I never really cared too much about the Fourth of July since the Bicentennial celebration in 1976 when I was 8. And even then I had Schoolhouse Rock to thank, along with the fact that I grew up on a street in NJ where the Baylor Massacre took place.
But this Fourth of July was slightly more special than previous years because my son became an American citizen this year and got to watch fireworks for the first time. Of course, he didn't understand any of it--and won't for a few more years--but the idea of bringing him here to this country to live fills my heart with hope that he has a much better chance of leading a happy, healthy life than if he remained in an orphange in a coal mining city in southeastern Ukraine.
Now I'm not trying to be all self-righteous or anything--branding myself a saint for saving this poor little guy from destitution. I'll firmly admit that I adopted because I wanted a child, first and foremost.
However, I do think that the greatest part about my son being an American is that he has the freedom to choose. Since he was born in Ukraine, he will have dual citizenship until he turns 18. At that time, he can either renounce his Ukrainian citizenship, or he can decide to live in Ukraine and go into the army--a choice I'll wholeheartedly respect whichever he decides.
I often wonder, though, what the world will be like in 16 years. Maybe by then, this country won't be such a great place to live and Ukraine will have become an economic dynamo worthy of inhabiting. Maybe by then, all males by their 18th birthday will have to enter into the U.S. Army as is now the case with many other countries. Maybe by then, many of the rights we enjoy as Americans will be stripped away. Of course that would mean the collapse of our Democracy--something that just can't happen...
I shudder to think.
Monday, July 05, 2004
Monday, June 21, 2004
I was at the mall today with my son--a task that can either prove to be daunting or one that can be lots of fun depending on his mood. I've always had the biggest beef about improper use of apostrophes, but as we walked by various stores, my gripe turned from mild irritation to full-on exasperation.
Has our society become so lazy that we've recklessly abandoned one of the most basic tools in English?
I'll admit I was not thrilled of my grammar class in seventh grade--the year we dissected sentences and were immersed in punctuation. After all, I had Sister Elizabeth as my English teacher. She was pushing 85 at least and she was one hairy broad. She never shaved her legs and her hairs were so black and coarse up against her pantyhose they looked like morning glory vines without the pretty flowers.
I could remember struggling with present- and past-perfect tenses and dangling participles, but never considered apostrophes a challenge. I was no brainiac either--so I could never understand why apostrophe usage is so difficult to master.
When I began volunteer work as a "community moderator" for iVillage I noticed people posting on message boards were not always mindful of their errors. At first, I let is slide; but then it began to bother me to the point where I wondered if half of these people slept their way through college (if, in fact, they really did attend college). Little things like using "advise" when they meant "advice" or the ever-present misuse of the apostrophe, in cases like "CD's" or "son's" (as it related to the plural sense).
Having worked in advertising and PR for many years, I guess it's the proofreader in me. As an account person (read: shit rolls downhill) I was always responsible if there were any typos in any published material. But it's deplorable to see typos generated by major corportations such as retailers because they're perpetuating the sort of laziness, backasswardness that drives me utterly insane.
Some of the irksome typos I've encountered:
At the gym: Sport's Bars
At JC Penney (also Shoe.com): Boy's Shoes
Hey and how apropos! Here's a sweet, little spam e-mail I received from the Reverend Morgan(revmorgan@outgun.com)
"A few year's ago I was in Liberia where I had established a little congregation where I preached regularly, but the civil war escalated and the church was converted to a hospital of sought. On one faithfull day three Liberian Soldiers,whom l later learnth were special aids to the Liberian former President (Late Samuel Doe) came to me and left one trunk box containing money with me and swore to come back for it. But you guessed it, they never did because,they were among those who were captured and killed by one of the Liberian Rebels then,Charles Taylor,who later became the president,but now in Political Asylum in Nigeria. After this incident,l was left with the box containing about $10 Million Dollars(TEN Million United States Dollars) Because of the risk of keeping the said box on my pocession due to the in-security in my temporary Church/Hospital,l decided to deposite the aid box with a security Finance Firm,which has it's branches in many parts of Europe,Asia,America and Africa. O ver years after this urgly incident,l had tried all l could to locate either the address of the slain Soldiers or any members of their immediate families,but all to no avail..."Morgan(revmorgan@outgun.com)
Gee, you think I oughta send him some money?
I also believe that with the advent of the Internet, many people have slacked off in terms of spelling and proper use of grammar. Do a Google Search of an inaccurate use of apostrophes (like boy's shoes) and you'll be surprised how many retailers come up. At least Google's team is smart enough to ask me if I meant "advice" when I type "I need advise"; but there still several entries with the incorrect word exists.
I have cousins in Germany who are my age and we used to visit them every couple of years. While in Germany, it never ceased to amaze me how perfect my cousins and their friends spoke English--in fact, their speaking my native tongue almost had a lyrical quality to it. It made English sound--pretty. Sad thing is, I know many people who use English as a second language, and have respect for our difficult grammar rules (albeit they are not nearly as difficult as other languages...at least in English one does not have to conjugate based on the subject's gender).
So where am I going with this? Can I single-handedly change the American Way of Life by writing some sort of a bill to stop Internet typographical errors? (Hey, if Tim Eyman can write pathetic bills and get them passed, why can't I?) No, sadly not. You can bet, though, that I'm going to be a hardass on my son when he hits seventh grade. By the time he does, however, I believe our entire grammar system will be torn to pieces and soon no one will know the difference between "loose" and "lose."
Has our society become so lazy that we've recklessly abandoned one of the most basic tools in English?
I'll admit I was not thrilled of my grammar class in seventh grade--the year we dissected sentences and were immersed in punctuation. After all, I had Sister Elizabeth as my English teacher. She was pushing 85 at least and she was one hairy broad. She never shaved her legs and her hairs were so black and coarse up against her pantyhose they looked like morning glory vines without the pretty flowers.
I could remember struggling with present- and past-perfect tenses and dangling participles, but never considered apostrophes a challenge. I was no brainiac either--so I could never understand why apostrophe usage is so difficult to master.
When I began volunteer work as a "community moderator" for iVillage I noticed people posting on message boards were not always mindful of their errors. At first, I let is slide; but then it began to bother me to the point where I wondered if half of these people slept their way through college (if, in fact, they really did attend college). Little things like using "advise" when they meant "advice" or the ever-present misuse of the apostrophe, in cases like "CD's" or "son's" (as it related to the plural sense).
Having worked in advertising and PR for many years, I guess it's the proofreader in me. As an account person (read: shit rolls downhill) I was always responsible if there were any typos in any published material. But it's deplorable to see typos generated by major corportations such as retailers because they're perpetuating the sort of laziness, backasswardness that drives me utterly insane.
Some of the irksome typos I've encountered:
At the gym: Sport's Bars
At JC Penney (also Shoe.com): Boy's Shoes
Hey and how apropos! Here's a sweet, little spam e-mail I received from the Reverend Morgan(revmorgan@outgun.com)
"A few year's ago I was in Liberia where I had established a little congregation where I preached regularly, but the civil war escalated and the church was converted to a hospital of sought. On one faithfull day three Liberian Soldiers,whom l later learnth were special aids to the Liberian former President (Late Samuel Doe) came to me and left one trunk box containing money with me and swore to come back for it. But you guessed it, they never did because,they were among those who were captured and killed by one of the Liberian Rebels then,Charles Taylor,who later became the president,but now in Political Asylum in Nigeria. After this incident,l was left with the box containing about $10 Million Dollars(TEN Million United States Dollars) Because of the risk of keeping the said box on my pocession due to the in-security in my temporary Church/Hospital,l decided to deposite the aid box with a security Finance Firm,which has it's branches in many parts of Europe,Asia,America and Africa. O ver years after this urgly incident,l had tried all l could to locate either the address of the slain Soldiers or any members of their immediate families,but all to no avail..."Morgan(revmorgan@outgun.com)
Gee, you think I oughta send him some money?
I also believe that with the advent of the Internet, many people have slacked off in terms of spelling and proper use of grammar. Do a Google Search of an inaccurate use of apostrophes (like boy's shoes) and you'll be surprised how many retailers come up. At least Google's team is smart enough to ask me if I meant "advice" when I type "I need advise"; but there still several entries with the incorrect word exists.
I have cousins in Germany who are my age and we used to visit them every couple of years. While in Germany, it never ceased to amaze me how perfect my cousins and their friends spoke English--in fact, their speaking my native tongue almost had a lyrical quality to it. It made English sound--pretty. Sad thing is, I know many people who use English as a second language, and have respect for our difficult grammar rules (albeit they are not nearly as difficult as other languages...at least in English one does not have to conjugate based on the subject's gender).
I've been feeling nostalgic lately. This happens whenever my life is in an upswing, though I can't figure out why--when my natural tendency is to glorify the past, which is anything but glorifiable (Yeah, I just made that up). But lately I've had this urge to get in touch with my Ex. I'm not going to--simply because I'm a believer in letting sleeping dogs lie; but I've been having dreams about him and they've left me wondering what he's been up to.
It's been five years since we last saw each other. He surprised me one day by calling my office to tell me he was in town. We had dinner the following evening and swapped stories: we were both getting married within the year; we had both come to the conclusion that we should never have gotten married to each other; we were both doing very well in our careers; and we both considered one another very dear, lifelong "friends," though we'd used that term loosely since we both decided that our friendship would never be one where we'd invite eachother's families over for a barbeque.
And that was that. The very last time I "talked" to him was in e-mail on September 11. Since he lived in D.C. and commuted to Los Angeles frequently, I was worried about him, but thankfully, all was well. Since then, I have not been back to D.C. and, as far as I know, he has not been back to Seattle.
It's strange for me to think of our lives in segments...especially when there are certain people who remain close to us in every stage. But when my dog (our dog) died last year, he was the last "link" to my former spouse and so in essence, his death sort of ended that chapter of my life. And not to be overly dramatic or anything, but I had to put my dog to sleep on February 27--which would have been our tenth wedding anniversary.
I just can't help but think about how life would have been had we stayed together. Would we have stayed together? It's highly doubtful. We grew apart--and thankfully it was pretty early in life, when we were both still in our twenties. I have no regrets of having met him, or falling in love with him, or even marrying the guy. In fact, I truly believe the crap we went through has helped make me the person I am today, which is both good and bad.
It's good because I met him at a time in my life where I could have just continued down the same, fucked-up path as the rest of my family. I was well on the way to suckville--by junior year of high school I had cut so many classes that I had a 1.8 GPA and had to retake American History in summer school. I had no plans for college--and when we broke up and I had wallowed in my self-pity long enough, I began to turn my life around. I didn't do it for me, though; in fact, I had very low self-esteem and I figured if I could get serious with school and my future, I'd have a better chance at winning his heart again. Pretty pathetic, huh? Well it worked. And we were "together" again by my senior year in high school--although we lived on separate coasts since he was in college in D.C. We got married right after I finished college and I never really took the opportunity to congratulate myself for a job well done, including the 6 out of 8 semesters on the Dean's List.
It took me a long time to realize I had achieved many things in my life to impress other people--rather than doing them for myself. And that's why it never would have worked out for us. There was no "us". There was only him and me for him. But that's the beauty of hindsight.
Anyway, thinking about all of this helps me keep the past in perspective. I won't be getting drunk anytime too soon and start dialing his home--or work.
It's been five years since we last saw each other. He surprised me one day by calling my office to tell me he was in town. We had dinner the following evening and swapped stories: we were both getting married within the year; we had both come to the conclusion that we should never have gotten married to each other; we were both doing very well in our careers; and we both considered one another very dear, lifelong "friends," though we'd used that term loosely since we both decided that our friendship would never be one where we'd invite eachother's families over for a barbeque.
And that was that. The very last time I "talked" to him was in e-mail on September 11. Since he lived in D.C. and commuted to Los Angeles frequently, I was worried about him, but thankfully, all was well. Since then, I have not been back to D.C. and, as far as I know, he has not been back to Seattle.
It's strange for me to think of our lives in segments...especially when there are certain people who remain close to us in every stage. But when my dog (our dog) died last year, he was the last "link" to my former spouse and so in essence, his death sort of ended that chapter of my life. And not to be overly dramatic or anything, but I had to put my dog to sleep on February 27--which would have been our tenth wedding anniversary.
I just can't help but think about how life would have been had we stayed together. Would we have stayed together? It's highly doubtful. We grew apart--and thankfully it was pretty early in life, when we were both still in our twenties. I have no regrets of having met him, or falling in love with him, or even marrying the guy. In fact, I truly believe the crap we went through has helped make me the person I am today, which is both good and bad.
