Sugar-Lips

I have an ongoing joke with a friend of mine in which, during our email banter, we challenge each other to come up with the most ridiculous terms of endearment for the other. I don't really know how this got started, but when he would address our emails to "sugar lips" or "love-muffin," I couldn't resist. Even though I know it's a silly joke, it never ceases to put a smile on my face. It reminds me of this article I once read by Garrison Keillor- which he referenced when he recently appeared with the Progressive Forum (where I met him).

http://www.salon.com/opinion/feature/2006/10/18/keillor/

I finally have the maturity to appreciate the charms of the good ol' South- it only took me the greater part of three decades to do so. People sometimes observe that I don't sound like I'm from Texas, but I used to receive that comment all the time. Less so now. Why? Because I no longer strain to neutralize my Southern accent- I've even grown to kind of like the drawl that occasionally slips into my speech. More than that, I like how I feel when I call someone "sweetie" or "darlin" or "sugar." And I like meaning it when I do.

PS: Even those voting for Obama or Hillary might call you "precious."

Terms of endearment

Why do Southern folks elect regressive, warmongering politicians but still call you "sunshine" when they serve your coffee?
By Garrison Keillor

Oct. 18, 2006 I was misunderstood growing up and have often been misunderstood since, but then so is everyone else. People are busy, and you can't expect them to drop everything and try to understand you. If you want to be understood, practice kindness and mercy. Kindness is seldom mistaken for anything else. Small kindnesses reverberate a long time in people's hearts.
A woman checking I.D.s at the airport saw me coming the other day and said, "Good morning, sunshine." She didn't know me from Adam. She glanced at my driver's license and said, "Have a good flight, darling." This was in the South, of course -- in Austin, Texas, to be exact. Northern women would no sooner address a strange man as "sunshine" than they would ask if you wanted to see their underwear. But that woman's "sunshine" shone on me for the rest of the day, and a week later I still remember it. Like I remember old waitresses in diners who addressed everyone as "love." "Care for more coffee, love?" Yes, dear. And you left a quarter tip instead of a dime. Fifteen cents for a little endearment.

On the flight from Austin, I sat next to a black woman my age from Alabama who was in a chatty mood. I said, "You've seen a lot of history in Alabama." She said, "And it isn't over yet." We got to talking about Dr. King and his family, and she blurted out, "I just cannot forgive those children of his for never giving their mother a grandbaby. Four healthy children. I don't know their sexual orientation, but you would think that one of them could've produced one baby for Mrs. King to hold. She died without ever getting those babies to hold in her arms. Do you have grandbabies?" I said I have two. "I've got two," she said, "and every time I look at them, that's me. They're the continuation of me." She patted my hand. "I am going to pray for your grandchildren. Tell me their names." So I did. When the plane pulled up to the gate in Chicago, she touched my knee and said, "It was good talking with you, darling."

Up here in the north, a man wouldn't touch a stranger on the knee or address her as "darling," lest he be reported to the Attitude Police, but once in Nashville, Tenn., a lady said to me, "Sweeten up to me now," meaning "Give me a squeeze," so I did, of course. She smelled of lavender and talcum and lemons. Everyone craves a little sweetening now and then, but in Minnesota we don't squeeze easily or address each other as "darling."
I went to a big dinner of diehard liberals in Texas and was darlinged left and right and sweetied and even occasionally precioused, but if you were among Democrats in Minnesota, you might think you were at a meeting of Mormon actuaries. We offer a cold handshake and a thin smile, and that's all you get from us. We are wary of the big grin and the shoulder squeeze, the trademarks of the con man, and we resist being drawn into friendly banter with strangers for fear we'll end up with a truckload of aluminum siding or a set of encyclopedias.
We're burdened by the need to be cool. When I was in college, I read Kafka and Camus and tried to write like them, in flat, non-American English, as if writing under the influence of a migraine, until it slowly dawned on me that I was missing the basic experiences that had formed them. Enduring high school is not the same as growing up Jewish in Prague or fighting in the French resistance. I had no solid basis for being cool in that existential motorcycle James Dean absurdist chain-smoking hero sort of way, so I gave up being cool and settled for being pleasant. And now I see teenagers locked up in iPods, looking sour and sleepy and hostile, and I hate to see them reliving that part of my life.

If we can't talk to strangers, if there is no public life in America, then it's no wonder politics is so out of whack. And yet in the South, which has produced the most regressive politicians this side of Sudan, who are proud of bad government and lousy wars, in which a disproportionate number of young Southern men die, you keep running into the friendliest people on earth. Explain that to me, sunshine. Sweeten up here and tell me why these good people keep electing those dreadful idiots.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - --
(Garrison Keillor's "A Prairie Home Companion" can be heard Saturday nights on public radio stations across the country.)

Houston Chronicle review for 'Love Loves a Pornographer'

Ingenious wordplay drives Pornographer

By EVERETT EVANS
Copyright 2008 Houston Chronicle

Sometimes you can pinpoint the exact moment when a play irrevocably pulls you into its corner.

With Jeff Goode's Love Loves a Pornographer, getting a nifty Houston premiere courtesy of Nova Arts Project, it's this inspired bit of verbal lunacy:

"Your latest creation elicits illicit elations."

