Bruises Are The New Rehab.

So there I was...carrying an armload of laundry and heading down what are admittedly some fairly steep, fairly dark stairs. There is a lightbulb for the stairs area, except that it has burned out and I am too short to reach it. Nevertheless, I persevere. Go me. Except for the part where I think I have reached the bottom of the stairs and haven't, so that the next step sends you flinging into space until you reach the bottom...which is full of things like milk cartons, wire baskets, a stage spotlight, an old telephone, etc. Yeah. Which means that right now it looks like I have been beaten with a tire iron. I would publish said bruises, but many of them are not for public consumption. My mother has taken to calling me her "Little Munchausen Kid." She finds it funny.

Wait until she has to look at all of the bruises in person. ALLLLLLLL of them.

The Shut-In Detectives...Part Deux...

"What Happened?" demanded Detective #1.
"NOTHING happened!" opined Detective #2.
"When you say nothing, are you questioning my abilities?"
"Absolutely not. Would you like to tell me where these bruises came from?"
"Not sure."
"Not sure? You have no idea, do you?"
"Nope. Do you?"
"Frankly, no. This doesn't end well, does it?"
"Nein."
"Would it help if I called you Sheisskopfh?"
"Since you can't spell it, no."
"Shit."

Time Wounds All Heels

I've been watching Jeopardy. I'm NEVER a good person at Jeopardy; I tend to adopt my parents' friend's strategy and yell out "Frank Sinatra!" or "San Francisco!" whenever I don't know the answer...which is frequently.

But tonight I am finding myself questioning the validity of being the Powerhouse of Pointless Knowledge (my previous most-secretly-coveted title). Today I spent the afternoon reviewing a letter written by a person whom I list among my most-admired; a letter which addressed the recent Olympics and its extravagence with a view toward the humanitarian. Her points not only hit home, they created within me the voluble need to DO something. The general summation of her letter was simply that, as a whole, spending millions of dollars on a torch for the Olympics is simply a vanity when one compares the number of destitute, homeless, and/or underpriveleged to the cost of creating a symbol that the world would remember for...what, three weeks? Four?

(I'm not entirely sure. As a non-sports person, I don't tend to pay attention to these things.)

So really, I find myself as an arist voicing the query: When does art supercede the needs of humanity as a whole?

Oh, wait, it shouldn't.

Art is created when a civilization has enough of the Basic Human Needs that it can relax a bit; when gathering pinenuts no longer supercedes the need to draw antelope on a clay pot. The only civilizations which have the time to create "art" are the ones for whom survival are not in question. As a child of the West, I frequently looked at the areas through which we were settlng (read settlng without validation) and wondered how I would feel were that the only future I had to offer the world, that of one defined by the current definitions of femininity. I would look at the sagebrush, the pinenut trees, the harshness of the land and wonder how anyone could have found any joy whatsoever in an existence that appeared to be based entirely on survival.

So is "The Beloved Ostrich" really the way to go?

Frailty, thy name is technology.

Okay, first of all let me start off by announcing that I hate technology.

While doing so in a blog is a lot like Terry Pratchett described, which is standing on a hill in wet copper armor shouting "All Gods Are Bastards", so be it. I've installed the new modem as near as I can tell, and it seems to be working--other than the computer keeps constantly telling me that I do NOT have any internet connection. Even though I do. Even though it is blatantly obvious by the fact that I am able to post this, there are two little icons; one has a wireless signal emerging from its computer-like signal, and one has two computers with a big red X over them. I just want to get rid of that one. Is that so much to ask?

'Cause I Know A Habit Is A Hard Thing to Bear...naise...

I'm watching station 11-4. I don't know what that is on digital TV, I just know that on my digital converter box it's 11-4, and there is currently a man on it winning my heart with a French accent, seared steaks, sauteed thyme, and a new and exotic way to make bearnaise sauce. Sweet crunchy cracker, I don't even know what to say. Who knew? Who knew that bearnaise could be wrestled far more simply than I have ever dreamt possible?*

I am spending the week in the company of family. Family can, from time to time, be far more fun than anything on the earth save the board game Encore**. The Whit, Bighead Ethan, Destructicon, and Smiley Kylie spent last night with me. Moments like this make me wish I weren't so confident that as a woman living alone there is no reason for extraneous room, as I will just fill it with crap; gracious as they are, I can't help but wanting to apologize every fifteen seconds for the fact that I live in approximately 800 square feet, and that when the boys try to write a report on Pilgrims, they can reference weeks like this as they try to write their Magnum Opus, "What It Felt Like To Cross On The Mayflower." They are all exceptionally kind, though, and make me feel like I could host a thousand. I can't help but adore each of them, and the Best! Thing! Ever! Is that now they live close enough that it is entirely probable I can show up randomly on a weekend and touch their stuff and smell funny. Just like they do to me.

I love those kids. I love them so much that if I were to try and express it, I'd turn into Creepy Aunt who Pinches Cheeks or Kisses Noisily When Not Invited. I'd wrap my arms around them and snuggle with them for a thousand years and refuse to let them go, not even for bathroom breaks. (We all know it's just a matter of time, but leave me my illusions.)

This evening was no exception, as the Nutz Brothas continue to grow and expand in their gorgeousness.

Tomorrow is the wedding of the eldest sista of the Nutz Brothas, and I am sure all will be resplendant and on their best behavior. In the interim, however, I will remind myself that I need a pedicure but won't have time for one between now and tomorrow night, that Chris Isaak loves pedicures, and that no matter how much time you take off work, it's just going to suck worse tomorrow.

Got that goin' for me.

