I went to a memorial today.
It was held in a public
park, with flowers and a pavilion, butterflies and cold cuts and (somewhat shockingly
to my Mormon upbringing) a makeshift bar that was more a station for
"OhmygodHOWAREYOUUUUUU?!!!!" than condolences. Earlier that day I had caused a kerfuffle in the apartment with my husband, upending drawer after drawer trying to find the one pair of decent black nylons I own. While the friend who had asked me to come had said the dress was "whatever you wear," I was just not willing to let go of 'propriety' and show up sans nylons. I found the nylons. I wore the nylons, along with the requisite pearl jewelry, tastefully understated makeup.
As it turns out, I could have shown up wearing a sequined-laden rainbow-colored skirt, topless, with butterflies in my hair and ladybug rainboots while I did barrel rolls, and I would have felt less obvious than in a black-and-white dress, black hose, and a cardi.
The woman who died? EPIC.
Like, motherfucking EPIC.
She licked eyeballs. She had a tattoo of a tomato, because she was obsessed with the fruit. She had a tattoo of a rooster, because she loved to say "Would you like to see my cock?" She was part of a roller derby team. She painted a nekkid-lady tie for her brother to wear to the first day of work of his "first official" job. She was funny, she was fabulous, she was dynamic, she was beyond compare, and a woman who defied all definitions and references. This is, now, what I know. I am sure there is more. And it is AWESOME.
I didn't know her. Not at all. I never even made her acquaintance; and believe me, I am the poorer for not having done so.
It makes me wonder; what happened not in, but during, her life? The speakers and poets today referenced struggles and private ghosts. My friend, the one who asked me to go with her today, was unaware. "They kept referencing struggles and dark times," she said, earnestly. "I never knew. NEVER. It just goes to show you."
It does, indeed.
It doesn't require an external force to have those demons creep up on you. Really, you can have a perfectly normal, perfectly suburban childhood/upbringing/life, and it doesn't always add up. There is nothing that anyone who is functioning on a normal level can use to define what happens to someone who is not.
So really, I am happy that this friend-of-a-friend managed to live her life the way it should be lived. I wanted to be so respectful; so wanting to live my life as she did, completely and fully and eyeball-lickingly.
I have a feeling she won't rest in peace. She doesn't want to.
So YOU GO, Edith Stone-Walsh.
Saturday, May 11, 2013
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Trifecta Challenge 74
When the call came for the Exodus, Lucas was not ready.
“That’s fine,” the Council said. “We needed a Remembrancer to stay behind. Lock the door behind us when we leave.”
It took the Prognosticator half a bag of burning Clee, three Ecstasies assuring success, and,
finally, a really hard shove to get Lucas’ mother onto the ship. She howled the whole way, beating her fists
against the portals and mouthing dire portents as Lucas waved from the launch
arena.
Lucas, finally alone in the rows of burgeoning garden
plantings, smiled up at the crimson sky and could not remember a thing.
On purpose.
Monday, March 18, 2013
Mawwidge. And wove, two wove, is what bwings us hewe togevvew, today.
And then there were two.
The blog has been woefully neglected.
That will change.
Because let's face it, how can the world NOT want to know about a light-up bouquet, the Imperial March wedding recessional theme, the obscene amounts of food, or the magnificent shtuff that happens as we go forward forging our new and exotic life?
Updates will now be listed on www.bantasticlife.blogspot.com.
Smooches of the passionate variety above to anyone who cares.
That will change.
Because let's face it, how can the world NOT want to know about a light-up bouquet, the Imperial March wedding recessional theme, the obscene amounts of food, or the magnificent shtuff that happens as we go forward forging our new and exotic life?
Updates will now be listed on www.bantasticlife.blogspot.com.
Smooches of the passionate variety above to anyone who cares.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Oh well.
So The Boy and I are reading Laurie Notaro.
She makes me happy. Not just for her admission of leaving lipstick on teeth during a date, but also because self-deprecating humor is ALWAYS good for me...if I can relate. And she does her very best, which turns into her best at disclosure. I'm pretty sure I could confide in her pubic sideburns, and she would not just accept, but go a step further and admit the things I was in NO WISE going to admit to...except she said it.
And it's true.
She makes the hunt for panties on a bedroom floor at least realistic, if not commonplace, and warns those huns who don't think 1:00 a.m. an acceptable time to, bleary-eyed, toast the chef.
A bleary-eyed chef accolade happened to me less than a week ago.
Eff, yeah.
Doesn't matter what they are preparing and serving; a chef knows what is going on, and where he/she stands in the world. A chef is not afraid of letting someone else make suggestions.
The Boy and I are reading 'The Soul of a Chef." I confess. All I am focusing on is the ways in which I can let him down; despite a tremendously auspicious beginning, I can't do it.
I really can't.
Nope. Not kidding.