Goode's playful homage to drawing room comedy has already rhapsodized about "savage enravagements" and tossed off wry epigrams such as "A man should take pride in his livelihood, however shameful." Not to mention the priggish antagonist who, described as "rakish," defends himself with this choice retort: "In my entire life, I have never been rakish with so much as a leaf-strewn lawn."

Yet for me, it was that "illicit elations" line that put the play over the top. Despite a few lulls here and there and a sense of winding down near the close, Pornographer can be recommended for the sheer merriment of its ingenious wordplay and the fun this cast generates delivering it. It's the heightened language that's supposed to sound like stage talk, not everyday talk.

Premiered in December by Los Angeles' Circle X Theatre Company, Pornographer starts out as a tribute to, or spoof of, Victorian drawing room comedy as epitomized by Oscar Wilde. Yet midway, it acquires a more modernist bent — as if a play by John Guare or Christopher Durang or Paul Rudnick had wandered in and mingled with the earlier model.

Famed novelist Lord Cyril Loveworthy and his wife, Lady Lillian, entertain the Rev. Miles Monger, who also happens to be the Times of London's lead literary critic, and his wife, Millicent. Lord Loveworthy, whose writing is respected but not sufficiently lucrative, tries to blackmail Rev. Monger into a favorable review of his next book. Lord Loveworthy needs the boost so that he can finance the wedding of his daughter, Emily.

Emily arrives with the man she plans to marry — not "an earl" as her parents had misunderstood, but Earl, a scruffy bookseller Emily met in Flagstaff, Arizona. While the other characters are steadfastly British and Victorian in speech and attire, Earl is thoroughly contemporary and American. Before long, other anachronisms creep into the scene. One character leafs through an issue of Vanity Fair. Another sips not from a teacup but a can of soft drink.

The thunderbolt is the revelation that Earl's bookstore specializes in erotica. "Earl is a pornographer" Emily announces, the punchline just before intermission (at which the butler faints dead away.) The second half is (as the butler announces) "a series of shocking revelations." All pertain to which of the other characters are secret readers of the star author whose work Earl sells, or have secretly written those books, or even secretly inspired the whole series through real-life experiences recounted in a diary.

Was every Victorian a secret hedonist? As one character observes, "You make this licentiousness sound almost medicinal."

An exercise in theatrical style, Pornographer marks a change of pace for the young Nova Arts group. Director Rob Kimbro generally keeps things crisp, brisk and light of touch. Apart from a few hesitant moments (and remember, many of these lines are a mouthful), this team gives the play a capable rendition.

Sean Patrick Judge makes Lord Loveworthy sly, condescending and morally slippery. Given many of the script's most potentially tongue-tangling lines, he handles them with authority. Timothy Evers makes an amusing foil as the stuffy, stodgy Miles Monger — prim, prudish and sourly disapproving.s

Jenni Rebecca Stephenson brings haughty confidence to Lady Loveworthy. Melissa N. Davis' Millicent Monger is particularly appealing, indefatigably cheery with an unabashedly saucy streak.

Bobby Haworth's laid-back Earl Kant seems to have wandered in from another play, continent and century, which is exactly the point. Katrina Ellsworth shows daughter Emily's increasing iconclasm and rebelliousness.

As the butler, Wayne Barnhill, formerly of Infernal Bridegroom, has a droll way of being unflappably obliging to his "betters" yet at the same time mocking them.

You might say that while Love Loves a Pornographer is not quite Wilde, it's certainly very Goode.

LOVE LOVES A PORNOGRAPHER

• When: 8 p.m. Thursdays-Saturdays, through April 26
• Where: Nova Arts Project, at Barnevelder Movement/Arts Complex, 2201 Preston

• Tickets: $15-$30; 713-623-4033

http://www.novaartsproject.com/

Must Love Library Cards

So, I posted a link on Facebook that started an amusing exchange...

LINK:

Essay About Love and Literary Taste - New York Times
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/03/30/books/review/Donadio-t.html?em&ex=1207022400&en=be66964abe7c5f54&ei=5087__
(Among the bookish, even casual literary references can turn into romantic deal breakers.)

COMMENTS:

Linda at 2:31pm Mar 30
i JUST read this article this morning and thought it was wonderful. yes yes, so true. :)

Jenni at 2:38pm Mar 30
when i meet attractive, funny men, i secretly cross my fingers, hoping they don't list dan brown and james patterson among their favorite authors... ;)

Linda at 2:42pm Mar 30
HA! i love it! i just usually hope not to get an empty stare when i mention Isabelle Allende or Pablo Neruda...

Jenni at 2:46pm Mar 30
neruda is fair... but i would be a little lenient with allende. unless, of course, said date is from peru.

Linda at 3:04pm Mar 30
true, however Allende does tend to get more of a response then Neruda... go figure! maybe i just don't date enough South Americans. hmmm...

Natalie at 5:55pm Mar 30
You were among the people I thought about when I stumbled upon this little gem. There are the obvious red flags--personally, I think Left Behind tops the Da Vinci Code on that front--and then there are high-brow red flags. Like Ulysses. The only reason to read that in public is to be seen.

