And, Thus, I Hand Over the Crown

It is with a mixture of gratitude, nostalgia and pride that I pin the "Meanest Mom on the Planet" tiara onto the glorious head of one Jane Hambleton, 48, of Fort Dodge, Iowa. It's been a long and fabulous run as "Meanest Mom", my darling subjects, but all good things must come to an end, and Mrs. Hambleton has proven herself to be more than amply capable of assuming the throne.

According to this CNN article, Mrs. Hambleton only made two rules when she purchased her 19-year-old son a 1999 Oldsmobile Intrigue: "No booze, and keep it locked."

When she found a bottle of alcohol under the seat, she decided that the best punishment would be to sell the car. She placed the following ad in the Des Moines Register:

"OLDS 1999 Intrigue. Totally uncool parents who obviously don't love teenage son, selling his car. Only driven for three weeks before snoopy mom who needs to get a life found booze under front seat. $3,700/offer. Call meanest mom on the planet."

So far, Jane has received 70 phone calls, the majority of which came, not from interested buyers, but from people wishing to converse with the planet's meanest mom. All of the calls have been supportive, including several from teachers, emergency room medical personnel, grateful fellow parents and school counselors.

In fairness, young Master Hambleton maintains that the booze wasn't his, but was left there by a friend, which Jane readily admits she believes completely, and which she apparently has ascertained (as would her "Meanest Mom" predecessor) that the argument is utterly moot -- "no booze" means "no booze," period. The lesson (in the words of my Texas granny, may she rest in peace): "Lie down with dogs, you'll more than likely get up with fleas."

So, here's to you, Jane Hambleton. My tiara is off to you. Hold your crown high, accept this bejeweled sceptor and take your walk down the runway before your subjects. May your reign as "Meanest Mom on the Planet" be every bit as rewarding as mine has been.

~C~

The Happiest of New Years to You All in 2008!!

Went to the most fun New Years party I've ever been to -- very small, but with a bunch of New York actors. We ate Chinese food, we drank almond champagne (a new fave), we watched some Luciano Pavarotti in his last concert from Central Park, we watched the ball drop in Times Square... hug, hug... kiss, kiss... nosh, nosh... nosh some more. So much fun....

Left the party totally wired at 3 am, got home and couldn't even think about getting to bed until 5. I was Eliza freakin' Doolittle. Got up this morning totally energized after only about four hours sleep, then went to Macaroni Grill with my daughter and her boyfriend. Lovely lunch, went to Target, spent money on DVDs on sale, and a new purse and wallet (desperately needed Christmas presents to myself), then came home.

Now, I'm going to toss one of my many new DVDs into the machine and wile away some time on this chilly, windy New Years Day, and spend the remaining alone time I have tidying the apartment and doing some purging of stuff.

If the year thus far has been any indication, 2008 is going to be a very good year. I go back into training for the triathlon this week, and am starting a new food plan tomorrow that I hope will whittle the ass down to some less cumbersome from running around the desert.

Here's to 2008. May you all find yourself on the path to your heart's desire.

XOXO

~C~

Graduation Day

Photographic evidence for you all that I did, in fact, actually graduate on Sunday. And I managed to walk across the stage in heels without tripping, which was good.

Also, note to self. The next time I graduate, I'm going to cut a nice little bang into my hair. I look like such a doofus in the morterboard, but Jillian, to my immediate left looks kind of darling with that little bang. So stylish....

Oh, well... spilt milk. It doesn't matter -- I got me a big new fancy MFA. Don't you love that new post-graduate degree smell? Mmmmm...

~C~

A Day of Victories

Yesterday, I had my final reading for my MFA. I read an excerpt from the first chapter of a novel I'm working on. It went well.

Savannah was there, along with a couple of good friends. I taught my class on Wednesday, and that also went well -- though I fell about ten minutes short of material. Thank God I had a talkative, question-askin' bunch of folks. I'm hoping my evaluations are merciful. Today, I go back for a few final things, the closing conversation, and then....

I'm done.

My list of things to do from here on out are as follows:

1. Buy shoes for graduation ceremony

2. Go to Santa Barbara tonight and watch a good friend's band.

3. Get up tomorrow and get to hotel where ceremony is being held.

4. Walk across stage to receive diploma without tripping or falling off new shoes.

Then, I will be a bearer of a post-graduate degree.

And tonight, my daughter told me that, when people asked her how I was doing, she told them I was great, that I was getting my MFA, that I was training for a triathlon, and that... wait for it... she was very, very proud of me.

(sniff, sniff) I'm fine. Anybody got a tissue?

Fairly happy here.... Just sayin'....

~C~

Tomorrow, It Begins... and Ends.

As you can see by the counter at the top of the blog, my MFA graduation is a mere ten days away. My final residency begins tomorrow. My manuscript is done (see photo at left), my paperwork is (mostly) done. I have my outline for my final lecture nearly done, though I need to sort out the wording for the writing assignment (which will, mercifully, eat up about 20 of the 50 minutes I'm supposed to lecture). I haven't decided on a final reading yet, but I have a lot of options, and I'll decide later.

Words cannot express my feelings right now. I am nearly done. I'm almost out of school. I've been working and going to school since 2003. I'm this close to getting a bit of my life and free time back.

Here is a little list of things I will be able to do, starting on December 17th:

• Read for pleasure (chick lit, anyone?)


• Write for pleasure (blog posts, anyone?)


• Play the Sims 2 and not feel guilty


• Resume my 3D digital art endeavors

And that's just a start. Of course, there is the part where I have to put together my CV and start looking for teaching jobs, so I can teach and write and not have to type contracts for spoiled, pampered, prima donna actresses anymore. There's that. But I can work it all in.

Oh, and for anybody out there considering going back to school and working fulltime, here are two things you need to stock up on before you attempt it. (See photo at right)
~C~

Finally... I'm published.

The newly minted MySpace lit journal, Nouveau Blank, has published one of my short stories, entitled Til We Come Round Right, for it's November issue. This could be the beginning of a trend -- where I actually make the effort to submit my work, and, occasionally, people actually take the time and trouble to publish it.

Hmmmm...

Enjoy.

~C~

IF THE BLOG FITS

As promised in yesterday's post, I tried to personalize my donation website provided by Team-in-Training, but it is pretty limited. It is still the place to go to donate, and it's set up well for that. But it doesn't allow me to whine to the desire I choose.

So I've created a new blog -- TriCathLete -- in which I will sob and cry my way through share the process of competing in the Toyota Desert Triathlon Sprint in April of 2008. It's still inventing itself. But I'll try and make this process as entertaining as possible, for both of us.

Check it out. Then wait a couple of weeks, and check it out again, when it's likely to be MUCH more interesting.

~C~

Taking One for the Team (In Training, That Is).

(Cross-posted at The Catharine Chronicles and MySpace)


No turning back now. I've started training for the Desert Triathlon Sprint event on April 20, 2008 in La Quinta, California. I am officially a member of the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society's Westside Team-in-Training, or, as my sister and her endurance sports friends call them, "The Purple People." TIT is the athletic event fundraising arm of the association (there are a couple of different fundraising methods LLS uses regularly).

LLS, in case you don't know, provides funding for research, treatment and support services for people suffering from blood cancers, including Hodgkin lymphoma, non-Hodgkin lymphoma, myeloma and leukemias. It is is a very worthy cause, and it is my goal to raise $3400 for LLS between now and the end of March. I have already donated $100 to my own cause (lest you think I'm not willing to put my money where my hamstrings are). $3,300 to go.

I will be training for the Sprint distance of the Triathlon -- that's a 450-meter swim, a 14-mile bike ride and a 5K run. It ends up being about half the distance of a full Olympic or International distance tri. I figured as a newbie, this would probably be the best way to break into it. I have discovered, though, that I actually enjoy training this hard in a lot of ways, that it's pretty good for me, especially emotionally, and that I may actually (do I dare allow myself to believe?) be kind of good at it. I won't be finishing first, by any stretch, but I will be finishing. I like cross-training a lot, and it seems to fit my ADD with a precision heretofore unknown in past athletic events.

