my little jaunt back to the buses. It was maybe 12:20/12:25ish (earlier than I had initially planned to leave), so I knew I had tons of time yet the pace I set was pretty brisk because so was the weather.
I could see the buses across the way on Deschutes. I was heartened by the fact that these people do field trips all the time and need to corral little kids — how hard could it be with self-regulating and mature adults? I wondered. Well, as I was a few clicks from the buses one of them took off. So I started booking it, startled as heck. As I just get to the buses another three take off.
There are monitors there, so I ask, "Where are those buses going? I need to get to the mall." And they say they don't know, what, like it's their job to make sure people are on the buses they need to be on?
"Where's this bus going to?" I ask. Montesano, it turns out. (I know this because the driver is right there and can answer) "Where are the other two buses going?" (no one knows.) Then suddenly THOSE two buses take off.
In a burst of common sense, I say, "Oh, well, those buses to the mall must be coming back, right?" I mean, you don't just leave that early and then not expect some people to show up a little late, I mean, that's just life, right? I mean, I wasn't even late!
"No. They're not." The finality and utter confidence with which this phrase was said was in total contrast to everything else I had heard to that point.
"That's crazy," I say. "The scheduled departure time was 1." I get looked at like I have autism or something. Why is this chick so obsessed with bus schedules? There must be some kind of perceptual problem in her head.
Holy crap, it's me and one bus to Monte. My car is stuck at the mall. My face is obviously the face of the freaked-out, so one of the monitors says, "Don't worry honey, we'll get you where you need to go. You just go back over where the U-Haul is" way down at the park, I'm not so sure anyone will be there when I get there "and there'll be someone who can drive you."
The hell I'm going to leave this bus and embark on a journey that could burn me. I also realize at this exact moment that my cell phone is charging on the table upstairs and NOT in my purse and if I need to call someone to find out which exact bus it is that runs to the Capital Mall and where the stops are I am totally hosed. I kind of just want to go all Keenan whateverhisname is on SNL and scream "FISSIT!" at the bus monitor. It is totally their fault that I am standing there at 12:30, a full half hour before the announced departure time, and there are no buses there.
The Monte bus driver tells me the mall is on his way and he can drop me off. God bless you, bus driver. So I get on the Monte bus and am taken to the mall. Ironically, even though my bus left at least five minutes after the other buses, we get there before the other buses — MY bus included. I'm walking across the parking lot as I see them come in.
Well, I'm relieved, but I'm also totally pissed off, and I really feel the need to tell these dummies that they had given fairly explicit instructions and there was a reasonable expectation that some teachers would linger in a warm coffeeshop before heading to the bus drop. So I found one bus monitor and said, "Is the bus monitor on 153? Because I got left behind." This other lady totally could not process that because I was here now, wasn't I? I may not have explained that the GOODNESS of ONE MAN'S HEART gave me a lift to a place not totally out of his way, but I was angry and confused and a little worried that other people may have taken these other people at, oh, I don't know, THEIR WORD. (side note: the teachers on the bus say sometimes on field trips they're so aware of having to get all the kids they forget the chaperones. No good deed, people. No good deed.)
So this bus monitor #1 is with me when I see the glassy-eyed bus monitor of bus 153. And I do mean that when you look into her eyes, you don't see in. They are as reflective as those of a fish, a drowned man, a zombie. Kind of like the way Roald Dahl describes the eyes of the witches in "The Witches." I am a little freaked out by them, but angry enough to say, "Hey, I was supposed to be on that bus. I got left behind."
And of course since I don't say I had to catch a lift, this chick totally cannot process how I've been left behind because after all I am right there. Here is a reconstruction of the incident, I speak first.
"Why did you leave so early? You said the bus would load at 12:45 and leave at 1. It's not even 12:45."
"That's right."
"Right, it's not even loading time. I wasn't late and you guys had taken off."
"Oh, well, if you check the time (looks at watch) see, it's 12:45." (this is not perfect, the real conversation was SO much stupider and head-banging than that it is literally too stupid for me to recall)
"Right. NOW it is 12:45, the loading time. I thought I had extra time to get to the buses. But you took off, you totally abandoned me."
"Oh I SEE what the problem is. I did a headcount. We had 30 people."
"You took my name down. Did you call the roll?"
"What? No. We did a headcount. I counted 30 people. And some people said they weren't coming back with us." (This is a rally of about 500 people. I would think the sheer number of people shifting whether or not they are going to get to the bus and maybe not getting on the same frigging bus would encourage a little bit of sensitivity to making sure we all get out of Oly)
"But you didn't wait. That didn't occur ..." I am so mad now I am literally shaking with anger.
"We had thirty people! (Laughs) That's what happened!"
"Well, are you going to send some buses back in case..." "No." Yet another incredibly final and confident phrase after so much stupid twitterpating.
I can't tell you how mad I was at these stupid bus monitors. The ONLY thing they have to do is make sure they get people back where they belong and they screw it up on what I think could be an epic level (how many other coffee-drinking teachers were there waiting until not the last minute, but something near that? Or even last minute). They are all the worst stereotypes of the kind of people certain public education hating types point to as problems in the system, people who can't do, so they teach. They can't even say, "Oh, crap, we left you behind? I'm sorry." They don't care how it happened, it was just clearly my fault for listening to their stupid instructions. Like every other dang encounter I had with authority in my K-12 education, there was no rhyme, no reason and no apology. But plenty of hypocrisy to go around!
The only thing I find less comprehensible than the stupid bus monitors are the teachers who all got back on time and none of whom had the common sense to say, "Well, wait a minute, we said we'd take off at 1, shouldn't a bus stick around and wait for any possible latecomers? This has been a big rally with a lot of people going in and out and we should take every precaution." But it's possible that they all just really wanted to get back to their cars so they could go to the mall or Target. Because they had the day off and I can't really blame them. I had to go to Target, which was next door to the mall, to walk off my frustration and look for shelf organizers (they don't really have them).
Note to parents: Don't ever be a chaperone on your kids' field trip. If you are left behind the teachers will think it's funny and possibly, from what I observed today, not go back to pick you up.
Again, THANK YOU MONTE BUS PEOPLE. Your kindness shown brightly among the dimbulbs and greatly relieved my mind.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Just whoa
Today I got to do a ridealong with some community corrections officers, you may better know them as parole officers. And just whoa. What looks like success in corrections is, well, kind of depressing. For example a filthy home is not necessarily a sign of failure. Even if it reeks of pee. Heck, the people don't need to be that clean to be successful, in the very broad terms of corrections, which basically means no drugs and no crime-doing.
So you can only imagine what it was like in the place where the one guy we saw who was *not* successful was living. Oh em gee to the max.
So we pull up into one of the skankier motels in town — which is DEFINITELY SAYING SOMETHING — and one officer warns me the guy we're about to see (if he's there) "has mental issues, and you'll pick up on that right away." Also, he's a level three (highest risk) sex offender. Now, he's not going to rape me while there are parole officers there, and honestly, he's not really the sort who's together enough to rape anyone. What he did, I sussed out from his nickname ("the Coffeestand Man"), was go through the Koffee Kat with his pants down (he likes to drive around with his pants down, as you will see in this story).
The officers (who are both huge dudes) knocked on the door and the dude comes out, leaning into the crack of the door so officers can't see behind (dude, you are under supervision, you don't get that sort of privacy and you know they like to do checks). His hair is greasy and long. His shirt is stained. He is a little belligerent, but has no problem with officers coming in. And the first thing they see is a couple of syringes on the table in front of the door, with some McKesson alcohol wipes, which I take as a personal shout-out to Ray's sister. Also, in the bathroom, there is a ridiculously skinny young woman with teeth that are black around the edges (ironically, she is lining her eyes with black eyeliner, so there's a weird aesthetic thing happening there, a mirror effect, if you will) who talks far too quickly and doesn't seem at all perturbed that parole officers are in there.