Victoria at 2:28pm Mar 31
Absolutely true! Thank you for sharing :)I am just thankful when someone has hear of Pushkin. Forget about reading anything by him. Surprisingly enough, many people have never heard of the great poet.

Colby at 10:48pm Apr 1
I hate to be the contrarian here, but there is, in my opinion, a bit of hypocrisy in writing off someone as shallow, incompatible, or undeserving solely on the book they are carrying around or list as their favorite. So some guy reads Da Vinci Code, Ulysses, or any other book you deem to be pablum, does that truly identify him? Are you not engaging in a hasty generalization? Or even the obvious question: how does your taste become a red flag, why are you able to determine that Pushkin knowledge is a good thing, or more importantly good art? Basically, what I am saying is that some of us didn't have the opportunities to read what you, or the rest of the world, consider necessarily or important to have read. From a Rawlsian perspective I would have you consider what if I rated your appeal based on your philosophical readings or lack thereof--that would seem a bit unfair would it not? And don't worry if you don't know who Rawls was, I won't hold it against you. ; )

David at 11:16pm Apr 3
this guy wants to sleep with one of the three women above.

Colby at 12:34am Apr 4
C'mon Dave I have heard better ad hominem from the kids over at Digg. But seriously, I hate it when yet another qualification is prescribed for men, to which we must contort ourselves. I have no doubt that if Brad Pitt read only Choose Your Own Adventure books, swearing that they were the best literature since Cervantes--even though Alan Bloom himself would recoil--that Rachel Donadio wouldn't be turning him away. That is all I wanted to point out. But if you would care to retort with more of your engaging repartee then be my guest.

Jenni at 2:37am Apr 4
haha- play nice, boys.

ok- now, colby, be fair- dave's comment is funnny. AND a logical retort to your comment.

i also think it's fair that you point out the injustice in dismissing a date if he hasn't read the right book. as a girl who has dated the musician who liked the 'right' composer, the writer who liked the 'right' author, the actor who liked the 'right' playwright, i will agree that none of these things serve as a consistent and reliable indicator of compatibility. i will also posit that dating artists is perhaps the first step towards misguided... i digress.

i would never count it against someone, friend or date, if they didn't, for example, have an affinity for faulkner. i've recommended 'the sound and the fury' to many who haven't made it past the fourth page. however, there is some merit in a comparison of tastes. if a guy lists 'dumb and dumber' and 'van wilder' among his favorite movies of all time- and then, claims john grisham as the second coming- it's quite likely that we operate on different wavelengths. not a value judgement- just divergent sensibilities. (if, on the other hand, he likes 'harold and kumar' and anne rice- we might be workable.) hell- i love 'joe versus the volcano' and read the whole series of star trek TNG books... would you suggest for a second that it wouldn't be a deal-breaker to some?

and regarding all the notable fiction valued by us women- we KNOW that the average joe is recommended some of the best books (excepting machiavelli and vonnegut) by the women in his life. (i am exaggerating, but is this so wrong?) for instance, just the other day, i spotted 'snow falling on cedars' on the bookshelf of one of my favorite guy friends. did he pick that book up of his own volition? doubtful. was it recommended to him by some cute girl? probably. OR his sister. i am OK with this.

then, there are those guys who read the NYer for fun. they are a breed in and of themselves. the self-identified intelligentsia. (i know this, b/c i subscribed for a year so that i could feel smarter and impress at cocktail parties with my academic soundbytes- only to become frustrated that i could never make it through an issue before the next one arrived.) the ones who DO indeed make it through every issue either teach for a living, are wealthy hypochondriacs (thus spending an inordinate amount of time in high-brow doctors' offices), never get laid, or are the type to hitchhike across the country desperately posing for the freedom and seeming effortlessness of kerouac. and believe me, i ain't knocking- i raise my glass to you, mr. chain-smoking-beret-wearing-beat-cum-emo-man! (they make good fantasies, since they are generally passionate and at the mercy of any woman who can pay for their pearl beer.)

and you're right- rachel donadio and harold bloom deserve kudos. they are both exceedingly brilliant and well-read and have managed to function in real life. procreate even. yay for them! you already know my stance on this, colby- must i remind you? we need more supermodels and PHDs to spawn- let's even out this gene pool once and for all!

where am i going with this, you might ask? i don't even know.

all i know is that i think it's kinda hot when a guy wants to recite poetry to me...IF it's good. IF it's his- even better. (IF it's good, that is.) IF it's bad, it makes me want to slap him. and not in a good way. cliched? absolutely! but kind of like large-breasted blondes in bikinis...

if said guy looks like eric bana with glasses, he could be reciting dr. seuss or shel silverstein and it would STILL be kinda hot. (Horton Hears a Who's your daddy?!)

and are you trying to dismiss 'choose your own adventure' books?! they were the bedrock of my elementary literary escapades! i only started denouncing 'baysitter's club' and 'sweet valley high' as pedestrian when i reached middle school and got in trouble with miles for tossing those books out the 2nd floor classroom window. (100% true story. the teacher couldn't bring herself to give us detention, since i think she found the whole affair pretty amusing.)

i leave on this note: i do not consider myself well-read. i only know what i like. i do not judge on the basis of exposure or lack thereof- nor do i damn anyone for an appreciation of a little drivel now and again. open-mindedness and a willingness to expand one's literary horizons is, however, a plus. my bookshelf is respectable, but not impressive by any means. still, if given the choice, i take dave eggers over james patterson. (if he were a few inches taller and unmarried, it'd be even better.)