This is my Team-in-Training website, (yes, I go by my middle name, Amanda) which I haven't really personalized much (except with a photo). I will be rewriting my little intro (as I'm sure many of you have already guessed) and will be posting better, more relevant photos ("see Catharine running," "see Catharine on bike," etc.) I will be also updating it in terms of my how my training is progressing ("see Catharine keel over," "see Catharine gasp for air, while simultaneously begging for her mommy," etc.) It is the means by which donations can be made, if you should feel so inclined. (I'll be nagging more about this later, because it's a noble cause and because, well, I happen to be a fairly annoying and tenacious person.)

So... tomorrow is our first team swim practice. I haven't done any serious swimming in a very long time. I hope I don't come off a total doofus. In fact, let's say a collective prayer together, shall we?

"Dear (insert relevant personal Higher Power here):

Please don't let Catharine look like a total doofus tomorrow when she swims on Thursday.

Kind regards.

Yours, sincerely,

(your name here)"

Thanks for your support.

~C~

Childish Things

"But when I was no longer a child, I put away childish things..." (1 Corinthians 13:11)

One of the good parts of being a grown-up is getting to be your own parent. Feel not taken care of? Feeling not cherished? Feeling unprotected and undefended? Feeling unappreciated and abandoned? You get to do that for yourself. You get to be the parent. To you.

My sister has spent nearly every waking hour cleaning, sorting, discarding, repacking for storage, in my father's house. I have gone in at the end to help her tie up loose ends, to sweep and Swiffer, to try and make the place at least somewhat presentable for showing to sell at the end of the year, when the probate court finally says it is our. Finishing the emptying of this house -- seeing it actually empty -- I find that there's a strange freedom in it. But a fear and unfamiliarity with the house has taken over that prompts a little bit of fear. It's not our house anymore. It has ceased to belong to us, or to anyone else. It will again, shortly before it's demolished to make room for a 4,000 square foot ranch style home, no doubt. But it's empty now, of all of its contents, as if it had been turned on its side and shaken clean.

No more negative energy coming from that dark, dark house, where I first moved when I was my daughter's age. The negative energy left in early July. I used to believe the house was haunted. Now I know it was. It was haunted by a sadness and terror so profound, so desperate that it permeated every corner of that house. It was my father's terror and sadness. I've come to see that his meanness and cruelty were really just outward manifestations of his fear of the world.

I believe that we all have demons. We all are haunted. We spend a good part of our youth hiding from our demons, whether it's through drugs, alcohol, workaholism, religious zealotry, daredevil stunts or nonstop partying. But our demons are not so easily fooled. They're looking for us. And, invariably, they find us. And how well or badly we handle being found, I think, is the crux of how we end up.

My father did not fair well when the demons finally caught up to him, I don't think. He became scared -- to work, to drive, to leave his house, to be in a group of people, to talk to strangers. When we were growing up, my father had that Texas talent of being able to get any group of strangers talking, to him and to each other -- even in elevators, where no one speaks, lest the mechanism snap and we all go plummeting to the ground. He made friends with everyone, everywhere. Gregarious, charming, funny, smart -- he could be the life of the party. He was still friends some forty years later with the couple that had the season ticket seats next to his at the Colliseum for Los Angeles Rams games (yes, you young sprites -- they started in L.A.)

But as he grew older, he let his age and his grey hair, his receding hairline and his fading youth take hold. He had some run-ins on the job with hotter, younger writers, directors and producers who made him feel as if he were washed up. This is all part of the strategy of this business, of course -- it's commonplace. He wasn't the only one, and plenty of other men his age and older had weathered that onslaught and given back as good as they'd gotten. But he let them break him down, make him mean and old and useless and used up before his time. And I think it was mostly his fear. My Dad was always a blusterer, but even as a child, I think I saw that he was also a fraidy-cat. The reason he talked to people in elevators is because he didn't feel safe being quiet amongst them. If he got them talking, he could get a gauge on where they stood, both logistically and emotionally.

He had a hard time reading people -- their energy, their affect. He was one of the most inappropriate people I've ever known. When he was young, with a facile, spry sense of humor, that lack of social editor could make him wickedly funny and irreverent. As he got older and slowed up, instead of simply changing his tack, learning what to say and what not to say and when, and altering the trajectory of his barbs to places less sensitive to the touch, he simply got vicious and harsh. He knew he was saying things that offended people, that hurt them, and though he tried not to show it, that bothered him. He was like a man in a foreign land who speaks little of the native language, and becomes angry at the indigenous peoples for their refusal to understand him.

Because I believe now, as I've never believed before, that my father really, really wanted people to like him. That was important to him in a way he could never admit. He wanted to be liked. More than that, he wanted to be adored. Maybe even wanted to be everybody's favorite. That's why acting was so important to him, I suppose, and such a disappointment when it didn't work out, and he had to turn to writing. Though he was good at it, maybe it wasn't the best profession for him. It's a solitary endeavor, and requires the doer to be willing to do a stint in isolation to get the job done. Alone with this thoughts was maybe the worst place he could be. It was probably hard for him, thinking of how social he used to be when we were small. But it got easier and easier for him, until one day, he went inside, and just never came out again. On many levels, both real and figurative.

Now, it's official. Jack Sowards has left the building. And, after thirty years of collecting every material thing he could get his hands on -- guns, photographs, books, magazines (some from the early 60s), memorabilia, broken furniture, various house vermin, roof leaks, televisions, computers, various parts of computers, software (mostly on 5 1/4" disks), LPs, CDs, VHSs, DVDs, a gaggle of functioning and non-functioning watches and lighters -- his house is now nearly emptied of its contents. Thirty years of nicotine stains have left the walls a deep caramel brown, with only occasional squares where a painting, picture or piece of furniture once stood to reveal the original color.

This is what's left of my father's life once it's been picked over and disassembled and transported. The house is empty. Not a ghost in sight. Just a badly dilapidated, uncared for house that was once quite a nice place to live. It is our inheritance. It is our legacy. It and the memory of the man who lived here is what we have left of that time. But that's okay. Most of those memories are painful ones for me. They're from my late adolescence -- the remnants of my childhood, I suppose. But I am no longer a child. And so, all that's left now -- now that my mother and father have both died -- is for me to be the parent.

It's time to put away childish things.

~C~


(cross-posted at MySpace)

MORPHINE AND CHOCOLATE

My father has been ill for quite some time. As many of you know, I moved in to his house to care for him for several months, until my sister took over those duties in February. He was suffering from chronic obstructive pulminary disease and amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (Lou Gehrig's Disease).

He finally let go early this morning. He went peacefully, with no pain. Penny was periodically spooning chocolate sorbet onto his tongue so he'd pass away with the taste of chocolate in his mouth.

Hence the title of this post.

Thanks to all of you who gave us your words of support and encouragement these very difficult past few weeks.

JACK BURKE SOWARDS
March 18, 1929 - July 8, 2007

~C~

Here's Something You Never Want to Hear Your Child Say To You Over the Phone.

"Okay, Mom... We went fishing today and... and... long story short... we now have... a goose."

First off, what d'ya mean "we," white man? Second... oh, hell, there is no second... What d'ya mean "we," white man?

They've named it Aflac. They're taking it to the Wildlife Center tomorrow, after it opens. (And that's an order, soldier!)

A goose, indeed... Goodnight, Mabel....

~C~

Stop the Presses!

An arts program in Los Angeles needs our support! Self Help Graphics and Arts, a program that supports Latinos artists in printmaking. The East L.A. arts center has felt the bite of reduced federal and private-sector grant money (since we have this great big war we have to pay for), and is on the verge of having to close its doors. Self Help is seeking alternate sources of grant money, but, as anyone who has applied for artistic or academic grants knows, this is a lengthy process that will require time -- time Self Help doesn't have at the moment.

One look at the samples of their past exhibits will tell you this is would be a huge loss for the arts in this city. Exhibits aside, take a gander at their building! With every passing year, art programs that aren't a part of the entertainment industry (live theatre, live dance, visual arts programs) are vanishing because conservative political forces conspire to syphon funds away from the NEA and local arts sponsors. Programs are being eliminated in our public schools and state-funded universities, and the people feeling this most acutely are people in economically challenged areas. Less grant money means less opportunity for struggling new artists who cannot afford to sponsor their own shows and display and promote their own work, especially in predominantly minority communities. Nothing marginalizes a community more than silencing its artistic voice.

