Truthiness

Quotes of the Week, uttered by VP at Henry's:

"Think how much time we'd waste if we told the truth all the time."

and Steven Colbert:

"I love Wikipedia. Any site that's got a longer entry on 'truthiness' than on Lutherans has its priorities straight."

Message to Class F Drivers

If you drive an earth destroying SUV and cannot efficiently navigate parking lots, for hell's sake please downsize.

It's a win-win all around, trust me.

Depends, on the Dog

So I'm dating this new guy. And my pooch, very much accustomed to being the center of attention, is adapting. Several times we've (me and the dog) gone over to his house to visit.

In some ways she's been great - no growling, barking or biting - but in other ways she's expressed a certain level of, let's just say, dissatisfaction.

The first time we were over he couldn't understand why I wouldn't leave Ru (the dog) alone in his house. "What could she do," SDG asked, "it's a bachelor pad?"

I couldn't form the words for a proper response. So Ru responded, 30 minutes into the visit, by squatting on his brand new carpet. Carpet that has never felt canine paws before that night, much less hot liquid sinking into the fibers.

I hadn't expected she would show her disdain by becoming The Urinator. As a deaf-mute, I stood there in disbelief. Right in front of me she had peed. My (allegedly) perfect dog, with that sweet face and calm disposition. My dog, a spoiled dog-child deprived of attention for an entire half hour.

I let her outside to give her the opportunity to void any other materials and then resumed the visit. By the way, SDG was great about it. Not sure I would be as cool if the roles were reversed.

Like clockwork, 30 minutes later, was a repeat performance. This time I managed to utter some words before putting her outside. The Resolve bottle came back out along with the paper towels. My head was about to explode as the two beings I most wanted to get along were striking a few discordant notes.

Fortunately that ended Ru's silent strike on SDG's home. For that visit.

The second visit lasted three whole hours before she wet the carpet. So, it's an improvement and perhaps now it's simply a training phase.

I think we're finally getting it under control. Last week during the power outage we camped out over there in the air conditioning and never needed the Resolve.

Phew. Didn't want to have to choose between dog and man ...

Memoirs

I'm struggling with the blurry line between fiction and non-fiction when it comes to memoirs.

I just read "Running with Scissors." Overall the book was an easy read. I knew the basic plot so the first fifty pages were gripping because I wanted to understand how and why his mother's psychiatrist became his legal guardian. Of course there was plenty of shock value in some of the circumstances but after awhile (perhaps 2/3 of the way into the book) the ridiculousness of his childhood seemed almost mundane. Throwing the hotel bed and tv out the window? Not surprising. Showering with a whole turkey defrosting in bathtub? Mind-numbingly normal.

Today I googled the author. Apparently he's being sued by the Finch family with whom he spent a large part of his childhood. The lawsuit is a bit reminiscent of James Frey, but probably not nearly as controversial or fictitious, I guess.

In my writers group we've talked about writing from personal experience and that fine line with "storying up" life experiences into something more interesting.

I suppose Burroughs did this exact same thing. However he's getting sued and some items, such as the frequent references to how roach-infested filthy the Finch household was (or wasn't) are in contention. Apparently a journalist who visited the Finch home said it wasn't disgustingly dirty. And of course there are bigger allegations that are being scrutinized. Just think it's fascinating. Click here to read an article on the lawsuit.

What I also find interesting is that some of the details in our writing, which stick out like sore thumbs in how ludicrous and unrealistic they seem, are the true, real-life tidbits which were dropped in, as is. Just reinforces the adage that truth is stranger than fiction.

Anyway, I welcome input and comments on fiction vs. non-fiction, and just how accurate memoirs should be. After all, memoire (the French word) means memory, and if it's as you remember it, it can be a helluva lot different than another's recollection...

And in the dictionary, memoir is defined as:
1 - An account of the personal experiences of an author.
2 - An autobiography. Often used in the plural.
3 - A biography or biographical sketch.