The room is filthy. There is cheese sitting out on a counter. There is filth everywhere. There is a supermarket-tupperwareish container full of cigarette butts. The bedsheets are greenish-brown from the filth. The whole place is just repulsive. One officer takes the dude out to the car to "talk to him," basically give his partner a chance to search without the dude getting aggressive. The other partner searches the room while asking questions to the woman, like who is she and what is her deal here? She doesn't have much of an answer for that, but she tells him, "I didn't even know that guy was a sex offender until one time we were driving around and he had his thing out and the cops pulled us over and told me."
If that doesn't make your head smart from the sheer cluelessness, the officer asked what she was doing with him and she said he gives her rides and he tells everyone she's his girlfriend. The officer also asked about the needles and she said they were her brother's, and he has diabetes (so naturally he scatters his needles all over, even in some dude's creepy motel room). He also asked how old she was and she said, "You think I'm underage? I'm 20." Given that crazy mental thing-out-driver is 60 if he's a day, I later asked the officers what they thought she was doing with him. They didn't even want to know. I guess they have enough to worry about.
One thing to worry about are needles. They are everywhere and they rightfully freak out the officers. There's even one under the bed, uncapped. Along with a big pile of porn, which is a no-no for a sex offender, so dude is going back to prison today.
The porn, I'll add, was generally of the "barely legal" type. One magazine advertised "100% real boobs" inside. The dead eyes of the girls on the covers was tragic. Did they realize when they posed for this stuff that mentally ill sex offenders who drive around with their dingalings out were going to be buying this? You don't suppose they felt empowered by knowing something along these lines? I felt awful for those girls.
There wasn't really anything to get on the girl, even though the officers found little tiny cotton balls and a spoon in the bathroom with a little tiny burned cottonball in it (apparently heroin users "filter" the cooked heroin through the cotton. I wonder how it is that they can heat that stuff up and then inject it into their veins at, presumably, a high temperature). Somebody has been using.
It was very depressing. And because the officers had to take him to Shelton right away, me and the photog ended up getting rides back to my car with Aberdeen's finest, who came to assist. The guy who gave me a ride turned out to be the Officer In Charge the weekend I worked who did not get back to me about the PUD truck theft, so he apologized. No biggie. I had my hands way too full that day, anyway. I drove like 90 miles to get a single story, going all over the county.
In all, pretty exciting day. If you have your mental health and a modicum of life skills, you should take a moment to count your blessings.
So you can only imagine what it was like in the place where the one guy we saw who was *not* successful was living. Oh em gee to the max.
So we pull up into one of the skankier motels in town — which is DEFINITELY SAYING SOMETHING — and one officer warns me the guy we're about to see (if he's there) "has mental issues, and you'll pick up on that right away." Also, he's a level three (highest risk) sex offender. Now, he's not going to rape me while there are parole officers there, and honestly, he's not really the sort who's together enough to rape anyone. What he did, I sussed out from his nickname ("the Coffeestand Man"), was go through the Koffee Kat with his pants down (he likes to drive around with his pants down, as you will see in this story).
The officers (who are both huge dudes) knocked on the door and the dude comes out, leaning into the crack of the door so officers can't see behind (dude, you are under supervision, you don't get that sort of privacy and you know they like to do checks). His hair is greasy and long. His shirt is stained. He is a little belligerent, but has no problem with officers coming in. And the first thing they see is a couple of syringes on the table in front of the door, with some McKesson alcohol wipes, which I take as a personal shout-out to Ray's sister. Also, in the bathroom, there is a ridiculously skinny young woman with teeth that are black around the edges (ironically, she is lining her eyes with black eyeliner, so there's a weird aesthetic thing happening there, a mirror effect, if you will) who talks far too quickly and doesn't seem at all perturbed that parole officers are in there.
The room is filthy. There is cheese sitting out on a counter. There is filth everywhere. There is a supermarket-tupperwareish container full of cigarette butts. The bedsheets are greenish-brown from the filth. The whole place is just repulsive. One officer takes the dude out to the car to "talk to him," basically give his partner a chance to search without the dude getting aggressive. The other partner searches the room while asking questions to the woman, like who is she and what is her deal here? She doesn't have much of an answer for that, but she tells him, "I didn't even know that guy was a sex offender until one time we were driving around and he had his thing out and the cops pulled us over and told me."
If that doesn't make your head smart from the sheer cluelessness, the officer asked what she was doing with him and she said he gives her rides and he tells everyone she's his girlfriend. The officer also asked about the needles and she said they were her brother's, and he has diabetes (so naturally he scatters his needles all over, even in some dude's creepy motel room). He also asked how old she was and she said, "You think I'm underage? I'm 20." Given that crazy mental thing-out-driver is 60 if he's a day, I later asked the officers what they thought she was doing with him. They didn't even want to know. I guess they have enough to worry about.
One thing to worry about are needles. They are everywhere and they rightfully freak out the officers. There's even one under the bed, uncapped. Along with a big pile of porn, which is a no-no for a sex offender, so dude is going back to prison today.
The porn, I'll add, was generally of the "barely legal" type. One magazine advertised "100% real boobs" inside. The dead eyes of the girls on the covers was tragic. Did they realize when they posed for this stuff that mentally ill sex offenders who drive around with their dingalings out were going to be buying this? You don't suppose they felt empowered by knowing something along these lines? I felt awful for those girls.
There wasn't really anything to get on the girl, even though the officers found little tiny cotton balls and a spoon in the bathroom with a little tiny burned cottonball in it (apparently heroin users "filter" the cooked heroin through the cotton. I wonder how it is that they can heat that stuff up and then inject it into their veins at, presumably, a high temperature). Somebody has been using.
It was very depressing. And because the officers had to take him to Shelton right away, me and the photog ended up getting rides back to my car with Aberdeen's finest, who came to assist. The guy who gave me a ride turned out to be the Officer In Charge the weekend I worked who did not get back to me about the PUD truck theft, so he apologized. No biggie. I had my hands way too full that day, anyway. I drove like 90 miles to get a single story, going all over the county.
In all, pretty exciting day. If you have your mental health and a modicum of life skills, you should take a moment to count your blessings.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Is moving stressful for me? I report, you decide.
An actual conversation from Sunday, after Ray and I schlepped all my furniture over to his — our — place and were getting things oriented in "my room," which I am taking to calling "the lounge," "the reading room" and "closet overflow central."
Ray: It'd be easier to move this bookcase if the shoes weren't in the way.
Callie: What is this with you and my shoes? Because you have been after me about my shoes for, like, days now.
Ray: They're just all over the place. I just think it would be better if we got your shoe tree and put your shoes on them ...
Callie: Don't even blame the shoes. They are in discrete bags that can easily be moved into the closet and out of the way. Look (moves bag). Now, what is this thing with you and my shoes?
Ray: Well, you do have a lot of shoes ...
Callie: You don't get to judge!
Ray: Some of them look pretty crazy ...
Callie: You do not get to hate on my shoes. No. Stop right now. You do not get to go there. Now that they're moved do we get to move the bookcase?
And scene ...
Ray: It'd be easier to move this bookcase if the shoes weren't in the way.
Callie: What is this with you and my shoes? Because you have been after me about my shoes for, like, days now.
Ray: They're just all over the place. I just think it would be better if we got your shoe tree and put your shoes on them ...
Callie: Don't even blame the shoes. They are in discrete bags that can easily be moved into the closet and out of the way. Look (moves bag). Now, what is this thing with you and my shoes?
Ray: Well, you do have a lot of shoes ...
Callie: You don't get to judge!
Ray: Some of them look pretty crazy ...
