She monopolizes conversations.
I mean, she rolls right over the whole table, leaving none of the others an opening.
They resort to using sign language for "Pass me the butter?" and she sees what they're doing, and she knows she needs to reign it in.
But the joy of telling a story keeps her going and yes her friends are nodding, yes they are listening, and as they chew their way through lunch, two of them are wiping tears from their eyes.
Afterward, in the parking lot, she apologizes profusely for "doing it again" and looks utterly embarrassed, because this is the same promise she made last time.
Her oldest friend pats her on the back and asks: "Same time, next week?"
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Pulling the hermit card
March is swirling down the tubes, or the pipes, or wherever it is that fast-moving ungrasped things get sent.
The tail end of winter, and stir-crazed homo sapiens are renewing social ties.
Hoards of humans, suddenly social, insisting we all come out and play.
Yeah, how about maybe, I just say No!
I don't want to have lunch with a pack of hyenas.
The sun is too bright, and your laughs are too loud.
The tail end of winter, and stir-crazed homo sapiens are renewing social ties.
Hoards of humans, suddenly social, insisting we all come out and play.
Yeah, how about maybe, I just say No!
I don't want to have lunch with a pack of hyenas.
The sun is too bright, and your laughs are too loud.
Birthday Card, Postmarked March 24, 2011
Lawrence Ferlinghetti is ninety-two years old today.
Are you surprised?
Yes, I admit I was totally not expecting that, but hey, it's a kick in the pants, isn't it?
Does it make you feel like maybe it's a good thing to be playing with words, shaping them into sentences, and that maybe that's as good for your health as taking all of your B vitamins?
Happy Birthday, Lawrence!
I hope you woke up this morning, looked in the mirror and grinned, "Happy Birthday, you Living Legend, You!"
Are you surprised?
Yes, I admit I was totally not expecting that, but hey, it's a kick in the pants, isn't it?
Does it make you feel like maybe it's a good thing to be playing with words, shaping them into sentences, and that maybe that's as good for your health as taking all of your B vitamins?
Happy Birthday, Lawrence!
I hope you woke up this morning, looked in the mirror and grinned, "Happy Birthday, you Living Legend, You!"
U.S. Male
"You care MORE about that mail than the people who mailed it!"
She was going through a stacker of letters – ones which the automated sorting machine had tossed out at the very end of the line, sending them spinning down a chute and into the reject stacker.
She held a black Sharpie marker in her hand, and was using it to cross out incorrect bar codes.
The young man insulting her stood at the end of her machine, watched her for a minute, then shook his head and walked away.
Slamming the envelopes into a mail tray, she looked up and watched the back side of him push a large, heavy cage of mail down the length of the corridor.
Her hand squeezed the marker so hard, its cap flew off.
* * * * * *
"Come on now, Lady, you're holding me up; just give me those trays of mail, so I can go on break!"
"Go on break then, who's stopping you?"
He ripped the baseball cap off his surprising, strawberry blond hair, ran his hand through the thick, tight buzzcut and then suddenly aware of what he was doing, smacked the hat back on his head, and blurted: "I can't go anywhere until I get this cage of mail on the 5:30 truck!"
The two of them glared at each other, and then finally, it burst, and she heard herself yelling, "Go Fuck Yourself!" and realized in one swift instant that she would probably now get fired because the U.S. Postal Service has a zero tolerance policy when it comes to swearing at fellow employees and as her hand flew up to cover her mouth, the young man took a long, hard look at her, probably for the first time ever, threw his head back and laughed.
"Oh my God," he said, when his laughing slowed down and he wiped his eyes.
"Wow!" she replied, suddenly aware that he was not the least bit offended, her job was safe, and something between them had very much changed.
She was going through a stacker of letters – ones which the automated sorting machine had tossed out at the very end of the line, sending them spinning down a chute and into the reject stacker.
She held a black Sharpie marker in her hand, and was using it to cross out incorrect bar codes.
The young man insulting her stood at the end of her machine, watched her for a minute, then shook his head and walked away.
Slamming the envelopes into a mail tray, she looked up and watched the back side of him push a large, heavy cage of mail down the length of the corridor.