Summer Storm

So last night we had a big summer storm. Half million homes in St Louis are without power, homes north of interstate 70 are under boil order, and my office, for the first time in 20 years, is closed. Yipee for that though my home has no air co either.

My little old house stayed pretty cool last night - under 80 - and the pooch and I slept well. This afternoon I stopped by again and it's over 80 inside but the old tree and bricks (despite poor insulation) are keeping it fairly cool. Thank heavens I have some dear friends, who have air conditioning - welcoming me & the canine into their homes. This afternoon I'm over at SAB's and we're half-watching some very bad 70s tv on the Game Show Network. My dog has stopped growling/sniffing at her dogs so it's a chillfest for the moment.

Driving around the area last night and today has been interesting. There are huge trees down in my neighborhood - luckily not my old black walnut. Many, many of the stoplights are dark, not even flashing red, traffic is slow going everywhere and trees/branches are down everywhere. It's amazing how short the storm was, but how powerful.

Ode to Poons

It's funny how everyone has their own personal thesaurus of nonsensical nicknames for everyday things.

Of course, there are the terribly common and rather horrid references to private parts, oft used by parents to their kids. These terms are heard, loud and clear, in many a public place. 'Woo woo', 'hoo ha' and 'keester' echo throughout the food aisle at Dierbergs or public restroom at Target, making the non-believer in such tomfoolery cringe.

I like to believe that people graduate from these juvenile repetitions (don't forget 'bo bo'), though many never do. Fortunately my mom started early with the training of the proper references. Granted, I occasionally forgot these terms, but mainly because the birds & bees talk flew over my head and caused me great anguish. For a long time I wouldn't eat eggs for fear of getting pregnant. As a young kid, I knew that I was not yet ready to graduate from caring for my poodle (in a rather haphazard way) to taking on a baby. The egg making a baby visual just left me reeling and my new vocabulary was momentarily lost.

Now, what I think much more interesting are the quietly kept monikers of adults. Those not uttered outside an elite group, hush-hush, and purely goofy. Rarely do these see the light of day to reach outsiders.

For instance, R&J, who are trying to conceive, call their future fetus "Peanut." This slipped out in a conversation so now I'm in on their little joke.

Another friend, while chatting on the phone today, mentioned that she was buying a case of poons online. Her favorite type was no longer available in stores so she was going to stockpile.

Now what is a 'poon'? Is it something found in a Dr. Seuss book? Or insider slang for harpoon?

Well, in addition to being a southern Asian tree (which I just learned), it is slang for a tampon in M's family. Something oh-so-very-original that her father coined, living in a household with four menstrual women.

In my own world, I have seemed to refer to bras as 'arbs' for 25 years. But only to myself - using this when making shopping lists, but never in conversation. Writing this out, I wonder why I did this ... I think because, in those awkward pre-teen years, poons and arbs seemed less embarrassing when referred to in code.

Hildy Sighting

Just last week I saw the real Hildy. This was probably the 3rd sighting ever.

This time Hildy was talking to a neighbor and had her gas mask off; it was hanging around her neck. Prostrate.

If I hadn't been a passenger in a car headed somewhere, I would have doubled back. Maybe even parked and passed by on foot. Just for a longer look, an opportunity to soak in the physical being which inspired my conjured up creation.

The Me in We

"Hi. It's me. Call me back."

Simple enough message, very often heard and uttered.

And yet not so much.

Let's just say it's been awhile since I've heard it from someone other than a friend or my father. I think the last male "me" - that lasted beyond a one-off date or two - was involved in the Moby Dick incident of 2002. And as a result of said incident, all ties were severed and the crazy roller coaster relationship fell off the tracks. Which was a good thing. I've never regretted it.

Recently I've dipped my toes into "we-ness" once more and am getting those simple messages again by a Y-chromosomed caller. No other identifier, no proper name.

I could get used to this again.

I think I already am.

In the Year 2000 (and one)

Five years ago, I had just turned 30 and was:
-single (oh wait, I still am);
-struggling with an undiagnosed and untreated disease that made me feel, at times, 100 years old;
-traveling to Europe a handful of times each year, eating fabulous food and seeing amazing places;
-less "curvy" (aka thinner);
-just starting to get to know the urban family.