It's good because I met him at a time in my life where I could have just continued down the same, fucked-up path as the rest of my family. I was well on the way to suckville--by junior year of high school I had cut so many classes that I had a 1.8 GPA and had to retake American History in summer school. I had no plans for college--and when we broke up and I had wallowed in my self-pity long enough, I began to turn my life around. I didn't do it for me, though; in fact, I had very low self-esteem and I figured if I could get serious with school and my future, I'd have a better chance at winning his heart again. Pretty pathetic, huh? Well it worked. And we were "together" again by my senior year in high school--although we lived on separate coasts since he was in college in D.C. We got married right after I finished college and I never really took the opportunity to congratulate myself for a job well done, including the 6 out of 8 semesters on the Dean's List.
It took me a long time to realize I had achieved many things in my life to impress other people--rather than doing them for myself. And that's why it never would have worked out for us. There was no "us". There was only him and me for him. But that's the beauty of hindsight.
Anyway, thinking about all of this helps me keep the past in perspective. I won't be getting drunk anytime too soon and start dialing his home--or work.
Thursday, June 17, 2004
Tuesday, June 08, 2004
He's been parking in front of my house every day now for two years. The Ford Explorer is this ugly beigy/yellow and his driver's side door is rumpled--like it was hit by a dozen shopping carts or he smacked a pole when he opened a door. I guess he doesn't care too much about it, though. Either that or the repair will cost as much as the car and it's just not worth it. Strike one.
I'll call him "Mark" since I know absolutely nothing about this guy, except that he teaches at the middle school; and yet I've been creating this whole world around him for quite some time.
Mark looks like like a pear-shaped Starsky. He's got the same mediterranean-looking features: hawkish nose, football-shaped brown eyes, and tight curly hair that he keeps short. Most of it's brown--except for this patch of yellowy/white that matches the color of his car, which looms just above his dark, furry eyebrows. He wears khakis every single day. Strike two.
He arrives in front of my house at approximately 7:09 every morning. I know this because I'm in the kitchen at that time--patiently waiting for him to get out of his car and walk to school so I can let my dog out to pee. Otherwise, if I let her out while he's still at his car, she comes up to greet him. She did once before and it garnered a rather cold response from Mark. Not a dog lover. Strike three.
Mark is always on his cell phone and I often wonder who in the world he's talking to at 7:09 a.m. Could it be he's waking up his teenage daughter so she's not late for school? Perhaps it's his mistress--someone he ought not be talking to during "regular" hours. I've been going back and forth between these two choices and today I'm going with the mistress. It just seems so much more intriguing, don't you think?
What bugs me most about Mark is that he parks in front of my house every day like it's his own reserved spot. Doesn't matter if our car is next to it or if he's over the 30 foot rule (you can't park 30 feet in front of a stop sign in Seattle). Sometimes if someone leaves either spaces in front of the house in the morning, Mark will move his car to "his spot" at lunchtime--while he's talking on his cell phone.
Mark teaches biology--no wait--it has to be junior high school stuff--ok, he teaches some sort of science. like earth science...yeah, that's it...because he had a "Think Locally, Act Globally" bumper sticker on the back of his Explorer. It's gone now. His wife must've gotten it for him as a gag gift one year for Father's Day...and in order to impress Cyndi (his mistress), he had to peel it off because...well, it's just not cool anymore.
Cyndi is 22. She's a geology major at UW. They met at the Wallingford Tully's--Mark's lunch spot, where he'd eat a packaged tuna salad sandwich on ciabatta bread from "Mostly Muffins" everyday. Cyndi was instantly drawn to Mark's little white patch of hair on his head and soon, she would hide the last tuna salad sandwich for Mark so that no one else would snap it up first. Mark didn't notice Cyndi at first--but when she pulled the hidden sandwich out of the small fridge behind the counter, he smiled and said "thanks" and put an extra quarter in the tip jar. He sat down to eat it with the Naked Juice he bought every day and watched as Cyndi helped customers. She was perpetually tan from the salon down the street and she wore a tiny stud in her nose. He baby blue shirt was short enough so he could see her brown, lean waist peeking out from umnderneath the brown standard-issue apron. After she took change from the last cutomer in line, she looked over and caught Mark staring at her. She smiled and wiping her hands on her apron, came around the counter.
"How's the sandwich?" she asked.
"Fine, thanks," Mark replied. He was a little caught off guard by the way she came over and sat down across from him.
"I'm Cyndi," she said, extending her right hand.
"Mark," he said, hoping he didn't have slivers of red onions stuck between his teeth.
They chit-chatted about the weather and when she asked what he did for a living she exclaimed, "Oh no way! I'm a geology major!"
That was how their relationship started. They've been meeting secretly at the Bridge Way Motel for a little over a month now. She brings the tuna sandwiches with her.
Today's the last day of school. Mark is wearing his khakis as usual, but something seems a little different about him. His hair is a little tousled on top; and instead of wearing a button-down shirt, he's wearing a black and blue-striped henley. I can see a black necklace hugging his collar. He's walking with a spring in his step and I was even tempted to let the dog out this morning to see if he'd pet her.
Who knows--maybe Mark will trade in the Explorer for something sportier. Cyndi wants him to get an Acura TSX, but Mark thinks that's a little too young for him. He'd love to get a Solara convertible, but could never afford one on his teacher's salary. Maybe a Bug.
I'll call him "Mark" since I know absolutely nothing about this guy, except that he teaches at the middle school; and yet I've been creating this whole world around him for quite some time.
Mark looks like like a pear-shaped Starsky. He's got the same mediterranean-looking features: hawkish nose, football-shaped brown eyes, and tight curly hair that he keeps short. Most of it's brown--except for this patch of yellowy/white that matches the color of his car, which looms just above his dark, furry eyebrows. He wears khakis every single day. Strike two.
He arrives in front of my house at approximately 7:09 every morning. I know this because I'm in the kitchen at that time--patiently waiting for him to get out of his car and walk to school so I can let my dog out to pee. Otherwise, if I let her out while he's still at his car, she comes up to greet him. She did once before and it garnered a rather cold response from Mark. Not a dog lover. Strike three.
Mark is always on his cell phone and I often wonder who in the world he's talking to at 7:09 a.m. Could it be he's waking up his teenage daughter so she's not late for school? Perhaps it's his mistress--someone he ought not be talking to during "regular" hours. I've been going back and forth between these two choices and today I'm going with the mistress. It just seems so much more intriguing, don't you think?
What bugs me most about Mark is that he parks in front of my house every day like it's his own reserved spot. Doesn't matter if our car is next to it or if he's over the 30 foot rule (you can't park 30 feet in front of a stop sign in Seattle). Sometimes if someone leaves either spaces in front of the house in the morning, Mark will move his car to "his spot" at lunchtime--while he's talking on his cell phone.
Mark teaches biology--no wait--it has to be junior high school stuff--ok, he teaches some sort of science. like earth science...yeah, that's it...because he had a "Think Locally, Act Globally" bumper sticker on the back of his Explorer. It's gone now. His wife must've gotten it for him as a gag gift one year for Father's Day...and in order to impress Cyndi (his mistress), he had to peel it off because...well, it's just not cool anymore.
Cyndi is 22. She's a geology major at UW. They met at the Wallingford Tully's--Mark's lunch spot, where he'd eat a packaged tuna salad sandwich on ciabatta bread from "Mostly Muffins" everyday. Cyndi was instantly drawn to Mark's little white patch of hair on his head and soon, she would hide the last tuna salad sandwich for Mark so that no one else would snap it up first. Mark didn't notice Cyndi at first--but when she pulled the hidden sandwich out of the small fridge behind the counter, he smiled and said "thanks" and put an extra quarter in the tip jar. He sat down to eat it with the Naked Juice he bought every day and watched as Cyndi helped customers. She was perpetually tan from the salon down the street and she wore a tiny stud in her nose. He baby blue shirt was short enough so he could see her brown, lean waist peeking out from umnderneath the brown standard-issue apron. After she took change from the last cutomer in line, she looked over and caught Mark staring at her. She smiled and wiping her hands on her apron, came around the counter.
"How's the sandwich?" she asked.
"Fine, thanks," Mark replied. He was a little caught off guard by the way she came over and sat down across from him.
"I'm Cyndi," she said, extending her right hand.
"Mark," he said, hoping he didn't have slivers of red onions stuck between his teeth.
They chit-chatted about the weather and when she asked what he did for a living she exclaimed, "Oh no way! I'm a geology major!"
That was how their relationship started. They've been meeting secretly at the Bridge Way Motel for a little over a month now. She brings the tuna sandwiches with her.
Today's the last day of school. Mark is wearing his khakis as usual, but something seems a little different about him. His hair is a little tousled on top; and instead of wearing a button-down shirt, he's wearing a black and blue-striped henley. I can see a black necklace hugging his collar. He's walking with a spring in his step and I was even tempted to let the dog out this morning to see if he'd pet her.
Who knows--maybe Mark will trade in the Explorer for something sportier. Cyndi wants him to get an Acura TSX, but Mark thinks that's a little too young for him. He'd love to get a Solara convertible, but could never afford one on his teacher's salary. Maybe a Bug.
Wednesday, June 02, 2004
Notes to self...an interior dialogue while running...
Warm-up: 10 min/mile, first minute
Oh God this is killing me...I haven't run in a few weeks. Ugh. Oh, I'm such a slow poke.
Just keep going. Look outside the window at the canal below. Keep breathing...
(Listening to Dee-lite's "Power of Love" on MP3 player)
Hey, this is a great song. Always reminds me of my last spring break in school when I went to Havasu with Janey. God I hated Janey. What a bitch. I only liked her because she had access to a condo in Havasu.
You're so incredibly two-faced!
I am not. She was such a bitch...and I only fully realized it in Havasu.
I wonder what she's up to now?
Last I heard she was some sort of manager at Sunset Studios...
Why is it the first mile is always the hardest?
Cos you haven't run in over a week, lazy-ass!
Don't call me lazy-ass! I have a toddler to chase down every day.
Yeah and you could be using the baby jogger, too, ya know.
I didn't come here to have a guilt-ridden conversation with myself, I came here to have a good run.
It's nice outside. Why didn't you run outside instead?
I dunno. Creature of habit I guess.
Oh come on and admit it. You're hoping to run into Dave Matthews again.
Yeah but that's not why I'm running on the treadmill.
Uh-huh. Last time he got on the treadmill next to you you ran a perfect 8 minute mile. So what do you call that?
Motivation. Besides, it's a moot point. He's probably gone off on tour by now. I haven't seen him here in awhile.
There goes your motivation
Nu-uh...
(increases speed to 9:13/mile)
There. That feels great.
You still run like a slow poke
Warm-up: 10 min/mile, first minute
Oh God this is killing me...I haven't run in a few weeks. Ugh. Oh, I'm such a slow poke.
Just keep going. Look outside the window at the canal below. Keep breathing...
(Listening to Dee-lite's "Power of Love" on MP3 player)
Hey, this is a great song. Always reminds me of my last spring break in school when I went to Havasu with Janey. God I hated Janey. What a bitch. I only liked her because she had access to a condo in Havasu.
You're so incredibly two-faced!
I am not. She was such a bitch...and I only fully realized it in Havasu.
I wonder what she's up to now?
Last I heard she was some sort of manager at Sunset Studios...
Why is it the first mile is always the hardest?
Cos you haven't run in over a week, lazy-ass!
Don't call me lazy-ass! I have a toddler to chase down every day.
Yeah and you could be using the baby jogger, too, ya know.
I didn't come here to have a guilt-ridden conversation with myself, I came here to have a good run.
It's nice outside. Why didn't you run outside instead?
I dunno. Creature of habit I guess.
Oh come on and admit it. You're hoping to run into Dave Matthews again.
Yeah but that's not why I'm running on the treadmill.
Uh-huh. Last time he got on the treadmill next to you you ran a perfect 8 minute mile. So what do you call that?
Motivation. Besides, it's a moot point. He's probably gone off on tour by now. I haven't seen him here in awhile.
There goes your motivation
Nu-uh...
(increases speed to 9:13/mile)
There. That feels great.
You still run like a slow poke
Wednesday, May 26, 2004
Snuffing the Rooster
About seven years ago, Boston Market closed its doors in our neighborhood and much to our extreme disappointment, the empty building sits on the Ave, slathered in graffiti, with its ever-recognizable brown/white/red Boston Market awning still affixed.