Self Help's website speaks for itself, so I won't ramble on about it. They provide support for artists who might not otherwise find a venue for their work, and gives them the skills and opportunity to get that work shown publicly. That warrants saving. As someone who isn't a visual artist (but plays one on the computer), I ask you to do whatever you can to assist Self Help in reaching its $100K fundraising goal. I know that you guys are being pulled in a lot of directions, moneywise, but a lot of small gifts can go a long way.

Thanks.

~C~

The Television Fates Hate Me!

If I like it, it gets cancelled. That's one of Murphy's most indelible laws.

It's official. Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip is cancelled. I survived the West Wing's cancellation. After John Spencer died, and the show was going into its eighth season, Jed Bartlett was leaving the Oval Office, and Toby was on his way to the hoosegow for contempt of Congress, it seemed that the show had naturally run its course. The fact that I also lost Will and Grace (which I'd only just discovered a season and a half before) the same year was hard, but I don't blame myself for that one, since I was a 'Manda-Come-Lately. I've been spending the past five years in school, trying to finish my bachelor's and get my MFA, and I don't watch much television.

But I coped with losing the two smartest shows on television, secure in the knowledge that witty dialogue and smart characters (who do dumb things, which makes them interesting) would be back in the form of Studio 60. Now, that's gone. Where do I turn for my searing, sardonic dialogue, my witty banter, my deeply disturbed, multi-faceted characters who cover their pain with humor and crazy antics?

To make matters worse, since last year, I've lost my HBO, and wno't be able to watch the only other show I love beyond reason (and I mean, beyond reason, because, hey, it's a show about polygamy), Big Love. The season premieres June 11th. My only hope is to DVR it on my sister's set, and hope that I get a chance to stop by and watch it every week.

Don't tell anyone I watch Big Love. I shudder to think what will happen if the Fates perceive my obsession.

Below, a nowhere-near-complete list of my favorite shows cancelled unceremoniously (be aware that some of them were obsessions back when I was, like, fifteen or so):

Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip (Couldn't they at least show us the last episodes?
West Wing (Over? Sure, but I miss it all the same.)
Will & Grace (I have my reruns to keep me warm, tho')
Arrested Development
Kingdom Hospital (Odd? sure. Uneven? You betcha. But how can you not love a show where Christ --or is He? -- shows up strapped to a chainlink fence? That's some mighty fine television, dammit!)
Dead Like Me
Joan of Arcadia (I'll admit to bias here -- Joe Mantegna is a friend.)
My So-Called Life
Tour of Duty (they had it backwards -- the show should have lasted for 11 years -- they should have cancelled the war after three)
St. Elsewhere
Sunshine (God, I had it bad for Bill Mumy -- I was sixteen, gimme a break!)
Star Trek (the original series)

There are probably more, but this is all that came to memory right off the top of my head. I told someone the other day that I'm a television jonah. I'm cursed. I'm taking it personally (because when you stop and think about it, who's it all about?)

Damn.... damn, damn, damn....

~C~

Why an MFA? Sr. Catharine of Perpetual Cellphone Bills Explains It All For You.

As I get closer and closer to finishing my MFA, I have had a couple of people ask me why I bothered, since its not like you can't write without one. This is ever so true. People all over the world write beautifully without MFAs in Creative Writing. So why, indeed? Why should a writer spend over $30K to get a degree that won't necessarily make them a better writer*?

I wrote an essay over at Helium that explains my stance on this issue. Hope you enjoy it, and I hope it answers all your questions about this topic... so that I don't have to.

~C~

*For the record, I have absolutely no doubt that the MFA experience has made me a better, braver writer.

What YOU Write!

But enough about me and what I write. Let's talk about you, and what YOU write. Or what you might write, if you be courageous enough to pick up the soon-to-be-thrown-down gauntlet.

Every year on November 1st, tens of thousands of intrepid writers and writer-wannabes gather over at National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo.org) to undertake the Herculean task of writing a 50,000-word novel in a mere 30 days. Impossible, you say? Nay, say I, and so says NaNoWriMo's founder and yearly participant, Chris Baty. Baty founded the site in 1999 with only 21 writers, convinced that the biggest stumbling block novelists face when sitting down to write a first draft is the absence of a deadline. Baty refers to the deadline as the single most important tool in writing, next to the implement with which the writer applies the words to paper. In his FAQ section, Baty writes:

"NaNoWriMo is all about the magical power of deadlines. Give someone a goal and a goal-minded community and miracles are bound to happen. Pies will be eaten at amazing rates. Alfalfa will be harvested like never before. And novels will be written in a month."

And they are. In fact, Baty lists eleven novelists who've published novels that were birthed as NaNoWriMo projects. There are no awards given (except an icon, a certificate and the satisfaction of a deadline met). It's art strictly for art's sake, says Baty. At the end of it all, a writer is guaranteed nothing but a good headstart (or, more optimistically, a completed first draft) of a novel.

But wait, I hear you say! We can't wait until November to begin our writing adventures. And besides, we laugh in the face of expositional narrative prose! This is Hollywood, baby, and in this town it's all about the screenplay. Well, fret not, my starsmooching little friends. For now, there is a sister site to NaNoWriMo called ScriptFrenzy.org. And if you hussle on over there right this minute, you'll be in time to sign up to write a 20,000-word screenplay in 30 days in the month of June. The same rules apply to the screenplays as to the novels (with the exception that screenplays may be written by a partnership of two writers, whereas novels must be singularly authored).

Writing is a solitary business, and one of its downfalls is that a writer can fall victim to the oppressors that live inside her own head. The benefit of spending 30 days, twice a year, locked in mortal combat with a literary endeavor, and being in that boat with thousands of other fellow combatants similarly engaged, is that you have back-up, support and many voices of sanity that will bring you out of your head and back on the path to getting the words out. As my mentor, Rob Roberge, has said, "A first draft's job is to get written." That's all. Just get written. Because every writer knows that writing is rewriting, and you can't rewrite what has yet to be written.

So, my little spectators, it's time to get those feet wet in a safe, supportive atmosphere where you don't have to show anyone your work if you don't want, but will find a receptive audience if you do.

Let's see what you guys can write. C'mon, baby. You know you want it.

~C~

What I Wrote

I've been writing and posting some essays and a couple of fiction pieces on Helium.com. The above link takes you to my bio page, where all my pieces are listed. I'd love it if you guys would read them -- the greater the number of hits, the higher in the ratings I rise (and the greater the opportunity for me to get paid).

If you want to join Helium, I'd be beholden if you could e-mail and let me know, so I can send you an official invite. You don't need it to join, but, again, it helps if people I've invited to read end up joining.

Some of the non-fiction topics so far have been on the following:

When Dogs Raise Kittens
Don Imus
Virginia Tech shootings
How I rate Helium pieces
Why Did the Chicken Cross The Road

A couple of my fiction pieces have been posted as well:

Death of the American Western
The Gibson Girl

Anyway, as I post, I'll post a notice here, too. I'd be much obliged if you guys would pop over from time to time to take a look at my writings.

Thanks.

~C~

By Any Other Name

My friend, Shannon, sent me this "name game" e-mail, and, since she suggested I share it with a "few friends," I figured I'd just post it on the Naked Chicken and be done with it. Here are the names of all my personalities for your amusement (my comments in blue):

1.YOUR PORN STAR NAME: (first pet and current street name):

Duffy Lasaine (no... seriously)

2. YOUR MOVIE STAR NAME: (grandfather/grandmother on mother's side first name, favorite candy):

Helen Roca (I'm eating some right now!)

3. YOUR "FLY GIRL/GUY" NAME: (first initial of first name, first three letters of your last name)

C-Sow (oh, hell no!)

4. YOUR DETECTIVE NAME: (favorite animal, name of high school)

Cat Providence (I so want to do a series of novels now!)

5. YOUR OPPOSITE SEX NAME: (name of dad/mom, cell phone Company you use):

Jack Verizon (Can you hear me now?)

