G: (back from store, and rack of tabloids, I reckon) Remember the other day when I said I'd read someone was trying to cast Paris Hilton in a serious role, but I couldn't remember what it was?
Me: Yeah, I do...why, did you remember?
G: You won't believe me
Me: That bad, huh?
G: So bad, it hurts to say. It's physically painful.
Me: What...like Checkov? (shudder) Oh god.
G: Worse.
Me: Worse?!!
G: Much worse. The lead role in the life story of...I'm telling you, you won't believe me
Me: Try me
Me: Mother Teresa? The four foot tall, celibate, lifetime of poverty, Saint Mother Teresa? You're lying. No one is...who would...you're lying.
At the request of a friend who (for some reason I can't even begin to understand as they generally exhibit better taste) really, really likes when I tell the story (because in all honesty, it's not that good of a story. And no, I'm not being modest. It's an *okay* story, at best) I will try to retell, for them, "The Black Day I Discovered I Had Become The Lady".
I learned I had become The Lady while out shopping for sensible shoes (chicken? egg?). The ex husband and I were going out West for a week's vacation, during which we were to engage in all manner of outdoor activities--hiking, biking, camping, etc. Activities I knew nothing about (because I had successfully avoided them like the plague up till then) but had a feeling one should not attempt while wearing chunky boots with a platform heel--the only style of shoe I owned at the time. (Even my one pair of sneakers had platform soles. Revisit: style at the time.) So since I was going to break my no going anywhere that doesn't have an electrical outlet rule, I was also going to have to break my no granola cruncher trailblazing shoes rule and bite the bullet and get a pair. Lucky for me there was one of the those Ecco, Teva, Naot, Birkenstock (OMFG yes) retailers right in my neighborhood.
Right near my work actually, in an old factory which had been converted into a shopping mall. The building also housed art galleries, restaurants, and a night club; which is what I chose to park next to the evening in question. As I pulled into a space I saw the stage doors of the nightclub were open and a band was in the process of loading in. A punk band I gathered, from their haircuts and tattoos and piercings and totally hip, decidedly NOT sensible shoes. I watched them make a few trips back and forth to their van to see if I recognized anybody--not unusual in the small town that I'd lived in forever, that had only so many local rock bands, many of whom were either friends or acquaintances--but no, I didn't know anyone. Probably from out of town, I thought.
I got out of my car and headed for the shoe store, around the corner from the nightclub, passing the van en route. My passing seemed to startle them a little, but I figured they were just surprised to see (what I'm sure they assumed was) someone showing up to the gig so early.
Or to the mall so late, as it was. The shoe store had just closed for the night. But since I was already there I took a few moments to scan their inventory through the windows. I took in the view, shuddered, and turned to go; relieved that fate interrupted my descent into Squaresville.
I exited the mall, rounded the corner leading back to the parking lot, and saw the band again; now gathered around the open rear doors of the van. I--having grown up in nightclubs with musician parents; I having had more musician boyfriends and roommates and friends than those who were not; I, having been the sound man, the studio technician, bartender, fellow barfly, roadie, groupie, manager; I, Rock and Roll Queen of the Universe--I knew what the band's little back-of-the-van gathering was about. They had finished loading their equipment and had begun the all-important second phase of preparing for a gig: getting their pre-show buzz on. Beers had been cracked. Combustibles were combusting. A nice, homey scene all around.
I continued into the parking lot, caught the eye of one of my compatriots, and gave him a conspiratorial grin. Just then his face took on a sudden look of concern and he jerkily nudged the girl sitting next to him. In a flash beers disappeared into coats or behind backs, the pint bottle evaporated, diversional cigarettes were lit. As you know such moves could only mean one thing: we were no longer alone. Someone else, The Man, had appeared behind me no doubt, ready to do what they do best: pester we harmless rock-n-rollers while we're quietly minding our own damn business. A security guard, probably. Or some old (Birkenstock wearing) bitch who would complain about the bad element in the parking lot. Maybe even call the cops.
I turned around to get a look at the interloper but whomever it was had disappeared by then, thank god. As a matter of fact I could see the whole parking lot clearly from my vantage point. We were the only human beings for miles around. I thought of signaling the band somehow. Give them a 'Resume friends! The coast is clear!' gesture, one The Man hater to another. But I couldn't make eye contact with them, they had disappeared behind the van. I could only see a nose peeking out in my direction from time to time, the nervous flicking of ashes onto their shoes. Behavior, I began to think, I mean, if I didn't know better, the way they were acting, you'd almost think they were hiding out from *chuckle* from *chuckle* me! Ha, he, ha ha, he he...wait a fucking second. No. Can't be. The notion that it could even be a possibility was...that I'd walk by--ME--and...seriously, too absurd. Ridiculous.