Months after the closure, Payday Loans took the space next door and then a brand-new little shack was built on the northeast corner of the parking lot which soon became "Rooster Espresso".
My husband was furious at the sight of the Rooster...of course, though, not mad enough to take any kind of stand at the Chamber of Commerce when the Rooster's zoning permit was up for approval; but angry at the gaudiness of it all...an espresso stand? It was just what our already caffeine-addicted community needed, what with Starbucks, Seattles Best Coffee and Tully's all only within a two minute walk of the Rooster.
I sided with him at first, given that the name "Rooster" immediately conjured up David Sedaris' redneck kid brother and never thought once about stopping at the Rooster for a quick cupa. I firmly admit I'm a chain freak--always have been. So I was always quite comfortable with my Starbucks fix anyway.
We are both coffee addicts, though we hate to say so. The smell alone has a pheromone-like attraction and it's one of the first things I reach for in the morning.
When we were both self-employed, our daily routine was to walk down to one of our local coffee places (non-chain...and quite possibly the best in our town) for our morning fix. A year later, we discovered that both of us working from home was deadly: first off, we BOTH paid 30% self-employment tax and secondly, over a year's time, our morning fix cost us a whopping $1,500...not to mention our morning fix was giving us midday angst and soon we would have wound up homeless, jobless AND spouseless if we didn't do anything about it.
So we invested in an espresso machine at home...and now, the morning routine is to lie in bed and listen for the other person to finish pulling a shot in the kitchen. We can't wait until our son is old enough for barista training.
Being a mom to a toddler, I've tried almost everything except pure uppers to keep up with my son's energy levels; but by midday, I'm wiped out...feeling like I've done battle with twelve angry elves. Oftentimes, when I know I won't make it through the morning without a second latte, I stop somewhere en-route to the playground or community center so I can get another refueling. It isn't easy, though, to walk into a coffee place with a toddler in tow. Everything sweet-related is strategically-placed at tot-level and so the battle for "GIMMIE" begins the moment we set foot in the store. So naturally when another mom recommended coffee drive-thrus to me, I was all for it.
I racked my brain this morning as I pulled out of my driveway, wondering where the nearest drive thru espresso stand would be...and then it dawned on me...The Rooster!
And you know? It wasn't half bad. I mean sure, paying three bucks for a latte still stings--especially when I could easily pull another double shot at home. But there's something about holding a papercup with a plastic lid that's as comforting as the oral fixation that goes along with smoking, in addition to the social aspect of going and "getting coffee"--even if it's handed to you while you're still in your car.
We often wondered why the Rooster continued to stay in business after so many years and now I know why...it may not be the best coffee in town; nor maybe not the first choice among pedestrians. But to exhausted women who drive multi-passenger vehicles with small children among the multi-passengers, long live the Rooster.
About seven years ago, Boston Market closed its doors in our neighborhood and much to our extreme disappointment, the empty building sits on the Ave, slathered in graffiti, with its ever-recognizable brown/white/red Boston Market awning still affixed.
Months after the closure, Payday Loans took the space next door and then a brand-new little shack was built on the northeast corner of the parking lot which soon became "Rooster Espresso".
My husband was furious at the sight of the Rooster...of course, though, not mad enough to take any kind of stand at the Chamber of Commerce when the Rooster's zoning permit was up for approval; but angry at the gaudiness of it all...an espresso stand? It was just what our already caffeine-addicted community needed, what with Starbucks, Seattles Best Coffee and Tully's all only within a two minute walk of the Rooster.
I sided with him at first, given that the name "Rooster" immediately conjured up David Sedaris' redneck kid brother and never thought once about stopping at the Rooster for a quick cupa. I firmly admit I'm a chain freak--always have been. So I was always quite comfortable with my Starbucks fix anyway.
We are both coffee addicts, though we hate to say so. The smell alone has a pheromone-like attraction and it's one of the first things I reach for in the morning.
When we were both self-employed, our daily routine was to walk down to one of our local coffee places (non-chain...and quite possibly the best in our town) for our morning fix. A year later, we discovered that both of us working from home was deadly: first off, we BOTH paid 30% self-employment tax and secondly, over a year's time, our morning fix cost us a whopping $1,500...not to mention our morning fix was giving us midday angst and soon we would have wound up homeless, jobless AND spouseless if we didn't do anything about it.
So we invested in an espresso machine at home...and now, the morning routine is to lie in bed and listen for the other person to finish pulling a shot in the kitchen. We can't wait until our son is old enough for barista training.
Being a mom to a toddler, I've tried almost everything except pure uppers to keep up with my son's energy levels; but by midday, I'm wiped out...feeling like I've done battle with twelve angry elves. Oftentimes, when I know I won't make it through the morning without a second latte, I stop somewhere en-route to the playground or community center so I can get another refueling. It isn't easy, though, to walk into a coffee place with a toddler in tow. Everything sweet-related is strategically-placed at tot-level and so the battle for "GIMMIE" begins the moment we set foot in the store. So naturally when another mom recommended coffee drive-thrus to me, I was all for it.
I racked my brain this morning as I pulled out of my driveway, wondering where the nearest drive thru espresso stand would be...and then it dawned on me...The Rooster!
And you know? It wasn't half bad. I mean sure, paying three bucks for a latte still stings--especially when I could easily pull another double shot at home. But there's something about holding a papercup with a plastic lid that's as comforting as the oral fixation that goes along with smoking, in addition to the social aspect of going and "getting coffee"--even if it's handed to you while you're still in your car.
We often wondered why the Rooster continued to stay in business after so many years and now I know why...it may not be the best coffee in town; nor maybe not the first choice among pedestrians. But to exhausted women who drive multi-passenger vehicles with small children among the multi-passengers, long live the Rooster.
Tuesday, May 18, 2004
One of the hardest things a writer faces is rejection.
One would think that after fifteen years of getting up in front of clients to present the "next best ad campaign" only to have it shot down because the client hated the color yellow on the storyboard (totally irrelevant), or he thinks you want to shoot on location in Bora Bora for vacation I'd have built up some sort of scar tissue or something that prevents me from taking rejection so personally.
I'm afraid that's not the case. Sure I can go back to the drawingboard and rewrite a piece based on the editor's feedback...Sure I can take pride in the fact that the piece in question was actually accepted elsewhere...
But it still sucks.
I know I'm not alone in the writing world where once a piece gets rejected, the writer tends to examine his or her strengths and weaknesses. As the thoughts swirl in my head (should I just hang it up? Should I continue to keep plowing away, comforted by the fact that everyone gets material rejected?) I'll just sit here, drink my lavender tea and kvetch about it until I've mustered enough courage to jump in with both feet and resume playing the game.
Writing a novel is so much easier than writing nonfiction pieces or short stories. It's like being in a womb for nine months because it's warm and comfortable and it's just "you"...no one else around to bother you or tell you what to do or tell you what you should be doing different; and the best part? So long as you haven't promised the book to anyone or are under contract, you can take as long as you like to finish the book...whereas, once you finish the shorter piece, you feel compelled to send it out for submission; or maybe you've written the piece under a prearranged agreement. In that case, feedback is inevitable...and it's either good or it's bad.
But I suppose if I never sent out my pieces for submission, I'd never know my potential or my limitations. So I think I'd rather run the risk of getting rejected than to live my life never trying.
"There is no failure except in no longer trying."
~Elbert Hubbard~
One would think that after fifteen years of getting up in front of clients to present the "next best ad campaign" only to have it shot down because the client hated the color yellow on the storyboard (totally irrelevant), or he thinks you want to shoot on location in Bora Bora for vacation I'd have built up some sort of scar tissue or something that prevents me from taking rejection so personally.
But it still sucks.
I know I'm not alone in the writing world where once a piece gets rejected, the writer tends to examine his or her strengths and weaknesses. As the thoughts swirl in my head (should I just hang it up? Should I continue to keep plowing away, comforted by the fact that everyone gets material rejected?) I'll just sit here, drink my lavender tea and kvetch about it until I've mustered enough courage to jump in with both feet and resume playing the game.
Writing a novel is so much easier than writing nonfiction pieces or short stories. It's like being in a womb for nine months because it's warm and comfortable and it's just "you"...no one else around to bother you or tell you what to do or tell you what you should be doing different; and the best part? So long as you haven't promised the book to anyone or are under contract, you can take as long as you like to finish the book...whereas, once you finish the shorter piece, you feel compelled to send it out for submission; or maybe you've written the piece under a prearranged agreement. In that case, feedback is inevitable...and it's either good or it's bad.
But I suppose if I never sent out my pieces for submission, I'd never know my potential or my limitations. So I think I'd rather run the risk of getting rejected than to live my life never trying.
"There is no failure except in no longer trying."
~Elbert Hubbard~
Tuesday, May 11, 2004
A few weeks ago, I saw The Mayor of the Sunset Strip -- a movie about longtime LA radio personality Rodney Bingenheimer. The film was produced by Chris Carter, formerly of Dramarama--one of the many bands who garnered tremendous exposure nationally with the help of Rodney.
The documentary transported me back in time, not only because Rodney was such a large part of the LA-culture during my teens, but also because he and I share a similar silly fondness over celebrities, though he's lapped me thousands of times over in terms of who he's met. And though I'd known about his star-connections, his "English-Disco" and his bit part as Davy Jones' double in the Monkees' "Prince and the Pauper" episode, I learned quite a bit more about him from the film.
When Rodney was a teen, he began his life in Hollywood when his mom drove him from northern California to Connie Stevens' house. Being a celebrity-buff herself, she told him to knock on the door to get an autograph, and then she took off, leaving him on Connie Stevens' doorstep with nothing but a suitcase. So he walked to the Sunset Strip and hasn't left since.
Rodney is neither handsome nor particularly talented; but when he was younger, he had a cute puppy dog-like quality that made him a chick magnet. Pretty soon, women like Pamela Des Barres and Cher were looking after him like a little brother. And because he always had a flock of beautiful young women tending to him, he was always accepted by rock 'n rollers.
I met Rodney for the first time in 1987 at an aftershow party for Duran Duran at the Lhasa Club. He was about a half foot shorter than me and his handshake was very timid; yet I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw Susannah Hoffs fawning over him; or Nick Rhodes paying homage. It just seemed so strange to see such a little guy have such an enormous presence.
Yet that's how it was whenever I saw him. We traveled in similar circles for a brief time in history since I interned at Capitol Records and became friends with some of the KROQ jocks, including my former boyfriend, (Dr.) Drew. At the last "Loveline" show in the old studio in Pasadena, Rodney milled around with his "good friend" (everyone is Rodney's "good friend") Eve Plumb and I could see why the two hit it off so well...they were clearly recognizable but not someone you were really clamoring to meet.
Part of me is a little envious...because in a way this little guy represents the little star-struck girl in me, only he gets to hang out with all of the pretty people I'd wanna hang out with too! But the movie also made me feel incredibly sad because they'd show rooms full of celebrities who just kinda smiled and patted Rodney on the head like he was the tolken pet of the party. And at the end of the day, no matter how many people he knew, he was still incredibly lonely; and that is why dubbing Rodney Mayor of the Sunset Strip is apropos.
The documentary transported me back in time, not only because Rodney was such a large part of the LA-culture during my teens, but also because he and I share a similar silly fondness over celebrities, though he's lapped me thousands of times over in terms of who he's met. And though I'd known about his star-connections, his "English-Disco" and his bit part as Davy Jones' double in the Monkees' "Prince and the Pauper" episode, I learned quite a bit more about him from the film.
When Rodney was a teen, he began his life in Hollywood when his mom drove him from northern California to Connie Stevens' house. Being a celebrity-buff herself, she told him to knock on the door to get an autograph, and then she took off, leaving him on Connie Stevens' doorstep with nothing but a suitcase. So he walked to the Sunset Strip and hasn't left since.
Rodney is neither handsome nor particularly talented; but when he was younger, he had a cute puppy dog-like quality that made him a chick magnet. Pretty soon, women like Pamela Des Barres and Cher were looking after him like a little brother. And because he always had a flock of beautiful young women tending to him, he was always accepted by rock 'n rollers.
I met Rodney for the first time in 1987 at an aftershow party for Duran Duran at the Lhasa Club. He was about a half foot shorter than me and his handshake was very timid; yet I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw Susannah Hoffs fawning over him; or Nick Rhodes paying homage. It just seemed so strange to see such a little guy have such an enormous presence.
