Freaky Friday III: Jason Lives

Today’s entry is not by me, and it’s not about my life. I asked the members of the Tyrtle Mumbles mailing list to write about what’s going on in their lives instead.

Amanda

On Fridays I volunteer at a local elementary school, just a couple hours in a first grade classroom. These kids are so funny. The first week their teacher, Jackie, had me sit in front of them on a stool so they could ask me questions. I got everything from “What food do you like?” to “Do you live with your boyfriend?” Later on the playground, three little girls decided they’d rather play with my hair than play the assigned P.E. game. One little girl collects phone numbers, so she asked me for mine. She doesn’t have a phone book, though, just scribbles on scraps of paper, so I think I’ll find her one.

Laur

What is that noise? It can’t be the alarm. The alarm never wakes me up. I always wake up before it does. Always. No, rully. Besides, the alarm was set to go off at ten AM, and the light falling on my closed eyelids is not nearly as bright as it should be, if in fact it is ten AM, which it isn’t. I can tell. So what is that noise?

My stuffed animals are laughing at me. They know I can’t see them with my eyes gummed shut, so they’re doing it silently, but don’t think I don’t hear their muffled snickers. *hmph*

That noise! It’s starting to sound familiar. Heard it somewhere before. Okay, let’s analyse it: somewhat high-pitched, repeating pattern of one drawn-out, um, what’s it called, ring?… ring… ring… Oh! It’s the phone! *whew* I was afraid I was going crazy here. The phone. Sheesh. Now that I listen to it, of course it’s the phone. How could it have taken me so long to figure out that that’s the sound of–

The phone!

Got to get the phone, got to get the phone, got to get the phone…

“H-hullo?” I don’t rully sound that tired, do I? What time is it. Seven. Hey, I slept till seven! A record; usually I’m up long before then. Who could be phoning me at this hour? No one else I know is ever up at this time. Except if my jum stayed up all night again– he wouldn’t do that, would he? He remembers how tired he was after that.

But it is my jum. Wull, there’s nobody else I’d rather talk to than my jum. Hurrah! “Heeeyyy, snidget.” Oo, my jaw hurts again. Maybe I shouldn’t smile quite so broadly.

He sounds tired, but at least he got some sleep. It’s not his fault that his roommate came in late and woke him up. Puir thing. So he’s been lying there thinking about next year… Next year. I’ve never been so excited about anything, ever. Les jumeaux will be reunited in one final dramatic slow-motion bus station scene, and then they’ll never be apart again. All I have to do is get through this summer’s jaw surgery and recovery, and then. Makes me breathe funny just thinking about it.

My stuffed animals have stopped laughing at me. They’re thinking about next year, too, and lying there in reverent silence. They’re pretty fond of my jum, too. Especially the little white bunny.

I can’t help it. I have to smile this broadly. Bursting out in song would wake everybody else up.

Tina

It makes the most sense for me actually to write about the last two days instead of just today, so that’s what I’ll do.

I’ve been sleeping very late these days–got in the habit again last week. So Wednesday late afternoon I was going in and out of sleep as the phone rang and the machine picked up. First Channel 10 and then Mike, both looking for Kate. Oh great, thought I. Phone rang again, and this time I picked it up. It was Jan. The AP found out about the marriage bill, and so Channel 10 wanted to talk to couples– any suggestions? I hemmed and hawed and referred her to Mark and Jonathan (they know everyone). Hung up and called Kate to warn her, but got her voicemail. Left a message and took a shower, hoping she would come home before church. She did, luckily. She called Channel 10 back, and they didn’t even know there were actually two marriage bills! She gave them some info, including the number at the rectory where we’d be after church, and I got dressed. I put on a nice-looking shirt in case they needed us to go on tv. I was fine with going on tv, but Kate does not want to in this particular context. So we went to the healing service. Kate was so rattled that she even had us all pray over her (this probably sounds Evangelical, but it’s an Episcopal church). She even cut out of the service for a minute when the phone rang, worried that it was Channel 10 again.

After the service we went to the rectory to check messages, find food, etc. Jan called Channel 10, and they said that they got Marc to agree to go on the air. I think he’s a bad choice, but originally she had asked J and K, who IMNSHO would be an even worse choice. Marc can do soundbites usually at least. I still wish Kate would let us go on the air about this. I can often think like a lawyer and come up with just the right wording. Oh well. We all had the worst time coming up with what to eat, but then we agreed on a restaurant nearby that I had never been to. Good choice. Not only was the food good all around, but we got to witness a random act of kindness. Susie loves her FiestaWare (don’t know if that’s the right spelling), and she noticed that this place had FiestaWare; in fact, the bread plates were the exact color of one of her sets, a set which had a missing piece because she had broken one of her bread plates. She asked the waitress who the restaurant’s dish supplier was because she needed to replace that plate. The waitress did not know, but she just gave Susie one of the plates! Very cool. Naturally, she got a good tip. :)

Got back to the rectory, and Jan called her pal the newscaster. She was still on the phone when Kate and I left. When we got home, Jan had left us a message. Apparently an unauthorized person had gone on one of the earlier Channel 10 news programs and spoken for the Alliance; he said some things that he shouldn’t have, and so the folks about whom he’d spoken demanded equal time. Kate then got on the phone with Rodney to try to sort it all out; I taped the news while watching it. They got to the marriage report; they gave it to a brand new reporter (Doug welcomed him to the staff). It was amazingly bad. He managed to get the names of both state representatives that he interviewed wrong in his report and in the caption. And then when he interviewed Marc and some others, under their names the caption just said “Gay.” After Kate watched it, she called up Channel 10 and complained about the state reps’ names (they knew about Mike’s name–no doubt he called them–but they didn’t realize they got the other rep’s name wrong too) and about the “Gay” caption. She asked them if they ever put “Black” under someone’s name. Later we made jokes that it was like The Daily Show, where they do those funny captions, so we came up with a few of our own (e.g., ____, Great legs, bad politics). After Kate went to bed, I logged on and did mail and web stuff and then later watched the soap (which was hilarious–Alex and Andy were sooooo “Single White Female”) and Grace, both of which I’d taped. I saved the soap so Kate could watch it later. I had trouble then deciding whether I should go to bed or pull the equivalent of an all-nighter. I needed to testify at a state Senate committee hearing on Thursday, and I was afraid I would just sleep through it if I went to bed. On the other hand, I’m basically close to useless if I don’t get the sleep I need. I finally decided to go to bed then and try to get up by 3:30pm. But then I couldn’t sleep, and so before Kate left for work at 9:30, I asked her if it would be okay with her if I didn’t make it to the hearing. She said yes, so I was relieved.