Callie: You do not get to hate on my shoes. No. Stop right now. You do not get to go there. Now that they're moved do we get to move the bookcase?
And scene ...
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Big news
Ray and I are making it official.
We want our relationship on paper, in a county courthouse, recognized by officialdom, ritualized and formalized. We want to be responsible to each other. If I'm in a car accident, his is the face I want to see when I come out of the fog of shock and narcotics. When I pay taxes I want our socials to be right next to each other. If I have to be put in an institution, his is the signature I want involuntarily committing me. When I come home after work, he's the one I want to tell all the stupid stuff that happened to me, except I've probably been emailing him as it all happens, but that doesn't matter, he wants to hear it again. He's the one I want to have private jokes with for the rest of my life. He's the one I want to bring orange-banana-strawberry smoothies when he has a cold and is miserable. He's the one I want to change headlights and windshield wipers and electrical switches for because Lord knows he can't figure/reach that stuff out for himself. He's the one I want to hike with, even though he sets a diabolical pace.
He's the one I want. That's basically what it comes down to. And he, in turn, wants me.
So it took a while to post all this because before I could have my Flickr contact here find out and maybe say, "Hey, didja know ..." so that word filtered back, we wanted to tell the person responsible for introducing us, Grays Harbor's yenta par excellence Betsy Seidel. So we did that after the 7th Street movie committee meeting tonight at, of course, Stiffy's Bar and Grill. Of course Betsy was super-excited, because that is how she lives. She is a high voltage wire, one that you cannot say no to. And thank goodness for that!
So anyway, although we've been "secretly engaged" for the better part of a year now, Ray didn't think we'd be truly honest-to-God engaged without a ring. Funny, I was fine without it. And funny, it took him until late fall to say anything about this. He just moves a lot more deliberately than I do. But I told him, whatever, buddy, I'll put up with an uncomfortable piece of jewelry on my finger if it makes you happy. Just make sure it's cruelty-free, and you don't even need to get a diamond or any kind of gem that has been ripped from the bosom of Mother Earth under uncertain humanitarian instances or toxic environmental ones.
Obviously I am the buzzkill in this relationship. But Ray went the Canada route, and he got me a beautiful, ridiculously nice rock that sparkles like Polaris reflected in the eye of a Canadian polar bear. Except this polar bear has beautiful compound eyes. Seriously, I thought I was one of them crunchy feminazi types and I put this bad boy on and I am completely hypnotized and I'm in my car impersonating Elizabeth Taylor. "WHITE DIAMONDS!" ::and moue::.
To give you a sense of how glinty this ring is, I was sitting a full three rows behind Andy Johnson of the Grays Harbor Banjo Band Tuesday, getting down to "Am I Blue" and "The Blues My Naughty Sweetie Gives To Me," and he gets up to do the Band Business meeting. Well, one of the pieces of business is this, and as Andy's holding it up he says, "I noticed Callie has a nice new ring on her finger, when did that happen?" Way to put me on the spot. At my first ever meeting where I play with you guys. But seriously, I'm proud as heck to be engaged to Ray, so no lasting damage.
And of course the way he "proposed" (not like it had not been on the table, debated, discussed and even subject to the interrogation of this book, a process that took hours and days) was pretty cute. He used his knowledge of my undying love of Frosted Mini-Wheats, wrapping the ring in an old FMW box he did this to:
It was too cute. I could not say no, nor would I want to. Ray is the top, the bomb, the tonic to my gin, the milk to my cookies. And lest you wonder if he returns the sentiments, sometimes I think perhaps more strongly. Fact: Ray thinks it is cute when I forget I have Kleenex in my lap and I get up to do something and it falls on the floor. Whether this feeling will last forever is surely something I will be testing just because my PJs don't have so many pockets as his.
Anyway, it's been kind of hard to keep quiet, even though it has been out of necessity.
A nice side story: Apparently the ring came in before Christmas, in a relatively unmarked package, to Ray's office. The receptionist, wondering what the heck it was, opened it and quickly and abashedly gave it to Ray when she realized it was one of those kinds of rings. She promised not to say anything to anyone (ahem, she may have told one person, it came out later.) But dang, Ray left her to sweat it out for like a week and a half! That's cruelty!
When Ray finally told folks at work, it was at a much-belated holiday party (the weather here has been terrible) after they'd been talking about this story. "Well, I got engaged this weekend," he announced blithely. And thus began the commotion.
But if Ray thought this announcement would bring attention away from the holidays and back where it belongs, ahem, *us*, he was perhaps a little bit thwarted somebody else had a similar announcement. And I'm being circumspect about who it is because who knows if he's gotten around to telling anyone. But suffice to say, Ray and I are definitely the cuter couple.
Ray also heard stories about his coworkers' weddings. His boss had a wedding so elaborate there was supposed to be a petal dump from an overhead plane. But the wind is awful strong in Hoquiam, and the pilot misjudged and all of West Hoquiam got slapped with the petals of 1,000 roses.
Ironically, when I announced my impending nuptials at work, Kathy brought up the same wedding, and recalled being kind of embarrassed when a beefeater announced her arrival, as he did for everyone. I'm telling you, this was one for the books and should really be fictionalized. And so should my friend's dad's remarriage, where people were told to dress "as the spirit of love" and he and the bride came out in bright, primary-colored silk robes and did an interminable dance symbolizing their relationship while the non-dancing guests sat on the floor. Oh, yes, the ideas I have to work with!
Because, see, no matter how much I whine and beg, Ray wants a traditional ceremony in front of our friends, family and a bunch of people we feel obligated to invite just because. No matter how much I beg and whine for us to elope, he refuses to do anything but the sort of wedding where people have to show up.
I kind of tweaked my mom about it. She thinks I should wear my (much shorter and probably when she got married thinner) grandmother's dress (which is black so I'm down), but I told her I was wearing white sweats with "BRIDE" bedazzled across the butt. I also told her I wanted to get gay married. At least that way my marriage can be a threat to everyone else's instead of a marshmallowy non-ninja of a marriage. My mother, who I thought was also something of a feminazi, replied, "What on earth does that even mean?" Living in Arkansas, which recently passed a law banning gay couples from adopting which includes heterosexuals cohabiting, has really done a number on her.
Luckily for everyone I don't really care to have a "perfect" day. And luckily for everyone who will be invited (probably all of you reading this blog, even the people I don't know who stumbled across here accidentally), we actually kind of already have a day. I know! Four days in and we're that far ahead of the game (maybe)! It seems like July 26, so clear the decks.
Anyway, just wanted to share the good news.
We want our relationship on paper, in a county courthouse, recognized by officialdom, ritualized and formalized. We want to be responsible to each other. If I'm in a car accident, his is the face I want to see when I come out of the fog of shock and narcotics. When I pay taxes I want our socials to be right next to each other. If I have to be put in an institution, his is the signature I want involuntarily committing me. When I come home after work, he's the one I want to tell all the stupid stuff that happened to me, except I've probably been emailing him as it all happens, but that doesn't matter, he wants to hear it again. He's the one I want to have private jokes with for the rest of my life. He's the one I want to bring orange-banana-strawberry smoothies when he has a cold and is miserable. He's the one I want to change headlights and windshield wipers and electrical switches for because Lord knows he can't figure/reach that stuff out for himself. He's the one I want to hike with, even though he sets a diabolical pace.
He's the one I want. That's basically what it comes down to. And he, in turn, wants me.
So it took a while to post all this because before I could have my Flickr contact here find out and maybe say, "Hey, didja know ..." so that word filtered back, we wanted to tell the person responsible for introducing us, Grays Harbor's yenta par excellence Betsy Seidel. So we did that after the 7th Street movie committee meeting tonight at, of course, Stiffy's Bar and Grill. Of course Betsy was super-excited, because that is how she lives. She is a high voltage wire, one that you cannot say no to. And thank goodness for that!