...and if anyone takes this seriously, they should review the literary genre of satire.

gute nacht!

-jenni "lady love" rebecca

(figured i'd throw in a little rawlsian of my own)

and a quote to grow on:

"Just because the f*cker's got a library card doesn't make him Yoda!"
-Brad Pitt in Se7en

the cyndi/jenni chronicles

she and i amuse ourselves with email banter...

exchange 1:

From: Jenni
Sent: Tuesday, August 28, 2007
To: Cynthia
RE: Is Facebook the new Match.com?

no, seriously. the good ones are all unavailable. i'm not kidding here. either emotionally...or physically (as in, they live in different time zones...or perhaps they hide in jungles)...or legally.

i'm wondering when other women will start to realize this. the answer? a total upheaval of our preconceived notions of love and relationships. we women should stop accepting advances and proposals and such...just long enough until there is an established population of easily identifiable single men. then, we herd them, corrall them, drug them, and subject them to tom hanks/meg ryan movies...just long enough until they understand what it is we want. then, we beat them into submission. and make them like it. then, we pick and choose as we please...maybe some sort of rental policy. except...not like an old blockbuster type rental...more of a netflix rental. as in, we can send them back when we're tired of them without penalty of late fees. but perhaps with the candy, popcorn, and cold drink option. :)

Her response:

A) Legally unavailable? Are you going after 12 year olds now? I suppose if you can't find a good man, raise one.

2) Interesting system you propose. Is there, at any time, an option to buy?

Banana) I wonder what kind of a comparable system guys would propose, if given the opportunity. I think it would be remarkably similar, only replace the tom hanks/meg ryan movies with adult films.

exchange 2:

From: Jenni
Sent: Thursday, August 30, 2007
To: Cynthia
Subject: who's tim
gunn?

her response:

Ah, you clearly have better things to do with your life than watch reality shows on Bravo. Tim Gunn is the mentor on Project Runway (he's also the dean or something of Parson's school for design). He's the most fabulously well dressed older gay man ever. He says things like "carry on" and "sturm und drang."

my response:

i'm over older gay men. even of the fabulously dressed variety. in fact, i'm over gay men in general. you do realize that i work with one straight man in an office of approximately 40? one. and he's the CEO. i'd even question his orientation if he didn't wear big belt buckles and drink shiner out of the bottle. i work in musical theatre for godssake! (jazz hands!) it couldn't get any queenier around here if elizabeth I walked in the damn door.

on the other hand, i AM indeed impressed with anyone who can throw around terms referring to late 18th-century german expressionist movements. and thanks to my music schooling, i didn't even have to wiki that. ;)

her response:

Oh, Jenni Rebecca. You are so educated and clever. ;)

I (only kinda) feel your pain. I was looking around the cafeteria today thinking about what NASA engineers are (incredibly intelligent, generally nice) and what they are not (attractive, socially adept, well dressed). I am wasting my youth on men who actually want me for my mind. How depressing.

my response:

clever? oh pish. thou doth possesseth a keen wit thrice the magnitude of mine own.

to be wanted for one's mind is nothing to sneeze at...it's a comfort when we start to sag in all the wrong places.

regarding NASA men, the fact that they are unattractive and can't dress should be secondary to the fact they can never be fired and probably have decent pension plans. find one with particularly thick bottle-cap glasses...perhaps one getting on in years...and who knows what you can get away with! you see, all of the above never stopped the NASA geeks from walking into the jewelry store at baybrook with astoundingly beautiful russian brides on their arms. i never once questioned the harmony of the universe when i could witness the sweet balancing forces of nature in action. and to take it one step further, these NASA men and their rusky counterparts are doing our dear world a favor. we mustn't get carried away with sharp intellect or a great pair of legs---no! we must do our part to even the playing field for the human race. no more is it necessary for the blind, pocket-protector-donning egg-head doomed to walk this lonely earth alone...or with the adult equivalent of the little girl in lil' miss sunshine. (mind you, i am not poking fun at that little girl---i looked just like her at 8 years old.) no! instead they have their pick of gorgeous, though intellectually confounded women to assist them in upping the ante for the gene pool. we owe them all our deepest gratitude. yay for mail order brides!

...now if only we could manufacture the mail equivalent.

her response:

Ya know, I see your point regarding NASA men, but the truth is that I, too, am a NASA employee and therefore can never be fired and have awesome health insurance, pension plan, etc. I also come with the added bonus of being attractive and dressing well. I guess what I'm saying is - where's my russian bride?

my response:

well, cynthia...you seem to be forgetting the options before you. nowhere does it say you can't have a russian bride. you will just have to go to hawaii or montreal to marry her, that's all.

and PS, i am not a LUSH...luscious perhaps. :)

dean young, will you marry me?

he may look like a dried-up fruit-cake or a clam pizza, but i'd endure to hear this sort of thing every day...