I heard the crack! hissss of a beer being opened, then a disapproving hushed whisper, "Dude! Wait!...The Lady hasn't left yet!" And I swear to you, no shit, I was still that married to my delusion, I swiveled my head around one more time to see who the hell they were talking about.
The five stages of mourning went as follows:
(1) Denial: That'd be that final head swivel
(2) Anger: I WAS HANGING OUT BEHIND BARS DRINKING BEERS BEFORE GIGS WHEN YOU WERE IN DIAPERS! YOU KNOW WHY I DON'T WEAR MY PIERCINGS ANYMORE? BECAUSE THEY'RE ABOUT AS 'ALTERNATIVE' AS YOUR STUPID TRIBAL TATTOOS! I BET YOUR BAND SUCKS! POSERS!
(3) Bargaining: ...but I could put my face jewelry back in. Yeah. And get tattoos. No, tons of tattoos. Everywhere. And those knee-high Fluevogs...cut and dye my hair, nobody'd mistake me for a soccer mom then. I can still be cool. I'll join a band. It's not too late. You wouldn't hide your beer from me then, right guys? Guys?
(4) Grief: Oh fuck, I just want to go home. Go home and put on a little Chet Baker and drown my sorrows with that nice bottle of Chardonnay my husband and I bought at the wine tasting in Hammondsport last weekend. Yeah, I'll just go home and draw a bath and...Jazz? Chardonnay? Wine tasting?. OH MY Gah-ha-ha-haaaad!
(5) The fifth and final stage of mourning, acceptance, was forced upon me. A little one two punch.
I had decided in my grief that a of face-saving measure was necessary. Some kind of display to show them exactly who they were dealing with. I would squeal out of the parking lot. No, I would squeal out of the parking lot blaring my home-made best of Naked Raygun tape, full volume, which, as it happened, was the tape in my the player at the time, and proof positive that I was still, indeed, punk rock. I put the key in the ignition, rolled down all the windows, lit a cigarette, backed out of the space, positioned the car for maximum peel-out efficiency, and hit the "on" button on the stereo. The parking lot was immediately filled with the sound of...Mozart.
The tape had automatically ejected when the car was shut off. So the stereo played the last radio station I was listening to, in my case the local public radio station, which switches to an all-classical format after seven pm. The first step toward acceptance came then. Not because of the Mozart, because of the WHY of Mozart: My radio was permanently tuned to NPR.
After I passed the kids (kids, I then realized) I took a look at myself in the rear view: white girl, thirty-ish, hair in a bun (a fucking bun!!!), grey wool work clothes, sitting in a new thirty thousand dollar Honda Accord with leather seats, moonroof and power everything. Suffering a great ignominious end of cool because of a high-tech tape deck.
Yeah. I would have hidden my beers from me too.
Did 'ja watch it? Cheney, on Fox? No? Well of course all of the regular newsy outlets will provide you with transcripts and/or video. However if you're pressed for time or simply couldn't be bothered, here's my quickie overview:
1. He shot the guy, his fault, and he just feels terrible about it. No really. He said so. He hates it when he accidently shoots an "acquaintance" (third answer). After he shoots an acquaintance however, they are forever afterward referred to as his "friend" (rest of interview). It's like an initiation ritual for the guy, I guess. Bad news: I shot you in the face. Good news: Now we're friends! Put 'er there, buddy!
2. We learned what Cheney believes to be the most important lesson he's learned from having "been in the business a long time" and that is: first reports are often wrong, and it's important to be ackerit*. He said it over and over. Why didn't you make a statement about Mr. Whittington's condition immediately? First reports are often wrong. Do you think it was a mistake to wait so long? Needed to make sure the story was ackerit, and first reports are often wrong. Now that this central guiding philosophy has been disclosed, you need be baffled no longer by this administration's propensity for inaction. They're not sitting around reading books or hi-tailing it to bunkers when the country is under attack, or out golfing during the country's largest natural disaster. It's not that they don't care about what's happening in Darfur, or to our impoverished elderly, or that 8 billion dollars is missing from the Iraq reconstruction fund. Heck no. It's just those darn first reports are so often wrong. You gotta wait a bit, years maybe, to make sure the information is ackerit**.