7. YOUR STAR WARS NAME: (daily prescription medicine, make of car)

Buproprion Hyundai (Clearly on the side of the Empire)

8. SOAP OPERA NAME: (middle name, street you grew up on):

Amanda Vanowen (note to self: Future nomme de plume)

9. YOUR FASHION DESIGNER NAME: (first word you see on your left, favorite restaurant)

Harper Marmalade (That's The House of Marmalade to you peons!)

10. YOUR KUNG FU NAME: (favorite mineral, favorite animal)

Obsidian Cat ("I must kill you now, Wong Lee, to avenge my family's death!")

So these are my names. I think this just about covers all the little people living inside me. Except for Edna, of course, but we rarely talk to or about her. That girl is NUTS!

~C~

Down With Daylight Saving Time

Admittedly, this early transition to DST has left me completely in a muddle. I usually have a hard time "springing forward" anyway, but this year, I've been late to work every day this week, and daylight saving time is to blame. I'm not sleepy when the clock says I should be, I'm not hungry when I'm supposed to be, my entire inner clock has been thrown out of whack.

In short, I have had it.

Why on earth do we insist on enduring such a ridiculous custom, first proposed in the late eighteenth century, prior to the invention of the artificial light source? What can we possibly hope to gain? Are you aware that the Clorox corporation petitioned to have DST extended because they are the parent company of Kingsford charcoal, the single biggest selling charcoal manufacturer in the country? Think they might have had an ulterior motive for extending daylight evening hours?

And before you go and blame the poor farmers (as my mother used to when we had to turn our clocks), you should know that this was NOT an appeasement of those hardworking, underappreciated folks who grow our food. Unlike the rest of us, farmers' lives are not dictated by a clock, but by a calendar, and by the natural sunlight. When the sun goes up, so does a farmer, who has a finite number of hours of daylight to get the work of the day done. Regardless of what the clock says, those hours are fewer in winter than in summer, and, barring a major shift in the Earth's orbital trajectory around the Sun, will likely remain so for a good long while. Farmers are equally as inconvenienced by DST as the rest of us, so don't lay the blame for this idiocy on their doorsteps.

No, no... we can thank the United States Department of Defense for this one. Not to delve too deeply into the history of it all, because I'm just so bored with it I could scream, the War Department instituted the time change during both World Wars to conserve energy by reducing the need for artificial light in summer. It was abandoned after WWI, but somehow managed to stick around in some places after WWII, until, in 1966, Congress passed the Uniform Time Act of 1966, making DST a matter of national policy. Nice to see that whole mess in Vietnam didn't keep them from deciding truly vital matters of national policy.

Last year, in an effort to do anythingbutANYTHING rather than deal with the genuine fustercluck going on in the White House and Iraq, Congress took time out of its busy day to increase DST by four weeks (three weeks earlier and one week later). Yet again, Congress turned its back on a killing, illegal, immoral war and allowed itself to be distracted by... what?... time? Morons!

Enough already. The website End Daylight Saving Time has a proposal which would make DST all year round, and illiminate all but two time zones, Eastern and Western. We'd all change our clocks once... just once... then leave them alone forever and ever. No more trying to figure out how many hours to add to the Central... or is it Mountain... time zone. East and West.

Get the government out of our bedrooms -- specifically, off of the nightstand. They need to pick a time -- any time -- and run with it. And they need to do it now, because the redhead is getting mighty cranky from loss of sleep!

~C~

It's Just Not Right!

It's too much. I can't stand idly by while such a travesty is allowed to continue. If I do, I'll be an accessory after the fact. It is only be speaking up, by voicing our dissent, by loudly railing against wickedness and wrong where we see it that we can truly combat the forces of evil. It is for this reason that I say, emphatically and with no reservation....

Raisins have absolutely no business being in bread stuffing.

I'm sorry to have to be so blunt and unaccommodating, but I feel strongly about this, and I have no intention of backing down.

There. I've taken a stand. I've said what I came here to say. I've spoken my piece. Do your worst.

~C~

My New Place

The Digs.

What it lacks in space, it makes up for in being reeeeally tiny.

But it is forcing me to be meticulous and judicious about culling and keeping.

And it's 100% cigarette smoke free!

Wah-hooooo....

~C~

Who Says There's Nothing Good On TV?

The Python Channel.

(broadcast in high definition and 3D)

Contact your local cable provider for details.

~C~

Back From My MFA Residency

I just spent ten glorious days as a writer. Not a legal secretary who manages to squeeze in writing when she has the time and energy, but a writer. Considered so by other writers. I did a reading of one of my short stories, workshopped some essays, and got some really amazing feedback.

I got the mentor I wanted (Rob Roberge), and my co-mentees are some of my very favorite people in the program. I have to spend some time on my long (25 pages) critical paper, but I have a topic about which I'm very enthusiastic, and I hope to use it as the basis for my final grad lecture that I'll be giving in December '07, as a condition of my graduation from the program.

I can't believe I only have a year left of this. I was once so anxious to get it over with, but now that people that I've gone through the program with are starting to graduate and leave, its becoming clear how much I'm going to miss this when its over. Ah, well... still two more project periods to go, so I'd best not be counting chickens before they hatch and then get eaten by coyotes (sorry... went to the dark side for a minute).

Good to be back. I've got a ticker up top that's counting the days until my next Residency, specifically so I don't have to.

~C~

Christopher S. Lister, Where Are You?

Listen, bucko. I've got three words for you.... CHANGE OF ADDRESS!!! Okay? Got it? I realize that being a lousy letter-writer comes with the mitochondrial DNA, but enough is enough, kiddo. We may not have been raised together, but I'm still your big sister, and I can kick your ass! (And I believe that there's a section in the Bill of Rights that gives me express permission to just that. I'll have to look it up.) Now, in my profile at the right, there's an e-mail address. I've checked. It's good.

Now, write me. Or I swear to God, I'll hunt you down and give you an Indian burn like you won't believe!!!!

Love,

Me

~C~

Goodbye, Old Friend

"I have studied many philosophers and many cats.

The wisdom of cats is infinitely superior."
- Hippolyte Taine -

Jerry
1997 - 2006

New Island Discovered in the South Pacific

I call "Dibs"!

~C~

We Interrupt This Blog to Bring You...

... a very important message.

Mary-Mia and Rod from Do They Have Salsa in China* are finally, definitely, really parents. They are pictured in the post by Mary-Mia's dad (happy grandpa) holding their 1-year-old twins, Rose and Marie (they're identical, so please don't ask who's who), and have already spent a near-sleepless night. I think they're already earning their chops.

Congratulations to M3 and Rod and their new (enormous) family. May their "trial-by-fire" be swift, fair and relatively painless.

~C~
__________
*Ending months of speculation, Mary-Mia was able to obtain these shocking photographs that prove, once and for all, that they actually do have salsa (and tacos, if you can believe) in China.

Beauty is Pain -- But It Doesn't Have to Be

Ever since Dove put photos of real, untouched, unairbrushed women's bodies on their posters a few years ago, I've watched with cautious optimism to see just exactly where their so-called "Campaign for Real Beauty" was going. I have watched other media try and tackle the monsters of our twisted American perception of beauty, and have sighed with disappointment as the attempts fizzled in the face of "Extreme Makeover" and "America's Next Top Model" (two of my favorite shows, I confess). The message usually ends up being diluted back into, "All you chicks really could stand to lose ten pounds, cuz you'd just be so much happier, and so would we."

But Dove has surprised me at every turn. The first was their decision to shift focus from grown women to the self-esteem of the American girl, aged 8 and upward. This moving ad actually appeared during this year's Super Bowl, and has run sporadically since, as the opening volley to help little girls learn to love themselves (as Bridget Jones would say) "just as they are." Later this year, the slightly more alarming, darker interview style ad where high school girls discuss the pressures and uncertainties they feel at the hands of their peers, was a more graphic, grittier display.

Now, YouTube is all abuzz with Dove's latest effort -- targeting females of all ages, called "Evolution" which graphically demonstrates a young woman's transmogrification from very pretty and freshly scrubbed to cover girl material, by virtue of hair, make-up and Photoshopping techniques.



Bravo to Dove for taking on our deeply ingrained, perverted ideas of what beauty means, and let's hope that their fund, which sends counsellors into schools to help coach young girls about more positive body images, keeps rolling along.

~C~

Who'd Have Ever Thought...