Yet that's how it was whenever I saw him. We traveled in similar circles for a brief time in history since I interned at Capitol Records and became friends with some of the KROQ jocks, including my former boyfriend, (Dr.) Drew. At the last "Loveline" show in the old studio in Pasadena, Rodney milled around with his "good friend" (everyone is Rodney's "good friend") Eve Plumb and I could see why the two hit it off so well...they were clearly recognizable but not someone you were really clamoring to meet.
Part of me is a little envious...because in a way this little guy represents the little star-struck girl in me, only he gets to hang out with all of the pretty people I'd wanna hang out with too! But the movie also made me feel incredibly sad because they'd show rooms full of celebrities who just kinda smiled and patted Rodney on the head like he was the tolken pet of the party. And at the end of the day, no matter how many people he knew, he was still incredibly lonely; and that is why dubbing Rodney Mayor of the Sunset Strip is apropos.
Saturday, May 08, 2004
Every year around my birthday, my body reminds me of my mortality. Some years it's a few more gray hairs or a few more lines around my eyes and mouth; but this year, I received the mother of all aging symptoms: a late period.
You have to understand, this never happened to me before in my life...well, once, when I was pregnant; but any other time, my menstrual cycles have been 28 days--almost to the hour. Synthetic hormones couldn't even suppress ol' Aunt Flo regardless how much progesterone I shot through my veins every month. Sure I felt like a Foster Farms chicken but by god I never missed a period.
I have reason to believe I threw myself into early peri-menopause because I forced my body to ovulate through the use of synthetic hormones...and not to produce just one egg a month either, mind you...I really WAS a Foster Farms chicken producing nearly 20 mature eggs with each fertility treatment I suffered through. We women are born with as many eggs as we will produce in our lifetime. I'm sure my reserve is nearly tapped dry by now.
Last year, I began to suffer through a series of premenopausal symptoms: the hot flashes; the heavier periods; the heightened PMS; the sleepless nights; you name it. Clinically, this is what happens to most women who hit their mid-30s and it could last anywhere from 6-15 years until full-blown menopause sinks in.
So my doctor suggested I go back on the pill to regulate my cycles and ease these symptoms, though what she neglected to recall was the initial reason I went off the pill five years ago. I had the most intense migraines which basically put me at risk of stroke--and given my family's wonderful medical history (read: sister dead at 40 of a heart attack), I decided to seek a second opinion from a naturopath.
Of course the minute I told the naturopath my peri-menopause diagnoses, she replied, "That's bullshit, you're too young to be going through that." She prescribed me four types of vitamins along with a tablespoon of ground flax seed every morning to get rid of the symptoms.
The results? I no longer have hot flashes, thank God, and I can sleep through the night. My periods are still pretty heavy, though...which totally grosses me out beyond belief and they also hurt like hell (which has always been the case), so I'm hoping that too will diminish over time.
During those first few days of my cycle, I often wonder why I put myself through this ordeal. Why not use another form of birth control to regulate my cycles? Why not opt for a hysterectomy? It's simple, really. To me, these are not options. My husband and I have a 1% chance of getting pregnant over the course of my reproductive years. Why ruin that chance? Given that we just adopted our first child in January, we're not actively trying to have a child---but when a couple is as infertile as we are, you're always actively trying to have a child. It's kinda like being addicted to the lottery and buying a ticket once a week for the rest of your life. You may never win the lottery, but your chances are still good so long as you keep playing.
So you can imagine my bewilderment when, after day 30 hit, my "monthly bill" never came. I spent most of that day wondering if I should run out and buy an EPT or call my naturopath and ask her what in the hell was wrong. It was the same type of rollercoaster ride I put myself on four years ago and jumped off of, vowing never to return after spending close to $30,000, putting on 40 pounds and having a miscarriage. Lucky for me, though, this ride was a short one...and as the evening wore on, the cramping started and I was back to day one.
Incidentally, that same week I had just a shred of hope...and an equal shred of disappointment, I learned of two dear friends who got pregnant. Two years ago, the news would have crushed me. Now I'm hoping to host their showers.
I'll be ok if I never give birth to a child and I realize this every time I look at my son (I know my husband and I can't do any better than that!!) But kidding aside, I resolved my infertility issues two years ago when I actively called it quits. We could have kept trying...and probably could have succeeded finally (my gosh look at Courtney Cox, who I believe has done something like 6-7 IVF cycles) or...since the problem doesn't lie with me but with my life partner, I could have decided that carrying a child for nine months was much more important than staying married to him.
In the meantime, I'm doing everything I can to defy the aging process...or at least try and reverse some of the damage I've done.
You have to understand, this never happened to me before in my life...well, once, when I was pregnant; but any other time, my menstrual cycles have been 28 days--almost to the hour. Synthetic hormones couldn't even suppress ol' Aunt Flo regardless how much progesterone I shot through my veins every month. Sure I felt like a Foster Farms chicken but by god I never missed a period.
I have reason to believe I threw myself into early peri-menopause because I forced my body to ovulate through the use of synthetic hormones...and not to produce just one egg a month either, mind you...I really WAS a Foster Farms chicken producing nearly 20 mature eggs with each fertility treatment I suffered through. We women are born with as many eggs as we will produce in our lifetime. I'm sure my reserve is nearly tapped dry by now.
Last year, I began to suffer through a series of premenopausal symptoms: the hot flashes; the heavier periods; the heightened PMS; the sleepless nights; you name it. Clinically, this is what happens to most women who hit their mid-30s and it could last anywhere from 6-15 years until full-blown menopause sinks in.
So my doctor suggested I go back on the pill to regulate my cycles and ease these symptoms, though what she neglected to recall was the initial reason I went off the pill five years ago. I had the most intense migraines which basically put me at risk of stroke--and given my family's wonderful medical history (read: sister dead at 40 of a heart attack), I decided to seek a second opinion from a naturopath.
Of course the minute I told the naturopath my peri-menopause diagnoses, she replied, "That's bullshit, you're too young to be going through that." She prescribed me four types of vitamins along with a tablespoon of ground flax seed every morning to get rid of the symptoms.
The results? I no longer have hot flashes, thank God, and I can sleep through the night. My periods are still pretty heavy, though...which totally grosses me out beyond belief and they also hurt like hell (which has always been the case), so I'm hoping that too will diminish over time.
During those first few days of my cycle, I often wonder why I put myself through this ordeal. Why not use another form of birth control to regulate my cycles? Why not opt for a hysterectomy? It's simple, really. To me, these are not options. My husband and I have a 1% chance of getting pregnant over the course of my reproductive years. Why ruin that chance? Given that we just adopted our first child in January, we're not actively trying to have a child---but when a couple is as infertile as we are, you're always actively trying to have a child. It's kinda like being addicted to the lottery and buying a ticket once a week for the rest of your life. You may never win the lottery, but your chances are still good so long as you keep playing.
So you can imagine my bewilderment when, after day 30 hit, my "monthly bill" never came. I spent most of that day wondering if I should run out and buy an EPT or call my naturopath and ask her what in the hell was wrong. It was the same type of rollercoaster ride I put myself on four years ago and jumped off of, vowing never to return after spending close to $30,000, putting on 40 pounds and having a miscarriage. Lucky for me, though, this ride was a short one...and as the evening wore on, the cramping started and I was back to day one.
Incidentally, that same week I had just a shred of hope...and an equal shred of disappointment, I learned of two dear friends who got pregnant. Two years ago, the news would have crushed me. Now I'm hoping to host their showers.
I'll be ok if I never give birth to a child and I realize this every time I look at my son (I know my husband and I can't do any better than that!!) But kidding aside, I resolved my infertility issues two years ago when I actively called it quits. We could have kept trying...and probably could have succeeded finally (my gosh look at Courtney Cox, who I believe has done something like 6-7 IVF cycles) or...since the problem doesn't lie with me but with my life partner, I could have decided that carrying a child for nine months was much more important than staying married to him.
In the meantime, I'm doing everything I can to defy the aging process...or at least try and reverse some of the damage I've done.
Tuesday, April 20, 2004
My laptop fell victim to spyware. Not just any ordinary spyware either -- this was ADWARE, which I find doubly insulting given my former (or dormant) occupation.
I have no idea how it found its way onto my laptop--but it morphed itself as my home page and took over my browser. I couldn't stop it either and by the end of the week last week, I had no choice but to wipe my laptop and start over again.
It could have been worse but I did manage to lose a few things---items that I overlooked and didn't move onto our network server before doing a system wipedown. Sadly I lost pictures of Peter's first easter egg hunt; but thank god my writing files remain intact.
Having your laptop hit with spyware is a little like date rape. You willingly go with a trusted source and then you get screwed against your will. I have no idea what site I visited that offered spyware to do a drive-by attack, but I can only guess it was something attached to an RSS Reader program (the last thing I downloaded).
To further the date rape analogy, I feel somewhat violated. I mean I have no idea what this fucking program "saw" on my hard drive. Does it have my passwords? Can it see our mortgage account online? I guess only time will tell but I'm not ready to put myself into a witness protection program and stop using online billing as a way of life. It IS my way of life, which is pathetic but true. I've done everything online except meet a mate; and if I hadn't met my husband the "old fashioned" way, I probably would have found one the way everyone else does these days.
So folks BEWARE of SPYWARE. I can't put it much plainer than that. Like a parasite it will find its way in your system and make your laptop very sick. First my browser died; then Outlook; then Power Point (POWER POINT?) Things went so far south, my systems admin took my administrative priviledges away from me. Not to worry though! I still have my PC to download porn! ;-)
I have no idea how it found its way onto my laptop--but it morphed itself as my home page and took over my browser. I couldn't stop it either and by the end of the week last week, I had no choice but to wipe my laptop and start over again.
It could have been worse but I did manage to lose a few things---items that I overlooked and didn't move onto our network server before doing a system wipedown. Sadly I lost pictures of Peter's first easter egg hunt; but thank god my writing files remain intact.
Having your laptop hit with spyware is a little like date rape. You willingly go with a trusted source and then you get screwed against your will. I have no idea what site I visited that offered spyware to do a drive-by attack, but I can only guess it was something attached to an RSS Reader program (the last thing I downloaded).
To further the date rape analogy, I feel somewhat violated. I mean I have no idea what this fucking program "saw" on my hard drive. Does it have my passwords? Can it see our mortgage account online? I guess only time will tell but I'm not ready to put myself into a witness protection program and stop using online billing as a way of life. It IS my way of life, which is pathetic but true. I've done everything online except meet a mate; and if I hadn't met my husband the "old fashioned" way, I probably would have found one the way everyone else does these days.
So folks BEWARE of SPYWARE. I can't put it much plainer than that. Like a parasite it will find its way in your system and make your laptop very sick. First my browser died; then Outlook; then Power Point (POWER POINT?) Things went so far south, my systems admin took my administrative priviledges away from me. Not to worry though! I still have my PC to download porn! ;-)
Thursday, April 08, 2004
So I've been trying to figure out why I haven't been able to touch my manuscript when suddenly this dawned on me:
How can I write about something so sad, painful and horrifying when I am filled with low-awaited joy and contentment?
Several years ago, I read an essay written by an artist who specialized in capturing very dark moments in life through photography. She was bipolar and she believed that once she went on medication to control her illness, she was unable to continue with her work. She became frustrated and ultimately stopped taking the medication so she could feel her emotions once again and resume her photography.
While I'm not anywhere near the point of abandoning my beloved manuscript, I do believe that a lot of the pain I had experienced over the last four years helped me to write about something so horrifying as the Holocaust. I'm not a self-proclaimed "tortured artist" by any means; but studying the Holocaust all of these years has opened my eyes and heart to human suffering and any of the struggles I went through personally has helped me write from a suffering person's point-of-view with more feeling than I might have had without having had these experiences. Though the suffering is incomparable, I believe we all have pain thresholds and that the way in which we cope with bad experiences throughout life directly correlates to how much pain we feel as individuals.
For once in my life I feel so fulfilled and it's very hard to want to go back to something as haunting as a little boy eating maggots in a ghetto to survive.
I'm so close to finishing this draft. Maybe there is a part of me, too, that isn't ready to complete it. Maybe for now I'll just enjoy the sunshine. I just pray it doesn't take another string of bad experiences to get me to finish the book!
How can I write about something so sad, painful and horrifying when I am filled with low-awaited joy and contentment?
Several years ago, I read an essay written by an artist who specialized in capturing very dark moments in life through photography. She was bipolar and she believed that once she went on medication to control her illness, she was unable to continue with her work. She became frustrated and ultimately stopped taking the medication so she could feel her emotions once again and resume her photography.