Finally fell asleep after she left, and I decided when my alarm went off that I would not go to the hearing. It’s a good bill in a good committee (except that Dragon Lady is on the committee, but so are many of our friends), so it probably wouldn’t live or die based on my testimony. So I snoozed some more. Spot kept getting on Kate’s pillow, so I had to move him (she’s allergic to cat hair). Around 5:30 Kate called. She said there were several bills in the committee, including the drunk driving bill that’s been in the news, and tons of people were testifying on that one. She wondered if I wanted to meet her for dinner since it would be a while. I vacillated between yea and nay for a minute but then decided that I’d better just take a shower and then go to the Foundation meeting. I had promised Shirley I would bring her that Freenet guide that I wrote for her (she is in her 70’s, and I am helping her get onto the Internet!), and I figured I should pass along the latest news developments to the others at the meeting. After I had my shower I realized that time was a problem–I did not have time to eat and get to the meeting on time. It was not a tough decision. The last Foundation meeting was stultifyingly boring, so I figured I’d better eat. Since I’m not on that board, it didn’t matter that I was late. Shirley was extremely grateful for the Freenet guide. The meeting was not quite as boring as last time and maybe got something accomplished. Kate came in around 8:30 and whispered to me that they did not have the hate crimes bill hearing after all, after she had sat there waiting for four and a half hours. The committee felt bad for her (even Dragon Lady, until she realized that Kate was a friend of Rhoda’s and Karen’s) and even offered to hear her testimony, but she said she would prefer a full hearing (and no one else was there to testify on it). She gave Sen. Walton her card, as he’s the lead sponsor. After the Foundation meeting was over, Kate gave everyone a rundown on the last two days’ events. I networked a bit with the other Jan and with Rodney, and then we went home. Watched the soap (Kate did indeed enjoy the scenes), and then Kate made a backup of all of the information about how PlanetOut screwed me over that I had downloaded. I decided it was time to clean it out of my mailbox, but I need it for future reference. Once the backup was made, I logged on and did delete the months of mail. I was hoping it would be a good symbolic cleansing, but I unfortunately did not really get that feeling. I guess I need to find some other ritual for that. So then I proceeded to go do the rest of my net stuff.

Just another day in the life of a lesbian activist!

Merry

My Mom called me at work today to inform me her sister had a stroke. Mom was naturally upset, and went on to say how her sister is the last one of her siblings still living. Her four brothers (and father) all died of cancer. I’ll need to check on Mom more often, to make sure she’s O.K. Mom asked me to scan an ornate letter “L” from an alphabet of the middle ages. I printed it out in color on paper with a nice weight and texture, for stationery for her to write her sister. I told Mom she could fly down to see her, if she wanted. I have frequent flyer miles, so it wouldn’t cost her a thing. She declined, but was thrilled by the paper.

It’s funny, just this morning when I was walking into work, I saw the headline of the Alaska Journal of Commerce. It read: “The Ten Most Powerful People In Alaska”. I was smiling to myself, yeah, they don’t know the power of my Mom, especially when she is wielding a wooden spoon. When I was a kid, it was the ultimate threat. I never got whacked, but just the thought of it kept me in line. It’s hard to see Mom older, and more dependent. Am I watching my future?

The view from the hot tub tonight was quiet exquisite. Comet Hale-Bopp is high in the dark sky and very visible with it’s long tail. The sky is clear, and the night is quiet. Last night the Aurora Borealis was out, a curtain of green light snapping back and forth across the mountaintops. I’ll walk out on the deck later in the evening, and see if Aurora dances for me again tonight.

Steve is spending the weekend at the ski lodge with “the guys”. He is working so hard, I’m glad his ski weekend is finally here. My week has been a tough one, too. I have a new team leader, and a new boss, all in the same week. I spent the day drawing maps of Russia for the Security Division. Amazing how many different ways a city name can be spelled, depending on the translation. Kamchatsky has been spelled with a “y”, two “y”s or two “i”s. Hum. No wonder they call the brain “gray matter”. All color and original thought have been washed from mine. I’ll spend this weekend in quiet moments of reading and daydreaming. I may even take the phone off the hook. Signing off…

name withheld

(how I hope my journal entry will read) [written on March 12]

March 14, 1997

Got up and had breakfast with David. We do this every morning, some days are more fun than others. I woke up in a very anxious mood - he only gets three minutes of head scratches before I jump out of bed. He had looked at my pill pack so he knew the state of my psyche. Being very loving and supportive he didn’t say anything about the egg sandwich I made him. It was runny. I am still learning to fry eggs.

Leaving for work David dropped exactly $6.27 on the top of my bag. I went to Starbuck’s for the regular morning capps. While making my capps, Kyle asked me how my interview went last week. I told him great and they’d asked me back for a second one. That was Wednesday and now I just had to wait to hear. Eek, was that the cause of my mood, on top of it being “that weekend” AND our two-year anniversary. Poor David - PMS-psycho-woman-from-hell, anniversary yes-no-celebrate-don’t, want-the-job desparately-no-don’t want the job - he should make tee-times for the entire weekend and leave me to work on stained glass projects. Kyle finished my capps and I was on my way in a semi-awake deep-in-thought daze.

Went to David’s shop and drop of his capp. He guessed right that Kyle made it this morning, kissed the top of my head, and wished me a good day. I waved good morning to the rest of the guys and headed off to work.

I took my time going to work . I stopped at the cross walk and let the walkers cross, waved a cheery hello to the very angry woman behind me. The three block walk from my parking garage to the building was a long one. It’s like I was in slow motion.

Made my way to my office, turned on my computer, and checked my voice-mail. Hmmm, one new message. Decided to wait until I checked e-mail to check voice-mail and hang up.

I got really busy and didn’t check my message on my phone until lunch. And, guess what? I got the job! I got the job!

Called David and spent the rest of the afternoon floating on air. Wrote my resignation letter, took it over to Sab and asked her to please proof it for me. I didn’t tell her what it was - the look on her face - priceless! Life is good for all of us!

Tonight we are going out to celebrate how good life is, he’s in the shower, I’m hungry, I’ll nap until he’s ready.

kiehl

still unemployed. . .it’s funny - you work so hard that you never have time to do anything (cranking out code for 12 hours a day for 2 1/2 yrs can really wear you down) then you suddenly have all the time in the world - but you can’t do anything cos you don’t know how long you’re going to have to survive on your severance/unemployment. grrrrr. i have so many projects i’d love to sink into but i can’t take that chance (how did i suddenly get so responsible?!). so, i spend most of my time (besides bugging my headhunter: “hi. just checking in….”) writing short stories, surfing the web (funny, i was so busy cranking out code for so long, i’d missed a lot of what was going on online.), stalking martha stewart (long story) and re-reading my favorite books. my current obsession is microserfs. if you ‘ve never read it, wired has a good excerpt online - check it out. and for those of you who HAVE read it; following are some of my Jeopardy dream categories:

*gay or eurotrash?
*school house rock
*late 80’s LA hair bands
*subpop: the early years
*boys named steve
*plot lines from “family affair”
*john hughes films
*andy warhol’s 60’s
*bitterness
*99.6 ways to make chicken in under ten minutes
*html 101
*aaron spelling tv
and the bonus round: *puma wearing indie boys and what makes them tick!

i also just read the new ethan hawke (i know! but give it a chance!) book, the hottest state; a good first effort. don’t slag him off, it’s a decent piece of work - a love story for the slacker generation.

if anyone has any good book recommendations, drop me a line. thx.