... that we'd see the day when it was actually better for us to eat a Big Mac, fries and a Coke than a salad?

Two words, man...

SUPERSIZE ME!!!

~C~

Friendly Landscapes

My friends, Valerie and Matthew, spent 18 months landscaping their backyard into a gorgeous little oasis in the midst of a San Fernando Valley suburb. You can watch it all for yourself (compressed into an amazingly deceptive 26 minutes) on this Wednesday's episode of Landscaper's Challenge on HGTV.com.

Watch it.

No, no.

You don't understand.

I'm not asking.

I'm telling.

Watch it.

Or else.

I know your secrets, and I will reveal them. All of them.

Don't make me prove it.

Have a nice day.

~C~

Mary-Mia's Twins Aren't the Only New Babies Around

Okay, so Rod and Mary-Mia have an adorable set of twin girls waiting for them in China. And, yes, we all agree they're pickin' adorable.

BUT! Not to be upstaged or outdone, their house is not the only one that has a new baby (or two) to brag about. We have a new baby in our house, too. And she's every bit as cute as the twins, PLUS... and this is a biggie... she has a tail! Can Mary-Mia's twins boast a tail? Surely not. Not one tail between the two of them. And what about whiskers, dammit. Any whiskers on those round, apple cheeks. I dare say not!

So, while the Chinese twins are, indeed, precious and bitable, in our house, we're preoccupied with our own little baby. She was found by Savannah and her friends, under a bush in a BMX park, screaming her lungs out and a little dusty, but otherwise no worse for wear. We suspect she's about five weeks old or so (her eyes are still very blue, and she's obviously new to solid food). As you can clearly see, at the moment, she could fit quite comfortably inside a No. 10 business-sized envelope.

She remains unnamed as yet, but we're still trying to get to know her. If you guys have any suggestions, please feel free suggest any names if you can think of them. We only just named another kitten a couple of months ago, and we're fresh out of fresh ideas.

~C~

A Big, Honking Congrats!

After a year and a half of waiting, stressing and doing unspeakable things with Mentos and Diet Coke, Mary-Mia and Rod over at Do They Have Salsa in China have finally received their adoption referral.

The Naked Voodoo Chicken is dancing up a storm to celebrate not one, but two gorgeous baby girls, Rose and Marie (middle names are kind of in a state of flux as yet). Here's to a speedy travel date and to having the little girls home before (or at least very close to) their first birthday, sometime in October.

The best of luck, Mary-Mia and Rod. I can't think of a better reason to lose sleep than these little cuties.

~C~

Motherhood: The Real Skinny

My friends know me. They love me for who I am. And my friends who know and love me know better than to expect me to sugar-coat my opinions, even for them. So my friends do not come to me if they want to be in denial. They come to me if they want the straight scoop. Because that's what I'm going to give them. I'm going to tell them things they might not want to hear, but that will do them a world of good in the long run.

I have a problem wiht how America markets stuff -- the Iraqi war, the current gas crunch, our political candidates, the Democratic party platform -- but, first and foremost, motherhood. You know what I mean. You've seen the commercials. You know which ones... those Johnsons Baby Lotion commercials with the mother all dressed in a flowing, white organza kaftan, whisking her impossibly adorable, clean, happy baby, clad only in a diaper, over her head, while the window sheers behind them billow with a heady Spring breeze and the cat looks on admiringly?

Forget it. In real life, a minute later, the baby spits up and her flowing white organza kaftan is splattered with pre-digested baby food and/or breast milk. I'm sorry. But that's the real story, and every mother reading this knows it.

Here are a few things that women who long to be mothers but aren't yet don't want to hear about motherhood from those of us who've been there:

1. It's really hard work.
2. The first two years are pretty much body effluent. From every possible orifice. After that, it's just them doing thing you really wish they wouldn't do.
3. You don't always like the kid.
4. The kid doesn't always like you.
5. The first two to three months are the hardest, least pleasant time.
6. Sex is never the same again.
7. Your partner will probably not be as much of a help as he has said he will -- mostly because he didn't know how hard it was going to be.
8. The kid doesn't alway look good and smell good.
9. There will come a moment at some point in the process -- perhaps even several moments -- when you will wish you'd rethought the decision to have unprotected sex -- even if the pregnancy was well-planned. Most of the time, this feeling passes quickly if left alone and ignored.
10. You are not June Cleaver. Your husband is not Bill Cosby. This isn't a sitcom. It isn't a diaper commercial. It's real life. Let it go, for God's sake.
11. Did I mention the "hard work" part?
12. You don't deserve to get anything out of the experience. It's not your childhood, it's the child's. You better take your pleasure in the giving and the growth and the progress of your child's childhood.
13. And while we're on the subject -- Giving birth to your child is not your birth experience. It's the baby's birth experience. Quit making it all about you. (I hate that American women prance around like they freakin' invented childbirth.)
14. The work is really hard.
15. No. I mean, really hard.

Motherhood is not an Olympic event. It isn't a pageant or a contest. Even more than the military, motherhood is the toughest job you'll ever love. Babies ruin your life. If you're ready for them, and you've wiped the freakin' stardust from your eyes so you can see real-life, they do it in the best possible way. But get this, and get it good. Remember that story that women-who-wanted-it-all always told us about the women in China giving birth in the beanfield, then going on picking beans as if it were nothing. Forget about it. You're not a Chinese beanfield picker. That life that you love, full of weekend getaways and blissful Sundays lolling in bed, pouring over the Calendar section of the LA Times? Gone. Dinner parties? Gone. Every journey out will be chaperoned by a tiny, bald person with appallingly bad manners. Goodbye, Ma Maison and House of Blues. Hello, Bob's Big Boy and House of Pancakes. And, bear in mind, won't you, that each journey with your new constant companion will approach a complexity something akin to a NASA launch.

"Diaper bag?"
"Check."
"Five changes of clothes?"
"Check."
"Baby wipes for the baby, and small, mini-bar sized bottles of hard liquor for us?"
"Check, and double check."

I believe that the current wave of post-partum depression is not just hormonal. It comes from this frilly, florid imagining of what we think our experience will be raising our children. Then this mysterious little larval creature arrives, and we have no idea who he or she is, or what he or she is thinking, or "for the love of God, what do you want from me?"

That's when the depression hits. We are the end of the boomer generation, after all. There's nothing we can't market for our own edification. We came in fully prepared to "reinvent" motherhood. No, sir. Motherhood is way too old and way too set in her ways to be reworked by the likes of you. You don't reinvent her, she reinvents you. Understand this, accept the changes that it makes in you -- your body, your mind, your relationship with your significant other, your priorities -- and your path will be filled with little adventures and casual surprises. You can't imagine the simple, commonplace miracle of arriving in the nursery in the morning to a beaming, slightly damp ten-month old who has pulled herself to a standing position and is so happy to see you that she's rocking from side to side in a celebratory little crib boogie. It will shock and amaze you how having someone spontaneously hug and kiss you because you helped them into a fresh diaper and a clean, dry t-shirt can utterly melt your heart. But mostly you can't imagine before you become a mother -- no matter how hard you try -- just how much you will love your child. As much as you think, in your present anticipation of motherhood, that you think you will love that child, it doesn't even come close to the real thing. "Love" is, in my belief, a pathetically inadequate word for the feeling a devoted mother has for her child. It's far too common to sum up the emotion.

And its that love that makes it all possible. The giving. The thanklessness (newborns rarely say thank-you after the 2 am feeding). The drudgery (diapers after strained squash -- 'nuff said there). The imposition on the relationship with Mr. Wonderful (and my wish for every woman is that he truly is Mr. Wonderful). Those little miracle moments when it suddenly occurs to you that you've contributed a strange, relentlessly independent human to the world, and no one could have done it the way you did -- those moments make you happy and at peace.

Motherhood may not always be easy, and it may not always be as pretty as commercials, movies, and television paint it, and you can rest assured you are going screw up more times than you get it right. But, big picture, its a blessing and a joy and if you cut yourself some slack, and don't buy into the bill of goods, you'll never be sorry you did it.

Now then. Isn't that better than the mass-marketed crap you get from pregnancy and women's magazines?

~C~

Join Us At the Buffet

Today's post is in Pink.... and nothing could be more appropriate. Best Available's Deirdre and I have conspired to bring the unbearable cuteness of toenails to the blogosphere.