"Ode to Hangover"
By Dean Young

Hangover, you drive me into the yard
to dig holes as a way of working through you
as one might work through a sorry childhood
by riding the forbidden amusement park rides
as a grown-up until puking. Alas, I feel like
something spit out by a duck, a duck
other ducks are ashamed of when I only
tried to protect myself by projecting myself
on hilarity's big screen at the party
where one nitwit reminisced about the 39¢
a pound chicken of his youth and another said,
Don't go to Italy in June, no one goes to Italy in June.
Protect myself from boring advice,
from the boring past and the boring present
at the expense of an unnauseating future:
now. But look at these newly-socketed lilacs!
Without you, Hangover, they would still be
trapped in their buckets and not become
the opposite of vomit just as you, Hangover,
are the opposite of Orgasm. Certainly
you go on too long and in your grip
one thinks, How to have you never again?
whereas Orgasm lasts too short some seconds
and immediately one plots to repeat her.
After her I could eat a car but here's
a pineapple/clam pizza and Chinese milkshake
yum but Hangover, you make me aspire
to a saltine. Both of you need to lie down,
one with a cool rag across the brow, shutters
drawn, the other in a soft jungle gym, yahoo,
this puzzle has 15 thousand solutions!
Here's one called Rocking Horse
and how about Sunshine in the Monkey Tree.
Chug, chug, goes the arriving train,
those on the platform toss their hats and scarves
and cheer, the president comes out of the caboose
to declare, The war is over! Corks popping,
people mashing people, knocking over melon stands,
ripping millenniums of bodices. Hangover,
rest now, you'll have lots to do later
inspiring abstemious philosophies and menial tasks
that too contribute to the beauty of this world.

roasted chipmunk

what's a girl gotta do in order to meet the girlfriend of one her oldest friends?

apparently, poison her dogs. (not the girlfriend's...my own.)

so... if you've done much talking to me recently, you might know that i'm not in the most festive of holiday moods. it just doesn't feel like christmas this year.

in any case, the biggest plans i had for the day was to head out to sugar land to hang out with mom. while there, i was going to help prepare a few things for tomorrow's breakfast. (no christmas dinner for us this year.) and so, i'm hanging out in the kitchen with her while she's cooking some bacon. i sit on the counter and munch on a bagel before i decide it's kinda stale...at which point i open a can of black olives and am eating those out of the can. and suddenly i hear this 'crunch crunch crunch' sound...

and i see fidel coming out of the laundry room. and so, i follow fidel back into the laundry room to see what he's gotten into...whatever it is, it's behind the washer. (i'm figuring that, worst case scenario, he's gotten into some stray dog food that has worked its way under there.) and that's when i see the rat poison.

so, naturally, i freak out. and not a little. (sidenote: never, in my entire life, have we EVER had rat poison anywhere in our house. we were those people who would actually catch mice and let them go on the golf course. mice are among my favorite animals in the world...and mouse traps and rat poison are practically against my religion. i would NEVER expect for that to be an issue.)

so unfortunately, i'm wiggin out on mom...and pacing and not thinking clearly and thus, not knowing what to do. until finally, i have the presence of mind to look up the number for the emergency vet i know. (the one i know because fidel had a bad allergic reaction to a vaccine once upon a time when he was just a tiny puppy.) and i call them... and the lady on the other end of the receiver gets zero points for knowing how to calm someone down under the circumstances.

so, minutes later, i've got both dogs in my lap and i'm speeding to the emergency room... neither dog looking particularly distressed, aside from their concern at my irrational, hysterical behavior. and i get there...and again, the nurses make really grave faces when i mention rat poison... which just upsets me even more. and i fill out all the paperwork and sign all the forms that promise i'll mortgage whatever it is i can in order to pay for this vet visit (which is absolutely nothing, though i may have signed away my rights to my first-born) and they ask me which one ate the poison. and i say 'the one who eats everything,' figuring it will totally be obvious by just looking at them. so...they take fidel. meanwhile, faulkner is getting more and more anxious. and i'm hearing nothing from the stephenson household... which is highly suspect since i get calls from mom every 5 minutes under any other circumstances... my guess at why being that mom is feeling both really upset and very guilty.

and again, i'm getting more and more upset. and i think the nurses are starting to feel a little sorry for me, since they are handing me lots of tissue... and even the lady who is there in the waiting room with her soon-to-be-put-to-sleep cat is trying to comfort me. and adam is on the phone, honestly asking if mom would be willing to poison his cat too, since kat-owen has learned to turn on the faucet and has destroyed adam's bathroom. (adam is always good for the tasteless humor in moments like these.)

so, after deciding that the animal emergency room has got to be the most depressing place on the planet (especially on christmas eve), the nurse comes out and says that fidel has thrown up...and that he has thrown up A LOT of poison. and then, of course, she proceeds to tell me that had i not brought him in, he would have totally died. (was that detail really necessary? i mean, don't we all feel bad enough?!)

this is when mom finally calls...and she is so upset that the next few minutes are spent trying to apologize for freaking out on her, as well as relaying that fidel is fine. then comes the next question: did faulkner get into it, too? can't be sure one way or the other...and given all their frowny-faces and somber warnings about rat poison, i don't want to take a chance and opt to have faulkner treated as well.