So anyway, although we've been "secretly engaged" for the better part of a year now, Ray didn't think we'd be truly honest-to-God engaged without a ring. Funny, I was fine without it. And funny, it took him until late fall to say anything about this. He just moves a lot more deliberately than I do. But I told him, whatever, buddy, I'll put up with an uncomfortable piece of jewelry on my finger if it makes you happy. Just make sure it's cruelty-free, and you don't even need to get a diamond or any kind of gem that has been ripped from the bosom of Mother Earth under uncertain humanitarian instances or toxic environmental ones.
Obviously I am the buzzkill in this relationship. But Ray went the Canada route, and he got me a beautiful, ridiculously nice rock that sparkles like Polaris reflected in the eye of a Canadian polar bear. Except this polar bear has beautiful compound eyes. Seriously, I thought I was one of them crunchy feminazi types and I put this bad boy on and I am completely hypnotized and I'm in my car impersonating Elizabeth Taylor. "WHITE DIAMONDS!" ::and moue::.
To give you a sense of how glinty this ring is, I was sitting a full three rows behind Andy Johnson of the Grays Harbor Banjo Band Tuesday, getting down to "Am I Blue" and "The Blues My Naughty Sweetie Gives To Me," and he gets up to do the Band Business meeting. Well, one of the pieces of business is this, and as Andy's holding it up he says, "I noticed Callie has a nice new ring on her finger, when did that happen?" Way to put me on the spot. At my first ever meeting where I play with you guys. But seriously, I'm proud as heck to be engaged to Ray, so no lasting damage.
And of course the way he "proposed" (not like it had not been on the table, debated, discussed and even subject to the interrogation of this book, a process that took hours and days) was pretty cute. He used his knowledge of my undying love of Frosted Mini-Wheats, wrapping the ring in an old FMW box he did this to:
It was too cute. I could not say no, nor would I want to. Ray is the top, the bomb, the tonic to my gin, the milk to my cookies. And lest you wonder if he returns the sentiments, sometimes I think perhaps more strongly. Fact: Ray thinks it is cute when I forget I have Kleenex in my lap and I get up to do something and it falls on the floor. Whether this feeling will last forever is surely something I will be testing just because my PJs don't have so many pockets as his.
Anyway, it's been kind of hard to keep quiet, even though it has been out of necessity.
A nice side story: Apparently the ring came in before Christmas, in a relatively unmarked package, to Ray's office. The receptionist, wondering what the heck it was, opened it and quickly and abashedly gave it to Ray when she realized it was one of those kinds of rings. She promised not to say anything to anyone (ahem, she may have told one person, it came out later.) But dang, Ray left her to sweat it out for like a week and a half! That's cruelty!
When Ray finally told folks at work, it was at a much-belated holiday party (the weather here has been terrible) after they'd been talking about this story. "Well, I got engaged this weekend," he announced blithely. And thus began the commotion.
But if Ray thought this announcement would bring attention away from the holidays and back where it belongs, ahem, *us*, he was perhaps a little bit thwarted somebody else had a similar announcement. And I'm being circumspect about who it is because who knows if he's gotten around to telling anyone. But suffice to say, Ray and I are definitely the cuter couple.
Ray also heard stories about his coworkers' weddings. His boss had a wedding so elaborate there was supposed to be a petal dump from an overhead plane. But the wind is awful strong in Hoquiam, and the pilot misjudged and all of West Hoquiam got slapped with the petals of 1,000 roses.
Ironically, when I announced my impending nuptials at work, Kathy brought up the same wedding, and recalled being kind of embarrassed when a beefeater announced her arrival, as he did for everyone. I'm telling you, this was one for the books and should really be fictionalized. And so should my friend's dad's remarriage, where people were told to dress "as the spirit of love" and he and the bride came out in bright, primary-colored silk robes and did an interminable dance symbolizing their relationship while the non-dancing guests sat on the floor. Oh, yes, the ideas I have to work with!
Because, see, no matter how much I whine and beg, Ray wants a traditional ceremony in front of our friends, family and a bunch of people we feel obligated to invite just because. No matter how much I beg and whine for us to elope, he refuses to do anything but the sort of wedding where people have to show up.
I kind of tweaked my mom about it. She thinks I should wear my (much shorter and probably when she got married thinner) grandmother's dress (which is black so I'm down), but I told her I was wearing white sweats with "BRIDE" bedazzled across the butt. I also told her I wanted to get gay married. At least that way my marriage can be a threat to everyone else's instead of a marshmallowy non-ninja of a marriage. My mother, who I thought was also something of a feminazi, replied, "What on earth does that even mean?" Living in Arkansas, which recently passed a law banning gay couples from adopting which includes heterosexuals cohabiting, has really done a number on her.
Luckily for everyone I don't really care to have a "perfect" day. And luckily for everyone who will be invited (probably all of you reading this blog, even the people I don't know who stumbled across here accidentally), we actually kind of already have a day. I know! Four days in and we're that far ahead of the game (maybe)! It seems like July 26, so clear the decks.
Anyway, just wanted to share the good news.
Monday, January 05, 2009
Overheard (and tragically seen) at the Y
A naked woman, standing there nude, talking to someone else. And not making a move to cover or clothe herself. And standing awfully close to the other person. I was not the other person.
I wish I were that body confident.
Not that I am particularly, oh, concerned, but I jokingly have started calling my workouts "countdown to Maui beach body." I have, what, six weeks or so?
You know what will make you lose weight? Eating the stuff you have in your cabinet that you don't really like but bought somehow. Today I ate a few bites of Progresso's Chicken and Sausage Jambalaya and it was flat gross. So I saw a container of cottage cheese in the fridge — sellby date was 12/24 — and took a sniff and it seemed okay. So I ate that instead. It needed to be eaten, right?
I had a can of sparkling juice that has been in the fridge the better part of a year, too. At least that part was delicious.
I wish I were that body confident.
Not that I am particularly, oh, concerned, but I jokingly have started calling my workouts "countdown to Maui beach body." I have, what, six weeks or so?
You know what will make you lose weight? Eating the stuff you have in your cabinet that you don't really like but bought somehow. Today I ate a few bites of Progresso's Chicken and Sausage Jambalaya and it was flat gross. So I saw a container of cottage cheese in the fridge — sellby date was 12/24 — and took a sniff and it seemed okay. So I ate that instead. It needed to be eaten, right?
I had a can of sparkling juice that has been in the fridge the better part of a year, too. At least that part was delicious.
Sunday, January 04, 2009
Installing seats
Well, I had a fun weekend.
First: Ray and I helped install seatbacks at the 7th Street. We took some wrenches and screwdrivers and, as a team, attacked the six bolts per seat for about five rows' worth. I shimmied the bolts in the holes to connect the seatbacks with the infrastructure or whatever, and Ray slipped the nuts on then held the wrench while I tightened the bolts. My hand was swollen and achy from turning the screwdriver so we switched jobs and I tried to put the nuts over the bolts, but it was so incredibly annoying and tough with the seats not always exactly aligning and the screws only sticking a little bit out that after two seats I decompensated. Ray took me to the Sweet Shoppe for Chinese Chicken Salad, which calmed me down immensely.
Second: I did something else that leads me to nearly decompensate: I go shopping. I go to Ross Dress For Less, the discount place for namebrand clothes, so I can pick up some new ... oh, I had to get some sports bras. My old ones were starting to go and that does not make for comfortable exercise. I have had the old ones for years, for the most part, and wear them all the time so it was not unexpected that the Lycra was dying. But going to Ross was a nightmare. It was packed, and there were both activewear and clearance racks to look through. So when I'm ready to check out I see the lines are superlong, so I try to distract myself. I only see like five people I know, while holding a stack of workout underthings. Grrrrrreat. Love this small town living.