Kitey

Here’s a day in the dipper of time, and a wind in the sea of airs;
Solitary on one sandy stage, an upright stick serves to part them –
What was / What is not yet
That behind / That before
– Years can blow by.
An upright stick cuts the wind into perfect hemispheres;
Its shadow dials a known arc across the sand.
Am I a stick, clocking airspeeds,
Content in mesmerized identity to watch this finedrawn shadow
Tick precise degrees towards dusk?
Or am I sucking moisture from one sand crystal and the next,
A network reaching
(Rather than appearing).
Here’s a day in the dipper of time, and a wind in the sea of airs;
O traveler! A shadow’s but a symptom of elevation.
A rooting stick portends oasis.

Melissa

So it’s Wednesday,and the radio goes off at 6:45 so I can listen to NPR as I try to wake up. No matter that I have been woken up already at 5:30, before my teen son even gets up, for what reason I cannot fathom, except maybe to let myself know I have one hour and a half before I have to get up?! Today I have fallen back asleep and dreamed I had long hair growing out of the middle of my back, which I was trying to figure out what I was going to do with if I wanted to go swimming……(which I only remembered after I had gotten dressed, ack! what does that mean?) I am having a really hard time getting out of bed (typical), so I just stay under the covers until 7:20 at which point I drag myself to the shower because today IS the day I must take one, making me much later than usual. All of a sudden the radio goes quiet, signaling that an hour has gone by since it first went off and I’m still upstairs!!

Giving myself a little talk, ok you have to do this and this before you go , I walk down the stairs and turn NPR back on and almost trip over the trash bag which reminds me it’s trash day and wasn’t that so very good that my teen son remembered to collect it last night when I didn’t. I must remember to comment on how great that was, to him, when the bird screams let me out from under these covers, and I find that the teen has not cleaned out the cage and that has to go out with the trash too, and I’m not going to have enough time to do that, am I? I also take note of how he missed two trash cans and has left the kitchen a disaster and make a second mental note to have a talk with him about how we both live here and he needs to take more initiative in the clean up part…sigh…I’ll let him know the good note first.

Thank god we had leftovers from two nights ago and I just pack that for my lunch and eat a quick breakfast of cereal, take three vitamins, the mineral drink, and I am NEVER going to forget to take a squirt of echinacea/goldenseal which is keeping me healthy in spite of all the illnesses the kids have, which they try really hard to let me have too! It is really scary the stuff they are getting, not just colds, but viruses in their blood and pneumonia and the runs that last for weeks…..ugh!

I resign myself to the fact that I am going really slow today, and clean out the bird. No checking the email though, as I pass by the computer on my way to brush my teeth and hair! I finally get my coat on and now I am already leaving 15 minutes later than usual,remember to take the trash bag OUT and lock the door. Yes I am still walking to school I don’t care how late I am, I refuse to hurry, well my legs refuse. I breathe in the rainy air and begin. I take the alley ways because it seems like I am out of the city when I do,it’s quieter and that huge dog that would just love to tear off my head if he wasn’t on a leash, is NOT out today!(But on my way home the owner of the dog and her little angel child are walking in their house and I can’t imagine her with such a ferocious pet, but then, it’s the protection thing, I know). I hear a little pitter patter sound that seems like it’s following me til the end of the garage it’s falling off of and it makes me smile, it feels like a tickle… I just love looking at all the back yards that everyone thinks no one ever looks at and the jeep that has the back torn off and this picture frame of what I don’t know is STILL there and no one has stolen it yet..hmmm.

Today it takes no time at all to cross the main street, and I arrive at school 5 minutes before the early kids get there and all is well. Seems like everyone is in a really slow mode today and so we all blend quite nicely. I have the best job!

You know I could really just keep going on and on but I will stop here! It’s kind of comforting to go back over the day like that, I find I remember things I probably wouldn’t have thought of any more after the moment it happened…hmmm. Have a really inspiring day everyone!

Michael

Thought I would get started early with the Friday Feb 14th, this ought to hold me till March. I can see where this journal thing could get to be a habit, though… Valentine’s Day, shortly after midnight, stopping atWinn Dixie (all-night grocery, with a big logo next to the name proclaiming them as “The Beef People” getting cards for my mom & dad, brother in law & sister, niece & nephew. I would have forgotten, but my niece Amy made me such a pretty Valentine on red construction paper with that white lacy paper, that I had to buy all that and a bouquet. Then thought about the people at work but I am on the morale committee and had arranged to get a bunch of carnations with little cards for my immediate work group. And though there is one lady here who I could have a serious thing for if I felt like it were morally and socially acceptable, and then there is another one who acts like she feels that way a bout me, in actuality there is no point in doing Valentines because I also like everybody here quite a bit, and can’t afford to give that many (100+) cards even — well, I guess I could afford it, but I don’t feel like it.

– short break here, it’s actually Fri the 28th now, and I wanted to let you know, as I’m sure you’ve been told, that Pete Seeger wrote and sang Little Boxes…I think. I used to get Sing Out magazine, then I bought it for my sister, now I am thinking about the lifetime subscription they offered around Christmastime, but the last time I bought a lifetime subscription was to the Whole Earth Review–excellent, excellent publication–and they have disappeared. (spent a k on that - always wanted to use that phrase) anyway last night I went alone to see Barbra Streisand’s The Mirror has Two Faces, my friend Carol is the only one other than my family whom I’ve told about breaking up with Marie, if you can call what we are going thru breaking up. Anyway, she won a lunch at an Italian restaurant for herself and 10 co-workers, with the DJ’s from the nostaglgia station, and invited me. So she asked me how Marie is doing, and it is weird not knowing what to say because I haven’t been in touch with Marie, instead of not knowing what to say because the relationship is so messed up … anyway, during this movie, if you don’t like Barbra you will not sympathize, and she doesn’t even sing! But it was good anyway & got into some emotional feelings & expressions. There were a couple places where I thought she was going to burst into song. But she never did. I’ve always liked Barbra, and still do. Now this Friday, I am going to try to get to a 7 pm choir rehearsal on the other side of town. Worked all day. I am going to send you the memo I mailed my boss when they told me I was going to take calls in a different queue. My life of adventure looks closer… and yet we had a tete-a-tete that was not bad. well, hope you get this before the deadline! then maybe another episode in March. if you’re still doing it…I enjoy it. Hi other tyrtle fans!