Hiss Hiss

So my friend V is gallivanting around Europe on vacation for two weeks and I've offered to check in on her cat.

I've never been a fan of cats but I've grown to have a healthy respect for the creatures, although I prefer dogs. They're less finicky and fickle compared to their feline friends. My tendency to treat cats like dogs more often than not gets me clawed or nipped.

Anyway, this is the end of week one of trying to keep the cat company. I'm learning - or rather the cat is conditioning my behavior. I haven't been scratched since the first visit, which I consider a measure of success.

My goal for week two is to have the cat sit on my lap. V told me where the 'sweet spot' is on the couch and I've been sitting in it and feeding her cat treats. Just trying to be pals and get the cat to warm up to me. (Boy, this sounds like I really need a life - I'm blogging about my goal and it's about a CAT!)

Anyway, back to the cat. Either she's desperate for some human interaction and decided that I'll just have to suffice, or I'm growing on her. Guessing it's the former, she's just tolerating me as a temporary replacement and reserving the right to be aloof and cranky at any time.

Which is why I have my unconditional canine.

Dogs rule.

A Small, Good Thing

Tonight at the DG meeting we discussed two stories by Raymond Carver. I'd never read his work before but am now a big fan of his writing. In fact I think we all were impressed with his concise, powerful tales.

One thing that really resonated with me during our conversation tonight about these two stories was said by CoE ... that in moments of loss, of losing a loved one, often the best comfort comes from an unlikely source. It's not from your parents, your family, your relatives or closest friends but instead a random connection with a stranger that often soothes the soul.

Maybe it's just that universal sense of loss mixed with meeting someone new - at the right time, right place - that makes all the difference. . . along with the fact that you probably will never see them again, may not even know their first name, that makes it so powerful.

Geek Love

I've recently started another voracious book reading cycle. I've had a break the past few months, instead reading random magazines and short stories. But now I seem to be back on the wagon - reading before I go to bed and sometimes trying to sneak in another chapter before work. The latest book, which was nominated for a National Book Award in the 1980s, was Geek Love.

It was on loan from my friend R who let me borrow it a year or two ago. It's been a bit of a challenge as when she offered it up last year she mentioned that I'd declined it in the past. So of course I decided to take another stab at it and these past two weeks have been engrossed in the book.

I think that I expected it to be a cross between Pretty in Pink and Less Than Zero.

It's not.

It's odd. A bit like watching a horrible accident and the aftermath. But pretty much a page turner.

Did you know that the word "geek" originates from the carnival world? I didn't. Apparently it's the person who does gross things like biting off chicken heads as entertainment. I guess you could say the "geek" is the precursor to Ozzy Osbourne's live bat gig on stage. . .

I like how the author deals with very common themes - family issues - but in a very unique way. The parents are 'norms' who willingly abuse alcohol, drugs and other toxic substances to breed the next generation of carny performers. The offspring and the family dynamics form the core of the story in such a bizarre way. It's horrible, but inventive.

I can't say I loved it. And I do think at times the author changed perspectives and lost me a little as to who was narrating at the time.

But if nothing else, it was certainly original. It left an impression. I'm glad I don't know anyone like Arty but would've liked to have known Chick.

If anyone else comes across this post and has read it - please share your comments. I'm very curious to hear other's impressions and to discuss further.

35,000 miles and no major repairs

As my body's odometer turns another year, I guess I could say it has 35,000 miles on it, it seems a good time to ruminate ... introspectively on the past, present and future.

Numbers with a zero, five and nine all lend themselves particularly well to creating the personal equivalent of a business plan. Last fall I realized, while making my first marketing plan at work, that it makes sense to have your own personal plan - measurable, attainable, etc.