3. The vice President does not and has not ever participated in anything as gauche as a "leak". He simply "advocated declassification and participated in declassification decisions." C'mon people!
4. Q: What's more insulting than the 'administration of ethics' choosing to give a male prostitute top-level Presidential media access because hey...he only tosses out the sweet, sweet softball questions?
A: An hour of Brit Hume delicately feeding the Vice President fluffy, puffy marshmallows with words like "hard-hitting journalism" and "fair and balanced" and "here's a toughie, Dick!" written on the side in mini chocolate chips.
Well, that's the round-up of Cheney's first public statement to the press. But remember, first reports are often wrong.
*couldn't find this one in the dictionary. Maybe it's a fancy legal term or something.
**unless it's like, a false report about WMD's. Then you act immediately.
However as much as I loathe Dick Cheney, as much as I am certain beyond a shadow of a doubt the great evil he is capable of, where his loyalties lie, and his total, blatant, unapologetic, single-visioned, at-any-cost, screw all-ya'll approach to his and his administration's agenda, I have to admit I had yet to be convinced there was anything about the shooting of Mr. Whittington by the VP that would warrant a big cover-up conspiracy scandal. Not because there might not BE a scandal, because he is so used to being untouchable, to being able to tap phones and sanction torture and take away human and civil rights, to syphon billions into private corporations who line his pockets--all without explanation or any accountability. I figured, therefore, why would he bother to organize a cover-up. Why wouldn't he behave in his private life the way he runs the government: Do whatever the fuck he wants whenever his wants with whomever he wants, and really, it's none of your goddamn business. I mean, why would he go to the press to explain the details of a weekend hunting mishap when he doesn't feel the need to explain the details of THE WAR? Actually, I was surprised the accident wasn't immediately labeled "a matter of national security" so he could continue his stellar record of never having to be held accountable for anything at all.
No, I wasn't convinced of a conspiracy until I read this headline: Cheney to break silence in Fox interview.
Four days of every major news organization in the world clamoring for the teeniest little account of what happened--Fox. Gets the exclusive.
You need more proof?
It was a weekend of 'Naw's. Every time one or both of us turned around, something to 'naw' at.
Starting Saturday morning and a trip to the grocery store for a single item. I walked in to find the place packed. "What the?..." I said. Because our local grocery doesn't usually have people spilling out into the streets on a Saturday morning. There were less people shopping on Christmas Eve. Then I remembered...there is some huge snow storm coming, supposedly, which always makes me laugh. I've been in New York City long enough to witness "The Storm of the Season" hastily applied to quite a number of (what ended up being) two or three inch snowfalls. But there they were, frantically snarfing up the canned goods and beer like it was armageddon, buying into the yearly hollow threat. I decided I didn't need my single item bad enough to wait in line for an hour, and left thinking "suckers."
Then some movies, which I won't bore you with, all of which held a plethora of 'naws'. Of the disbelief variety, mostly. Shorthand for statements like, "Could there be a bigger plot hole?" or "I smell an 'it was all a dream' coming..."
Then Sunday. I woke up to a room so cold I could see my breath. I crossed to the window, pulled the curtain open, and exclaimed "Naw!" G said, "What is it?" I called him to the window. "Naw!" he also exclaimed. Then a dash outdoors for a little off-the-leash romping in the with the pup in the mountains of white, which made me forget that I was the "sucker" with a completely bare cupboard.
Michele Kwan...outta the running. Naw! Which didn't make much sense because neither one of us follow the Olympics or skating or Mz. Kwan. But still, it got a big naw.
Then Cheney shoots an old guy. I read G the article... "It appears to have been a legitimate accident." I say. "Naw!" we go. Meaning 'damn'.
The night ended with one more Naw! One humdinger of a naw via a phone call from a friend. But I can't tell you lest I betray a confidence, which is how that particular naw got started in the first place. I'll direct you to this previous post, and leave it at that.
If you live in one of the school districts that have decided to teach Intelligent Design alongside Evolution as an alternate 'theory', and have yet to accept the Word of His Noodly Appendage, start dressing like a pirate, and demanding your child's school also include the Flying Spaghetti Monster as an alternate God for their alternate creation of man theory, may I present to you a few more alternatives: Live Science's Top Ten Creation Myths. Why, people have been coming up with pretty cool ideas as to how man got here for as long as...well...as long as people were here after their god(s) created them. Some of them way more interesting than that Adam and Eve story. I say it's only fair that the kiddies get to hear about all the other gods and monsters and deities too, all the other ways man got here, most of which pre-date that whole Judeo-Christian Islamist creation theroy-ma-jig. No matter what those sly Judeo-Christian Islamists say! (Which, no doubt, will mention how the real truth could not have been known in pre-Judeo/Christian/Islamic times because their prophets hadn't yet been born to reveal it to us.) But still.