Sabrina

Breaking up with your boyfriend has its benefits, especially if you’re in no real hurry to find a replacement. Case in point: I have naturally curly hair which I’ve straightened with a blow dryer for as long as I can remember. It straightens so well, in fact, that many people are astounded to hear that it is actually naturally curly. Well, I’ve decided to let it do its thing.

I guess I should qualify why I equate my curly hair with not finding a boyfriend replacement: I tend to think I look like Medusa with my hair curly. I have, however, heard from many people that it’s actually very pretty; I guess it’ll take a bit of adjustment on my part. It certainly takes a lot less time in the morning! And I’d love for it to get really long so it would look like Andie Mcdowell’s hair does — right now it’s shoulder length.

Wish me luck: I’m experiencing blow dryer withdrawals.

Megan

Wedding Thoughts

I’m getting married in a little more than 3 months. I’m not stressed, I’m not worried, and if I do become a basketcase over it we are heading to city hall and cancelling the whole thing.

I have been planning this wedding since August 1996 after a one month “post-engagement” period and I would like to share some of my observations about this joyous time.

Weddings are BIG BUCKS to vendors which is why the whole big white wedding myth was propagated. Brides are pushed to get the biggest dress, with the most do dads and do hickies on them, and to provide a dinner for 250 people as well as enough elbow room for all your guests to enjoy the duck l’orange and crepes brule. If you don’t have food, chances are people won’t bother with you.

And the number 1 rule is “the more tulle the better.”

I have found that vendors, magazines, and many web sites do not cater to my kind of wedding. I want to have a simple garden wedding, with less than 100 guests for a luncheon reception. I want to have a civil ceremony but not have it at city hall. I want to wear a simple dress with an empire waist. I don’t want to spend $700 on flowers, and I don’t want to expose my thigh to Uncle Charlie and Aunt Velma.

What have I had to do to make this dream a reality. Fight everyone tooth and nail. Why? I had to find a Justice of the Peace who was even willing to conduct this type of ceremony. We lucked out here. The JP had to write the Department of Justice to ask PERMISSION to conduct a ceremony off site. I had to find a dressmaker to make my dress since no Bridal Salons carry simple dresses under $1000. I found a village “elder” to take flowers from various people’s gardens to make 6 coursages - for free. (If you’re curious, my wedding dress looks like Princess Buttercup’s in The Princess Bride.)

And finally, we have had to explain our every move to all parties involved and justify our wedding plans.

If you don’t change your name you are a “radical feminist”. If you don’t throw the garter or bouquet you are breaking tradition. If you don’t get married in a church you are blasphemous. If you want to get married outside, you are asking for it to rain. If you don’t have your father walk you down the aisle you are disrespectful, and if you don’t wear a veil you aren’t showing your innocence.

It has now become evident to me that weddings are about crabbing, outdoing your neighbours, getting gifts in return for all the gifts you gave at other weddings, and showing how much money you are worth.

And all this time I thought weddings were about love.

Terese

March drags at me and pulls me into the pits of boredom. Today we endured yet another Minnesota snow storm. Yes, I know Minnesota means snow from October through April. Yes, I love winter. But I long for snowless days…

(Mom, when will it be summer? I miss summer.)

I miss it too, Erin. Let’s go sliding into the woods behind the house. Let’s pretend we are not tired of snow tubing, of ice skating, of walking Maisy and Chloe through snow packed trails.

(Can we plan our summer vacation?)

Sure, Adam, let’s do that. Let’s pretend we are way into summer. We are so far into summer that we wish for winter again.

(Camping up North and swimming at the beach and helping you plant your gardens. Waterslides. Yep, Mom, that’s it! Waterslides. Let’s go EVERY day. EVERY EVERY day.)

Wait a minute. I remember that waterslides are fun one time, not EVERY day, honey. Didn’t you get tired of all that last summer?

(I just wish it was summer and we could decide to go or not to go, Mom.)

Me too.

Christina

for one thing, your voice is too high

After reading my journal entry for March 10 in which I mentioned seeing a movie that people were calling “disgraceful”, Chris wrote me the following email, which I asked permission to post here:

Let me guess. You went to see Private Parts. C’mon, admit it. If it was some other movie, you would probably have told us what it was.

Let’s check the evidence, shall we?

* You mentioned a few days ago about how when you’re driving (I think you said through Connecticut), you indulge the “guilty pleasure” of listening to Howard, Fred, Jackie, Bababooey, and all of the other guys who make my morning commute tolerable.

* Some old people didn’t like it. So I can be reasonably sure Jessica Tandy wasn’t in it.

* You didn’t mention anything about the film. Which means, probably, it was Private Parts.

Now I could be completely wrong, so please excuse my smarmy attitude, but I guess I’m one of those evangelist types who likes to “pull Stern fans out of the closet.”

I confess. It’s true. I was hoping I could just quietly not mention the name of the movie, but since I was feeling vaguely guilty for not saying anything anyway, I was glad that Chris wrote.

Obligatory Film Critique:

Todd and I basically decided to see this movie because it was getting such rave reviews. We do like listening to Howard Stern, but it’s unlikely that we’d have seen it without the reviews we kept reading, which not only were positive, they were positive in an amazed, disbelieving sort of way: “Geez, I thought it was going to be terrible, and boy was I surprised!” We loved the movie. It may very well go on my personal list of top ten movies made in the 1990s, along with Shallow Grave. Despite the vast array of silicone, which was boring and gratuitous in the most basic sense of the word, it was sophisticatedly written, well-acted, laugh-out-loud funny and (with the above exception) interesting from start to finish. It was, in our opinion, not at all about his career but instead an ode to his wife. We were sorry when it ended. He came across as such a caring, kind person that I’d even classify his characterization of himself as a faux-Paul. (Pun intended.) Having said all of that, I’m stupefied that anyone could have the gall to make a movie singing the praises of their marriage when for ten years they’ve been doing things that humiliate and anger their spouse. It quite literally makes no sense to me.