So MJ and I started our "Monster Me" initiatives. It sputtered out after a handful of months but it's still around - and it's made a difference. MJ is trying out landscape architecture and I've starting writing. There are other things too, and it feels great to know that we actually delivered against our plan, with what seems like very little effort. Or at least it felt less like a chore and more like fulfillment. So last night after running errands, doing dishes & loads of laundry, I recapped my accomplishments and began another quarter of "Monster Me" goals.

This morning, after six hours of sleep, some breakfast and other stuff, the pre-birthday questions that come to mind are:

What's the next adventure?

What can I do that excites me and won't feel like work while it pays the bills and contributes to my savings?

What's most important? What are my priorities and am I aligning my time appropriately?

If I could do or be anything, what would that be? How can I make that happen? Do I really want to make it happen?

Ok now I'm sounding like Dr. Phil or some self-help evangel that irritates me more than inspires. But just some thoughts for me to chew on ... as I turn thirty-five (which is better than fifty-three, at least for now).

Oh - one more thing - I have found that it really does seem that I am coming into my own more and more. That the 30s are a pretty damn good decade. It's sort of like graduating from playing dress-up as a little girl to finally owning your own wardrobe - complete with fitted clothing and shoes in every color and style. I feel like I'm evolving, becoming more confident in ways I wasn't before, and more aware of who I am and want to be.

I loved my 20s - they were tons of fun. But if this is what it's supposed to be like in your 30s, I'm thinking the 40s could be pretty damn good too.

Halfway to Seventy

I know it was only a three day workweek, but thank heavens it's over.

The past month or so my output at work seems to consist of clock watching, and snuffing out the urges to either pull a book out of my purse to read or work on my next short story. It's not like I don't have work to do, it's just that Idon'twannadoit.

On Wednesday, July 5th, after a very relaxing four day weekend, I was even tempted to just call in and take the day off. I didn't have any plans, no particular project or event - just simply didn't want to return to the drudgery. Like four days was not enough. Seems like it should be...but who knows.

On top of that I've noticed a new tendency that is very ADD. I sit at my desk, and like someone who is nicotine addicted, I feel the urge to check my favorite blogs and personal email account all of the time. What I can't figure out is if it's a phase (doldrums at work) or a new quirk in my personality?

I know it's possible to develop food allergies or find that your flat, limp hair suddenly has a kink. I've known other women in their 30s that have experienced such things. Now that I'm a day away from turning 35, am I just restless or have I developed ADHD? I hope not.

ADHD reminds me of my boss Jim. I was 22 at the time, very intense about proving myself and doing a good job. I was in his office, talking about something important, when he suddenly sprouted up out of his chair, flipped his chair over, and began spinning the bottom half to increase the chair height. That image has resonated with me for 13 years. I was dumbfounded at the time, mouth gaping, frozen mid-thought at the sight of the clown twirling his chair.

My other early twenties image of this boss includes his young son. Jim abandoned his son in his office while he had a meeting. Over time everyone could hear his son's growing bellow of "Dad ... Dad ... DAAAAAD!!" Poor little guy was scared. He's probably a landscaper or actor after that stultifying time in Dilbertville. No cubicles or padded walls for him.

Anyway, Jim rescued his son and brought him down the hall to meet his direct reports. At my cube they stopped. I took in the appearance of my boss with an extra appendange, a young boy with dried snot looped around his left leg. As he introduced me, his son - almost in slow motion, like the famous Chariots of Fire scene - pulls his head away from his dad's leg, one shoulder and arm distancing itself ever so slightly from its host leg. Before I know it (or Jim knows it), his son is going in for the kill. Jim's been racked - hard, at close range - by his seven year old son, in front of his 22-year old employee.

The slo-mo continues, as Jim cups his hands, slowly bending forward with an 'o' shaped mouth. Before he's bent 45 degrees, he regains composure, while I'm still shocked and hurting for him.

The first words out of his mouth are even toned, not unlike saying "I'm going to lunch, I'll be back in a half hour." But instead he says: "Don't do that (insert kid's name here - I forget it), that hurts Daddy."

And that's it. End of story. Yet it's etched in my brain - one of my first impressions of corporate America!