so, both dogs are busy puking their guts out, while i'm still sobbing in the waiting room like an idiot... shocking even myself at how worried i am about these two animals (both having appeared perfectly fine before these vets got their hands on them).

when the whole ordeal is over, i bring them home and decide that i'm not moving off my couch this evening so that i can keep an eye on them. and fidel is acting A-OK...but poor faulkner has a more sensitive stomach and is still clearly affected by whatever they gave him to make him throw up. i finally decide i need a snack from the kitchen, so i go to grab some applesauce...at which point fidel, in usual form, starts patrolling the kitchen floor. (and i'm really wanting to smack him, since it is this compulsive behavior that led to the whole incident in the first place.)

a few hours later, i get a call from adam...and he is outside with his girlfriend. (mind you, i have not met her yet, despite the fact they have been dating for months... and this has been very deliberate.) and i'm thinking that, in some ways, it is slightly fortuitous that my dogs were poisoned today, since otherwise, adam would not be feeling sorry for me and i might not have had the opportunity to meet his woman. and at this point, fidel is obliviously playing with his new gorrilla toy, so i figure it's probably OK to leave for a little bit...

so, we go get thai food. at thai sticks... which is the only place that appears to be open at 9:30 on christmas eve. and the conversation runs anywhere from what a jerk mike myers is (she's a casting agent) to what a nice guy deepak chopra is to what movies (not yet released in the movie theatres, but available to us on DVD since she is an academy voter) we will be watching this week. and the music playing starts as some bad tejano version of jingle bells, then changes to what sounds like polish-villager christmas carols to what sounds like 'chestnuts roasting on an open fire.' but...now, get this...it is not in fact 'chestnuts roasting.' it sounds JUST like it...it even sounds like nat king cole...but the conversation dies down for one second and we clearly hear the lyrics "roasted chipmunk" at the point where "merry christmas" usually comes in the song.

seriously.

and we die laughing...despite the distinct possibility we may be in the twilight zone.

but the moral of the story is this:

the day didn't end up so badly. fidel and faulkner are both fine. i got to meet adam's girlfriend. and i will probably get to watch a lot of good movies before anyone else.

so....merry christmas, i guess.

this poem made my day:

Clam Ode

One attempts to be significant on a grand scale
in the knock-down battle of life
but settles.
It is clammy today, meaning wet and gray,
not having a hard, calciniferous shell.
I love the expression "happy as a clam,"
how it imparts buoyant emotion
to a rather, when you get down to it,
nonexpressive creature: In piles of ice
it awaits its doom pretty much the same
as on the ocean's floor it awaits
life's banquet and bouquet and sexual joys.
Some barnacles we know are eggs dropped from outer space
but clams, who has a clue how they reproduce?
By trading clouds?
The Chinese thought them capable of prolonging life
while clams doubtlessly considered
the Chinese the opposite.
I remember the jawbreakers my dad would buy me
on the wharf at Stone Harbor,
every thirty seconds you'd take out
the one in your mouth
to check what color it turned.
What does this have to do with clams?
A feeling.
States of feeling, unlike states of the upper Midwest,
are difficult to name.
That is why music was invented,
which caused a whole new slew of feelings
and is why since
people have had more feelings than they know what to do with
so you can see it sorta backfired
like a fire extinguisher that turns out to be a flame thrower.
They look somewhat alike, don't they?
So if you're buying one be sure
you don't get the other,
the boys in the stockroom are stoners
who like to wear their pants falling down
and deserve their own Gulliver's Travels island.
The clam however remains calm.
Green is the color of the kelp it rests on,
having a helluva wingding calm.
I am going to kill you in butter and white wine
so forgive me, great clam spirit,
join yourself to me through the emissary
of this al dente fettuccini
so I may be qualmless and happy as you.

-Dean Young

this is brilliance. to me.

me talk pretty online

i am not fond of webspeak.

i appreciate that internet slang saves time...but i have a beef. we use words like 'awesome' and 'fabulous' all the time in our everyday speech, and i am just as guilty of this as the next person. but how many things are truly awe-inspiring? i choose not to get up in arms about this, because these words and phrases are firmly entrenched in our language along with any number of colloquialisms.

yet, the thing that really bugs me: LOL. i can't stand LOL. you might ask why. because! because when i write LOL, i had better be laughing out loud. like...for real. i had better get a hearty guffaw out of whatever it follows. because otherwise, it is a useless phrase. and believe me, writing something stupid and then, writing LOL after it does NOT make it more funny. to the contrary, it makes it LESS funny...or maybe just distracts me...because suddenly, it reminds me of a 13 year-old girl in a chat room. (not that 13 year-old girls should ever be in chat rooms.)

example of unsolicited myspace message from random stranger: 'miss jenni, you seem like a trouble-maker. LOL.'

okay, so i'm not laughing...are YOU laughing? i mean, is that funny? i know they are trying to be cute and flirty...but all they've made me do is think of goofy, socially-inept guys glued to their keyboards AND 'hello kitty.' AND it prompts me to change my settings to private.

men should NEVER use this phrase. repeat. men should NEVER use this phrase.

smileys, on the other hand, are completely acceptable. :)

NYer than you

i vowed that i would not renew my new yorker subscription when my year was finished. why?