Her hand squeezed the marker so hard, its cap flew off.
* * * * * *
"Come on now, Lady, you're holding me up; just give me those trays of mail, so I can go on break!"
"Go on break then, who's stopping you?"
He ripped the baseball cap off his surprising, strawberry blond hair, ran his hand through the thick, tight buzzcut and then suddenly aware of what he was doing, smacked the hat back on his head, and blurted: "I can't go anywhere until I get this cage of mail on the 5:30 truck!"
The two of them glared at each other, and then finally, it burst, and she heard herself yelling, "Go Fuck Yourself!" and realized in one swift instant that she would probably now get fired because the U.S. Postal Service has a zero tolerance policy when it comes to swearing at fellow employees and as her hand flew up to cover her mouth, the young man took a long, hard look at her, probably for the first time ever, threw his head back and laughed.
"Oh my God," he said, when his laughing slowed down and he wiped his eyes.
"Wow!" she replied, suddenly aware that he was not the least bit offended, her job was safe, and something between them had very much changed.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
The Butterfly Lady
A neighbor of ours recently decided that she wants to move to Vermont and has applied for admittance at a housing complex which "keeps an eye" on its residents, most of whom are over the age of seventy.
In filling out the application, she listed my husband as a reference and then proceeded to call us on the phone, four times last week, to review the things that she wants him to say.
"And in the part where they ask if I was ever a nuisance, or a menace, and did I ever cause trouble in the neighborhood, I want you to write, 'No'!"
Resisting the urge to tease her, even slightly, because Matilda's sense of humor seems to have flown out the window, somewhere back in the nineties when her oldest son died, my husband assured her he'd fill the form out correctly and that everything would be fine.
After hanging up the phone he turned to me and said, "Lucky for her they don't ask whether she'll dig up the front lawn and replant it with swamp milkweed because 'that's what the monarch butterflies like' and because she loves it when yards have that 'wild and wonderful look'.
And hopefully the social worker, or whoever it is who looks in on the residents won't be taken aback when he sees a hundred or more butterfly chrysalises hatching in her bathroom, and her hallway, and the kitchen, and the living room, but hey there's no question on the form about any of that, so I think we're good!"
In filling out the application, she listed my husband as a reference and then proceeded to call us on the phone, four times last week, to review the things that she wants him to say.
"And in the part where they ask if I was ever a nuisance, or a menace, and did I ever cause trouble in the neighborhood, I want you to write, 'No'!"
Resisting the urge to tease her, even slightly, because Matilda's sense of humor seems to have flown out the window, somewhere back in the nineties when her oldest son died, my husband assured her he'd fill the form out correctly and that everything would be fine.
After hanging up the phone he turned to me and said, "Lucky for her they don't ask whether she'll dig up the front lawn and replant it with swamp milkweed because 'that's what the monarch butterflies like' and because she loves it when yards have that 'wild and wonderful look'.
And hopefully the social worker, or whoever it is who looks in on the residents won't be taken aback when he sees a hundred or more butterfly chrysalises hatching in her bathroom, and her hallway, and the kitchen, and the living room, but hey there's no question on the form about any of that, so I think we're good!"
A Wild Goose Story
Ethan walked through the front door, his long, greasy hair pulled back in a pony tail, and announced, "I'm eighteen today!
That's right, I'm an adult now, just like you and I think you should start treating me like one!"
Sarah, a step behind him, called out, "Hey Mom!"
My beautiful seventeen year old daughter believed the sun rose and set on the shoulders of her six and a half foot tall boyfriend.
I smiled, and asked if they'd both had a good day, and cringed as Ethan reached his long arm around Sarah's shoulder, sneered a little and said, "Yes we did!"
He was so utterly young and so utterly confident and if I'd been twelve inches taller, I'd have rung his neck.
Our condo association, out of sheer frustration, finally called The Department of Environmental Management, who agreed to come over and handle the problem.
On the morning in question, six adults arrived in two vans, carrying six radios, and a very big net.
They spent the next five hours chasing one very scared goose, back and forth across the lawns, and by mid-afternoon, all involved were hot and sweaty and no nearer to catching the goose than they'd been at the start.