While I'm not anywhere near the point of abandoning my beloved manuscript, I do believe that a lot of the pain I had experienced over the last four years helped me to write about something so horrifying as the Holocaust. I'm not a self-proclaimed "tortured artist" by any means; but studying the Holocaust all of these years has opened my eyes and heart to human suffering and any of the struggles I went through personally has helped me write from a suffering person's point-of-view with more feeling than I might have had without having had these experiences. Though the suffering is incomparable, I believe we all have pain thresholds and that the way in which we cope with bad experiences throughout life directly correlates to how much pain we feel as individuals.
For once in my life I feel so fulfilled and it's very hard to want to go back to something as haunting as a little boy eating maggots in a ghetto to survive.
I'm so close to finishing this draft. Maybe there is a part of me, too, that isn't ready to complete it. Maybe for now I'll just enjoy the sunshine. I just pray it doesn't take another string of bad experiences to get me to finish the book!
Wednesday, March 31, 2004
In the April issue of Jane magazine, there's an article on the rising popularity of female mutilation here in the United States.
My first reaction, having nearly fallen off the elliptical trainer, was what the fuck???
But it's true, you see---there are willing participants here in this great nation of ours who are willing to cut off their labias minora and majora and clitoris. One woman was quoted as saying that her decision was based on her desire to please her partner without her own lusty inhibitions getting in the way.
My second reaction to this, as I righted myself again on the elliptical trainer was what the fuck???
I'm fondly attached to my own genitalia so I'm not sure exactly why this new fad is sweeping the nation. Is it that we're just so fucking bored with ourselves that we have to resort to mutilation as a new form of stimulation? I'll stick to my old fashioned ways, thank you.
My first reaction, having nearly fallen off the elliptical trainer, was what the fuck???
But it's true, you see---there are willing participants here in this great nation of ours who are willing to cut off their labias minora and majora and clitoris. One woman was quoted as saying that her decision was based on her desire to please her partner without her own lusty inhibitions getting in the way.
My second reaction to this, as I righted myself again on the elliptical trainer was what the fuck???
I'm fondly attached to my own genitalia so I'm not sure exactly why this new fad is sweeping the nation. Is it that we're just so fucking bored with ourselves that we have to resort to mutilation as a new form of stimulation? I'll stick to my old fashioned ways, thank you.
Thursday, March 25, 2004
The Monsters are Coming! The Monsters are Coming!
I've enjoyed reading Stephen King's column in Entertainment Weekly. Not that I'm a huge fan or anything but the last two columns I've read were thought-provoking; one of those "jump off the elliptical trainer and think 'gee, I ought to write something in my blog in response" kinda thing. So here I am.
In the first column King lashes out at the ratings system and Jack Valenti--and how he basically brings every movie maker to his/her knees. Jack had put the whole thing into place after being shocked by the word "screw" and the phrase "Hump the Hostess" in the 1966 release "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" And while I don't remember the "M" ratings first issued for films recommended for "Mature Audiences" (all audiences allowed but there is mature content), I do remember the "GP" rating which eventually changed to "PG".
I'm not going to take sides here over the whole ratings system--my intent here is to lament over the absence of honest to goodness scary movies. How did I get here from there? Simple. King used the modern-day "Dawn of the Dead" as an example of a misrated "R" movie.
I have not yet seen the new Dawn of the Dead and chances are, I probably won't until it's on HBO in the next 6-9 months. And even then, I'll have to watch it alone because Chris absolutely hates scary movies. But I'm not chomping at the bit to see it anyway since I think it'll be a lame re-make. I was eleven years-old when my mom took me to see the first one and it was the first time I saw someone (or something) dive his hands into a living person's stomach, ripping apart his flesh like a pan of lasagne and serving up his entrails to the rest of the zombie clan. Watching that, I thought I had reached the scary saturation point in that there was nothing left in the world that could scare the shit out of me. Turns out I was wrong because there was still the Halloween and Friday the 13th movies and the first "Nightmare on Elmstreet" film; but pretty much after that, nothing else scared me anymore and I am convinced that after all of those films, no one could really make a scary movie anymore.
Sure, ok, I thought "The Ring" was kinda scary; but when I was younger, it seemed like a new scary movie was released once a week. And not just gratuitously-violent, gore-filled movies like "Dawn" either; I mean movies that made me cover my eyes with my hands, only to peek through the fingers. The movies that make you sleep with the light on for a week afterwards. Take "The Exorcist" for example. Now that's a pretty frickin scary movie. I had the opportunity to see that film on the big screen again a few years ago when they released the Director's Cut and I'll tell ya, I was just as scared then as I was the first time I saw it; and the new footage where Linda Blair does the spider crawl down the stairs made me even MORE afraid. Or how about the Omen movies? What's so damn scary about these types of horror films is that they're playing with our primal fears of the unknown. Is there a devil named Satan? What does he look like?
When I was younger, scary stuff was even on TV all the time. By the time I was old enough to remember things, "Rosemary's Baby" aired on ABC and "Night of the Living Dead" appeared once a year during prime time; but beyond just movies, there were also shows based on the supernatural. How about the "Night Stalker" or "Night Gallery"? Even the first Rankin and Bass TV special (the folks who brought us Santa Claus is Comin to Town and Year Without a Santa Claus) was a full-length feature called "Mad, Mad Monster Party." The storyline begins with an evil scientist (the voice of the late, great Boris Karloff) who decides to go into retirement and throw one last bash to name an heir; he invites the Mummy, the Werewolf, Thing (a sea creature), Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde; Frankenstein and his mate (the voice of Phyllis Diller) and one normal family-member--his nephew Felix Flanken--who is a bumbling idiot, allergic to everything. Now granted--this wasn't a "scary" movie--but the theme was MONSTERS.
MONSTERS were everywhere including (I was convinced) my backyard where, only a few hundred yards away, there was an old cemetery of the town's founding families dating back to the 1700s. Any time we had a thunderstorm, I heard voices in my head: "they're coming for you Margaret..."
It didn't help either that my brother and sister used my monsteria against me, either. Being the youngest of two huge partiers, I was subjected to heavy threats of "if you tell mom and dad we'll have the boogey man come to get you." Once my brother even fooled me to thinking that my sister had been taken by witches in the woods. He took me outside in the black of night and carried me on his shoulders deep into the woods where I watched shadows play among the trees. It's no wonder I was truly scared and mesmerized by the Blair Witch Project. Call it what you will--but I thought that was a great movie and certainly not for the production value, but for the fact that it conjured up an old childhood fear that had been locked away for many years.
So why, after all those years of horror movies, did the monsters go away? Maybe it was because instead of being afraid of the supernatural, we needed to be afraid of our living enemies. Let's face it---just when the Halloween/Friday the 13th movies died down (pardon the pun) a rash of nuclear war/end of the world movies hit both big and small screen like "The Morning After" and "War Games" and stupid patriotic movies like Rocky 4 (not that all movies in the mid-80s were bad...thank you John Hughes). Then, once the cold war was over, we retreated like good civillians and scary movies became a dying breed--only to have the occasional "gotcha" like "The Blair Witch Project" and so on.
I don't think there will ever be another resurgence of scary movies and I think it's a shame. There are some great ones that are just begging for airtime on cable. I miss TNT's "Monstervision" or their old "100% Weird" series that showed some great cult classics much like the ancient "Chiller Theatre" or "Creature Feature" did back in the 70s (we must never forget "Children Shouldn't Play with Dead Things" or "Let's Scare Jessica to Death").
Oh well...maybe for now my monsteria should be focused on the real terror: our current administration.
This entry was written in honor of my witch-sister Teresa who would have turned 41 today.
I've enjoyed reading Stephen King's column in Entertainment Weekly. Not that I'm a huge fan or anything but the last two columns I've read were thought-provoking; one of those "jump off the elliptical trainer and think 'gee, I ought to write something in my blog in response" kinda thing. So here I am.
In the first column King lashes out at the ratings system and Jack Valenti--and how he basically brings every movie maker to his/her knees. Jack had put the whole thing into place after being shocked by the word "screw" and the phrase "Hump the Hostess" in the 1966 release "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" And while I don't remember the "M" ratings first issued for films recommended for "Mature Audiences" (all audiences allowed but there is mature content), I do remember the "GP" rating which eventually changed to "PG".
I'm not going to take sides here over the whole ratings system--my intent here is to lament over the absence of honest to goodness scary movies. How did I get here from there? Simple. King used the modern-day "Dawn of the Dead" as an example of a misrated "R" movie.
I have not yet seen the new Dawn of the Dead and chances are, I probably won't until it's on HBO in the next 6-9 months. And even then, I'll have to watch it alone because Chris absolutely hates scary movies. But I'm not chomping at the bit to see it anyway since I think it'll be a lame re-make. I was eleven years-old when my mom took me to see the first one and it was the first time I saw someone (or something) dive his hands into a living person's stomach, ripping apart his flesh like a pan of lasagne and serving up his entrails to the rest of the zombie clan. Watching that, I thought I had reached the scary saturation point in that there was nothing left in the world that could scare the shit out of me. Turns out I was wrong because there was still the Halloween and Friday the 13th movies and the first "Nightmare on Elmstreet" film; but pretty much after that, nothing else scared me anymore and I am convinced that after all of those films, no one could really make a scary movie anymore.
Sure, ok, I thought "The Ring" was kinda scary; but when I was younger, it seemed like a new scary movie was released once a week. And not just gratuitously-violent, gore-filled movies like "Dawn" either; I mean movies that made me cover my eyes with my hands, only to peek through the fingers. The movies that make you sleep with the light on for a week afterwards. Take "The Exorcist" for example. Now that's a pretty frickin scary movie. I had the opportunity to see that film on the big screen again a few years ago when they released the Director's Cut and I'll tell ya, I was just as scared then as I was the first time I saw it; and the new footage where Linda Blair does the spider crawl down the stairs made me even MORE afraid. Or how about the Omen movies? What's so damn scary about these types of horror films is that they're playing with our primal fears of the unknown. Is there a devil named Satan? What does he look like?
When I was younger, scary stuff was even on TV all the time. By the time I was old enough to remember things, "Rosemary's Baby" aired on ABC and "Night of the Living Dead" appeared once a year during prime time; but beyond just movies, there were also shows based on the supernatural. How about the "Night Stalker" or "Night Gallery"? Even the first Rankin and Bass TV special (the folks who brought us Santa Claus is Comin to Town and Year Without a Santa Claus) was a full-length feature called "Mad, Mad Monster Party." The storyline begins with an evil scientist (the voice of the late, great Boris Karloff) who decides to go into retirement and throw one last bash to name an heir; he invites the Mummy, the Werewolf, Thing (a sea creature), Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde; Frankenstein and his mate (the voice of Phyllis Diller) and one normal family-member--his nephew Felix Flanken--who is a bumbling idiot, allergic to everything. Now granted--this wasn't a "scary" movie--but the theme was MONSTERS.
MONSTERS were everywhere including (I was convinced) my backyard where, only a few hundred yards away, there was an old cemetery of the town's founding families dating back to the 1700s. Any time we had a thunderstorm, I heard voices in my head: "they're coming for you Margaret..."
It didn't help either that my brother and sister used my monsteria against me, either. Being the youngest of two huge partiers, I was subjected to heavy threats of "if you tell mom and dad we'll have the boogey man come to get you." Once my brother even fooled me to thinking that my sister had been taken by witches in the woods. He took me outside in the black of night and carried me on his shoulders deep into the woods where I watched shadows play among the trees. It's no wonder I was truly scared and mesmerized by the Blair Witch Project. Call it what you will--but I thought that was a great movie and certainly not for the production value, but for the fact that it conjured up an old childhood fear that had been locked away for many years.
So why, after all those years of horror movies, did the monsters go away? Maybe it was because instead of being afraid of the supernatural, we needed to be afraid of our living enemies. Let's face it---just when the Halloween/Friday the 13th movies died down (pardon the pun) a rash of nuclear war/end of the world movies hit both big and small screen like "The Morning After" and "War Games" and stupid patriotic movies like Rocky 4 (not that all movies in the mid-80s were bad...thank you John Hughes). Then, once the cold war was over, we retreated like good civillians and scary movies became a dying breed--only to have the occasional "gotcha" like "The Blair Witch Project" and so on.
