today i found a long lost word from my personal encyclopedia/dictionary. this word was used back in 1984, in a letter to my uncle. my life was dreary (no, ALL of my life, not just the day i was writing) but i saw a light at the end of the tunnel.
“my life is BETTERIZING” i told my uncle. = improving; lessening in horribleness; approaching a level of almost-non-suicidal.
i think i’ll have to incorporate it into my current vocabulary, because it is so VASTLY more interesting than just plain “improving”. what have i been thinking all these years?
i’m filing this under B in my lexicon of weird. (tmark pending)
i mean, this whole configuration here of all the nicely even bricks lying out in the open, it’s very appealing to me aesthetically. but if i were an ant, look at all those places i could get into an accident! i’m going along, minding my own business, carrying home my bagel sanwich i stole from the picnic, and out of the blue this jerk carrying a pickle sliver comes out of nowhere and cuts me off! now i have to decide if i want to drop my bagel sandwich and chase him down with my road rage, or just take it on the chin like a good little soldier, all passive like, and head home to feed the little ones. or the queen bee. whoever.
anyway, just wondered…
If you haven’t seen the hilarious “Weather Man” with Nick Cage, I highly suggest you get on that.
Now, I know my sense of humor and taste in movies is not the same as everyone in the world. So if you like movies about bunnies and romance and little happy children running around singing songs, I recommend something in the children’s department. If, however, you have a sense of sass and silliness, check this movie out.
Nick Cage is always at his best when he plays nutballs. In this movie he has a variety of personal issues to contend with, ranging from a very problematic short term memory to confronting difficult family matters, like how to handle the complicated issue of his daughter’s frequent camel toe.
Favorite scene from the movie is as follows: Dave Spritz is supposed to be out getting tartar sauce for the take out meal he is bringing home. He is notorious for forgetting to bring things home. If his wife could hop inside his brain for a minute, she might understand why it’s so hard for him to do small tasks…here is his inner conversation, as he stands behind a woman on the street with a particularly nice ass:
“Man, I’d like to put my face in there. Right in there. Tartar sauce. My hips are cold. Tartar sauce. That’s when you know its cold. I like eating pussy. Tartar sauce. A lot of guys don’t. Well maybe they do. Maybe that’s just black guys. Tartar sauce. What happened to the guy who was trying to fly around the world in a balloon? Did he make it? I should put some espionage or stolen plutonium in my novel. Tartar sauce. Spice it up. Neil Young. Fuck, its cold. Neil Young. Wh-why am I thinking about Neil Young. Neil Diamond. Neil… Theres not a lot of famous Neils. Is this Wednesday? I wish I had two dicks. I thought the whole family was going to learn Spanish together this year. That never really happened. I haven’t had a Spanish omelette in a long time. [street light turns green] Here we go.”
skullduggery: trickery; unfair, dishonest practices and goings on
i ADORE this word. wish i’d made it up. it has a dark, sinister, piratey feel to it, and its flavor makes using it a brilliant feat of genius. not that i have occasion to use it often, but i see it from time to time in books. it always makes me smile. it makes me think of a pirate on a deserted beach, hiding the bones of some hapless victim, burying them deep in the sand. because clearly the victim found out too much information about the treasure, or rum, or female companion, and he needed a good place to rest for a while anyway. it gets so hot out there.
so this is one of my all-time favorite words.
tune in later this week for more complete nonsense and superfluous drivel
I’m not really sure when it started.
I can’t really put a finger on the day I realized that I have a thing for benches. At some point in my life, I just started to notice that whenever I walked by a bench I tended to sit on it. I would be in the middle of a conversation with someone, walking along a street, and then suddenly they would turn around – mid-sentence – and find me sitting on the bench, swinging my legs.
“Sorry,” I’d say with a big Cheshire grin. “I have a thing for benches”.
It didn’t really matter if it was raining and the other person wanted to run to their car to keep their hair from getting messed up. I just told them I’d catch up.
It didn’t matter if we were going to be late or if we were in the middle of a very serious, vulnerable conversation. It just didn’t matter. I had to sit.
I don’t know what caused this particular neurosis, or if there is a name for it, but I have to sit on a bench when I’m around one. But once I’ve sat on one, I don’t have to go sit on all the rest in the area; that one will give me the fix I need.
Maybe I was a pigeon feeder in a past life, and the fond memory of the birds coming to my feet to eat seeds, bread, and popcorn draws me unknowingly to these interesting pieces of furniture. Maybe my philosophical side yearns to sit, just for a moment, and consider the deeper things in life while my physical side is making its way to the used book store.
I’ve never really known anyone else that has this problem, this “Leg Narcolepsy” that forces me to collapse happily onto a hard, uncomfortable structure. I wouldn’t normally select a long piece of hard wood to sit on, or a cold length of heavy metal. Not my idea of leisure resting. But when it’s a bench I manage to set aside my discomfort for the sheer pleasure of the sit.
So here is my thing with benches, and more to follow, I’m sure. Though very utilitarian and practical, I find them works of art on their own.
one day, while walking along peacefully under blue skies and the watchful eye of the sun, my sister pointed something out to me. “here it is,” she smiled, warm and friendly. she’d asked me the week before if i had ever seen a particular sign that is several blocks down the road. she described this sign – a metal one, like at a parking lot that says “you can only park here 15 mins, then you get towed”, that kind of thing. and no, i said, i hadn’t seen this sign. maybe she should show me.
because the way she described it … well, my interest was piqued. so off we went – just a few days later – in search of the sign. down the street, a right at the corner, and within a few blocks we finally came to the little treasure, and yeah, i can see why she favored it so. and i did too. what a great sign. marketing and advertising people rarely make commercials or billboards with this much impact and direct communication. so, here it is in all its glory … because, really, we had to share it:
i’ve done a little tweaking, so that i could enjoy this sign in multiple, rainbow colors… see below
I got cute beans.