I mean it really, seriously, means I can't do it.
jh
She makes me happy. Not just for her admission of leaving lipstick on teeth during a date, but also because self-deprecating humor is ALWAYS good for me...if I can relate. And she does her very best, which turns into her best at disclosure. I'm pretty sure I could confide in her pubic sideburns, and she would not just accept, but go a step further and admit the things I was in NO WISE going to admit to...except she said it.
And it's true.
She makes the hunt for panties on a bedroom floor at least realistic, if not commonplace, and warns those huns who don't think 1:00 a.m. an acceptable time to, bleary-eyed, toast the chef.
A bleary-eyed chef accolade happened to me less than a week ago.
Eff, yeah.
Doesn't matter what they are preparing and serving; a chef knows what is going on, and where he/she stands in the world. A chef is not afraid of letting someone else make suggestions.
The Boy and I are reading 'The Soul of a Chef." I confess. All I am focusing on is the ways in which I can let him down; despite a tremendously auspicious beginning, I can't do it.
I really can't.
Nope. Not kidding.
I mean it really, seriously, means I can't do it.
jh
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Reasons That, Well, Make Me Cackle.
I'm still not sure what it was.
"There's soup?" K. asked, incredulous. "He never told ME."
Three people peered into the murky depths of the warmer.
"What IS it?" I finally asked, again.
Nobody knew.
It takes a special kind of culinary gift to create a dish devoid of any defining characteristics. It had several kinds of, well, I am going to say macaroni rather than pasta. There were red flecks. They were not red pepper flakes, they were not tomatoes. Were they pimento? Were they...my imagination was woefully inadequate to the task.
The loser of 'One, two, three, NOT IT!" sampled the witches brew (also, he was not there for the inaugural peek; that may have contributed to his willingness to submit to ptomaine treachery).
He still couldn't say what it was.
"What's your soup of the day?"
"I'm not sure. Kitchen Sink Stew, possibly; I just know I can't recommend what I haven't tried."
"I'm feeling brave. I'll try it."
The Majesty's Taster was procured a small sample and spoon. Later, I casually drifted back and posed the real query:
"And how was it?"
"Not...bad."
"And...WHAT was it?"
"If it had hamburger, I would say it was gazpacho."
I had to hear it again, sure I had misheard or misinterpreted.
"I'm sorry, it was like what?"
"Gazpacho."
"Hamburger...in...gazpacho?" I said, sure that maybe if I said the word the woman with whom I was speaking would realize she was saying the wrong thing, kind of like when my mother talked for a good ten minutes with a college professor on how someone was attending a scientific suppository (instead of symposium).
"Yes," she said.
I left her to her side salad.
I freely admit I am a Food Snob. It requires capitals solely because Food Snobs insist upon it.
And yet, I get nowhere near the glamour of that title.
When called upon, I will eat absolutely nothing at any place The Boy reveres; even if the dish seems safe enough, they add some level of yuck (to me and my pedestrian tastes). A basic search will turn up the fact that, owing to my pickiness about eating seafood (if it came from the water, I'm not interested) very few appetizers remain. Even entrees result in a dish including your basic corn-fed cow turning into "I'm not eating beef cheeks. The word 'cheeks' is disgusting. Your industry should find a better way to market to hick consumers like myself."
I kinda suck when it comes to refined palates and, well, anything he's really exceptional at.
Not just kinda.
I wish I liked more things. Believe me, in a world that I fully believe is designed fully for visceral experiences, and a world that contains white and black, I guess I'm not fully prepared for either.
All I can say is, The Boy...is a force to be reckoned with.
"There's soup?" K. asked, incredulous. "He never told ME."
Three people peered into the murky depths of the warmer.
"What IS it?" I finally asked, again.
Nobody knew.
It takes a special kind of culinary gift to create a dish devoid of any defining characteristics. It had several kinds of, well, I am going to say macaroni rather than pasta. There were red flecks. They were not red pepper flakes, they were not tomatoes. Were they pimento? Were they...my imagination was woefully inadequate to the task.
The loser of 'One, two, three, NOT IT!" sampled the witches brew (also, he was not there for the inaugural peek; that may have contributed to his willingness to submit to ptomaine treachery).
He still couldn't say what it was.
"What's your soup of the day?"
"I'm not sure. Kitchen Sink Stew, possibly; I just know I can't recommend what I haven't tried."
"I'm feeling brave. I'll try it."
The Majesty's Taster was procured a small sample and spoon. Later, I casually drifted back and posed the real query:
"And how was it?"
"Not...bad."
"And...WHAT was it?"
"If it had hamburger, I would say it was gazpacho."
I had to hear it again, sure I had misheard or misinterpreted.
"I'm sorry, it was like what?"
"Gazpacho."
"Hamburger...in...gazpacho?" I said, sure that maybe if I said the word the woman with whom I was speaking would realize she was saying the wrong thing, kind of like when my mother talked for a good ten minutes with a college professor on how someone was attending a scientific suppository (instead of symposium).
"Yes," she said.
I left her to her side salad.
I freely admit I am a Food Snob. It requires capitals solely because Food Snobs insist upon it.