I don't think there will ever be another resurgence of scary movies and I think it's a shame. There are some great ones that are just begging for airtime on cable. I miss TNT's "Monstervision" or their old "100% Weird" series that showed some great cult classics much like the ancient "Chiller Theatre" or "Creature Feature" did back in the 70s (we must never forget "Children Shouldn't Play with Dead Things" or "Let's Scare Jessica to Death").
Oh well...maybe for now my monsteria should be focused on the real terror: our current administration.
This entry was written in honor of my witch-sister Teresa who would have turned 41 today.
Sunday, March 21, 2004
I've been to see quite a few concerts in my lifetime. I've seen everyone from The Smiths to OMD to Van Halen (twice), Journey--heck, even Bruce Springsteen...
But now I'm taking my son to see the Wiggles in concert in April.
For those of you who don't know who the Wiggles are---be grateful. The Wiggles are a band of four GROWN men from Australia who prance around and sing songs like "Fruit Salad (yummy yummy)" and "Crunchy, Munchy Honeycakes". And the scary---I mean REALLY scary part to all of this? The songs are so catchy, I find myself humming them throughout the day.
It all started when my friend Krissy sent me a Wiggles CD: "Top of the Tots." Her twin daughters are a few weeks younger than Peter and she told me they LOVED the Wiggles. So, I put it on---and it was as if the boy had heard them before. He stood up and immediately began to wiggle to "Dorothy the Dinosaur" and the other 47 songs on the CD. I think if I had the ability to play the CD backwards, it would have provided instruction for Peter to wiggle or something because he got the hang of it so quickly.
Before long, Peter was patting his tummy to "Fruit Salad (Yummy, Yummy) and playing along to "Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes". Now we watch the Wiggles every day on the Disney Channel--which is sorta like The Monkees meets the New Zoo Revue: where they pretend to play musical instruments and cut in some live footage of their concerts and their songs' characters like Dorothy the Dinosaur and Captain Feathersword grace the screen.
Each Wiggle wears a different primary color shirt with a Wiggles logo on the front right. Their costumes aren't very different from a regulation Star Trek uniform in that they also wear black pants and black boots.
The four Wiggles are: Greg, Jeff, Murray and Anthony--with each having their own wacky personality. There's Greg--the lead singer who loves doing magic tricks. He wears a yellow shirt; Anthony loves to eat and has his own little "art workshop". His shirt is blue; There's Murray who plays guitar and wears the red shirt; and finally, there's Jeff--the token Asian who wears a purple shirt and likes to take naps.
At first, the sceptic in me said that they were a bunch of pretty boy, phoney musicians (like the Monkees); but when I went to their official website: http://www.thewiggles.com/
I learned I was quite wrong. Turns out these guys weren't some pre-fabbed boy band put together by some middle age A&R freak after all. In fact, they quickly earned my respect when I realized that they became the Wiggles TWELVE years ago BY CHOICE after going through Child Development courses in college. And what's more, they actually play their own instruments and write their own songs.
I was even more intrigued when I found out that they had sold out 12 shows at Madison Square Garden. Shit, I don't even think the Stones ever did that!
Funny thing is, since they're relatively good looking, Chris and I were laughing about the Wiggles probably having some groupies (aka single moms who go to the show in the hope of getting some Romp Bam Ba Stomp of their own). It'll be fun to see what sort of crowd (and I don't mean toddlers) this group draws.
Anyway, so yeah---the concert's in two weeks. I'm a mom--what can I say?
But now I'm taking my son to see the Wiggles in concert in April.
For those of you who don't know who the Wiggles are---be grateful. The Wiggles are a band of four GROWN men from Australia who prance around and sing songs like "Fruit Salad (yummy yummy)" and "Crunchy, Munchy Honeycakes". And the scary---I mean REALLY scary part to all of this? The songs are so catchy, I find myself humming them throughout the day.
It all started when my friend Krissy sent me a Wiggles CD: "Top of the Tots." Her twin daughters are a few weeks younger than Peter and she told me they LOVED the Wiggles. So, I put it on---and it was as if the boy had heard them before. He stood up and immediately began to wiggle to "Dorothy the Dinosaur" and the other 47 songs on the CD. I think if I had the ability to play the CD backwards, it would have provided instruction for Peter to wiggle or something because he got the hang of it so quickly.
Before long, Peter was patting his tummy to "Fruit Salad (Yummy, Yummy) and playing along to "Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes". Now we watch the Wiggles every day on the Disney Channel--which is sorta like The Monkees meets the New Zoo Revue: where they pretend to play musical instruments and cut in some live footage of their concerts and their songs' characters like Dorothy the Dinosaur and Captain Feathersword grace the screen.
Each Wiggle wears a different primary color shirt with a Wiggles logo on the front right. Their costumes aren't very different from a regulation Star Trek uniform in that they also wear black pants and black boots.
The four Wiggles are: Greg, Jeff, Murray and Anthony--with each having their own wacky personality. There's Greg--the lead singer who loves doing magic tricks. He wears a yellow shirt; Anthony loves to eat and has his own little "art workshop". His shirt is blue; There's Murray who plays guitar and wears the red shirt; and finally, there's Jeff--the token Asian who wears a purple shirt and likes to take naps.
At first, the sceptic in me said that they were a bunch of pretty boy, phoney musicians (like the Monkees); but when I went to their official website: http://www.thewiggles.com/
I learned I was quite wrong. Turns out these guys weren't some pre-fabbed boy band put together by some middle age A&R freak after all. In fact, they quickly earned my respect when I realized that they became the Wiggles TWELVE years ago BY CHOICE after going through Child Development courses in college. And what's more, they actually play their own instruments and write their own songs.
I was even more intrigued when I found out that they had sold out 12 shows at Madison Square Garden. Shit, I don't even think the Stones ever did that!
Funny thing is, since they're relatively good looking, Chris and I were laughing about the Wiggles probably having some groupies (aka single moms who go to the show in the hope of getting some Romp Bam Ba Stomp of their own). It'll be fun to see what sort of crowd (and I don't mean toddlers) this group draws.
Anyway, so yeah---the concert's in two weeks. I'm a mom--what can I say?
Saturday, March 13, 2004
This is how constructive my writing time has been:
Great, so I'm going to edit my "Jazz Dog" piece to send out today.
Hmm, this coffee's not so great today. What'd I do wrong?
Ok, so this should be easy. I'll just go through and edit this and...
Y'know, I haven't had breakfast yet. Should I have oatmeal or will Chris make eggs?
Uh-oh, I can hear Peter awake in his crib. Should I go get him or wait for Chris to get out of the shower?
It's "his" day to take care of him--and he's 16 minutes late. So now what? Can't I catch a frigging break? It's not my fault he shut off his alarm clock.
Great, now I feel guilty that I'm in the next room and I'm not going in and playing with him.
He'll probably wind up resenting me later in life for ignoring him. He'll tell me I was no better than the people in the orphanage who left him in his crib to stew in his own full diaper.
...so much for writing this morning!
Well, Chris just came up to me and asked if I wanted to go to Blue Star for breakfast. That settles that!
Great, so I'm going to edit my "Jazz Dog" piece to send out today.
Hmm, this coffee's not so great today. What'd I do wrong?
Ok, so this should be easy. I'll just go through and edit this and...
Y'know, I haven't had breakfast yet. Should I have oatmeal or will Chris make eggs?
Uh-oh, I can hear Peter awake in his crib. Should I go get him or wait for Chris to get out of the shower?
It's "his" day to take care of him--and he's 16 minutes late. So now what? Can't I catch a frigging break? It's not my fault he shut off his alarm clock.
Great, now I feel guilty that I'm in the next room and I'm not going in and playing with him.
He'll probably wind up resenting me later in life for ignoring him. He'll tell me I was no better than the people in the orphanage who left him in his crib to stew in his own full diaper.
Well, Chris just came up to me and asked if I wanted to go to Blue Star for breakfast. That settles that!
Friday, February 27, 2004
In Memory of Aspen--The Jazz Dog
Miles Davis with Aspen, the Jazz Dog
Today's the one year anniversary of Aspen's death. I'm sad of course--but I look back at the 14 wonderful years I had with that dog and I can think of nothing but great memories.
I found Aspen when I was 20--youthful and stupid. My boyfriend of five years (five off and on years) and I moved in together in June of that year to a one bedroom duplex in Glendale. We went Christmas shopping that December at the all-new Century City Shopping Center and found ourselves at the pet store "Chien et Chat"--not looking for anything at all, really. Just browsing.
Aspen was out of his kennel, hobbling around the floor like a little toddler. He was only two months old. I had never seen such a beautiful little dog: all white with pink, perky ears, big brown eyes and a black nose. Another woman was fawning over him and I immediately chimed in with the "awwwww"'s.
My boyfriend and I looked at eachother and instantly honed in on what the other was thinking. We wanted to take him home...but the price tag on his kennel read "$325.00" and we were living in an apartment that didn't allow pets. We hung our heads and left the store.
"You know, it would be nice to get a dog," I said. "And he's so adorable! Let's do it. Let's get him for Christmas!"
He steered me to the nearest bench, outside of Crate and Barrel.
"What about the apartment?"
"Screw it. We can hide him. No one needs to know."
Moments later, we found ourselves walking back in, going up to the register, pointing to the American Eskimo, and each plunking down a credit card. Despite our unity, we were still fiercely independent of one another--a surefire sign our future marriage, four years later, would self-destruct.
I wanted to name him "Aspen" for his snow-white, downy-soft fur but my boyfriend had other ideas. Given that he was into goth, looked like Robert Smith and enjoyed listening to Skinny Puppy, we agreed on naming him "Lord Aspen Henry." But it was only a matter of days before "Aspen" became simply "Aspen".
Of course we were kicked out of that apartment four months later. Aspen found his bark and never stopped after that. But the move was good for us and we went to Brentwood where we would stay for four years.
Aspen was the center of our universe. Our "son". Sure he'd shred everything in sight, including toilet paper, snotty tissues and my panties, but we blamed ourselves. We never really trained him.
We knew it was love when he jumped on our butcher block kitchen table and scratched the shit out of it because we had left the house. I still have the table and today, those marks mean even more to me than the table itself.
We knew it was hatred when he took the Soft Cell "Singles" CD off the bookshelf and proceeded to "sled" with it on the hardwood floor. He always had a knack for telling us what he liked and disliked. Soft Cell was a definite dislike.
But despite how much stuff Aspen destroyed, he was fiercely loyal. I loved his personality, even though he often enjoyed humping my friends' legs and would stand up on his hind paws to do "the wave" for a cookie constantly. Regardless of how untrained he was, he was still my "puppy dog." He loved me...even if it was because he liked to lick the scented lotion off my legs.
One college graduation, one wedding, two moves and six years later, we found ourselves on Route 40 heading east, and moving to Washington DC where husband would finish his graduate program in Public Administration. Aspen took well to the long drive and I always bragged about how this little doggie whizzed in a total of 21 states in his lifetime.
We loved Aspen equally and when I lowered the boom in June of 1995 and called it quits, after two and a half years of marriage, 12 years together as a couple and seven years of sharing our dog, my husband gave me the greatest gift of all: permission to have Aspen all to myself. I know it hurt him very much to let him go (in hindsight I know it hurt him to give Aspen up more than me). And Aspen and I became a duo--where we remained in DC until December 1996 when we found ourselves once again on the road--this time heading west on Interstate 90.
I think Aspen enjoyed living in Seattle and loved my exclusive attention; and when he first met his future "Dad" it seemed like an ABC Afterschool Special (you're not my dad!) at first. But the new dad set him straight, and even though Aspen was already 9 when we met, he was learning new things thanks to the new dad's patience and understanding.
It was tough, at first, moving into a house with a new puppy. But Oatmeal had nothing but love to give. The only time they got into a huge fight was when Oatie took Aspen's beloved bone away. Dad intervened. Fur flew. Aspen lost the battle. I would say that was the day Aspen realized he wasn't the Alpha any longer.
He took his retirement well and grew to respect his dad and the pack order in the house. And Aspen lived out his years happily--with a little sister to keep him company, and the opportunity to go to the Cannon Beach once a year where he could fight the waves of the Pacific Ocean. He loved when dad played Miles Davis on the stereo and that was one thing they both had in common: love for jazz. In fact, Aspen became inspiration for the "Jazz Dog" -- a website for jazz enthusiasts. We swore that Aspen licked his paws to the spang-a-lang beats until he became deaf in 2002. Then, we had hoped he heard nothing but jazz in his head.
(see: http://www.geocities.com/jivewirefwd/)
On our first wedding anniversary, September 11, 2000, we learned that Aspen had kidney failure. I remember spending almost the entire car ride down to Cannon Beach--all five hours--bawling. I knew the end was near.