Around the time that children started arriving home from school, a goose with a plastic six-pack ring digging into his neck, watched six adults climb back into two official-looking vans and drive off.
The goose was tired and hungry and the plastic ring on his neck was digging in deeper than the day before.
It was making him bleed.
For two weeks we watched an injured goose struggle to breath, and members of the condo association said they wanted to cry.
One evening, as we sat down to dinner, something furious began pounding on our front door, and before I could answer, Ethan burst in, all yelling and excited, "Hey, give me a pair of scissors!
Hurry up, there's a goose outside with one of those soda six pack ring things around its neck!"
And Sarah, who could have said, "Duh," but who had turned the goose problem over in her mind, so many times, simply said, "Okay."
They herded the goose up against the side of a building, and slowly, slowly backed him into a corner while Ethan, knowing that he had to do it right the first time, or the goose would get spooked and fly off, held his long arm steady, and grabbed the scissors tight.
And then pinch me I'm dreaming, as the front door banged open, and a terribly tall eighteen year old took one giant step inside, holding aloft a dirty, gray, grimy piece of plastic while the seventeen year old high pitched voice behind him cried, "Look Mom, we did it!"
That's right, I'm an adult now, just like you and I think you should start treating me like one!"
Sarah, a step behind him, called out, "Hey Mom!"
My beautiful seventeen year old daughter believed the sun rose and set on the shoulders of her six and a half foot tall boyfriend.
I smiled, and asked if they'd both had a good day, and cringed as Ethan reached his long arm around Sarah's shoulder, sneered a little and said, "Yes we did!"
He was so utterly young and so utterly confident and if I'd been twelve inches taller, I'd have rung his neck.
Our condo association, out of sheer frustration, finally called The Department of Environmental Management, who agreed to come over and handle the problem.
On the morning in question, six adults arrived in two vans, carrying six radios, and a very big net.
They spent the next five hours chasing one very scared goose, back and forth across the lawns, and by mid-afternoon, all involved were hot and sweaty and no nearer to catching the goose than they'd been at the start.
Around the time that children started arriving home from school, a goose with a plastic six-pack ring digging into his neck, watched six adults climb back into two official-looking vans and drive off.
The goose was tired and hungry and the plastic ring on his neck was digging in deeper than the day before.
It was making him bleed.
For two weeks we watched an injured goose struggle to breath, and members of the condo association said they wanted to cry.
One evening, as we sat down to dinner, something furious began pounding on our front door, and before I could answer, Ethan burst in, all yelling and excited, "Hey, give me a pair of scissors!
Hurry up, there's a goose outside with one of those soda six pack ring things around its neck!"
And Sarah, who could have said, "Duh," but who had turned the goose problem over in her mind, so many times, simply said, "Okay."
They herded the goose up against the side of a building, and slowly, slowly backed him into a corner while Ethan, knowing that he had to do it right the first time, or the goose would get spooked and fly off, held his long arm steady, and grabbed the scissors tight.
And then pinch me I'm dreaming, as the front door banged open, and a terribly tall eighteen year old took one giant step inside, holding aloft a dirty, gray, grimy piece of plastic while the seventeen year old high pitched voice behind him cried, "Look Mom, we did it!"
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Up Next We Have
"How about three dollars, then?" asked the auctioneer, having lowered the price from fifteen dollars, to ten dollars, to eight, to seven, to five, and now his voice was starting to sound impatient.
I leaned against Dave and whispered, "I haven't the slightest idea what they're selling because that guy isn't holding it high enough," and before I could finish, a strong masculine voice from the back of the hall bellowed, "Just tell us what it IS!"
The young man holding the item in question repositioned himself, raised his arm higher, and placed the whatever-it-is on the palm of his hand, but that really didn't help too much since the object was inside a cardboard box.
The auctioneer bent down from his tall chair, and addressed the young man: "Rick, does it say anywhere if it's silver-plated?"
So Rick proceeded to read all four sides of the box, slowly, his lips moving, before turning the box upside down, squinting at the small print on the bottom, and then finally shrugging his shoulders, he turned to the auctioneer who seized the microphone in a death grip, and taking a deep breath, began to enunciate, slowly, "You are bidding on forty-five of these silver, finished, coated, whatever, silver engravable baby cups, which would make lovely display items for your friends' Easter egg collections or you could plant some chives in them for Mother's Day.