I don't know what this says about me, but see, the dog went ape a few minutes ago, over the mail man, barking and snarling when she saw him standing in the foyer (which she has never done in her life). I apologized and felt terrible, of course. But not because I was concerned for the welfare of the mail man (I had the dog several feet away and well under control), nor was I especially angry or curious about my dog's unusual outburst (he was a new, never before seen mail carrier, and therefore a stranger in the hall, to the dog); So no, I didn't care about those things so much.
I was mortified she'd done something so cliche.
You read right. Me. Not drinking. Not that I'm going to take this wagon all the way to its final destination, mind you. Hell no. Like Chuck Heston and his guns, you'll have to pry that corkscrew out of my cold dead hands. It's just part of a little exercise in healthy living known as checking oneself before one wrecks oneself. For me, with wine, the check goes like this: I ask, "When was the last day I only consumed a single glass of wine, or had no alcohol at all?" If a date pops into mind, like 'last Tuesday', then I go ahead and imbibe business as usual. However if I can't remember a day, a recent day, NOT counting the day I used the last time? Well. Then it's time to take a little breaky-poo before I become one of those people whose sweat has a proof, who gotta take a little nip to steady the old hands in the morning. Because let me tell you, I'll be pissed as all hell if I ever come home to what I think is a surprise party and find out it's an intervention. No one's ever thrown me a surprise party before. I'd be mad about being sent to rehab and all, but being cheated out of a surprise party (even a dry one) would be a wound that wouldn't heal.
On most days the very first sound I hear in the morning is someone yelling "FUCK!", and strangely it's not coming from yours truly Cursey McSwearsalot, it's G--he of the infinitely more broad and normally vulgarity-free vocabulary.
The reason for his daily morning swear is simple. He is a heavy sleeper, can snooze right through a jackhammer outside the bedroom window kind of sleeper, so we own the worlds most ear piercing, god-awful blare making, wake the neighbors and the dogs two blocks away (and the dead while it's at it) alarm clocks you can buy. The packaging boasted a guarantee that no one could sleep through its noise, and they didn't lie. It was designed by auditory torture experts or something, the decibel level of its clashing minor notes the pure distillation of the sound of a million thirteen year olds in a million suburban bedrooms with a million untuned guitars playing the Trinity Of Rock at full volume, simultaneously.
So it wakes you up alright. However G likes to get up at the crack of bloody dawn (to do a bit of work from home), and I usually do not need to rise for another hour or more. So in an effort to let me sleep, G has developed Super Spidey Sense for when the alarm rings. On the very first second of the very first bleat his arm whips over in a flash and turns the brain mangling machine off before I'm any the wiser. He promptly falls back asleep, of course. When he wakes two hours later and notices the time, he sits up, realizes his Spidey Sense has foiled him again, screams "FUCK!" (which pops me out of sleep right quick) and thus our day begins.
This morning we were discussing the psycho/spiritual impact of our morning ritual. What, if anything, having the word 'fuck' begin our day each day has done or is doing to our quality of life; what subliminal toll it takes on our psyches. If you believe that thoughts are actions and words have energy, it would only stand to reason that beginning the day with disappointment, anger, and panic would have a negative impact on a person. Might have something to do with our sour disposition most of the time. Our sometimes bleak outlook on life. Our bad backs.
Since there's nothing we can do about the alarm situation--he's done all the tricks, even put it across the room. He's on autopilot now. He'll get up, turn it off, turn around, and crawl back in bed and be asleep in two seconds--we thought at the very least it would be worth it to experiment with exchanging 'fuck' for something more positive. Try to program his brain to blurt out a more embracing, upbeat sentiment for the day, like "Yippee!" or "Top of the morning!" Or maybe something nonsensical yet filled with happy associations like "Cake!" or "Bunnies!"
We'll let you know how that's working out for us. Worst case scenario we'll at least get some mileage out of his failed attempts. Think about it, he wakes up, screams FUCK! out of habit, rubs his eyes and adds, "I mean yippee. Or...what was it? Bunnies."