Third: I try to come back from the edge. Ray and I put a bunch of my books in his bookcases, which we have moved down from his room. With our books in them, no one can look at us askew as uneducated or bad readers. I still have books to go and bookcases to move in. Ray also goes through the books for some he may want to give away, one of which is the absolutely priceless Searchlight Recipe Book, compiled by Ida Migliaro, B.S. Home Ec, Zorada Z. Titus, B.S., M.S. Home Ec (take that Ida!), Harriet W. Allard, B.S. Home Ec and Irene Nunemaker, A.B. Journalism (putting it to the only use she could in 1955). (Ray assures me that at Harvard, they have Ars Bacheloris (or something) degrees, so she may not be with a 2-year degree, which only makes this sadder. She went to effing HARVARD (well, not necessarily, could have been Yale) and this is what she's doing and if you are thinking, this isn't so bad, you haven't heard the recipes yet!) In 1955. Most of the recipes come from "The Household Searchlight," whatever that is (apparently there was a Household magazine?). But I don't know why that institution would want to take credit nor why the homemakers whose recipes were nasty and/or treacly enough to get in would want their name there. No matter.
The frontspiece gives you an indication just how things are going to be inside. Why, is that a huge HAM with red-dyed baked apples? Is that a single head of cauliflower, totally unbroken up, perched on a plate surrounded by ... watercress and yellow snow peas? Yes, although I can't vouch for the snow peas. Is that a tomato on iceberg lettuce with bits of random meats and crackers in an apparent salad with an orange carved into a basket shape with pimentos on it? Yes, indeed!
And is that a ring of clear jello with sliced olives, pimentos, maybe some peppers, cabbage and ... I dunno, cat food, in it? With radish-flower and french fry bowtie garnish? Why, disgustingly, yes.
But what you want are the goods: "Callie, how nasty ARE the recipes?" Well, since you asked:
Carbonated Beverage Jelly: 3/4 cup Carbonated beverage
3/4 cup water
3 cups sugar (!!!)
1/2 bottle fruit pectin
Combine sugar, beverage and water. Mix. Heat rapidly to boiling. Add fruit pectin at once. Stir constantly before and while boiling. Heat to a full rolling boil. Boil hard 1/2 minute. Remove from fire. Skim. — The Household Searchlight.
Now, granted, that's not nasty, it's just weird. The sour milk cottage cheese, which calls for 2 quarts sour milk and an unspecified amount of cream, sounds nasty. Oh, yeah, the searchlight isn't exactly really good with amounts or directions all the time. Or howabout a Grapenut omelet, from the files of Rosalee Hollis of Hardin, Ill. (not married, because the married ladies all go by "Mrs." in the HS).
How about some creamed cucumbers? Pare 4 medium cukes, boil til tender, drain and coat with 2 cups medium white sauce. (The HS has three or four white sauces, only different in firmness.)
No? Why not fry them? Just pare and slice an unknown quantity of cukes in thin slices, soak in slightly salted water for 1 hour, drain and dry on a towel, roll in bread crumbs, dip in seasoned slightly beaten egg and fry until browned.
Maybe a squirrel stew? Rabbit pie? (only rabbits and biscuit dough, when it comes down to it) No? Would you like a glass of warm Beef Juice? A kidney bean hamburger? Or "city chickens"? (Two pounds pork, two of veal) Casserole of tongue? Liver Fricassee? Creamed dried beef? Pigs' feet? Maybe some sour cream prune pie for dessert? Or straight prune pie? Grape juice custard?
Where the searchlight's 50s sensibility really shines is the salads section. Boy do they like their mayonnaise dressing! On all manner of fruit salads, even! Lima Bean Salad, however, gets "boiled salad dressing." It also has a cup of shredded fish in it. Cabbage Pineapple Salad has those two ingredients PLUS marshmallows and mayo dressing! Consomme salad uses broth and water for the gelatin, then adds cabbage, pimiento, pickles and mayonnaise dressing to the mix, surely an abuse of every single ingredient in it. Lamb, string beans, grapefruit, pineapple and peppers (together) all get the floating in jello treatment. The prize-winning Cardinal Salad, with lemon jello, beet juice, vinegar, horseradish, celery beets and "onion juice," calls for mayo dressing. Thanks, Mrs. Ruth Shore, for concocting that culinary nightmare. Or howabout spinach in jello with hard boiled eggs? Wait — make that LEMON jello it's in. Whoa. Did the nuclear tests affect people's tastebuds for a couple decades or what? Or was it the Depression, and now that people had ingredients, they thought whatever crap they threw together was AWESOME.
The sandwiches. Oh man, here is a brief tour of the foulest things ever spread on bread (that is inevitably called for to be spread with mayo or buter): Baked beans mashed with pickles; ground peanuts and diced carrots held together with salad dressing (courtesy Eulalie Weber, Marysville, Kansas); prunes mixed with peanut butter and either lemon, honey or mayo; deviled peanuts (add in equal amount to deviled ham and some mayo); Beef, peanuts and raisins mixed together with mayo; Grapenuts (their spelling, and what IS it with the HS and Grape-nuts?) mixed with ketchup, dry mustard, cheese and tobasco; candied fruit, maraschino cherries and roquefort; cottage cheese and peanuts; raisins, coconut, shredded carrots, green pepper and mayo; cream cheese thinned with catsup; raisins, carrots, cottage cheese and mayo dressing with hot sauce. And for the finale, a truly horrific-sounding "Dutch Lunch," which must reference not only the famed cheapness, but also the incredibly bad breath of the Dutch. It consists of thinly sliced onion soaked in cold water for an hour, dried then soaked in French dressing then placed on buttered rye bread with sauerkraut. Just, whoa man. That isn't right.
No WONDER people were so much thinner then. Their food was appalling. I bet if you went on a diet of Dutch Lunches and creamed cukes you'd lose a lot of weight, especially if you're drinking beef juice with meals.
First: Ray and I helped install seatbacks at the 7th Street. We took some wrenches and screwdrivers and, as a team, attacked the six bolts per seat for about five rows' worth. I shimmied the bolts in the holes to connect the seatbacks with the infrastructure or whatever, and Ray slipped the nuts on then held the wrench while I tightened the bolts. My hand was swollen and achy from turning the screwdriver so we switched jobs and I tried to put the nuts over the bolts, but it was so incredibly annoying and tough with the seats not always exactly aligning and the screws only sticking a little bit out that after two seats I decompensated. Ray took me to the Sweet Shoppe for Chinese Chicken Salad, which calmed me down immensely.
Second: I did something else that leads me to nearly decompensate: I go shopping. I go to Ross Dress For Less, the discount place for namebrand clothes, so I can pick up some new ... oh, I had to get some sports bras. My old ones were starting to go and that does not make for comfortable exercise. I have had the old ones for years, for the most part, and wear them all the time so it was not unexpected that the Lycra was dying. But going to Ross was a nightmare. It was packed, and there were both activewear and clearance racks to look through. So when I'm ready to check out I see the lines are superlong, so I try to distract myself. I only see like five people I know, while holding a stack of workout underthings. Grrrrrreat. Love this small town living.
Third: I try to come back from the edge. Ray and I put a bunch of my books in his bookcases, which we have moved down from his room. With our books in them, no one can look at us askew as uneducated or bad readers. I still have books to go and bookcases to move in. Ray also goes through the books for some he may want to give away, one of which is the absolutely priceless Searchlight Recipe Book, compiled by Ida Migliaro, B.S. Home Ec, Zorada Z. Titus, B.S., M.S. Home Ec (take that Ida!), Harriet W. Allard, B.S. Home Ec and Irene Nunemaker, A.B. Journalism (putting it to the only use she could in 1955). (Ray assures me that at Harvard, they have Ars Bacheloris (or something) degrees, so she may not be with a 2-year degree, which only makes this sadder. She went to effing HARVARD (well, not necessarily, could have been Yale) and this is what she's doing and if you are thinking, this isn't so bad, you haven't heard the recipes yet!) In 1955. Most of the recipes come from "The Household Searchlight," whatever that is (apparently there was a Household magazine?). But I don't know why that institution would want to take credit nor why the homemakers whose recipes were nasty and/or treacly enough to get in would want their name there. No matter.