Please, join us at the Buffet of Cuteness.

You won't be sorry. Well, you might be. But we won't... and that's the most important thing, isn't it.

~C~

The Worst of Times

The end of July and beginning of August are always difficult for me, but I always forget why until long after I've melted down. July 20th is the anniversary of my beloved godmother's death from lung cancer. July 23rd is her birthday. August 9th is the anniversary of my own mother's death, from a cerebral hemorrage in 1991.

Sometime around mid-July… like, say, the 17th or so, I begin to get a little edgy and unsoothable. No amount of anti-depressants helps. By the 19th or 20th, I'm fully on edge and ready for trouble. I spend the next two weeks in a state of mood fluxes and surges that last until sometime around mid-August, when it dawns on me why I'm getting this way, and I'm able to pull it all together.

This month, I figured it out by August 13th, after I'd experienced an emotional meltdown in the middle of Hollywood Cemetery after a screening of the movie "PSYCHO" (no, neither the locale nor the thriller were to blame). I won't delve into the immediate causes, except to say that they surrounded the current stress I'm experiencing in my home life involving family and physical and mental deterioration (only partially my own).

Usually, though I complain a lot about it, I manage to handle the emotional upset of the situation I'm in quite well. Saturday night, standing in the cemetery, I simply fell apart. I did NOT want to go home. I did NOT want to deal with anything any more. I did NOT want to keep doing this caregiver thing.

Sunday, a quiet day of cleaning, grocery shopping and reflection, I realized why. I want my mommies. I want at least one of my mommies, preferably my godmother, Linny, who was infinitely wise about human beings and their weird-assed behavior, and had the patience of a saint. I need her now. I need her ability to be loving and kind in the face of hostility and anger.

I hate that she died so young (three days short of her 65th birthday), when we all thought she'd live to a ripe old age. I hate that she never got a chance to fight her cancer, because secondary physical complications from the disease and chemo kicked her ass too soon.

But more than that, and this is the part that's really kind of sinister and makes me disappointed in myself, I think I'm resentful that now, when I need mothering the most, the one person -- Linny -- who proved up to the task, has taken a cosmic powder (not her choice, I realize, but still... grrrrr....). I suppose this is just something I'm meant to figure out on my own. I suppose that all the answers to my pointless questions would be just as pointless if I got them (which I won't).

Still, knowing that this time of year is difficult for me, knowing that I'm a little emotionally raw, I have to remember that next year, so that I'm not so knocked for a loop. I wonder where I'll be next year. Another pointless question. Today is what I have to work with, so I guess I'd better get cracking.

But here's a little toast with Newman's Own Lightly Sparkling Lemonade to Linny, whose love -- I'm going to have to assume -- has given me the strength to get through this with my spirit intact.

}( clink ){

~C~

We Didn't Start the Fire

Ever heard of Catherine Sanderson? No? Me, neither. That's her picture on the right. Recognize her now? Yeah, neither do I. I sincerely doubt that Ms. Sanderson's own mother could make a positive ID from this photo, but for now, we'll let that go. According to this CNN.com article, Ms. Sanderson was recently given the sack from her administrative clerical job at the Paris office of conservative British accounting firm Dixon Wilson when her bosses discovered she was the blogger behind "La Petite Anglaise."

Though Ms. Sanderson identified neither herself, nor the firm, about which she wrote occasionally unflattering things, she was terminated for what Dixon Wilson called "gross misconduct." They told her that, by keeping the online diary of her daily experiences at the firm, she was potentially exposing the company to defamatory and damaging publicity. Ms. Sanderson disagrees, and is suing Dixon Wilson for two years' wages (the equivalent of roughly $98000).

I wish her luck, as I'm afraid that the days when executives could keep their bad, unseemly behavior, which they seem to save especially for their underlings, a secret. As long as an employee refrains from revealing actually company secrets, I think he or she should be perfectly free to write whatever they want, in the same way that journalists can chronicle their adventures, as long as they follow basic journalistic rules of truth, nonmalicious discretion and respect for the privacy of the nonfamous. It doesn't appear, given the CNN article, that Ms. Sanderson did much more than ruffle some twead-clad male egos. Many of her posts are personally driven -- about her life as a single mother, recently separated from her French lover, and raising her young daughter, whom she calls "Tadpole" in the blog. Her blogging about work seems to be particularly self-referential -- in the selected posts I perused, she doesn't seem to to intentionally set out to "out" negative executive behavior, short of how it affected her personally. Just the way a good online diary should be, actually. Everybody has a pseudonym, nobody is described too fully, except by their actions. All pretty clandestine, actually. I daresay, given the publicity generated by her firing and subsequent litigation, the disgruntled executives seem to have drawn more attention to themselves by firing her than they might have by giving her a stern warning and letting her appeal to her 3,000 regular readers. I guarantee you more than 3,000 people read the CNN article, and that those personally familiar with the executive line-up at Dixon Wilson know precisely who had the "plumby Oxford accent" and who the boss was who committed the "unforgivable faux pas" of releasing a Christmas popper before a higher-up.

Ms. Sanderson's plight does, however, reveal an interesting side of what we do here on a regular basis. I have written about work and work-related problems, both here and on the Chron. Sometimes, the things I've said have not been flattering. Could I be let go for the things I've written? I have never named names, nor been too overly specific about issues that roil up at work. But I've bitched about them, certainly. There are others, like Deirdre of Best Available, who have blogs specifically devoted to certain professions (which I would too, if I actually had an interesting profession. See? There I go again!). Deirdre's revolves around being a VFX coordinator. For those of you who don't know what that is, you'll have to click the link (when you're done here that is) to find out. For now, though, trust me. It's a cool gig.

Deirdre is very circumspect about where she works and with whom she consorts, and sticks primarily to discussing the ins and outs of the visual fx biz. But occasionally, even Deirdre has a rant... okay, more than occasionally -- and usually justificably. But since she's anonymous and she has revealed nothing personal about herself, do her rants count as being "defamatory?" I'm a fairly open blogger, in fact. But could my occasional blog blabs be considered "gross misconduct?"

Granted there's a world of difference between the movie industry and the world of high finance. It's a little difficult to fire me for gross miconduct when they're busy courting Roman Polanski, the convicted child rapist, to direct their next film. (I mean, what's a little under-aged sex between top level male movie mavens?) Still, it seems ironic that Ms. Sanderson should be punished for NOT saying who she is, where she works, and with whom. I wonder how a French civil court will find on the issue. You can never tell how they're going to go.

So, the best of luck to one of our own, who is still up and blogging (last I looked). Stop by and push her hit counter through the roof and show those stuffed shirts who's boss. Stick to The Man (or, more appropriately, L'Homme).

~C~

Tradition? You betcha.

My former musical theatre director's husband sent me this today... (thanks, Matt).

Never let it be said that the Japanese can't dance a mean Horah.



(For the record, I think they're actually quite good, especially since it appears that this is only a rehearsal.)

And... by the way.... What DON'T we love about YouTube.com, I ask you?

~C~

Spatulas in Space

Is it just me, or is this of some concern? I mean, what if beings from another galaxy -- with higher intelligence than ours, but with heads shaped like a stack of flapjacks -- should happen across our lost spatula? What if they completely misunderstand that the spatula on this planet is a universally peaceful implement, signifying love, brotherhood and chicken quesadillas? What if they misinterpret the existence of our spatula in space as a challenge -- a gauntlet, if you will -- to be taken up and volleyed back at us, in the first salvo of a cataclysmic intergallactic war.

Oh, sure... mock me if you dare, but mark my words. The careless act of losing a spatula in space could be nothing more than a blip in a footnote in the annals of this space mission. Or, it could be the beginning of the end of humanity as we know it.

Or... maybe its just me.

~C~

The Hands We're Dealt

When my father was at home, working on a big project with an imminent deadline, he would occasionally stop to relieve his stress and freshen his mind with a game or two of computer solitaire. Every now and then, I would catch a glimpse over his shoulder and I began to notice a pattern. If the hand that the computer dealt was particularly lop-sided -- three of a kind, too much of one color, too many high value or face cards -- he would simply click the "New Game" button and start with a fresh deal. I asked him once why he did this.