Was up late, late again last night, thanks to my new Twilight Zone addiction. The Sci-fi Channel turns all Twilight all the time at one AM--way past my bedtime--and play back-to-back episodes until eight in the morning. However I never make it all the way to the end of the first episode. Without fail I conk out one or two minutes before the show reaches its conclusion, you can set your watch by it--one fifty seven AM aaaaaand...she's out!--wasting the just under an hour I've invested in the program and any chance I might have had for good nights sleep. It's infuriating. So last night hellbent on making it to the big reveal I came up with a brilliant solution; I rigged up a homemade version of the Clockwork Orange eyelid-clamping machine out of a chapstick and a hair tie. Okay, a bit drastic, but not only did I find out the origin of the crazy morse-code tapping noise coming from a submarine that had been sunk at the bottom of the ocean for twenty years, I didn't conk out until three minutes before the end of the episode that followed. A great stride. And proof of two things...all dreams can be made a reality with a tube Burt's Bees and a dash of Eh-muhr-icken ingenuity, and I'm patently insane.
Last night. Folding and putting away laundry. Living room and Bedroom TV set to the State of the Union.
[phone rings]
Me: (sour) Hello.
Zeebah: Ut-oh. You're watching it. I can hear the TV. You're watching it aren't you?
Me: Yeah. You?
Zeebah: Yeah. I said I wouldn't. But I am.
Me: Me too. I just thought...I don't know what I was thinking.
Zeebah: I know. Why do we punish ourselves?
[we watch]
Me: (snide laugh)
Zeebah: What?
Me: Oh nothing, he said "terror" again. I was listening to the radio earlier and they were talking about that drinking game, you know, where people drink each time he says "terror" and "freedom" and "September the 11th", and how there's just no sport in it, really. Might as well just open a bottle and take one big hour-long drink.
Zeebah: Listening to him makes me *feel* shit-faced, and I'm sober.
Me: There's your first problem. Listening to him sober. (long drink of wine, coincidentally on the word "freedom")
[quiet again]
Zeebah: Are you going to keep watching?
Me: (sighs) At this point I don't think I have a choice. You?
Zeebah: (sighs) I don't know. I'll see. Probably.
Me: Yeah, I know.
Zeebah: Okay, talk to you tomorrow.
[we hang up]
Half hour later G enters, home from work.
G: (registers what's on the TV, gets look of grave concern) Oh Babe! Aww, no! You're watching it? Why are you watching it? You know what this will do to you...
Me: I know, I know. I was just going to turn it on for a second. Have it on in the background, while I fold laundry. And then, you know.
G: Have you watched the whole thing?
Me: Yeah, from the beginning.
G: I'm too late, aren't I?
Me: (long drink) Yep.
[G joins me in the folding, eyes on the screen. We fold and listen.]
G: He still hasn't learned how to say nuclear.
Me: Huh?
G: Nuclear. He still says "nu-ku-ler".
Me: (long drink) Mmph.
[fold. listen. check supper.]
G: That was nice. The backhanded applause from the Dems over Social Security.
Me: I didn't see it.
G: Oh. Bush said "Congress did not act last year on my proposal to save Social Security" and the Dems stood and applauded.
Me: (long drink) Mmmph.
[fold, listen, check the dinner, return to folding]
Me: Do you think they seated the justices and other supposedly 'non-partisan' officials right up front on the Democratic side of the isle on purpose? So when they cut to a wide shot it looks like half of the room is opposition?
G: I don't get what you mean.
Me: Look, there, on the right of the screen. The first few rows of the Democratic isle are all supreme court justices and other judicial officials who aren't supposed to clap or react in any way to anything Bush is saying, because it would show partisanship. So when Bush says something universally agreed upon like "supporting our troops", and they do a full wide shot of everyone rising to their feet and applauding, visually it looks like the whole Republican side of the isle is behind supporting our troops, but half the Democrats are not. I think they did that on purpose.
G: You think?
Me: (long drink)
[listen. fold.]
G: So what are you cooking?
Me: Chicken. The chicken baked with the carrots and potatoes and parsnips. Lots of nutmeg and cinnamon.
G: Mmmm, rainy day Mom food. It sounds delicious.
Me: Too bad I'm not hungry. Fucking asshole.
G: What?
Me: (points to screen)
G: Oh.
(pause)
Me: (long drink) I'm sorry honey. I just put it on...while I was folding laundry, you know? And now...
G: I know, babe.