The end, however, wasn't as close as we feared. With the help of a competent, loving veterinarian, Aspen stuck around for two and a half more years with a comfortable, happy quality of life.
February 27. I began to loathe that date after my first husband and I broke up. It was our wedding anniversary. And February 27, 2003 would have been our tenth.
I came back from my workout at the gym when I saw my husband standing in the kitchen, very pale and sad.
"What is it?" I asked, frightened.
"It's Aspen. He's not moving off of his bed."
We had seen this coming. Over the last few days, Aspen refused to eat. I literally tried spoon feeding him, but to no avail. He stopped drinking water, too...and as I walked over to his bed in the hallway, I could see that his soul was already leaving him.
Kidney failure is an ugly disease. When the kidneys stop functioning properly, the waste produced in the body remains in the blood stream. Aspen's body was poisoned. His brain was fried. I could see it in his eyes. He lost the will to live.
I sat on the floor and began to cry, rocking him in my lap. My husband and I had been trying to have a baby together for the last three years and now I was losing mine.
The vet told us we could do a doggie dialysis; but chances were, it wouldn't work. If anything, it would only slow down the inevitable. I hugged Aspen with all my might, not wanting to let go, but realizing it was the decent thing to do. I buried my face in his fur for as long as I could. I kept thinking about how I needed to remember that feeling--his softness--and how comforted I was by it.
I carried him to the Durango and held him. We stopped at the little park a block away from the house...taking him out of the car for one last "hurrah". But all he did was stare off into the grass.
Tears spilled from my eyes as we checked in with the receptionist at the vet. She led us to a room with a pillow on the floor, wrapped in a towel. I laid him down and couldn't stop crying.
"Do you want to stay with him after Dr. Spencer gives him the shot?"
"No," I said. "I can't."
"Would you like his body or would you like him cremated."
"Cremated," I said, wishing this woman would go away.
"Would you like his ashes?" she asked.
I looked up at her an instantly shook my head. As she left, I continued to rock on the floor, holding Aspen and bargaining with God. If he could let Aspen live forever, I'd never ask again for a child.
I got up and left Aspen on the floor, who rose to his paws and walked around dazed. I knew it was time to leave.
Aspen sensed it, too. He looked up at me with those beautiful brown eyes and said "goodbye" to me in his own quiet way. It was so hard to leave and for a moment, he almost looked like he was better. Like he was going to do "the wave" for a cookie.
I closed the door and ran out of the Vet's office. This was the first death I had experienced of someone close to me since I was 18. Then, it was my Grandmother. Now, it was my best friend.
At that moment I believed I would never get over losing Aspen. But it's a year now and so much has changed. Sure, I have moments of tears and I so often wish I could just bury my face in his fur; but I have a son now--a real son--and my life continues. I firmly believe, too, that if I didn't have Oatie in my life, my grieving would have been a lot harder. They say dogs are wonderful stress reducers. It's true.
Prior to our meeting, Aspen's name was "Winston." In his honor, that's what we'll name the next dog.
Back in November, Aspen "sent" me an e-mail from "heaven." This is what the jazz dog wrote:
Dear Mom,
Sorry it took me so long to write you. I was on tour
with Miles Davis and Milt Jackson (see attached photo)
and neither of those guys have an internet connection,
so I'm behind on my mail. (Miles says "Peopoh wanna
mail me they can licka goddamn stamp!") Plus I type
slow. (While my breath and kidneys are much better
now, I still don't have thumbs.) I am able to purse
my lips now though, so sometimes when Art Farmer
passes out, I play his flugelhorn.
How are you? How is your book coming? I miss you. I
tried to find your lotion at the store but they only
carry this crap called "Heaven Scent" which smells
like marshmallows and tastes like paint...
How is everyone else? Did Oatmeal ever get to be on a
game show? I know that was her big dream.
Is that annoying squirrel-friend of Oatie's still
crashing on the couch? (that reminds me, Please tell
Baby, sorry about the ear...)
So I was shredding God's trash the other day, and came
across a build slot requisition for a "Putinov".
Would you know anything about that?
BTW: Tell Dad Hi, I miss him too. Oh and that it turns
out that Chet Baker isn't misunderstood, he's just an
asshole.
Bye for now, Take care Mom. Everything will be just
fine.
I love you,
-PD.
Miles Davis with Aspen, the Jazz Dog
Today's the one year anniversary of Aspen's death. I'm sad of course--but I look back at the 14 wonderful years I had with that dog and I can think of nothing but great memories.
I found Aspen when I was 20--youthful and stupid. My boyfriend of five years (five off and on years) and I moved in together in June of that year to a one bedroom duplex in Glendale. We went Christmas shopping that December at the all-new Century City Shopping Center and found ourselves at the pet store "Chien et Chat"--not looking for anything at all, really. Just browsing.
Aspen was out of his kennel, hobbling around the floor like a little toddler. He was only two months old. I had never seen such a beautiful little dog: all white with pink, perky ears, big brown eyes and a black nose. Another woman was fawning over him and I immediately chimed in with the "awwwww"'s.
My boyfriend and I looked at eachother and instantly honed in on what the other was thinking. We wanted to take him home...but the price tag on his kennel read "$325.00" and we were living in an apartment that didn't allow pets. We hung our heads and left the store.
"You know, it would be nice to get a dog," I said. "And he's so adorable! Let's do it. Let's get him for Christmas!"
He steered me to the nearest bench, outside of Crate and Barrel.
"What about the apartment?"
"Screw it. We can hide him. No one needs to know."
Moments later, we found ourselves walking back in, going up to the register, pointing to the American Eskimo, and each plunking down a credit card. Despite our unity, we were still fiercely independent of one another--a surefire sign our future marriage, four years later, would self-destruct.
I wanted to name him "Aspen" for his snow-white, downy-soft fur but my boyfriend had other ideas. Given that he was into goth, looked like Robert Smith and enjoyed listening to Skinny Puppy, we agreed on naming him "Lord Aspen Henry." But it was only a matter of days before "Aspen" became simply "Aspen".
Of course we were kicked out of that apartment four months later. Aspen found his bark and never stopped after that. But the move was good for us and we went to Brentwood where we would stay for four years.
Aspen was the center of our universe. Our "son". Sure he'd shred everything in sight, including toilet paper, snotty tissues and my panties, but we blamed ourselves. We never really trained him.
We knew it was love when he jumped on our butcher block kitchen table and scratched the shit out of it because we had left the house. I still have the table and today, those marks mean even more to me than the table itself.
We knew it was hatred when he took the Soft Cell "Singles" CD off the bookshelf and proceeded to "sled" with it on the hardwood floor. He always had a knack for telling us what he liked and disliked. Soft Cell was a definite dislike.
But despite how much stuff Aspen destroyed, he was fiercely loyal. I loved his personality, even though he often enjoyed humping my friends' legs and would stand up on his hind paws to do "the wave" for a cookie constantly. Regardless of how untrained he was, he was still my "puppy dog." He loved me...even if it was because he liked to lick the scented lotion off my legs.
One college graduation, one wedding, two moves and six years later, we found ourselves on Route 40 heading east, and moving to Washington DC where husband would finish his graduate program in Public Administration. Aspen took well to the long drive and I always bragged about how this little doggie whizzed in a total of 21 states in his lifetime.
We loved Aspen equally and when I lowered the boom in June of 1995 and called it quits, after two and a half years of marriage, 12 years together as a couple and seven years of sharing our dog, my husband gave me the greatest gift of all: permission to have Aspen all to myself. I know it hurt him very much to let him go (in hindsight I know it hurt him to give Aspen up more than me). And Aspen and I became a duo--where we remained in DC until December 1996 when we found ourselves once again on the road--this time heading west on Interstate 90.
I think Aspen enjoyed living in Seattle and loved my exclusive attention; and when he first met his future "Dad" it seemed like an ABC Afterschool Special (you're not my dad!) at first. But the new dad set him straight, and even though Aspen was already 9 when we met, he was learning new things thanks to the new dad's patience and understanding.
It was tough, at first, moving into a house with a new puppy. But Oatmeal had nothing but love to give. The only time they got into a huge fight was when Oatie took Aspen's beloved bone away. Dad intervened. Fur flew. Aspen lost the battle. I would say that was the day Aspen realized he wasn't the Alpha any longer.
He took his retirement well and grew to respect his dad and the pack order in the house. And Aspen lived out his years happily--with a little sister to keep him company, and the opportunity to go to the Cannon Beach once a year where he could fight the waves of the Pacific Ocean. He loved when dad played Miles Davis on the stereo and that was one thing they both had in common: love for jazz. In fact, Aspen became inspiration for the "Jazz Dog" -- a website for jazz enthusiasts. We swore that Aspen licked his paws to the spang-a-lang beats until he became deaf in 2002. Then, we had hoped he heard nothing but jazz in his head.
(see: http://www.geocities.com/jivewirefwd/)
On our first wedding anniversary, September 11, 2000, we learned that Aspen had kidney failure. I remember spending almost the entire car ride down to Cannon Beach--all five hours--bawling. I knew the end was near.
The end, however, wasn't as close as we feared. With the help of a competent, loving veterinarian, Aspen stuck around for two and a half more years with a comfortable, happy quality of life.
February 27. I began to loathe that date after my first husband and I broke up. It was our wedding anniversary. And February 27, 2003 would have been our tenth.
I came back from my workout at the gym when I saw my husband standing in the kitchen, very pale and sad.
"What is it?" I asked, frightened.
"It's Aspen. He's not moving off of his bed."
We had seen this coming. Over the last few days, Aspen refused to eat. I literally tried spoon feeding him, but to no avail. He stopped drinking water, too...and as I walked over to his bed in the hallway, I could see that his soul was already leaving him.
Kidney failure is an ugly disease. When the kidneys stop functioning properly, the waste produced in the body remains in the blood stream. Aspen's body was poisoned. His brain was fried. I could see it in his eyes. He lost the will to live.
I sat on the floor and began to cry, rocking him in my lap. My husband and I had been trying to have a baby together for the last three years and now I was losing mine.
The vet told us we could do a doggie dialysis; but chances were, it wouldn't work. If anything, it would only slow down the inevitable. I hugged Aspen with all my might, not wanting to let go, but realizing it was the decent thing to do. I buried my face in his fur for as long as I could. I kept thinking about how I needed to remember that feeling--his softness--and how comforted I was by it.
I carried him to the Durango and held him. We stopped at the little park a block away from the house...taking him out of the car for one last "hurrah". But all he did was stare off into the grass.
Tears spilled from my eyes as we checked in with the receptionist at the vet. She led us to a room with a pillow on the floor, wrapped in a towel. I laid him down and couldn't stop crying.
"Do you want to stay with him after Dr. Spencer gives him the shot?"
"No," I said. "I can't."
"Would you like his body or would you like him cremated."
"Cremated," I said, wishing this woman would go away.
"Would you like his ashes?" she asked.
I looked up at her an instantly shook my head. As she left, I continued to rock on the floor, holding Aspen and bargaining with God. If he could let Aspen live forever, I'd never ask again for a child.
I got up and left Aspen on the floor, who rose to his paws and walked around dazed. I knew it was time to leave.
Aspen sensed it, too. He looked up at me with those beautiful brown eyes and said "goodbye" to me in his own quiet way. It was so hard to leave and for a moment, he almost looked like he was better. Like he was going to do "the wave" for a cookie.
I closed the door and ran out of the Vet's office. This was the first death I had experienced of someone close to me since I was 18. Then, it was my Grandmother. Now, it was my best friend.
At that moment I believed I would never get over losing Aspen. But it's a year now and so much has changed. Sure, I have moments of tears and I so often wish I could just bury my face in his fur; but I have a son now--a real son--and my life continues. I firmly believe, too, that if I didn't have Oatie in my life, my grieving would have been a lot harder. They say dogs are wonderful stress reducers. It's true.
Prior to our meeting, Aspen's name was "Winston." In his honor, that's what we'll name the next dog.
Back in November, Aspen "sent" me an e-mail from "heaven." This is what the jazz dog wrote:
Dear Mom,
Sorry it took me so long to write you. I was on tour
with Miles Davis and Milt Jackson (see attached photo)
and neither of those guys have an internet connection,
so I'm behind on my mail. (Miles says "Peopoh wanna
mail me they can licka goddamn stamp!") Plus I type
slow. (While my breath and kidneys are much better
now, I still don't have thumbs.) I am able to purse
my lips now though, so sometimes when Art Farmer
passes out, I play his flugelhorn.