The frontspiece gives you an indication just how things are going to be inside. Why, is that a huge HAM with red-dyed baked apples? Is that a single head of cauliflower, totally unbroken up, perched on a plate surrounded by ... watercress and yellow snow peas? Yes, although I can't vouch for the snow peas. Is that a tomato on iceberg lettuce with bits of random meats and crackers in an apparent salad with an orange carved into a basket shape with pimentos on it? Yes, indeed!
And is that a ring of clear jello with sliced olives, pimentos, maybe some peppers, cabbage and ... I dunno, cat food, in it? With radish-flower and french fry bowtie garnish? Why, disgustingly, yes.
But what you want are the goods: "Callie, how nasty ARE the recipes?" Well, since you asked:
Carbonated Beverage Jelly: 3/4 cup Carbonated beverage
3/4 cup water
3 cups sugar (!!!)
1/2 bottle fruit pectin
Combine sugar, beverage and water. Mix. Heat rapidly to boiling. Add fruit pectin at once. Stir constantly before and while boiling. Heat to a full rolling boil. Boil hard 1/2 minute. Remove from fire. Skim. — The Household Searchlight.
Now, granted, that's not nasty, it's just weird. The sour milk cottage cheese, which calls for 2 quarts sour milk and an unspecified amount of cream, sounds nasty. Oh, yeah, the searchlight isn't exactly really good with amounts or directions all the time. Or howabout a Grapenut omelet, from the files of Rosalee Hollis of Hardin, Ill. (not married, because the married ladies all go by "Mrs." in the HS).
How about some creamed cucumbers? Pare 4 medium cukes, boil til tender, drain and coat with 2 cups medium white sauce. (The HS has three or four white sauces, only different in firmness.)
No? Why not fry them? Just pare and slice an unknown quantity of cukes in thin slices, soak in slightly salted water for 1 hour, drain and dry on a towel, roll in bread crumbs, dip in seasoned slightly beaten egg and fry until browned.
Maybe a squirrel stew? Rabbit pie? (only rabbits and biscuit dough, when it comes down to it) No? Would you like a glass of warm Beef Juice? A kidney bean hamburger? Or "city chickens"? (Two pounds pork, two of veal) Casserole of tongue? Liver Fricassee? Creamed dried beef? Pigs' feet? Maybe some sour cream prune pie for dessert? Or straight prune pie? Grape juice custard?
Where the searchlight's 50s sensibility really shines is the salads section. Boy do they like their mayonnaise dressing! On all manner of fruit salads, even! Lima Bean Salad, however, gets "boiled salad dressing." It also has a cup of shredded fish in it. Cabbage Pineapple Salad has those two ingredients PLUS marshmallows and mayo dressing! Consomme salad uses broth and water for the gelatin, then adds cabbage, pimiento, pickles and mayonnaise dressing to the mix, surely an abuse of every single ingredient in it. Lamb, string beans, grapefruit, pineapple and peppers (together) all get the floating in jello treatment. The prize-winning Cardinal Salad, with lemon jello, beet juice, vinegar, horseradish, celery beets and "onion juice," calls for mayo dressing. Thanks, Mrs. Ruth Shore, for concocting that culinary nightmare. Or howabout spinach in jello with hard boiled eggs? Wait — make that LEMON jello it's in. Whoa. Did the nuclear tests affect people's tastebuds for a couple decades or what? Or was it the Depression, and now that people had ingredients, they thought whatever crap they threw together was AWESOME.
The sandwiches. Oh man, here is a brief tour of the foulest things ever spread on bread (that is inevitably called for to be spread with mayo or buter): Baked beans mashed with pickles; ground peanuts and diced carrots held together with salad dressing (courtesy Eulalie Weber, Marysville, Kansas); prunes mixed with peanut butter and either lemon, honey or mayo; deviled peanuts (add in equal amount to deviled ham and some mayo); Beef, peanuts and raisins mixed together with mayo; Grapenuts (their spelling, and what IS it with the HS and Grape-nuts?) mixed with ketchup, dry mustard, cheese and tobasco; candied fruit, maraschino cherries and roquefort; cottage cheese and peanuts; raisins, coconut, shredded carrots, green pepper and mayo; cream cheese thinned with catsup; raisins, carrots, cottage cheese and mayo dressing with hot sauce. And for the finale, a truly horrific-sounding "Dutch Lunch," which must reference not only the famed cheapness, but also the incredibly bad breath of the Dutch. It consists of thinly sliced onion soaked in cold water for an hour, dried then soaked in French dressing then placed on buttered rye bread with sauerkraut. Just, whoa man. That isn't right.
No WONDER people were so much thinner then. Their food was appalling. I bet if you went on a diet of Dutch Lunches and creamed cukes you'd lose a lot of weight, especially if you're drinking beef juice with meals.
Friday, January 02, 2009
Personal Best
I broke the 800-calorie barrier on the elliptical at the Y. Yee Haw! I saw I was headed for my usual plateau of 792 and I cranked out the last five minutes, which are really supposed to be cool-down time. Mission accomplished at, I think, 802. I was so relieved to be over 800 I didn't really pay too much attention.
And instead of saying, "That's good enough," I hit the weights and did some serious upper body work.
What can I say, I'm going to Maui in 6 weeks. A girl has got to look good. Probably I should have avoided the red velvet cake Ray brought home and the buttermilk fudge that so badly needs to be eaten. But they needed to be eaten, people. And I broke the 800-calorie barrier. (Yes, I know what you are thinking, Internets, that I am deluded by the machine's false promises and seductive lies. BUT! I inputted my weight low to compensate. Quite low, too. And my heart rate was consistently way above what it really should have been. I not only flirt with the 85 percent of maximum, I crank it out way above that. My average heartrate was 176 (85 percent is about 165) and I topped out at 197, which is better than the 202 I can top out at on a hard sprint interval. And yes, I know the machine's heart rate monitor can be seductive, but it felt about right to me!)
Right now I am listening to "The Banjo Artistry of Myron Hinkle." He was a local guy who played the tenor banjo very well and started the Grays Harbor Banjo Band. A few recordings exist of his work with the famed Blue Banjo nightclub in Seattle and his combo, "The Banjo Multiples." And that compilation is now going to be in my iTunes. There are a disturbing number of train whistles used in the music. Hinkle died in 2001, but his music is now on CD, though only available through his daughter, Linda Hall. You can tell he was a disciple of Harry Reser, and yes, you should Google that name in quote marks with "Tiger Rag" to see some bad-ass tenor banjo playing.
At any rate, the music would be the perfect mood setter for, say, a screwball comedy set in the early 20s. Or something. It's pretty peppy Dixieland Jazz stuff. There is a song, "12th Street Bumble," a combination of 12th Street Rag and Flight of the Bumblebee, that his daughter told me was worth hearing. And dang, it will melt your face off, or whatever it is that banjos do. Remember, this isn't the five-string banjo, which is the traditional bluegrass banjo, it is the tenor banjo, which is usually used for rags and Irish folk music and more of a rhythym instrument, except not in the hands of Myron Hinkle.
Tuesday I am to play with the Banjo Band. Whoopee! I'm very excited about that. Soon I, too, will be cranking out the old timey tunes. Little do the Banjo Band, which is mainly seniors, know that I can play "Like a Prayer" (the chords, anyway) on the banjo.