"Because that kind of game is impossible to beat," came his reply. "What's the point of even starting it if you're probably going to lose?"

But that simply wasn't true, and I knew it. In my illustrious solitaire career, I have won many games that seemed to start as lost causes. Three of a kind would pop up, and I'd have to be really careful as to how I played them and what I sent to the suit stacks. The thing about solitaire is that winning is more about dealing with what you don't know than what you do. The up-facing cards are right there; you can see where you stand with them. They weren't going to get any better or worse than they already had. But the unrevealed cards on the board and in the draw stack -- those were the ones you had to count on. They had to arrive in a certain order, have a certain number, be a certain color, and be the right value.

A lot of times, when you got a bad deal on the first hand, you lost. But sometimes, even if the first hand gave you what seem like insurmountable obstacles, you managed, through fate and perseverance to beat it anyway. Those were moments when you figured you'd lose, but you played the hand because that was what was in front of you, and you had to play it -- probably lose it -- then move on to the next.

I was at his computer once, using one of his programs, when I decided to take my own "mental health break." As I was playing, it was my father's turn to watch over my shoulder as three 7s dealt out. It drove him nuts that I wouldn't just hit "New Game" when the situation looked hopeless. I kept playing as long as there was a move. Click, move, click, click, move, move, click, move. Until at last, I had put the last King into the last suit stack. The little suit stacks went wild, and the cards danced triumphantly across the computer screen. I had won. I had conquered impossible odds. I had snatched victory from the jaws of… well, you get the idea.

All of which is a long, roundabout way of saying that you have two different people, with two wildly different ideas of how to approach a seemingly "no win" situation. One bumps up against an obstacle, throws up his hands and hits "New Game". The other looks at the situation, assesses it and plays the cards that are dealt.

Because in Life, there is no "New Game." In Life, you get what you get, and you can either sit in the chair and mope about it, or you can play the cards that are dealt you to the best of your ability, until you have no more moves left. Then and only then is the game over.

I've told this story for years now. It used to be a little story I told about my father's peculiar solitaire habits. But more and more lately, it seems that solitaire is really beside the point.

~C~

No Time To Say "Hello." Goodbye.

I'm late, I'm late, I'm late.

(See you when I get back.)

~C~

Discovering Rilke

I have been exploring poetry lately, mostly on PoemHunter.com. This week's poet is Rainer Maria Rilke. I thought this was especially poignant in light of Memorial Day.

Again And Again

Again and again, however we know the landscape of love
and the little churchyard there, with its sorrowing names,
and the frighteningly silent abyss into which the others
fall: again and again the two of us walk out together
under the ancient trees, lie down again and again
among the flowers, face to face with the sky.

(Translated by Stephen Mitchell)

Rainer Maria Rilke

~C~

Anniversary Gift

I was halfway through May 16th, and suddenly it hit me. Yesterday would have been my 19th wedding anniversary. Nineteen years ago, I did something amazingly brave and courageous, or apocolytically stupid and ill-advised (depending upon your vantage point) and married a man I'd known less than a year. And by "less than a year," I mean half a year less than a year.

I was 27 at the time, and I wish I could tell you that I didn't know better. But I did. I knew it wasn't a good idea. I knew it would be difficult. I knew we didn't know each other well enough. But I was certain that what I thought was love would be enough to carry us through.

It wasn't.

It is the height of youthful arrogance to think that you have the resilience to withstand a knowingly bad relationship choice for the rest of your life, without it damaging you in psychological and emotional ways. No one does. No one gets out of an ill-conceived relationship without being scarred for life.

I was talking to my friend, Deirdre, just today, in fact, about the 80's. Deirdre isn't a big fan of the 80s. She's on location in... uhh... New Dehli... (yeah, that's the ticket), and she and I have taken to IMing between the time she gets back to her hotel and the time she goes to sleep. Television in... uhh... New Dehli... leaves a bit to be desired, especially at night, so she was subjected to having to watch Pretty in Pink while we were chatting on AIM. Between Molly Ringwald (one of my LEAST favorite parts of the 80s) and Jon "Ducky" Cryer's Flock of Seagulls haircut, Deirdre was puzzled when I told her I loved the 80s.

"What's to love?" she asked.

"I loved everything about the 80s. Torn t-shirts. Dancing welders. My stomach was flat. My ass was small. I loved the music. Then, I got married. And that pretty much sucked the joy out of everything."

(It bears noting -- not to out Deirdre or anything -- that she was in a fairly lackluster marriage herself during most of the 80s, which could explain her aversion to the entire decade. I have no direct clinical proof. My theory is based solely on anecdotal data.)

My marriage, which, like all marriages do, began on such a happy, hopeful note, quickly deteriorated into one person trying to recreate his birth family, and another trying to resist this with all of her might. What began as a sweet, optimistic, ambitious experiment to start a fresh, new family ended with two angry people who never really knew each other trying to find a way to part without damaging their toddler beyond repair.

Sad, really. I just wanted to start a family -- not replay someone else's. He just wanted to be the head of the house that he grew up in.

I was so sure we'd straightened it all out. I was so sure I knew what he wanted and what would make him happy. He was probably just as sure that if I could only succumb and let him build the family unit he wanted, I'd be happy, too. Of course, we were both wrong. I didn't realize that it wasn't my job to make him happy, and he didn't realize that trying to recreate his family was a futile (though common) effort.

Cross purposes....

So, I live alone, and he is remarried to someone who better suits his idea of family (though he is, at present, not speaking to his parents). Its better this way. Truly.

But I do wonder if I have it in me to make something different. Something better. Maybe the key is choosing a man who, like myself, has no discernible family model (single mother, disinterested absentee father). Or maybe I need to find someone who is mature enough to realize that every relationship wipes the slate clean. The only thing you should be bringing from the past into the present are lessons that make you kinder, more compassionate, a better listener, a better partner, a better lover. Anything from past relationships about the other person -- whether they abused you, lied to you, cheated on you, stole from you or snorted cocaine off your grandma's heirloom marble-top dresser -- is useless in this relationship and should be jettisoned at once.

So it wasn't a total loss, my marriage. It gave me some insights. It gave me my daughter. And it gave me the appreciation for holding fast to who I am as a person and not allowing myself to get lost in someone else's vision.

So, Happy UnWedding Anniversary to me. May I live to have 50 more....

~C~

Math and Art (Again!)

Somebody's been playing in the 3D again!

Where Math and Art Collide

~C~

Sometimes, Things Just Go Right

This week, somebody got a new computer at work, and a new coffee mug from WaiterRant (and two nifty free WaiterRant ballpoint pens to boot).

Who could that be, I wonder? Who could the lucky person be who got all those wonderful things?

Oh yeah.

Me.

(Life is good. Very good.)

~C~

When a Door Closes...

... a negotiation opens...

It seems that there could be a bigger future for Chris Daughtry than winning American Idol could ever have afforded him. Apparently, since lead singer Brett Scallion left the band, Fuel, the boys have been looking for his replacement. Daughtry's rendition of "Hemorrhage" didn't go unnoticed among the band's remaining members. They tested the waters back then to see if Daughtry might be interested in taking Scallions' place.

Now that Daughtry has left Idol, the offer was made, publicly and in earnest, when Fuel bandmates Jeff Abercrombie and Carl Bell appeared on "Extra" and made Daughtry another pitch to join the band.

Daughtry has also expressed interest in launching a solo career, and his wife, Deanna has said she's not even sure which road Daughtry will pursue. Let's face it -- the guy's exhausted. The schedule for performing in the last legs of the American Idol competition are grueling, and no one can expect Daughtry to make career decisions that affect the rest of his life -- at least, not until Sunday.

If I had a say in the decision (and frankly, I'm stunned that he hasn't called me to ask), I'd tell him to take the Fuel gig and wipe the stain of American Idol off his little bald rocker head. Then, he can launch a solo career after the band falls apart (because, don't they always?).

Well, now that that's settled.... We can all get on with our lives.

(Psst... Chris... call me before you sign anything!!!)

~C~

America Voted And...

... proved once again that the same people who voted to make George W. Bush their president -- not once, but twice, mind you -- can't even be trusted with a simple phone-in vote for American Idol.