1. the articles are too long...7-10 pages a piece at times.
2. it comes every week, leaving me no time to finish one issue before the next arrived in the mail.
3. i'm convinced that the editors don't read through all the cartoon caption entries, as i've submitted countless captions far more clever than those that win.
4. i'm starting to feel both falsely validated (being one of the pretentious, self-important elitists who subscribe) to intensely inferior and inadequate because i can't manage to finish a single issue before either losing interest or getting frustrated by the esoteric ego-stroking evident in the articles (how's that assonance for ya?).

so, the last 4 or 5 issues have arrived with a dustcover announcing the impending doom of my subscription...'last issue before service interruption'...'don't miss your opportunity to stay up to date with the new yorker'...'no more cartoons?' and i've turned my nose up at each issue. 'i can take you or leave you,' i say casually. i toss it aside...to read later...IF i get around to it.

and so, i finally pick up the last few magazines. and there's this great article about the progress in criminal lie-detection utilizing fMRI technology...the area of expertise of the very friend who turned me on to the NYer in the first place. and then, this great article about the music industry's conundrum with the advent of easy downloads...and how it has actually benefitted the classical music portion of the business. (seriously, what layperson actually downloads schoenberg?) and there was also that great article about the new biography on charles schulz. highlights from the book, his cartoon, and his life outlined in the 10-page article, along with personal anecdotes (such as revealing the squawking, nonsensical speech of the adults in 'peanuts' to be reminiscent of schulz's first wife). not to mention an absolutely fabulous short story ('mr. bones') by paul theroux (of 'mosquito coast' fame), as well as a depressing, but fascinating article about babies with colic and the potential long-term effects it has on both child and parents....that i am both tempted and hesitant to share with the million pregnant friends i have currently. but if that wasn't enough, let me not forget the article on elizabeth lecompte...my hero. the OTHER person i want to be when i grow up...julie taymor being the first. (the founder of the wooster group in NYC, famous for experiemental theatre productions juxtaposing classical rep, pop references, and contemporary aesthetics in a dangerous multimedia blitz.) the feature outlining her childhood, her break-throughs, her relationships, and her recent production of 'hamlet'...all along with a great photo. her hopes, dreams, and fears in a 10-page spread.

and i'm annoyed. i'm annoyed because it seems as though the big guns were brought out in my honor. why, just when i'm content to let my subscription lapse into obscurity, i read the five or six best articles all year?! so, is this the MO? is this the grand plan? skate by with filler until my renewal time?

well, damn. you've won, NYer...you've won. my check is in the mail.

cheater

anyone who has heard my description of last saturday's events knows that my little honda is undergoing some surgery at the moment. my poor car had a BIG scratch on its right side...but on the whole, its cosmetic appearance has been on the decline for a while. there's a dent from a friend opening my car door too quickly and too forcefully against a pole in my garage, some scratches on the front bumber where the dealership drive it against a curb, and the scratches on the back bumper where i backed into those annoying rocks with which people edge their yards to prevent parking, (i HATE those rocks) among other things. point being that i've been feeling a little self-conscious about the look of my fairly young car...this is same car that came back from the repair-shop once upon a time with teeny-tiny pockmarks in the paint, making me cry because my new baby had its first blemishes. so, when the rental car employee picks me up in a new aura, i immediately start to notice this sleek, new acquaintance. the adjustable seatbelt height...the ignition coordinating with the radio and the transmission coordinating with the doorlocks...the way i can open the sunroof and trunk with the push of the alarm button. i even like the more subtle click of the tune signal. suddenly, i sense myself starting to lust after this new car...i like it's smell...it's look in the driveway...the way i feel in the driver's seat. and the thing is, i HAD a saturn...and i HATED it. but i LOVE this car. and i am beginning to devise a plan for how i can keep this car, instead of my honda...some sneaky reason why i deserve the upgrade. it seems only reasonable that the garage and the rental place will go along with this plan.

but this afternoon, i made one observation: the aura's fuel gauge. in only two days, i have used over a third of a tank of gas. this is NOT normal. given my usual driving habits, i can drive over two weeks on one tank of gas in my honda. thus, the aura is flawed. and as i am sitting there, embraced by the cushions of this unfamiliar travel companion, i have this overwhelming feeling that i have been cheating on my car. and i genuinely feel guilty. do i admit this infidelity to my honda...or do i just pretend it never happened?

in any case, i miss you, baby. looking forward to having you back.

addicted

so, i just got home from a fantastic show tonight. dashboard confessional. was a solo performance with chris carrabba (singer) and john lefler (guitarist). i grew up with john lefler's little brother and spent a fair amount of time at the lefler household back in the day. turns out pappa lefler was at the performance...was nice to stop and say hello. and the concert was fantastic. i mean, REALLY good. more on that later...

i get home and what's on TV but 'sleepless in seattle.' and i swear, i cannot see that movie on television without stopping to watch it. and every time i watch it, i cry bucketloads. doesn't matter if i see the whole thing or the last ten minutes, i cry...EVERY SINGLE TIME. i LOVE that movie. that's all.