And instead of saying, "That's good enough," I hit the weights and did some serious upper body work.
What can I say, I'm going to Maui in 6 weeks. A girl has got to look good. Probably I should have avoided the red velvet cake Ray brought home and the buttermilk fudge that so badly needs to be eaten. But they needed to be eaten, people. And I broke the 800-calorie barrier. (Yes, I know what you are thinking, Internets, that I am deluded by the machine's false promises and seductive lies. BUT! I inputted my weight low to compensate. Quite low, too. And my heart rate was consistently way above what it really should have been. I not only flirt with the 85 percent of maximum, I crank it out way above that. My average heartrate was 176 (85 percent is about 165) and I topped out at 197, which is better than the 202 I can top out at on a hard sprint interval. And yes, I know the machine's heart rate monitor can be seductive, but it felt about right to me!)
Right now I am listening to "The Banjo Artistry of Myron Hinkle." He was a local guy who played the tenor banjo very well and started the Grays Harbor Banjo Band. A few recordings exist of his work with the famed Blue Banjo nightclub in Seattle and his combo, "The Banjo Multiples." And that compilation is now going to be in my iTunes. There are a disturbing number of train whistles used in the music. Hinkle died in 2001, but his music is now on CD, though only available through his daughter, Linda Hall. You can tell he was a disciple of Harry Reser, and yes, you should Google that name in quote marks with "Tiger Rag" to see some bad-ass tenor banjo playing.
At any rate, the music would be the perfect mood setter for, say, a screwball comedy set in the early 20s. Or something. It's pretty peppy Dixieland Jazz stuff. There is a song, "12th Street Bumble," a combination of 12th Street Rag and Flight of the Bumblebee, that his daughter told me was worth hearing. And dang, it will melt your face off, or whatever it is that banjos do. Remember, this isn't the five-string banjo, which is the traditional bluegrass banjo, it is the tenor banjo, which is usually used for rags and Irish folk music and more of a rhythym instrument, except not in the hands of Myron Hinkle.
Tuesday I am to play with the Banjo Band. Whoopee! I'm very excited about that. Soon I, too, will be cranking out the old timey tunes. Little do the Banjo Band, which is mainly seniors, know that I can play "Like a Prayer" (the chords, anyway) on the banjo.
Thursday, January 01, 2009
Not Rockin'
So I have finally slogged my way through "Bridge of Sighs," a wonderful but insanely long book by Richard Russo, and I did it before the new year, as I had hoped to. So you can tell how exciting the new year was in Chez Kahler. It was so exciting Ray fell asleep at nine, apologizing as he drifted in and out of the Land of Nod.
Once I finished the book, however, I felt the need to do something more traditional than start reading another book ("The Wrecking Crew," by Thomas Frank, and it is sort of an angry/smart recounting of things I already pretty much know/figured out (i.e. marketing has helped destroy the American way of life being one)). So I said, "Sorry Bub," to Ray and flipped on the TV. Besides, I needed something to drown out the sound of explosions coming from redneck neighbors who are on our every flank. It was, at the risk of sounding completely insensitive, like a mini-Gaza Strip. As Ray and I moved stuff out of my apartment, the streets were littered with debris from M80s and screamers and whatnot. Also, we heard not a single siren last night. Way to keep on top of illegal fireworks usage, law enforcement.
So, pinned down in the house, with very very little worth watching on (nothing, really), I flipped channels. I caught some South Park. Boy was I surprised the other day when I found out one of the creators of that show got married. I had it on good authority (a former coworker's aunt who lives on their block in L.A.) that the two guys lived together and were gay together. And I suppose it made sense, in a small way, with their wearing dresses to whatever red carpet event that that was, and the whole "big gay Al" episode call for tolerance. I kind of looked on their work as a PoMo-homo kind of thing, where the very shrill libertarianism was the cry of today's liberated gay male, just liberated enough to be exactly the same kind of selfish and caustic comedian as all the other (straight) guys, but with more subversive messages. I mean, they apparently were living together and you never heard about them making out with starlets at the Viper Room.
Well, I guess Lori's aunt was wrong. Maybe working in showbusiness resets your Gaydar to a lower default point, just as attending a hardline church can cast a Christian sheen on a boy's interest in musicals and the performance arts as just a basic desire to use one's talents for spreading the Good News. How a Christian is supposed to use fame and wealth as a tool of evangelism for a religion whose central figure spurned both is something I wonder about. So I think people like Jessica Simpson are pharisees, so what?
Speaking of people who are deeply deluded, I happened to catch Dick Clarke's Rockin' New Year's Eve Party on TV. It has been handed over to Ryan Seacrest, who is super annoying. "OMG you guys, this party is so awesome!" Seacrest says. "It is just amazing!" OMG, Seacrest, why don't you tell us another 100 times while standing there with the Jonas Brothers, some Demi who is not Demi Moore, and what appeared to be a 13-year-old girl who was almost 7 feet tall. She's probably 5'6", since all TV types are pocket-sized, but I swear. Oh, she is Taylor Swift and she is 5'11", the same height as my mom, a little taller than me. I could totally take Ryan Seacrest and the eensy little brothers, though my knees might get chewed.
So there wasn't much to look at on Seacrest's platform of annoying young people standing there in the cold. !BUT! back in the studio was Dick Clarke, who had a stroke or something a couple of years ago and boldly or deludedly decided to get back in front of the camera. Holy cow.
This guy, Dick Clarke, was once the punchline for jokes about how he never aged, how he seemed preternaturally preserved as the years went by, looking the same in the 1950s as the 1990s. Well, those jokes are officially suspended for awkwardness. Clarke had a real speaking disability, which maybe he acknowledged in the beginning of the show, but his can-do attitude prevailed. He couldn't stop talking about how much he loved the annual party at Times Square, blah blah blah, all I saw was that his face looked ... different. I'm not necessarily talking surgery, but there was something about the combination of frozen muscles and pancake makeup that just gave him a very grim cast. His mouth was different, and the way it moved was kind of mesmerizing. It's not like anyone is able to move the top part of their mouth when they talk, but most people look like it is a little bit in motion when they are jawboning. Not Dick Clarke.
It was either the ballsiest thing this guy has ever done or he is flat out deluded. Because the contrast with his old self was so pronounced. Although early on I had the ungenerous thought that this was creepy, now I'm like, that's right, Dick Clarke, you go on with your stroked-out self! People need to see this stuff, this is reality, this is how it is. So Hollywood tried to apply some varnish, this was unshellackable at a very primal level (and the lacquer itself was disturbing). Pussycat Dolls, you intolerable stereotypes, take a good look, that is where you're headed. We're all going there. Hollywood can't hide it all. It was like the most unintentional disability-rights statement ever.
Also, Dick Clarke made out with a woman who must have been his wife. She was totally cute, in an old lady way, with a yellow bun of hair on her head like I Dream of Jeannie. Not only is it rare to see a televised image of old people macking, old and disabled people were macking! Hold the phone! I could feel America shudder, and I loved it! Nothing I can say would ever be as subversive as that.
Rock on, DC. I'm not sure what the intention was there, but hey, if you didn't know you had to be brave then I'd have to say you're a better person than I. Dumber, to a significant extent, but better nonetheless.
Once I finished the book, however, I felt the need to do something more traditional than start reading another book ("The Wrecking Crew," by Thomas Frank, and it is sort of an angry/smart recounting of things I already pretty much know/figured out (i.e. marketing has helped destroy the American way of life being one)). So I said, "Sorry Bub," to Ray and flipped on the TV. Besides, I needed something to drown out the sound of explosions coming from redneck neighbors who are on our every flank. It was, at the risk of sounding completely insensitive, like a mini-Gaza Strip. As Ray and I moved stuff out of my apartment, the streets were littered with debris from M80s and screamers and whatnot. Also, we heard not a single siren last night. Way to keep on top of illegal fireworks usage, law enforcement.