People, please, do I hear a buck?"
I leaned against Dave and whispered, "I haven't the slightest idea what they're selling because that guy isn't holding it high enough," and before I could finish, a strong masculine voice from the back of the hall bellowed, "Just tell us what it IS!"
The young man holding the item in question repositioned himself, raised his arm higher, and placed the whatever-it-is on the palm of his hand, but that really didn't help too much since the object was inside a cardboard box.
The auctioneer bent down from his tall chair, and addressed the young man: "Rick, does it say anywhere if it's silver-plated?"
So Rick proceeded to read all four sides of the box, slowly, his lips moving, before turning the box upside down, squinting at the small print on the bottom, and then finally shrugging his shoulders, he turned to the auctioneer who seized the microphone in a death grip, and taking a deep breath, began to enunciate, slowly, "You are bidding on forty-five of these silver, finished, coated, whatever, silver engravable baby cups, which would make lovely display items for your friends' Easter egg collections or you could plant some chives in them for Mother's Day.
People, please, do I hear a buck?"
Norman's in Love
Norman was at the Case Lot Auction yesterday and I'm telling you, he was extra giddy, having brought along a woman we'd never seen before, who he seated at the end of the second row, so he could keep an eye on her.
I should mention that we are fairly fond of Norman, and that in the past he has had some interesting things for sale, especially those fleece lined hats with the cat ears on top and if he'd had any more of those yesterday, quite a few of us would have bought them.
Usually the highlight of the auction, as far as Dave and I are concerned, is the free pizza, but I'd have to say that the climax of the show yesterday, was when Norman produced several large boxes of toys, most of which appeared to contain rejects from "The Dollar Store."
He shoved his hand inside one of the boxes, pulled something out, and I'm not kidding, he actually started jumping up and down, so we figured he was feeling fairly pleased.
Norman tossed whatever-it-was at the woman sitting in row two, who seemed at first to be startled, then flattered, and then looked nothing but embarrassed as she examined a keychain attached to a rubberized nose-shaped toy which, when squeezed, produced a snot-like substance from its nostrils.
Painfully aware that half the people at the auction were watching her, she hastily added it to her pile of swag, and slumped further down in her seat, but I watched her for another minute and when Norman looked her way again, her cheeks turned red and she smiled.
I should mention that we are fairly fond of Norman, and that in the past he has had some interesting things for sale, especially those fleece lined hats with the cat ears on top and if he'd had any more of those yesterday, quite a few of us would have bought them.
Usually the highlight of the auction, as far as Dave and I are concerned, is the free pizza, but I'd have to say that the climax of the show yesterday, was when Norman produced several large boxes of toys, most of which appeared to contain rejects from "The Dollar Store."
He shoved his hand inside one of the boxes, pulled something out, and I'm not kidding, he actually started jumping up and down, so we figured he was feeling fairly pleased.
Norman tossed whatever-it-was at the woman sitting in row two, who seemed at first to be startled, then flattered, and then looked nothing but embarrassed as she examined a keychain attached to a rubberized nose-shaped toy which, when squeezed, produced a snot-like substance from its nostrils.
Painfully aware that half the people at the auction were watching her, she hastily added it to her pile of swag, and slumped further down in her seat, but I watched her for another minute and when Norman looked her way again, her cheeks turned red and she smiled.
Stay Away from the Barn
Monday is "Case Lot Day" at Danny's Auction Barn, where you never know what they'll be selling.
All you know is that IF you win the bid, you'd better be prepared to buy the entire quantity of whatever the heck you just won.
Yeah, so we went to Danny's Auction Barn yesterday and we did okay, especially since I tried to prevent any major mistakes by repeating over and over on the car ride up there: "Don't buy any crap; don't buy any crap," and, like I said, we were doing just fine until they got to the cellophane wrapped tiny apple-shaped wicker baskets with miniature lime green notepads inside and he was trying to get twenty five cents a piece for them, only I thought he already had a twenty-five cent bid so I yelled out "thirty cents" and he didn't hear me, I guess, because he then lowered the price to twenty cents, which he called out hopefully and I yelled, extra loud this time, "Sure!"