I believe that there ought to be a law prohibiting caffeine addicts from making coffee before they’ve drunk at least a cup of coffee. Which would be rather difficult to manage, but it would have been a Bad Thing if I’d given in to my sleep-ridden impulse this morning and put sugar into the filter basket instead of coffee grounds. I probably would have woken up a hell of a lot faster when I drank the resulting mixture, though…

I never have occasion to call home, since I don’t yet have a driver’s license and the only time I’m away from the house alone is when I’m walking somewhere, so I have trouble remembering our phone number. Last night when I tried to call the phone-card company to have twenty dollars worth of extra long distance time put on so that I could call my aunt I had the following highly-suspicious sounding conversation with the customer service person:

Customer Service: Hello, how may I help you?
Sage: Oh, uh, hi. I’m calling to have more minutes put — you know, with my credit card — to have more minutes put on.
Customer Service: Sure, no problem. First I need your credit card number.
Sage: Okay, it’s…let me see… *coughing* it’s [number].
Customer Service: And?
Sage: I’m sorry, what?
Customer Service: And what’s the rest?
Sage: That’s it.
Customer Service: That isn’t enough numbers, ma’am.
Sage: Oh! Oh, sorry, the light was on the card and I couldn’t see…here you go, it’s [number].
Customer Service: The light was on it?
Sage: It was shining off the card.
Customer Service: Ohhhhkay… what’s the expiration date?
Sage: It’s [expiration date].
Customer Service: And the name on the card?
Sage: Todd Todd’sRealLastName.
Customer Service: You’re not Todd Todd’sRealLastName.
Sage: No, this is –
Customer Service: You’re authorized to use this card?
Sage: Yes.
Customer Service: I’ll need your phone number, in case I need to get in touch with you.
Sage: (trying, panicked, to remember) It’s 4…um…4, uh, 499-555…5454.
Customer Service: This is your home number?
Sage: Yes.
Customer Service: Did you change it recently?
Sage: (thinking, “Damn. I transposed the last few digits again.”) No, I didn’t…it’s 499-555-5454.
Customer Service: 5454?
Sage: (at this point wondering if she’s going to call the police as soon as I get off the phone) Yes.
Customer Service: (very doubtfully) Well, I should have this set up for you in five minutes or so.
Sage: Thanks.

So ten minutes later I went to try it out and there was a hang-up on the voice mail, no extra time on the card, and we figured that since the ringer on the phone had been off she’d called to say it hadn’t worked and gotten no answer. Happily she didn’t call the police and we were able to get direct long distance via the credit card and I called my aunt. Who, luckily, already has my phone number and no need of the credit card number, or I would have given up right then and there. I talked to my cousin instead and, since I was extremely nervous, talked a mile a minute not stopping to allow her to get a word in edgewise laughing constantly and just in general blathering on for so long that I’m amazed she said she and my aunt and uncle would like to see me at all until I finally gave the phone over to Todd who looked at me in a bemused “Are you okay?” sort of way and proceeded to calmly take the directions to their house down. Phew. All of of that in one breath. Now you know what my cousin felt like.

When Todd got off the phone he said, “She seems nice, but I felt pretty awkward, we didn’t really have anything to say to each other,” which made me laugh because, as I told him, they barely even know each other’s names, why should they have anything to talk about?

I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen zzzZZzzZZzz…

Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. After waking up from a nap, one of those “I’ll just lie down for fifteen minutes” naps that turns into two hours of unconsciousness I put a tape on the stereo and started writing this journal entry. Which tape? James Taylor. Yes, definitely a bad idea. Instead of waking up all I want to do is find a sunny meadow, hook up a hammock, and sway there while I watch the clouds go by. Time for new music…

There. The Cure. That should keep me awake.

Today I’m going to call my aunt, the one who’s staying within driving distance, and hopefully we can visit with her and my uncle this weekend. I’m a bit nervous; the last time I spent any real time with them was during a family reunion when I was my highly charming teenage self, and on the one hand I want them to think I’ve changed tremendously, but on the other hand, what if I have changed tremendously and they’re not as fond of me anymore? But on the third hand (I’m a three-armed alien. I mean, PRETEND I’m a three-armed alien.) if they prefer Sage circa 1986 their taste is terrible anyway. Like that. Worries that we won’t have anything to talk about too. Worries that they’ll ask me what I’m doing with my life, hear about my web site, and then ask when I’m going to “really pursue getting published” the way so many people do, and not understand when I tell them that I am being published, the web is simply a different medium. These worries have nothing to do with them specifically, I’d be thinking the same things no matter who I was going to see again after ten years of only exchanging the odd letter or two.

Gad, did you see that? I put on the Cure and instantly started being angsty. I see a link.

One of the people who regularly reads Coffee Shakes sent on this parallel parking story which I thought was great, and which will keep me VERY far away from any government vehicles the day of my driver’s license test:

When I was learning how to drive, parallel parking was (of course) one of the difficult things to deal with. (Although I didn’t have to deal with a standard shift car on top of that).

About an hour before my driver’s test, Mom and I were out practicing the parallel parking just one more time. So we’re driving around our suburban neighborhood, looking for cars parked on the street. There aren’t too many, because everyone has driveways, and they leave their cars there, no doubt to be safe from people like you and me. Luckily (for us), a US Mail truck (actually, it was a US Mail station wagon) was parked in the street, so I had a car to practice on.

Note that this is the ONLY car parked on the street, everyone else has their cars in the driveway, or has taken them off to the mall. I pull slowly up beside the car, put on my turn signal, and go through the entire parallel parking procedure, being careful to maneuver the steering wheel correctly… and then proceed to run into the back of the other car.

I did pass my driving test on the first try — even though the car stalled while I was showing off my impressive parallel parking skills. The examiner’s only comment was that I was too tentative. (Like we need more aggressive drivers!)

Todd wants to be David Attenborough when he grows up

My driving skills are drastically improving. I mean it. Aside from the time yesterday that I stalled out in first gear while trying to turn right at an intersection and ended up driving over the curb, I’m doing great! Okay, maybe I’m not improving as fast as I’d like to, but at least I have a sense of humor about it now. Just hope I don’t learn to parallel park in your neighborhood…

From the silliness file:

(Sage and Todd are watching a nature video they borrowed from the library.)

David Attenborough, the host: Many rodents live in this tall grass, including this mouse. Insects, too, find a convenient home here.
Sage: That is a BIG spider. I hope they’re not going to show the mouse being caught in its web.
David Attenborough: Deer find excellent grazing in the tall grasses.
Sage: Hell, if this were Fox they’d show the spider eating the deer…

This weekend we went to see a movie (I drove, so we circled the entire strip mall parking lot a couple of times while I figured out how to get from point A to point B) and were tickled to see two women in their eighties or thereabouts standing in front of the poster for the movie we were there to see talking about how it was “disgraceful” and “terrible” and “how can people watch that sort of trash” and then buying tickets for “Vegas Vacation”, like there’s a movie with some real intellectual content. We were there early and watched the pre-movie pre-fabricated-conversation-maker slide show that consists of movie questions interspersed with ads. One of the ads, for a jewelry store, featured a woman behind the jewelry store counter talking to a teenage girl wearing one of those annoyingly tiny backpacks that are currently all the rage. Todd and I both immediately said, “What’s the story behind that photo?” because years ago I read a book on advertising which advised the reader to ask themselves what’s just happened in print ad photographs. I decided she was selling her grandmother’s heirloom brooch in order to go to Macy’s and buy a real backpack.