Idiots. I'm surrounded by idiots!

The producers have voted, and Taylor Hicks is your next American Idol (though you deserve no better than that damp washcloth, Elliot Yamin, you mealy-mouthed, lilly-livered Americans!) Just when I thought I was being too harsh on my own countrymen for wanting to go and live in England after the 2004 elections, this happens and reinforces my desire to expatriate. I'm ashamed to be seen with you, you descendants of English and German religious exiles, you! You shallow cretins who have let yourselves become so steeped in mediocrity that you don't know talent when you see it! You sorry examples of cultural bereftment!*

Go home, Chris. Get some sleep. Play with your kids. Make love to your wife. Then go cut a CD. I'll be the first one in line.

~C~

*Okay, I'll grant you -- that one may be a little like the pot calling the kettle black, since I'm admitting that I actually watch American Idol. Or, more accurately, "watched," since the show has officially been permanently banned from my house for all eternity. You think I'm kidding. You don't know me. Never. Ever. Again. Ever.

What God Hath Wrought

Today is the 18th anniversary of the day when I stopped worshipping at the Altar of the Self. It's been a bumpy road, but more than worth it. I wrote about it (complete with Pictures!) on The Chron.

Happy Birthday, kid....

~Mom~

Some Folks Just Don't Understand the Meaning of "No Vacancies"

For an apartment building that's about to be torn down in a few months, my apartment building is a pretty popular place. My on-site manager actually rented the last three apartments with the full disclosure that there would be no lease, and that the plans were already in the works to tear the building down and build condos or other apartments, probably by the end of the summer. They rented anyway. So the sign outside our apartment building says, quite clearly and unambiguously, "No Vacancies."

For the last two weeks though, we've had a couple of new tenants who've decided that signs in big red letters just don't apply to them. It's not the first time that we've gotten a duck coming to roost in our heart-shaped swimming pool. Five years ago, a mother (possibly this sexy thing) roosted for nearly two weeks at the end of April with her three ducklings. Last year, another duck (again, the same femme fatale?) showed up with not one, but two drakes in tow, vying for her favors.

And this year -- our last here in the complex, sadly -- we are treated to this couple who come and go every few days, perhaps to escape the crowded filthy nearby Lake Balboa. Perhaps they've just decided that, since the management company has seen fit to lock down the pool until we're all cast out on the street, somebody should be using the fabulous heart-shaped pool. Perhaps they're on their honeymoon, and snapping pictures of them is in really poor taste.

Whatever brings them here, seeing them floating leisurely along the blue surface makes me happy. When you think of all the things I could walk out of my front door to see (I refer you to Mary-Mia's post on Do They Have Salsa in China? regarding the wildlife that landed in her backyard not so very long ago), seeing a couple of pretty ducks, cruising along the top of the water, enjoying each other's company is kind of a treat.

Ah, Spring....

~C~

Kitten Mommy Report: Small Victories

Here we are, Day 12 into Life as Kitten Mommy....

Big Cat has decided that Kitten was not brought here to eat him. He will now tolerate her presence in his immediate vicinity without growling and hissing. I have allowed Kitten to hang outside the bathroom during the day when I'm at work, but I suspect that they each go into a bedroom and sleep most of the day, because life doesn't seem to start until Kitten Mommy returns home and wants some peace and quiet. Then, all manner of feline feels the need to bounce hysterically off the walls and hang from the proverbial rafters.

I can report progress in a two areas. First, as you can see at the picture on the right, I have managed to get them eating in the same general area. This is a considerable "win" -- while Big Cat thought Kitten might eat him, he wouldn't put his head down to eat. Hunger eventually won out, and I suppose that, faced with the prospect of being eaten by Kitten or starving to death, it became necessary to take some risks.

The other area where we have achieved a small victory is in the "play" department. Kitten has her work cut out for her. I'm told that when he was adopted as a baby, Big Cat (then not nearly so big as now) was beset upon by his sister, who was adopted with him, and attacked by her nearly daily. Is it any wonder that the sight of another very small cat-like being with an enormous head and poor fine motor movement might raise an alarm in him? It all becomes clearer. Big Cat put his guard up very early in his young life, and it's stayed there ever since. He has forgotten the fine art of "play."

Kitten's task at hand is to reteach Big Cat how to play. Then she will have a playmate all day at her disposal (did I mention the world is her oyster? right... ), even when I'm at work. She seems to understand this, because she pursues Big Cat relentlessly, batting at his tail, stalking him, peaking and poking at him from under the dust ruffle of my bed. She runs at him, and leaps up in a posture of attack, then falls to the ground on her back in a thoroughly submissive posture... "I've got you... No... Now, you've got me! Oh, clever you!!" Of course, Big Cat just sits motionless, like a basque cat statue, watching her as if she is a total idiot. (Which she kind of would be, if she weren't so pickin' cute!!!)

But every once in a while, he will reach out at her, almost as if her spell is more than he can conquer, and bat at her gently, then realize what he's doing, and stop himself. Two days ago, Kitten and I were in the bathroom (she helps me blow dry my hair every morning -- an activity which both concerns and perplexes her, yet fascinates her as well), and when I came out, I caught Big Cat red-handed playing a rousing game of mylar crunchie ball soccer on the kitchen floor by himself. He's batted at things before, but he's never actually indulged in a raucous, slide-across-the-kitchen-floor, risk-looking-like-a-fool free-for-all.

Kitten is having the effect I'd hoped she'd have on Big Cat. She's reteaching him to play. She's awakening his inner-Kitten. Soon, I hope, they will be playing together like two kittens in a litter, and Big Cat will get another crack at a happy childhood. I think everyone deserves that, no matter how old they are.

~C~

Things That One Forgets About Being a Kitten Mommy

Well, after five days now, Mizz Thang is fully ensconced. Big Cat still hates her guts, but while she runs around the entire house, playing with mylar crunchie balls and plastic milk jug rings, he cowers on a chair and wishes we'd call the exterminator. They were actually nose-to-nose this morning, though he growled and hissed his way through the entire encounter. He did bat at her once, claws in, when she got a little too close to his chair -- the world being her oyster and all....

They'll get over it. I hope.

He'd better get over it, because I'm head over heels in love and she's not going anywhere. It's been about twenty years since I had a kitten in my house and there are things you forget when you bring them home, half-baked.

Here are some of the things that I've re-learned in the five days since becoming a new Kitten Mommy:

1. Morning mylar crunchy ball soccer on the kitchen linoleum (both kitten and ball slide so effortlessly).
2. Learning how to master retractable claws (they go out so much easier than they go in)
3. Sideways crab walking (apparently, an effective defense against predators -- who knew?)
4. Sudden, uncontrollable desire to sleep in odd positions (the kitten, not me... although....)
5. Kitten Axiom No. 27: "The exact spot on which Kitten Mommy walks must be the very best spot or she wouldn't walk there. I will put myself right where she walks, when she walks, then I will be in the best spot, too." (Oddly, all danger aside, I find it difficult to fault this logic since it seems purely subjective.)
6. Cuddle time... very important... sacred, in fact. (We've played. We've eaten. We're not quite sleepy yet. Must cuddle. Now. I said, NOW!)
7. Kitten Axiom No. 13: "Kitten Mommy makes very funny noises when we climb her jeans leg, claws out (see No. 2)."

These are the things that come to mind right off the bat. I'm hoping Big Cat comes round. He's such a bitter, bitter pill. I don't care if he is never friends with her. I don't care if he ignores her (though she may have some very serious opinions on that point). He just can't be mean to her. That's all I ask. So far, I've just sort of stood back and let them work it out, ready to jump in should he lose his kitty mind. I think that's the best tack to take -- let them work it out, with supervision, keeping them separate otherwise.

It's only been five days, after all.

~C~

Bright, Shiny Blog

I have had a blog I created impulsively, because (much like this one), I wanted to hold on to the name. I finally decided I wanted it to be a book blog, where I can write about what I'm reading, and how I like it, and what I think of reading and writing in general.

It's called Reserve Esoteric. It has three posts on it already, the self-titled first of which (March 24th) explains the origins of the name.

It's just a spot to single out my reading and writing life a bit, since I rarely share those things here or on the Chron.

~C~