And yet, I get nowhere near the glamour of that title.
When called upon, I will eat absolutely nothing at any place The Boy reveres; even if the dish seems safe enough, they add some level of yuck (to me and my pedestrian tastes). A basic search will turn up the fact that, owing to my pickiness about eating seafood (if it came from the water, I'm not interested) very few appetizers remain. Even entrees result in a dish including your basic corn-fed cow turning into "I'm not eating beef cheeks. The word 'cheeks' is disgusting. Your industry should find a better way to market to hick consumers like myself."
I kinda suck when it comes to refined palates and, well, anything he's really exceptional at.
Not just kinda.
I wish I liked more things. Believe me, in a world that I fully believe is designed fully for visceral experiences, and a world that contains white and black, I guess I'm not fully prepared for either.
All I can say is, The Boy...is a force to be reckoned with.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Life, and Why It's Weird.
Frankly, that's a use of hubris. I have NO idea why life is as weird as it is. If I knew, would I have even gotten into the career track? Because really, Yeats' poem The Isle of Innisfree speaks to me on every level. Do I want a career? I mean, a career like the Real World dictates, a Career?
Not so much.
There are very few authors who can boast that they make a living doing so. John Grisham is one. Stephen King is another (an how awesome are we that we are a ph, rather than a v?). Robin McKinley is far and away one of my favorites.
And she is a loon.
Complete, total, utter, loon.
I'm pretty sure she's living the life I would if I could be her. Her blog most recently discusses bats. Knitting. Bell-ringing. Roses. Her husband (also a major and fantastic author in his own right). She puts up with silly crushes from fans. She wears Converse (sparkly, no less). She has no qualms about being August Majesty to Chaos and Darkness, also in some worlds known as gorgeous, beautiful, perfect doggies.
I'm probably, based on the royalty checks thus far, never gonna make it as a writer.
Just so you know, it took me 32 years to say that.
Only because I couldn't write cursive until first grade...
But I'm not going to stop. I love the world. I love the written word. I love the way the world looks when created by someone who actually loves language. I spent my entire life enthralled by the world as it OUGHT to be, based on descriptions, instead of the way it was. The mundane, prosaic, prozac world can be enough for some.
It's not for me.
Not so much.
There are very few authors who can boast that they make a living doing so. John Grisham is one. Stephen King is another (an how awesome are we that we are a ph, rather than a v?). Robin McKinley is far and away one of my favorites.
And she is a loon.
Complete, total, utter, loon.
I'm pretty sure she's living the life I would if I could be her. Her blog most recently discusses bats. Knitting. Bell-ringing. Roses. Her husband (also a major and fantastic author in his own right). She puts up with silly crushes from fans. She wears Converse (sparkly, no less). She has no qualms about being August Majesty to Chaos and Darkness, also in some worlds known as gorgeous, beautiful, perfect doggies.
I'm probably, based on the royalty checks thus far, never gonna make it as a writer.
Just so you know, it took me 32 years to say that.
Only because I couldn't write cursive until first grade...
But I'm not going to stop. I love the world. I love the written word. I love the way the world looks when created by someone who actually loves language. I spent my entire life enthralled by the world as it OUGHT to be, based on descriptions, instead of the way it was. The mundane, prosaic, prozac world can be enough for some.
It's not for me.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Ah, I Understand.
It's not the first time.
No, I've actually spent my whole life doing everything I could to undermine the whole V-day thing.
It isn't just V-Day, you know.
Parts of the world, at one point upon a time, spent their time flogging nubile maidens prior to their subsequent entertainments.
It was de rigeur, in the day.
Me, not so much.
While I don't subscribe to anything legitimate to the Pink Holiday (as it was known to the more Delicately Ascribed members of my coterie), I have a few things to say about its moments that make the rest of us look like dilholes (accuracy left to what you SHOULD have said):
"You are the Best! Thing! Ever!"
"Holy &^%*! Oh please, please, let me *%^&*(!!!!!!"
"Oh, hey, mind if I spend the whole rest of my life doing everything I possibly can to make you realize how wonderful you are, how desireable you are, and how much I wish I could spend every second with you?"
No, I've actually spent my whole life doing everything I could to undermine the whole V-day thing.
It isn't just V-Day, you know.
Parts of the world, at one point upon a time, spent their time flogging nubile maidens prior to their subsequent entertainments.
It was de rigeur, in the day.
Me, not so much.
While I don't subscribe to anything legitimate to the Pink Holiday (as it was known to the more Delicately Ascribed members of my coterie), I have a few things to say about its moments that make the rest of us look like dilholes (accuracy left to what you SHOULD have said):
"You are the Best! Thing! Ever!"
"Holy &^%*! Oh please, please, let me *%^&*(!!!!!!"
"Oh, hey, mind if I spend the whole rest of my life doing everything I possibly can to make you realize how wonderful you are, how desireable you are, and how much I wish I could spend every second with you?"
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