The auctioneer looked right at me and said, "It's about time" and I wanted to protest, "You didn't even hear me when I bid 'thirty cents'!" but that was too long a sentence for an ongoing auction and so I had the bid at twenty cents and he kept trying to get anyone to outbid me, but no one did, which meant I was the proud new owner of twenty-four apple shaped wicker baskets with lime green, kidney bean shaped small pads of paper inside and his next question was: "How many orders do you want?
They are $4.80 a box and we have four boxes of them," and I, still feeling like I was getting some sort of deal, winning them for a mere twenty cents apiece, shouted back: "I'll take them all!"
Later, at home, I punctured the cellophane wrap on ninety-two miniature, apple shaped wicker baskets, which were made in China and had some sort of reddish brown paint flaking off them, rich in lead for sure, and whose lime green pads of paper smelled like mold, (in spite of the fact that each was individually wrapped in sharp shiny plastic), and I wondered where on earth they had found these things, and if they were some long lost leftovers from the flood that swamped Rhode Island last March and did they just now resurface from the deep dark corners of someone's storage facility, and my God they smelled incredibly bad, which meant there was nothing I could do except carefully pack all ninety-six baskets and ninety-six pads of paper back into the four cardboard boxes and carry them, in the rain, to the laughing mouth of the dumpster outside.
All you know is that IF you win the bid, you'd better be prepared to buy the entire quantity of whatever the heck you just won.
Yeah, so we went to Danny's Auction Barn yesterday and we did okay, especially since I tried to prevent any major mistakes by repeating over and over on the car ride up there: "Don't buy any crap; don't buy any crap," and, like I said, we were doing just fine until they got to the cellophane wrapped tiny apple-shaped wicker baskets with miniature lime green notepads inside and he was trying to get twenty five cents a piece for them, only I thought he already had a twenty-five cent bid so I yelled out "thirty cents" and he didn't hear me, I guess, because he then lowered the price to twenty cents, which he called out hopefully and I yelled, extra loud this time, "Sure!"
The auctioneer looked right at me and said, "It's about time" and I wanted to protest, "You didn't even hear me when I bid 'thirty cents'!" but that was too long a sentence for an ongoing auction and so I had the bid at twenty cents and he kept trying to get anyone to outbid me, but no one did, which meant I was the proud new owner of twenty-four apple shaped wicker baskets with lime green, kidney bean shaped small pads of paper inside and his next question was: "How many orders do you want?
They are $4.80 a box and we have four boxes of them," and I, still feeling like I was getting some sort of deal, winning them for a mere twenty cents apiece, shouted back: "I'll take them all!"
Later, at home, I punctured the cellophane wrap on ninety-two miniature, apple shaped wicker baskets, which were made in China and had some sort of reddish brown paint flaking off them, rich in lead for sure, and whose lime green pads of paper smelled like mold, (in spite of the fact that each was individually wrapped in sharp shiny plastic), and I wondered where on earth they had found these things, and if they were some long lost leftovers from the flood that swamped Rhode Island last March and did they just now resurface from the deep dark corners of someone's storage facility, and my God they smelled incredibly bad, which meant there was nothing I could do except carefully pack all ninety-six baskets and ninety-six pads of paper back into the four cardboard boxes and carry them, in the rain, to the laughing mouth of the dumpster outside.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Wait, wait... I don't see any semicolons
What have you got there?
Let me see!
Is it six sentences long?
Does it make any sense?
So why aren't you happy with it?
You're fretting because you think that at least one of your sentences needs to be longer and you are wondering if I agree and can I answer your question without starting a new sentence and surprisingly I'm pretty sure I can, just like I am actually pretty sure there is no sort of requirement, either spoken or unspoken, that at least one of your six sentences be extremely long and unwieldy and held together rather shakily by an excessive number of semi-colons, which never, of course, fools anyone because all of us know that in the real world, a ridiculous run-on sentence like that would be chopped apart and reformatted into three or four sentences but if, on the other hand, you DID NOT write a really long sentence, that's really okay and no one, believe me, NO ONE is going to hold it against you.