Later on, two men started working their way towards the front of the theater and I poked Todd and said, “Watch this,” and yes, true to form they sat down with one seat between them so that no one would think they were there together. Or that they had anything in common. Or that, if they were sitting next to each other, that they would have the urge to do anything more than beat each other up. What is wrong with people? I can’t imagine going to a movie with Marian and sitting that far away from her — christ, how would I make snide comments about the movie? My reaction to the prospect of gaybashing is to exaggerate whatever behavior might get a negative reaction. Case in point: one of my mom’s friends came to visit me at school. As she and her sweetie were driving away she poked her head out the window and shouted, “I love you!” and a group of kids started to snicker, so I yelled back even louder, “I love you too!” and they didn’t know what to do with that. I was supposed to slink away, embarrassed and frightened, and I didn’t. They didn’t say a word after that.

And finally: I very rarely do this, but I want to strongly recommend a wonderful web site. Coming Out in the Heartland is maintained by Jamie Parish, who is struggling with the difficulties embodied in not only being a teenager (gad, that’s hard enough all by itself) but also the process of coming out and falling in love with her first girlfriend. With a sense of humor, no self-pity, and a hell of a lot of strength, she’s doing a great job.

Depths

(The following is a true story I wrote years ago for a college English course, typed in as-is.) Everyone in my first grade class thinks I live on Sesame Street. It’s not true — but I’m five, with a lisp, and the apartment complex I live in is called Sesame Tree. The trees are oak, not sesame, and I don’t know how to respond when people ask me if Oscar the Grouch really lives in a trash can, or how tall Big Bird is. I would rather live with Mr. Rogers, who sings soft songs and wears warm sweaters. He is more my speed — the Sesame Street crew intimidates me.

My room is the master bedroom, huge, with off-white curtains on the window, which looks out onto other apartments. My toys are few, my books many, the adventures of Little Bear open on the floor.

In my room, one day, I dial every number, no matter how many digits, I can think of to call my surrogate grandmother, Opal. My father is too amused to be upset. The clear plastic dial on the telephone becomes a forbidden object, made ever more attractive by this caution.

Joy, my closest friend, is black and her teeth are very white. She is quiet and then suddenly loud, jumping on my bed, scribbling on my paper. We go to each other’s birthday parties. Her room is very dark, with a small window overlooking a dreary set of carports. We play with the blue cash register she owns and finger the hard plastic coins wonderingly. Is this what money is? We complain because the cash register is broken, and has been for three months. I go to her house one day after being expressly told not to and my father declares that he will put me in diapers because I am not old enough to obey him. I am terrified and promise never to do anything wrong again.

I go to Jeremy’s apartment after school every day while my father is at work. The strains of the Spiderman cartoon are timidly fighting their way out of the television speaker as we walk in. The air is dull with cigarette smoke and closed curtains. His father sits in the corner as we watch the television listlessly. Jeremy hits my arm whenever I move too close to him. I don’t talk to his father because I have the feeling that I’m better off unnoticed by the man.

The blue water in the pool is sparkling and inviting, but its icy depths are a serious danger to small children. Joy, Jeremy and I have a theory that instead of heating the pool the apartment manager is cooling it, in an attempt to kill us all. It is six feet deep at the inmost part, and it seems impossible to me that I will ever be able to swim there. I am never in the water long enough to find out. One child’s body has gone numb from the freezing shock to his system. The vicious depths become a threat — “Give me that toy or I’ll make you go into the pool”. I think that if I close my eyes for too long and then open them I will be in the ocean, with miles of empty water underneath me. I learn to dive here, kneeling by the side of the pool, with my father’s warm arms around me. My mother is in another universe called Michigan. The leaves of the trees remind me of her long blond hair; I cannot remember anything else about her.

I see a blind man on the sidewalk below Joy’s apartment His eyes are wide and unfocused. They are blue: too much like mine. I wish that he could talk to me, explain exactly how it feels, deep down in his heart to be blind, but do not say a word to him.

The sun has not come up yet, and fog obscures everything within five feet. I cling to my father’s hand and wonder if we are traveling across time and space to my mother. My nose is runny and I snuffle continuously. My father has packed all of my toys, but Little Bear is clutched in my left hand. Whatever happens, I know I will be all right because I have the two things I know and love best in the world held in my two small hands. Our car is waiting by the curb — I climb in and when the car begins to move lean back into the seat. I whisper goodbye to Joy, to Spiderman cartoons, the deadly pool, to the first place I will remember.

Some interesting notes:

It wasn’t until I began to write this story that I realized that Joy was black when I pictured her face in my mind, which is the only reason I mentioned it. A good reminder that being colorblind is important.

It turns out that I have the teacher’s comments written on the original copy, so I’ll include them as well:

I really like your style of writing — almost impressionistic. Your images are strong. I think you need some transitions to help clarify your shifts in place. Development would help clarify some questions you raise and explain some situations — were you going to your mother’s — how do you feel about her? Why did you leave? But it’s a good depictment of a child’s memory — bits and pieces here and there. Are you writing as an adult or a child? Both?
Grade: 87/100 B+

Interestingly enough she later told me that she hated teaching English and was only doing it for the credit in her graduate classes so that she could get out of school and work for a big newspaper, which made me lose any respect I might have had for her.

And boy, did I lose new friends in first grade fast when they learned that I was just mispronouncing the name of the apartment complex…

visions of a disembodied ponytail searching for its owner

This morning I was listening to NPR’s Morning Edition and heard a disturbing story that made me think a lot about men and women in this country and what life could well be like twenty years from now. The story focused on a software designer who took a look at the software and games which are currently being sold and decided that there weren’t enough of them being designed specifically for girls. Her ten year old daughter was featured saying, scornfully, that “Crystal’s Ponytail” and “Barbie At The Mall” (or whatever it was called) weren’t her cup of tea. I couldn’t agree more. The prospect of spending even the thirty seconds required to pick up a Crystal’s Ponytail box in the computer store and reading the back to see what it’s about is, in my opinion, a monumental waste of time. The value of a game like that is about on par with the value of a beauty contest, which is to say none. Nada. Rien.

But.

And this is the disturbing part.

Then she began to talk about how she is going to design software geared specifically towards girls that is not about fashion or saving damsels in distress or hairdos. And I thought, who sat down and decided that only boys like what’s currently out there? Who’s assuming that there’s some female attitude towards games like Doom, or Mario Brothers, or Mortal Kombat that makes them say, “Ewwww. I want something different.” I thoroughly enjoy playing all of those games. The only video game that Todd likes and I don’t is Flight Simulator, and that has everything to do with the fact that he finds maps fascinating and nothing to do with gender. Which is not to say that any of the above games have any more intrinsic value than Barbie At The Mall, because they don’t. What made me very nervous was the fact that this woman looked at this situation and decided to make quality games. But she doesn’t want to make quality games that she feels will appeal to everyone. She wants to make quality games for girls. Specifically. And I’m sure there’s someone out there looking at computer games and thinking, “Hey, boys could really use some quality software too.” Who’s designing quality software for PEOPLE?