4 musings

1. puppies:

so i get email updates from petsmart. i use banfield, the associated vet. a few days ago, i received an email from them entitled,' loving your pet to death.' thinking this was probably some inoocuous sale anouncement, i opened it to read a rather shocking email about pet obesity. apparently, not only are our children getting fat...so are our pets. the email goes on to illustrate the dangers of over-feeding your pets. and so, of course, i start to panic about poor fidel. i have tried to feed him smaller portions, but this is a rather undiscerning animal that will eat anything if he's hungry. (he has spit up full pecans before.) that being said, dieting is easier said than done for my little fuzzy. and even walking is difficult, because i have to take both dogs...and fidel can never keep up with faulkner for very long. so, must i resign myself to this? must i feel guilty every time i give him a biscuit? poor baby.

2. dancing around my apartment:

last saturday, i spent all morning dancing around my apartment. i had the music playing while i cleaned, and one tune just got me moving. and somewhere, mid-shimmy...i got a brilliant idea for an upcoming play project. that's always a wonderful feeling...when some light bulb goes off in your head and you suddenly have direction. i love that moment of sparked inspiration! now, if i could only remember my great idea....

3. stage mothers:

i am not so sure i enjoy stage mothers. by this, i am not necessarily talking about the women who put pressure on their kids to perform. i'm talking about the next level of stage mothers: the mothers whose children already perform and who might go on tour with their children for a given show. i respect the need for a child to be close to his or her mother, but this situation creates a new breed. so, last night, i'm at a party and these children are running around like comanches. screaming and yelling and playing tag in the middle of a reception for our major donors...with expensive glassware in hand and whatnot. and i am shocked...because these mothers just sat back obliviously as their kids wreaked havoc on the party....children aged 5 to 13. mind you, it is midnight! and the mothers are talking amongst themselves like nothing is out of order. and at one point, the children create a hideout near the coat-check and are yelling at one another...and one child screams at the top of her lungs. and i politely ask the kids to keep it down, when this one little girl screams again. it appears as though she is screaming back at me, and i give her a look that would freeze ice. (seriously... these children should really know better.) and thankfully, the girl looked terrified and got quiet...for a minute anyways. and throughout this experience, i come to 3 conclusions:

-touring with these children must be the best birth control method...EVER.

-it is indeed possible for people to be so removed from reality that they have no sense of propriety.

-these children have hard lives ahead of them. god have mercy on the show-biz kid.

4. bjork

this is random, but it must be said. on my drive yesterday, i came across 'dancer in the dark' on one of my mix CDs, and it reminded me of bjork's oscar performance...and the subsequent flurry of fashion gossips mocking her for her oscar garb faux-pas. but you know...i really, REALLY liked that swan dress. and i admire her for being enough of her own person to unabashedly wear it. i even liked the egg purse. so there.

art on wheels

so, i attended yesterday's art car parade with some pals. thanks to michael, the arts initiative, and the cart-bar! much, much fun!




were many fantastic cars, but the one that made me the happiest was this one, the sashimi tabernacle choir car:

brilliant! simply brilliant! kudos to the team that brought us a crustaceous beethoven's 9th!
250 fish and lobsters singing and moving in unison. priceless.

April

April...a beautiful month. Flowers blooming everywhere. How lovely.

Especially these flowers:

Ah, ligustrum. How nice to see that normally plain (and rather dull bush) explode once a year into a pleasant bouquet of tiny, white flowers...

Would be even nicer if the damn things didn't give me a headache, puffy eyes, and a scratchy throat for the entire month of April.

Sometimes, I hate spring.

divine humor

ah....the byzantine chapel. the one at the menil. if you haven't seen it, you must make plans to do so. immediately. simply beautiful. the frescos are lovely, but the place itself is magical. in my opinion, much more so than the rothko. i walked in and the only light in the room was that coming from the two candles flanking the pews....excepting that on the frescos themselves. the rest of the altar was simply glowing...an other-wordly translucent white halo against the stark black of the walls. i walked in and sat in the back pew and just stared. and stared. i felt almost paralyzed. i couldn't take my eyes from the fresco just above the altar. from where i was sitting, you only saw the image of an angel...an angel staring back at me with a face of sublime peace and gentleness. did i feel like the angel was looking at me? yes, i did. which is why i sat there silently for what must have been a half-hour. and in that time i felt so calm and satisfied.

how can one deny the existence of the divine? it was in the air...in the birds singing outside the chapel...the water dripping off the leaves in the trees outside...the glow of the altar...even in the squeak of the shoes worn by the people walking by my pew. i don't know exactly what that means...but i feel it is true with every inch of my being. i sat there and stared and couldn't help but cry...just a little. but not tears of sadness, but those of joy. of appreciation. i thought of my family...of my friends...of my life...and i just felt so very grateful and blessed. and content. with all of life's trials, could it be any sweeter than this?

and then, someone's cell phone rang. one of those generic nokia rings. and the woman, embarassed, rushed outside...rifling through her purse to grab and silence the offending device. and it put the biggest smile on my face. and instead of being annoyed, it made me laugh. here i am, having this intense moment when someone's cell phone rings....breaking the mood. but not really. isn't that what life is? isn't it the little surprises and problematic occurrences that make it that much more fun? i think so.

after watching the woman rush out of the room, i looked back at the angel looming above in the fresco....and i couldn't help but notice a hint of a smirk on her face.