Let me see!
Is it six sentences long?
Does it make any sense?
So why aren't you happy with it?
You're fretting because you think that at least one of your sentences needs to be longer and you are wondering if I agree and can I answer your question without starting a new sentence and surprisingly I'm pretty sure I can, just like I am actually pretty sure there is no sort of requirement, either spoken or unspoken, that at least one of your six sentences be extremely long and unwieldy and held together rather shakily by an excessive number of semi-colons, which never, of course, fools anyone because all of us know that in the real world, a ridiculous run-on sentence like that would be chopped apart and reformatted into three or four sentences but if, on the other hand, you DID NOT write a really long sentence, that's really okay and no one, believe me, NO ONE is going to hold it against you.
Turn up the volume
The summer I was fourteen and had just made some new friends in New York, my mother packed us into the car, and drove us to the least populated part of New Hampshire.
We were only supposed to vacation there for July and August, but we wound up living there two and a half years.
In addition to losing my newly acquired friends, I was also torn away from rock and roll; even the radio air waves shrugged their shoulders and decided our farm was just too remote.
But when we got in the car, if the weather and the road elevation cooperated, we could sort out two different stations on the radio.
One perfect day, when the sun was shining, THAT SONG came on, loud and clear, and for a moment everything felt perfect until suddenly, the road shifted down, static started nipping at the edges of the song, and I reached the precise point in time where I had taken all that I could take of living in Nowhere, New Hampshire, so I tilted my head back and screamed: "Oh my God, Mom, stop the car!
Please Mom, please, will you just PULL OVER?"
We were only supposed to vacation there for July and August, but we wound up living there two and a half years.
In addition to losing my newly acquired friends, I was also torn away from rock and roll; even the radio air waves shrugged their shoulders and decided our farm was just too remote.
But when we got in the car, if the weather and the road elevation cooperated, we could sort out two different stations on the radio.
One perfect day, when the sun was shining, THAT SONG came on, loud and clear, and for a moment everything felt perfect until suddenly, the road shifted down, static started nipping at the edges of the song, and I reached the precise point in time where I had taken all that I could take of living in Nowhere, New Hampshire, so I tilted my head back and screamed: "Oh my God, Mom, stop the car!
Please Mom, please, will you just PULL OVER?"
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Book of Faces
There are many things to love about Dave; first of all, he's very brave, especially when it comes to fighting the underground criminal element in far off places like Russia and Cuba and Italy. What I also love about Dave is the fact that he takes time away from all of his war-mongering to go to Las Vegas and win bagloads of money on the slot machines. He stays up late at night, (I don't know how!) and makes even MORE money, playing multiple rounds of poker. He says he uses his earnings to expand his farm and his restaurant and then he reinvests in his villa in Milan. There are many things to love about Dave. He's thoughtful and considerate and he remembers all of his friends' birthdays.
Tell us just a bit about yourself
I am not good at sitting still. I can not watch television without getting up from my chair and wandering off to other parts of the house. I forget to return to my seat once the commercial breaks are over. So I particularly appreciate the USA television network. They are very good about airing their newly-released shows, in multiple time slots, on multiple nights. This is a prayer answered for the attention deficit collective, who by day seven, have finally pieced together this week's episode of "White Collar."
Grab a Pencil
So the Six Sentence Social Society said, "Okay, Sure, you can be in our club." Groucho Marx once said he wasn't sure he'd want to be a member of any club that would have him, but I think, in this case, he'd have made an exception.
Wow, that was only two sentences long. But you know what? They also have a "Two Sentence Tuesday" thing. Don't get too excited, but I think we can do this!
Wow, that was only two sentences long. But you know what? They also have a "Two Sentence Tuesday" thing. Don't get too excited, but I think we can do this!
Thursday, March 17, 2011
So Much Harder Than It Ought To Be
And we're back! That's right, we were locked out of this blog for an entire year. Let's just say we have some unresolved issues when it comes to remembering e-mail addresses and passwords. And I'd like to take this opportunity to thank all of my friends and neighbors who stood by me and listened to those twelve months of fist pounding, as well as extending my profound apology for all of the profanity. So, uh, are we good then? What do you mean, "No!"?
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