I honestly don't think Jim (or his wife) ever reprimanded the little imp - whereas I felt it completely warranted that he pull the punching urchin by the ear and grunt idle threats until they were somewhere private for a full on reprimand. It didn't have to be corporal, but some sort of cause and effect was in order. Granted I'm not a childcare professional nor a mother, and Jim probably should not have left his kid alone at work, HOWEVER the kid's response was inappropriate and unspeakably embarrassing - to Jim and to me!

From the office buzz my boss's kids were both on the untrained, disobedient hellion side of the spectrum. I wonder where they are now ... and if V's right about karma, perhaps someday they'll get racked in public in front of non-strangers too. . .

The DMV

Ah, the tedium of going to the license bureau. It always takes much longer than you expect, as the contract employees lull their way through the day. There is no sense of urgency in the DMV office. Minutes pass like hours, hours pass like days.

Monday I spent 150 minutes at the DMV. 30 others went before me. That's five minutes per person. Which, actually now that I break it down that way, isn't as horrid as I thought.

It didn't help either that the first DMV I went to was having computer/printer problems and referred me to the other one - so they had a bigger backlog than normal.

My new, six year license includes a hideous photo which I'll have till I'm FORTY-ONE. This troubles me. E reminded me that I could always 'lose' it. Course that would require another few hours at the DMV that might be better spent elsewhere - particularly when I accept that fact that I'm no longer one of 'them' (as in someone who gets carded at the grocery store or bar). So its circulation will be diminished as compared to past ids.

At least this time my eyes are open. Before they used digital cameras, I had three drivers licenses in which my eyes were closed but my mouth smiling. As a 21-year old the bouncers often recycled the same joke: "Wait, close your eyes. OK, go in." Sooooo funny.

I really can't complain too much. My friend Mary's last license made her look like a stroke victim. I'm not sure what happened exactly, but the card machine malfunctioned, drooping the left side of her normally symmetrical, 30-something face. She asked them to redo it but they refused. I wonder if she "lost" that one or lived with it till it expired.

I still can't believe that I'll be in my 40s when this damn thing expires. I like the convenience (no more three year stints), but suddenly I feel like Sally in "When Harry Met Sally": "But I'll be 40 .... someday." And someday, as Jbo has mentioned in the past, is now coming sooner for me than it is for Sally - but of course Sally is preserved in 1989 so I shouldn't begrudge her for being younger than I am, in the year 2006. Plus, let's face it, she finally showed men the world over that women can fake it. Not that we want to fake it, but there are times when we feel the need to prod the male ego. . .

Less than one week

Last Sunday morning my neighbor stopped by. It was an impromptu visit and I was lounging in my pjs. I had nowhere to go that morning and was enjoying a lazy start. As my dog stood on her mountain (the back of the couch) with the hair on her spine raised, I rushed into the bedroom to throw on clothes. Skip that, I decided, and grabbed my bathrobe.

My neighbor had brought his six-day old daughter over, I had no time for serious dressing, after all the newborn was swaddled in a blanket and onesie of some sort. No need to be overdressed for the occasion, eh? Of course he responded as I opened the door "You're still in your pajamas at 10am?" I replied that I had a dog, not a baby.

About the baby. She was perfect - full head of thin black hair, delicate little features including the tiniest little finger nails that needed to be trimmed. It's amazing how they have fingernails in the womb. Makes sense I guess, but it's still a wonder.

His wife had to have a c-section (something she didn't really want) but the baby's heart rate was slowing. I do agree with her that c-sections seem so much more common and probably unnecessary in a majority of cases, but they do make a newborn's head look less like a dented, blotchy, partially deflated balloon. No alien look to be had - as if babies are supposed to be Glamour Shots ready at time of exit.

Pretty damn good way to start the day - at least my interactions with the outside world. That fresh from the oven baby smell, look and feel. It's not often in this life that the average person sees, holds, interacts with a baby that is less than a week old. And the baby came to me - right on my doorstep - on a lazy but amazing Sunday morning.