What I want to know is this: what’s the difference between stereotyping girls as beauty queens on the one hand and deliberately putting them in a separate category, labeling them as a group needing special treatment on the other? Me, I don’t see one. Twenty years from now, will I walk into a store and be shunted into the Female side while Todd wanders around the Male side? I hope not. I hope that product designers realize that demographic groups aren’t as reliable as they think they are. I hope that twenty years from now I’ll walk into a store with no gender lines between products at all, including clothes.

From the Silliness File:

(Sage and Todd are watching a videotape of 90210 and reading Danny Drennan’s summary along with it.)

Steve Sanders: Mom, you’re hardly ever around, and when you do show up it’s to be with someone else. What’s that?
Todd: That’s the ’90s, Steve.

and what WERE they doing with that figurine

True to my word, with good old Edith Wharton in mind, I’ve written a new Sage Words column.

If you don’t want me to spoil the story, you should go read it now and then come back.

Back already? Did you like it? I hope so.

Almost all of it is true, although I fudged the time and place quite a bit. The real story took place in a library in Kansas City when I was eighteen, and I never did know what the woman looked like. That was my first attempt at plopping Todd into a fictional situation, and it was extremely fun, although a little harder to do when he’d arrived home and was sitting in the living room reading a book.

Did I mention that I’m highly pleased with myself? That higher wattage coming from your monitor is actually the shine off of my teeth because I’m beaming so hugely.

I’m different! I’m different!

Alternateens are evil. Yes, every fifteen year old who ever existed or ever will exist thinks that they’re experiencing things that no one has ever experienced, thinking things no one has ever thought, and in general being Different and Avant-Garde. I’m convinced that this is why certain religious groups send their teenagers out into the world in order to experience what it’s like, so that they can turn twenty and come running back, saying, “Gawd, that was embarrassing. What was I thinking?” I quite clearly remember having a conversation with my British aunt in which I was protesting my amazingly unique perspective on the world and all the ways in which I was not a typical teenager, and she said, “Oh yeah? What’s so different about you?” and all I could come up with was the fact that I liked to listen to jazz music.

But no teenage group has ever been quite so annoying as the current crop. (There, that’s something they can feel legitimately proud of.) It has not yet ceased to amaze me that corporate America set out to make a trend out of being “not trendy” and got away with it. (Excuse me while I proceed to be stereotypically twenty four and use phrases like “corporate America”…) Which is why this weekend when we walked into a thrift store I just about walked right back out because the place was crawling with them, all competing to find the ugliest piece of clothing in order to show how immune to fashion they were. (The ones in the neon orange knit winter hats won hands down, if you want my opinion.) We were there because on Saturday morning we’d decided to go to a relatively nice restaurant for breakfast and I realized that I only owned one shirt with no holes in it, which normally wouldn’t bother me, but can get rather risky when one does not own a bra. Aside from my almost uncontrollable urge to pick up the second-ugliest piece of clothing in the store and run up to the Alternateens and say, “Here! Now go home!” we had great success and came home with silverware, the Tears for Fears tape “Songs From The Big Chair” (we’re trying to build our music collection back up to its pre-sell-everything-to-pay-the-bills glory) ten shirts and a pair of jeans for Todd for a grand total of twenty eight dollars.

Obligatory Film Critique:

Christopher Eccleston once again plays a Paul in the based-on-fact film “Let Him Have It”, in which the audience learns that it is a bad idea to say ambiguous things to your potentially insane friends. If you see this movie prepare to be in tears for the last fifteen minutes, but it’s worth the anguish for the first half hour, in which the audience also learns how to do the Paul Waltz, a dance which consists of a shy smile, swaying from foot to foot, and small arm movements.

Last night we found a message from my aunt (not Martie or my British aunt, but a different aunt altogether — in all I have five on my father’s side) who’s staying temporarily within driving distance saying that she’d love to get together, which was wonderful. I haven’t seen any of my relatives for many years, most of them not since my father’s wedding, and none of them have even met Todd. So hopefully we can figure something out this weekend or the next. Todd was asking what they were like and I thought about it for a moment and said that they’re missionaries who embraced religion and instead of finding reasons to hate people, they found reasons to love people. Which is something I very much admire. My aunt is also one of the only people in my family I can claim a resemblance to — I even realized last night in listening to the voice mail message that she has the same light, high voice that I do. Todd is nervous about making a good impression, but I told him not to worry, that one of my favorite things about him is how similar he is to the rest of my family, which is to say goodhearted with laugh lines that have seen a lot of use.

Barbie had better luck driving that RV than I did this weekend…

Subtract twenty two years from my age and you’ve got my mental outlook this Saturday as I was driving and pulled into a parking space (er, perhaps the more realistic description would be “turned right, straddled two parking spaces and stalled the car”) and promptly burst into tears and wailed that I would never, ever learn to drive a stick shift. Ever. In a million trillion years. Then I got the hiccups. Yes, folks, a gen-u-ine tantrum. And here I thought I’d grown out of that sort of thing in 1974. Happily by Sunday afternoon I had grown out of it and after listening very carefully to Todd’s description of how to downshift in preparation for stopping (not in fifth gear, sweetie) at a stoplight I drove all the way to the grocery store and back with nary a mistake, merging on and off two highways in the rain no less. To say I was beaming with pride would not be an understatement.

From the silliness file:

Todd: Um, that was a stop sign back there…
Sage: Oops! I didn’t see it, sorry about that.
Todd: You might want to find somewhere else to park, ’cause this isn’t a parking space.
Sage: (giggling) Why are you so mean?
Todd: (giggling too) I’m just stating facts, honest.

On Friday I was sitting on the futon, working on a crocheted blanket, when what I thought was going to be the third video in the story “The Buccaneers” which I’d borrowed from the library turned out to be a mini-biography of Edith Wharton. One of the people being interviewed about her life talked about how difficult it was for her to shake societal mores, “A lady does not write,” being among them, and publish a book of short stories. It sold a grand total of three thousand copies. And I thought, “Gad, here I am with opportunities that Edith Wharton probably wouldn’t even believe were possible were she to come back to life today, and what am I doing? Sitting here on the futon crocheting a blanket, not writing short stories, not writing a novel, not even writing essays.” When Todd got home I talked to him about it and he said, “It seems silly to me that you’re feeling bad about wasting opportunities; whatever creative outlet you’re using is valuable to me — but if you feel like you want to write, then write. Don’t talk about how you should and then crochet instead, know what I mean?” which made perfect sense and I’ve resolved to take his advice. So — thanks, Edith. I owe you one. (Yes, there’s internet access in heaven. In fact, there’s internet access in hell too, you just have to use AOL and a 2600 baud modem.)