*Probably every chef in the world knew. Well, shut the hell up. Unless you told me, your knowledge does NOTHING to help me at this juncture, so I will continue in my crush on the French guy with the bad hair and the suggestion that bearnaise can be handled by whisking the egg yolks and butter together, then sauteeing the vinegar, wine, tarragon, and shallots, bringing them to room temperature and combining the two. How come that seems so much easier than every version I've ever tried? Is that authentic? Is it NOT authentic, but TASTES authentic, differentiated only by pretentious wieners who insist they can taste the difference if they know that it was prepared differently?

**Which nobody will play with me. I tried it once, figuring I was in a room full of music afficionados and geeks. The insufferable malaise of watching them deign to try and suffer through such a plebian game nearly was their undoing, never mind mine.

KILLIN' me, Smalls.

"So I got 50 texts about Michael Jackson dying," the text read.
"Just wondering how that's supposed to affect my life."

Yeah, you and me both, as it seems.

Really, dude? Really? The most momentous event of a world in the past three weeks is that a former chimp-owning, kiddie-diddling alabaster-skinned habitue cacked it? REALLY?!

Well, fine. I will acknowledge that my own attempts to glamorize [the] hoi polloi have resulted in nil, of late. I am willing to accede a recent skirmish with my dress size, which I (both humiliatingly and definitively) lost. I may even, under duress, acknowledge that I am a bit of a cynic. But C'MON, PEOPLE. Really?

REALLY?!

My little sister called me today. "Hey, Michael Jackson died," my boss announced, moments before.

"Yeah? Were you just on the phone with my little sister?" I shot back, only to have the receptionist interrupt.

"You have a phone call," she said, and Emily Mr. Beaned it across the room. "That's your sister, calling to tell you Michael Jackson died," she said, and I mugged at her and answered the call.

"Michael...Jackson...is...dead," my sister intoned eerily.

"Hey, Whit," I said, ignoring the greater sin of ruining her news; "Michael...Jackson...is dead."

The entire assistant pool cackled uncontrollably.

"WHAT?! You already KNEW?!" Whit howled.

"The boss told us."

"I will never forgive...you tell him I can't...I have to go!" She shrieked, and hung up on me.

Stupid Twitter.

The boss only cares about Lance Armstrong ("LA"), to be sure; but since he absolutely has to know to the very second what ounce of pressure LA is exerting at any given time, he's ascribed to Twitter and never mind the fact that each update (read: Nugget of Joy, heavy on Facetious Intonation) is heralded by a 'ping' seldom heard outside of the soundtrack for Hunt for Red October; each ping might mean that LA has exceeded all previous expectations that he will pedal faster than a mongoose in heat at the Mongooses for Potential Mating Extravaganza bazaar. And only a cad and a bounder would fail to recognize this achievement as Top Drawer Stuff, By Gar.

I dunno. Life was certainly simpler when Whit would call me, and in tones enigmatic report "Heath Ledger is dead. Remember, you heard it from me first." and then hang up. And then it would be true.

As it is, life is far from perfect. I have planted all sorts of (and I quote) "easy to grow, prolific" plants such as zucchini and tomatoes, only to have them turn on me like rabid bastard plants. If I had known this was an option from such purportedly easy-going vegetables and fruit, I might have stuck with cross-stitch as an expression of contempt for modern society. (Okay, not really.) Extensive internet research tells me that I may or may not have aphids, beetles, some sort of sucking bug, or a lack of appropriate soil in which to plant my zucchini. If it had powdery white mold, I'd know what to do, because EVERYBODY IN THE EFFING WORLD seems to come down with powdery white mold on their zucchini; however, this shilly-shallying is indicative more of a reflection of my personality, and everybody knows that a mirror is annoying as shit if it means it doesn't leave you at least 10 pounds skinnier in its reflection.

At least my latest gadget for cheese-making is scheduled to arrive sometime before the next New Moon. Hormones notwithstanding, I and those I love most might never make it past the coming four days if I didn't have the hope of draining, aging, and cagily manipulating the fate of several gallons of milk currently residing in my fridge.

Viva la cheesemakers!

It Can't Get No Worse

I just finished reading the latest biography of John Lennon this afternoon; for those who might wish to follow up on things that make me swoon, it's by Philip Norman. Far less acidic than the aforementioned and not religiously understudied biography written by Albert Goldman (easy to accomplish; all one would have to do is not mathetimatically try to equate genius with asshattery and then contain one's verbal expulsions), it still made me teary-eyed. I'm not gonna lie; there isn't much (outside of Ono) that doesn't make one particularly sensitive. If I were going to be truthful, even the Ono crap makes me melt inside...you cannot possibly watch The U.S. vs. John Lennon and not for a second believe that the man, whatever lunacy included, wasn't completely and totally entranced by the concept of love. And not even the concept; he actually found love, how tremendous is that?! He found a partner who felt the same. How often can one of we lesser-crawling maggots find validity? Even how less frequently do we find not just validity, but sympatico?

Not a whole hell of a lot, I am willing to conjecture.

And by that conjecture, I have to point out the following;

One), that questioning mortality is possibly sexy but more importantly ineffective; and

Two), that love is what it is, and who are we to declare differently?

Apparently Yoko isn't a fan of this latest recount, citing the fact that the author "wasn't nice" to John. Well, the hell with her, I say. The hell. We aren't always nice. And a man well into his second formal relationship deserves the ability to shake his wiener at the earlier parts of either. It doesn't discount the importance of what that man has done; it simply reminds the world that he had a wiener. Is that such a terrible sentence for any man?

I'm Just Sayin.