Back-story: One of my cats – I have four – is ridiculously adorable. I mean, they all are, of course. One is neurotic, needy and affectionate. One is shy, nervous and spends most of the day hiding from carpet lint. One is adventurous, athletic and bossy. And then there is Siris.
Siris is … well, adorable. Soft little belly, big pouty eyes, dark markings on his mouth that make you wonder if he found some kitty-sized lipstick somewhere and is looking into cross-dressing. He does have a shoe fetish. We’ve never determined exactly what it is about this cat that makes him so adorable. True, he is physically cuter than many a cat. We frequently remind him that there are a score of dreadfully ugly felines out in the world because he stole all the cute. He just says “meow”. Is it his cute ‘fun-sized’ stature that makes him so adorable? He’s never really sprouted into a cat size; still walks around sporting a kitten suit. Is it this petite frame that makes him so endearing? Or the fact that he snores when he’s asleep? I mean, serious snoring, like your old favorite grandparent on the Lazy Boy Sunday afternoon. Or could it be all the funny adventures Siris has gotten himself into, and we just automatically believe he is charming because of his hilarious past? The burrito eating contest. The spontaneous cast he made for his arm. His random art projects. Regardless of the reason, he is just freakishly delightful.
And he knows this. In the ten years that we have had Siris, the only days he hasn’t been told he’s cute are days that we were off with family for the holidays; or traveling through Bellinzona, Italy; or landed in jail for indecent exposure in a public place. Hey come on. I thought there was something called Freedom of Religion? Cult rites should be included in that, especially if they involve nudity, honey and shocked onlookers. But back to the topic at hand; me.
Reality is, no matter what the reason, this cat is damn cute. It can’t be denied, ignored, or refuted. And according to my sister, I’m cute too.
It’s a frequent occurrence in my house, the mentioning of “cute”. And it often is attached to me somehow. Throughout the course of the day, I apparently do things that are funny, endearing, stupid, silly or bizarre. I say things that are equally goofy, ridiculous or hilarious, and apparently these silly things create a feeling of affection on the end of others. Or at least this is true with my sister because she is constantly saying how cute I am. Forever now I’ve been responding back to this comment with “why?” or “what did I do?” I want to understand what thing I did that was weird or silly or particularly funny. It’s not like I’ve done anything interesting or humorous in my eyes. I’m just being me. So what on earth is making her smile and shake her head? What did I do?
The other day – after mentioning my cuteness and appropriately being drilled as to the reason of said cuteness – my sister simply said “It’s just in your being”.
“My beans?” I said, jokingly, an old family tradition of purposely mishearing someone’s comments. “I got cute beans?”
She smiled, shaking her head.
And finally it made sense to me. I’m like my cat. And now I no longer need to question the authority or accuracy of my sister’s statements. Because some of us are just innately created to be wacky, weird, wonderful creatures that make others pick on you, laugh at you, and shake their head in wonder. So why fight it? Why question it? I got cute beans.
i’m sitting here at the dreaded Laundromat, not certain what i should write. it’s hot. and slightly humid. and very hummy. the WiFi here is down, so i can’t play with my superpoke pet. it stinks, here, the washers smelling like old moldy pants and sour batches of grapes. i hate laundry day.
not that i hate doing laundry, because i rather enjoy the task itself. as a kid i did my own laundry, and remember carefully measuring the detergent into the washer. i’m one of those people that has to fill the washer halfway up with water, add detergent, and stir gently, not shake, to mix all the liquids together properly, like i’m making a secret martini for James Bond.
but some days it’s just too much. too many people at the matt, too much folding, too many quarters to stick in slots that aren’t NEARLY as fun as the ones at the casino.
some days, i think i should just be a nudist.
Today is a downloading day for me. I have these moments, and sometimes days, pretty regularly. It’s not that I’m depressed, because I’m not really. How can I be depressed on a gorgeous day like today? The trees are phenomenally gorgeous, sprinkling my walk with more color than my eyes can consume. Green trees, yellow trees, trees that want to be orange, red, green, burgundy and ochre all at the same time. Some clumps are all bold and brilliant, and other patches of trees are soft, silvery, mauve. The brilliant blue sky sports whispy clouds that float through the air with no apparent agenda or time frame. It’s a gorgeous, warm, relaxed October day, and I am downloading. I often have direction, goals or intentions. I wake up thinking about a project I need to work on, a task I need to complete, chores I have been putting off or a hobby I want to get back to. I have to work out, I have to make a grocery list, I need to repair a broken earring or watch a movie rental before it’s due back. I might have social obligations or volunteer duties to attend to. And usually, my brain is full of ideas, thoughts, aspirations, longings, chatter, songs and intense curiosity about everything around me. On downloading days I have none of this. I’m neither tired nor energetic. I’m neither depressed nor excited. I have no specific desires or ambitions, and often find myself indecisive, not sure which direction to go. I call these downloading days because it’s like my brain has had enough frenetic activity lately and needs an hour (or twenty) to just buzz. The stuff in my brain is just rattling around and looking for somewhere to land. It’s like I’m downloading something on my computer, and I just have to wait. I can’t do anything else because whatever is downloading just isn’t done yet, so I sit and watch football, or go for a long walk, or talk emotionlessly to someone about nothing of interest. It’s just a day. A beautiful, gorgeous, perfect day; but a day I might enjoy better had my brain been fully engaged.