We pouted around for awhile on Friday night, trying to figure out how we wanted to spend the evening, and finally decided on bowling. I haven’t been bowling since third grade when — well, this requires a bit of explanation. My father and I lived in the back yard of his co-worker’s house in Santa Barbara for awhile. Her name was Nora, she was divorced and had three children: Stephanie, Lisa, and Jeff. She had a storage shed in her backyard which my father rented from her, painted white and put carpet in, and I suppose we must have used their bathroom and kitchen, though I don’t remember doing so. Stephanie was only a few years older than me and we played with her Barbie dolls and huge collection of model horses when we weren’t visiting the real horse she kept at a nearby stable. I was never interested in horses, but the models made a nice prop when it came to Barbie scenarios, especially since she owned the Barbie RV, ideal for road trips across the living room to horse jumping competitions. Lisa was my hero, she was in high school and wore glasses and had black frizzy hair and was extremely smart. Not to mention nice even when she had a third grader trailing after her trying to imitate her every move. Jeff had almost graduated high school by the time I met him, so was of no interest. I was actually at Nora’s house visiting for a week many years later when I got my first period, something of a relief since my father (who cooks, sews, writes, draws, and is generally a Paul to the first degree) would have had absolutely no idea how to handle it. I called Nora a few years ago because I was curious to see how she and her children were doing, and it was one of the most awkward, bizarre phone conversations I’ve ever had in my life. I hung up the phone wondering quite seriously if she wasn’t on some kind of painkiller, drunk, or recently recovering from a stroke, because none of her thoughts were complete, none of her sentences made sense. She sounded so eager to be off the phone that I wondered if the time my father and I lived there hadn’t been as trouble-free as I’d thought, or if there’d been some bad blood between them that I didn’t know about. In any case, the last time I’d been bowling was with Nora and her children and though I was about as accomplished at hitting the pins as I am when playing gin, I had great fun.

However, I also carried away an impression of bowling alleys as filled with cigarette smoke and drunk people ready for a fight. So Todd and I were both a little nervous when we walked into the first bowling alley we tried, which was filled not with crabby people smoking like chimneys screaming at each other and their little kids, but happy cheerful people over fifty and teenagers looking relieved to have something to do besides wander around looking cool on street corners. In fact, the place was so busy that they didn’t have any lanes open, ditto the second place we tried, and we ended up deciding to come back Saturday morning which was billed as “smoke-free”. Unfortunately we didn’t see that it was actually “smoke-free kids day” and felt awfully silly when we arrived realized we were older than most of the parents watching their children play (this is where a rent-a-kid company would come in handy)… Onward and forward to yet another bowling alley, which featured smoke-free Saturday as well, where we proceeded to play four games and have the time of our lives, even if I did have to use a pink ball because the other ones were too heavy. The automatic scoring required the players to put their names in, so I was able to put real names to the faces around us: Carol and Keith were on our right, they were about as bad as we were, and Carol pouted for awhile about not hitting the pins but cheered up once she began to get a little better. To the far right was a group of teenage boys, who made us roll our eyes at each other when they first walked in because we expected them to be so busy looking cool that they didn’t have any fun at all, but they turned out to be a really sweet group, geeky (that word is a positive one in my vocabulary) and there to hang out with each other, not to show each other who had the bigger penis. To the left were Ron Senior, Ron Junior, Edward, Gene, and a few other very big men who didn’t speak to each other beyond a “good job” or “nicely done” and proceeded to out-bowl our total game scores within their first two turns. Ron Junior scored a 300, I never saw him bowl anything but a strike the entire time we were there. Edward was an extremely intimidating guy who I originally thought was a bouncer until he got up to play, and he turned out to be not very good at all which made me feel better about my own ineptitude for some reason. End scores: 49 to 64 (in Todd’s favor), 79 to 79, 59 to 95 (in Todd’s favor) and 56 to 83 (in Todd’s favor) which means that we were getting worse as time went on — and no, we don’t drink! Tee hee.

Hey! I know, let’s put the stove in the kitchen!

Rita: thank you for the flowers! They started my morning off with a huge smile. Kathy and Jen: I tried to reply to your message, but it didn’t get through. Can you write again? One of you sent a really funny reply to my wonderings about incense on the thirteenth of February and I asked permission to quote it here:

Whenever I hear disco, I think of my childhood. Haw haw haw. My parents ate greasy fast food, listened perpetually to the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack (and before that, Tony Orlando and Dawn) and wouldn’t THINK of meditating. My parents, they…bowled. Golfed. That sort of thing. Really, completely not how you described. Actually you’re lucky to have had that background - I grew up really repressed and kind of square. It wasn’t until I went to college - actually it wasn’t college, it was more when I went to live on my own - that I burned my first stick of incense and had this series of epiphanies that enabled me to be, I guess, more (ewwWww) - Spiritual (shudder) - when I got older.

Sorry, just that last line, “I wonder if incense brings back the same sort of memories for people my age” just had me audibly dying of laughter here. I know from reading all of your stuff that your childhood wasn’t really a picnic or anything, and I guess in comparison, at least, to what I’ve read, my childhood was a bit more stable (my parents got along and are still together, each still on their first marriage). There was no real discontent in my house. Not until later, anyway - when I hid adolescence.

But I guess it’s a tradeoff. Were it not for my insatiable, often impetuous and unwise curiosity, I might just be a stockbroker playing techno albums by now. I do sort of wish there was more substance to my parents.

Speaking of epiphanies, Todd and I have had a few lately of the “pushing on the door marked PULL” variety. Although we’re both quite motivated to work hard during the day neither of us is exactly a dynamo when it comes to housework. It was only in the past two years that we came to the realization that it would be monumentally clever to buy a dresser, instead of leaving our clean clothes on the floor in one of the unused bedrooms, because that way they’d stay cleaner and less wrinkled. Yes, really. So on Saturday when we decided to rearrange a little we found all kinds of idiotic things we’d done and hadn’t even considered changing. The cassette tapes were all upstairs, the stereo downstairs. Ditto the videos and the VCR. The dresser was in one bedroom, Todd’s work clothes were hanging in the closet of another bedroom. As if that weren’t silly enough, the bedroom with the closet hasn’t got a lamp in it because we don’t go in there unless we need something from the closet, so Todd had to go to one room to get clothes out of the dresser, then go into the other room, pick something out, bring it into the hall to see if it was the right something, then go back in and get dressed. I swear, since we moved the dresser and the clothes into the third bedroom it takes him half the time to get dressed in the morning. See what I mean? It’s frightening, how little attention we pay to our surroundings. I can see it now, the Hypothetical Child will have a crib in one bedroom, its clothes in the living room, and the diapers and changing table in the basement…