How are you? How is your book coming? I miss you. I
tried to find your lotion at the store but they only
carry this crap called "Heaven Scent" which smells
like marshmallows and tastes like paint...
How is everyone else? Did Oatmeal ever get to be on a
game show? I know that was her big dream.
Is that annoying squirrel-friend of Oatie's still
crashing on the couch? (that reminds me, Please tell
Baby, sorry about the ear...)
So I was shredding God's trash the other day, and came
across a build slot requisition for a "Putinov".
Would you know anything about that?
BTW: Tell Dad Hi, I miss him too. Oh and that it turns
out that Chet Baker isn't misunderstood, he's just an
asshole.
Bye for now, Take care Mom. Everything will be just
fine.
I love you,
-PD.
Friday, February 20, 2004
10 fashion moments only a 40-year-old can get right:
From Anna Johnson is the author of Three Black Skirts: All You Need to Survive
1. Wearing Yves Saint Laurent's Opium to breakfast
2. Stealing her husband's shirts, ties or even his pants if she needs to
3. Teaming a Chanel jacket with jeans
4. Tying a Hermés scarf around the handle of her handbag
5. A real-deal, full-length ballgown
6. Diamonds at brunch and a seriously fake cocktail ring
7. Camellias on a lapel
8. A dress shirt and a black-leather pencil skirt
9. A classic Chanel handbag
10. Red lipstick with red high heels
My favorite quote in the article: "'Mom' clothes are supposed to be sporty and spill-proof but who said you can’t cook a casserole with a pinch of cleavage?"
I laugh as I type this wearing a very small "Drive-In Theatre" t-shirt sans bra. And the funny thing is, I used to laugh at this picture I have of my mother with my sister and me. I am about 3 or 4; Teresa is about 8 or 9 and Mom is about 34 and she's wearing a pair of purple velvet hotpants with white Go Go boots and a body suit with a plunging neckline that would make Christina Aguilera blush. And the picture was only taken in our livingroom! Fact is, Mom knew what she was doing...she was preserving her youth. And she looked a hell of a lot better at 34 then she did at 20--when she first came to the U.S. and she wore full skirts with crinolins and flats. I used to spend endless afternoons with her shopping at the Wild Pair for the perfect purple macrame sandals with cork stilleto heels. And for even more drama, Mom WORE those heels while we climbed the cobblestoned streets of Heidleburg in 1981.
As I stare down the inevitible path of middle youth, I realize I am not very different from my mom. Sure, things have changed and you won't see me wearing cork stilletos, but I do appreciate looking good which promotes feeling good.
And I won't stop wearing my Paul Frank collection. Julius Rocks.
From Anna Johnson is the author of Three Black Skirts: All You Need to Survive
1. Wearing Yves Saint Laurent's Opium to breakfast
2. Stealing her husband's shirts, ties or even his pants if she needs to
3. Teaming a Chanel jacket with jeans
4. Tying a Hermés scarf around the handle of her handbag
5. A real-deal, full-length ballgown
6. Diamonds at brunch and a seriously fake cocktail ring
7. Camellias on a lapel
8. A dress shirt and a black-leather pencil skirt
9. A classic Chanel handbag
10. Red lipstick with red high heels
My favorite quote in the article: "'Mom' clothes are supposed to be sporty and spill-proof but who said you can’t cook a casserole with a pinch of cleavage?"
I laugh as I type this wearing a very small "Drive-In Theatre" t-shirt sans bra. And the funny thing is, I used to laugh at this picture I have of my mother with my sister and me. I am about 3 or 4; Teresa is about 8 or 9 and Mom is about 34 and she's wearing a pair of purple velvet hotpants with white Go Go boots and a body suit with a plunging neckline that would make Christina Aguilera blush. And the picture was only taken in our livingroom! Fact is, Mom knew what she was doing...she was preserving her youth. And she looked a hell of a lot better at 34 then she did at 20--when she first came to the U.S. and she wore full skirts with crinolins and flats. I used to spend endless afternoons with her shopping at the Wild Pair for the perfect purple macrame sandals with cork stilleto heels. And for even more drama, Mom WORE those heels while we climbed the cobblestoned streets of Heidleburg in 1981.
As I stare down the inevitible path of middle youth, I realize I am not very different from my mom. Sure, things have changed and you won't see me wearing cork stilletos, but I do appreciate looking good which promotes feeling good.
And I won't stop wearing my Paul Frank collection. Julius Rocks.
Thursday, February 19, 2004
Hillary sent me a link today for an upcoming 5k and I wanted to post it here in case anyone else was thinking of joining us this Sunday:
Check out this 5K- at Greenlake on Sunday Feb. 22nd. Cheap ($15-$20)
and worth a good cause!! Don't let hte BUSH administration take away our
rights! register at www.wanaral.org !
RUN FOR YOUR RIGHTS!
Pro-Choice 5K Walk/Run
Sunday, February 22, 2004
Green Lake Foot Path
Meet Up Location: The Bath House Theater
10:00 am - Sign in and Late Registration
- Turn in Pledges
- Check in with Registration volunteers
- T-Shirt Pick-Up
- Pre Walk/Run Rally
11:00 am - Walk/Run Begins
Why Participate
On April 25, millions of pro-choice Americans will take part in one of
the most significant demonstrations in history. We will speak out with one
voice to show that we will save freedom of choice the same way it was won:
one person, one city and one state at a time.
Here in Washington State, NARAL Pro-Choice Washington , Planned
Parenthood of Western Washington and many other pro-choice organizations are
working together to make the Washington state delegation to the March a
success. Weare working to inspire activists, motivate members and raise money for
travel stipends. Your participation in "Run for Your Rights" helps us
accomplish these goals!
Of course I haven't participated in a running race since...well...read my August 29 entry and you'll get the ugly story about that race!!! But hey...even if I run like a tortoise, I'll still be defending Pro-Choice.
I can remember back in eighth grade (Catholic School) when we were ushered in to the gym for some sort of assembly in the middle of the day. It was the entire seventh and eighth grade class and what it boiled down to was our dear, sweet Principal, Sister Alice (the biggest, hairiest beast in the world...I hope she's rotting in hell right now) made us promise to God (and her) that we would never consider abortion. We were lectured about how horrible abortion was and that it should never be considered a choice. It's no wonder why I've wanted to convert to Judaism ever since. This was the same wench who---in that same year---dragged me out of the Girls' bathroom by my Peter Pan collar the split second after I realized I had just started menstruating. She did it because during yet another student body assembly (this time all grades), she warned us not to go back to the restrooms or wander out of the gym during the "Interactive" portion of the event. Well...I turned to my friend Tracy and asked her to come with me...and so off we went to the Girls' bathroom...innocently enough...and completely forgetting Sister Alice's warning. I had just announced the news to Tracy when the door blew open and Sister Alice banged on our stall doors shouting at us to get out.
We were dragged out of the bathroom, which was located at the back of the gym and to me it seemed like all 260 pairs of eyes were staring at me, knowing full well what had just happened. I was mortified. Of course, when Sister Alice found out why I had gone to the bathroom, a playful, Grinch-like smirk spread across her face...not only was I a sinner for breaking the rules, I was now cursed with Menses...a curse that I'd have for the next 22 years, ironically, without the ability to conceive a child.
Regardless of how hard it's been for me to have a child, I still think a woman should have a right to choose and no one should have it taken from them.
I'm so tired of this fucking moral and religious agenda from our Government and I really hope our new Administration in 2005 puts an end to it.
Check out this 5K- at Greenlake on Sunday Feb. 22nd. Cheap ($15-$20)
and worth a good cause!! Don't let hte BUSH administration take away our
rights! register at www.wanaral.org !
RUN FOR YOUR RIGHTS!
Pro-Choice 5K Walk/Run
Sunday, February 22, 2004
Green Lake Foot Path
Meet Up Location: The Bath House Theater
10:00 am - Sign in and Late Registration
- Turn in Pledges
- Check in with Registration volunteers
- T-Shirt Pick-Up
- Pre Walk/Run Rally
11:00 am - Walk/Run Begins
Why Participate
On April 25, millions of pro-choice Americans will take part in one of
the most significant demonstrations in history. We will speak out with one
voice to show that we will save freedom of choice the same way it was won:
one person, one city and one state at a time.
Here in Washington State, NARAL Pro-Choice Washington , Planned
Parenthood of Western Washington and many other pro-choice organizations are
working together to make the Washington state delegation to the March a
success. Weare working to inspire activists, motivate members and raise money for
travel stipends. Your participation in "Run for Your Rights" helps us
accomplish these goals!
Of course I haven't participated in a running race since...well...read my August 29 entry and you'll get the ugly story about that race!!! But hey...even if I run like a tortoise, I'll still be defending Pro-Choice.
I can remember back in eighth grade (Catholic School) when we were ushered in to the gym for some sort of assembly in the middle of the day. It was the entire seventh and eighth grade class and what it boiled down to was our dear, sweet Principal, Sister Alice (the biggest, hairiest beast in the world...I hope she's rotting in hell right now) made us promise to God (and her) that we would never consider abortion. We were lectured about how horrible abortion was and that it should never be considered a choice. It's no wonder why I've wanted to convert to Judaism ever since. This was the same wench who---in that same year---dragged me out of the Girls' bathroom by my Peter Pan collar the split second after I realized I had just started menstruating. She did it because during yet another student body assembly (this time all grades), she warned us not to go back to the restrooms or wander out of the gym during the "Interactive" portion of the event. Well...I turned to my friend Tracy and asked her to come with me...and so off we went to the Girls' bathroom...innocently enough...and completely forgetting Sister Alice's warning. I had just announced the news to Tracy when the door blew open and Sister Alice banged on our stall doors shouting at us to get out.
We were dragged out of the bathroom, which was located at the back of the gym and to me it seemed like all 260 pairs of eyes were staring at me, knowing full well what had just happened. I was mortified. Of course, when Sister Alice found out why I had gone to the bathroom, a playful, Grinch-like smirk spread across her face...not only was I a sinner for breaking the rules, I was now cursed with Menses...a curse that I'd have for the next 22 years, ironically, without the ability to conceive a child.
Regardless of how hard it's been for me to have a child, I still think a woman should have a right to choose and no one should have it taken from them.
I'm so tired of this fucking moral and religious agenda from our Government and I really hope our new Administration in 2005 puts an end to it.
Wednesday, February 18, 2004
I'm not going to beat myself up too much...but I've been home for over three weeks and haven't written a frigging thing. It's starting to eat at me and I'm turning into a royal bitch right now. Writing to me is like fixing, I guess...though I dunno, I've never been a junkie. I have been a smoker, so I'll say writing is like smoking. I crave writing. If I don't write in awhile, I start getting really cranky. And today was no exception. I MEANT to sit down and work on my manuscript but I have this little problem see...I am easily distracted. Today's distraction was iTunes. I downloaded the iTunes Software onto my laptop and for some odd reason, it couldn't see my Internet connection. So I tried my PC downstairs and Voila! I had a connection. So I bought three songs: Hey Ya! By Outkast; Crazy in Love by Beyonce; and some other song...I can't remember. But it was one of those purchases driven by having watched the Grammys...I typically don't like "pop"---but these songs are catchy enough to load on to my MP3 Player for running.
Well...so after I paid the $3.00 for the three songs, I went back upstairs to try and listen to them on my laptop (shared network). No such luck. Then, I went back downstairs with my USB cables and my PhatBox and my Nike Player and tried to download the songs from the PC. Guess what? The only way one can "enjoy" these songs is by either a) listening to them on the PC or b) burning a CD! ACK!
So I learned something new about me...well, maybe not "new" but I rediscovered it...I have entirely way too much technology at my fingertips and I don't know the first thing about it. Oh and something else, too...I'm easily distracted...and speaking of, it's time to wake Peter up from his nap...
Well...so after I paid the $3.00 for the three songs, I went back upstairs to try and listen to them on my laptop (shared network). No such luck. Then, I went back downstairs with my USB cables and my PhatBox and my Nike Player and tried to download the songs from the PC. Guess what? The only way one can "enjoy" these songs is by either a) listening to them on the PC or b) burning a CD! ACK!
So I learned something new about me...well, maybe not "new" but I rediscovered it...I have entirely way too much technology at my fingertips and I don't know the first thing about it. Oh and something else, too...I'm easily distracted...and speaking of, it's time to wake Peter up from his nap...
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