So, pinned down in the house, with very very little worth watching on (nothing, really), I flipped channels. I caught some South Park. Boy was I surprised the other day when I found out one of the creators of that show got married. I had it on good authority (a former coworker's aunt who lives on their block in L.A.) that the two guys lived together and were gay together. And I suppose it made sense, in a small way, with their wearing dresses to whatever red carpet event that that was, and the whole "big gay Al" episode call for tolerance. I kind of looked on their work as a PoMo-homo kind of thing, where the very shrill libertarianism was the cry of today's liberated gay male, just liberated enough to be exactly the same kind of selfish and caustic comedian as all the other (straight) guys, but with more subversive messages. I mean, they apparently were living together and you never heard about them making out with starlets at the Viper Room.
Well, I guess Lori's aunt was wrong. Maybe working in showbusiness resets your Gaydar to a lower default point, just as attending a hardline church can cast a Christian sheen on a boy's interest in musicals and the performance arts as just a basic desire to use one's talents for spreading the Good News. How a Christian is supposed to use fame and wealth as a tool of evangelism for a religion whose central figure spurned both is something I wonder about. So I think people like Jessica Simpson are pharisees, so what?
Speaking of people who are deeply deluded, I happened to catch Dick Clarke's Rockin' New Year's Eve Party on TV. It has been handed over to Ryan Seacrest, who is super annoying. "OMG you guys, this party is so awesome!" Seacrest says. "It is just amazing!" OMG, Seacrest, why don't you tell us another 100 times while standing there with the Jonas Brothers, some Demi who is not Demi Moore, and what appeared to be a 13-year-old girl who was almost 7 feet tall. She's probably 5'6", since all TV types are pocket-sized, but I swear. Oh, she is Taylor Swift and she is 5'11", the same height as my mom, a little taller than me. I could totally take Ryan Seacrest and the eensy little brothers, though my knees might get chewed.
So there wasn't much to look at on Seacrest's platform of annoying young people standing there in the cold. !BUT! back in the studio was Dick Clarke, who had a stroke or something a couple of years ago and boldly or deludedly decided to get back in front of the camera. Holy cow.
This guy, Dick Clarke, was once the punchline for jokes about how he never aged, how he seemed preternaturally preserved as the years went by, looking the same in the 1950s as the 1990s. Well, those jokes are officially suspended for awkwardness. Clarke had a real speaking disability, which maybe he acknowledged in the beginning of the show, but his can-do attitude prevailed. He couldn't stop talking about how much he loved the annual party at Times Square, blah blah blah, all I saw was that his face looked ... different. I'm not necessarily talking surgery, but there was something about the combination of frozen muscles and pancake makeup that just gave him a very grim cast. His mouth was different, and the way it moved was kind of mesmerizing. It's not like anyone is able to move the top part of their mouth when they talk, but most people look like it is a little bit in motion when they are jawboning. Not Dick Clarke.
It was either the ballsiest thing this guy has ever done or he is flat out deluded. Because the contrast with his old self was so pronounced. Although early on I had the ungenerous thought that this was creepy, now I'm like, that's right, Dick Clarke, you go on with your stroked-out self! People need to see this stuff, this is reality, this is how it is. So Hollywood tried to apply some varnish, this was unshellackable at a very primal level (and the lacquer itself was disturbing). Pussycat Dolls, you intolerable stereotypes, take a good look, that is where you're headed. We're all going there. Hollywood can't hide it all. It was like the most unintentional disability-rights statement ever.
Also, Dick Clarke made out with a woman who must have been his wife. She was totally cute, in an old lady way, with a yellow bun of hair on her head like I Dream of Jeannie. Not only is it rare to see a televised image of old people macking, old and disabled people were macking! Hold the phone! I could feel America shudder, and I loved it! Nothing I can say would ever be as subversive as that.
Rock on, DC. I'm not sure what the intention was there, but hey, if you didn't know you had to be brave then I'd have to say you're a better person than I. Dumber, to a significant extent, but better nonetheless.
La Vida Hobo
Ever since about a week before Christmas I have been living at Ray's place, and for months and months before then I've spent all my weekends at his place. So while our living together was inevitable and we've been warming up to it for quite a while, the reality is my apartment has suffered.
In times past, when I didn't have a steady to do things with all weekend, I would get up Saturday morning, eat breakfast, read and then do chores until my apartment was not disgusting. Or if I was gone Saturday, I'd do them Sunday. Or perhaps I'd split them between all the dishes, cooking and straightening on Saturday and the mopping and scrubbing on Sunday with laundry at night, so I could fold clothes while watching Sunday night TV. What I'm saying is I had a routine, and there was only so awful a week's worth of mess could be. (Why isn't Ray's house a shambles considering we are spending weekends together? you ask — Ray has cleaners come in, a practice he considered suspending for our shacking, but which we have decided is probably worth the money for the sake of our relationship. Ray is also a neatnik who would never let a pot sit in the sink for more than a few hours. He just can't do it. It is against his constitution, which is highly teutonic.)
Well, that routine has been shot for a long time now, and my apartment is completely embarrassing to look at. It is like I've been camping there, but without the "leave no trace" ethos. It is a wreck, to speak plainly.
But since I'm moving, that wreck will have to come piece by piece to Ray's house. And hopefully be reconstructed here in such a way that it is clean and neat.
I've already been lugging my stuff over by bits and pieces. But today, Ray wanted to use his wagon to load stuff up more fully, and that means his coming over to start loading my stuff. Which he did, and although it looks like a hobo encampment sans hobos because they had to scramble in the middle of the night because the cops were going to raid them, he was fine.
I also turned in my official letter of resignation from the apartment. I will miss the water pressure there, but I'm sure the company, the central air and the dishwasher here will more than make up for it. Living with Ray may not be to everyone's taste, but living with a dishwasher is heaven, people. And according to multiple sources dishwashers are greener than handwashing.
Soon the hobo times will be over, and I'll become a Harbor yuppie once again.
In times past, when I didn't have a steady to do things with all weekend, I would get up Saturday morning, eat breakfast, read and then do chores until my apartment was not disgusting. Or if I was gone Saturday, I'd do them Sunday. Or perhaps I'd split them between all the dishes, cooking and straightening on Saturday and the mopping and scrubbing on Sunday with laundry at night, so I could fold clothes while watching Sunday night TV. What I'm saying is I had a routine, and there was only so awful a week's worth of mess could be. (Why isn't Ray's house a shambles considering we are spending weekends together? you ask — Ray has cleaners come in, a practice he considered suspending for our shacking, but which we have decided is probably worth the money for the sake of our relationship. Ray is also a neatnik who would never let a pot sit in the sink for more than a few hours. He just can't do it. It is against his constitution, which is highly teutonic.)
Well, that routine has been shot for a long time now, and my apartment is completely embarrassing to look at. It is like I've been camping there, but without the "leave no trace" ethos. It is a wreck, to speak plainly.
But since I'm moving, that wreck will have to come piece by piece to Ray's house. And hopefully be reconstructed here in such a way that it is clean and neat.
I've already been lugging my stuff over by bits and pieces. But today, Ray wanted to use his wagon to load stuff up more fully, and that means his coming over to start loading my stuff. Which he did, and although it looks like a hobo encampment sans hobos because they had to scramble in the middle of the night because the cops were going to raid them, he was fine.
I also turned in my official letter of resignation from the apartment. I will miss the water pressure there, but I'm sure the company, the central air and the dishwasher here will more than make up for it. Living with Ray may not be to everyone's taste, but living with a dishwasher is heaven, people. And according to multiple sources dishwashers are greener than handwashing.
Soon the hobo times will be over, and I'll become a Harbor yuppie once again.
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