EDGY, WHOLESOME
Come to Tangier’s tonight @ 6:30pm for a good time! We give good angst.
The reader lineup (it’s an unintentional girl’s night!):
Leah from Leahpeah
Kelly from Mocha Mama
Erin from Queen of Spain
Lara from Katronika
Ruth from Redleather
Kelly from West Coast Grrlie Blather
Heather from Heathervescent
I had a dream (don’t leave!!) that I was sitting at my mother’s vanity at home and putting on my face. Literally. Including my hair. There wasn’t a choice of lips or noses like when you create an avatar. There were just the items I normally have on my head sitting on the vanity marble top waiting to be attached. Not sure how I could see without my eyes, but I could and they were the last thing I put on. Then I sang “All That She Wants” long and loud in the mirror to myself. If you aren’t familiar with these particular spectacular Ace of Base lyrics, basically, all that she wants is another baby. Ba-A-beh. Sometimes I feel like my subconscious is phoning it in.
When I was in the single digit years of my life, my older sister had a 45 with a scary story on one side and who-the-heck-cares on the other because the scary story was so awesome. It was called The Velvet Ribbon and I played it and recited it every chance I got. It scared my sister and my brothers and man, that was fun. I would wait until my sister would ask me to do something for her and then I’d say, ‘You will be sorry if I do, so I won’t.’ in the creepiest voice I could muster. I even wore a black ribbon around my neck one day but she cried so hard that it wasn’t really funny anymore. Well, it kind of was. And when she told me to take it off, i did and then started to say, ‘I told you you’d be sooooooooooooorry!’ but her face went white as a sheet and she was too scared to cry. And then it wasn’t really funny anymore. Well, it kind of was.
You can read the story here and listen to the original recording from my childhood here complete with the last, scary line I’d say right before we went (did not go) to sleep. Thanks to the authors of those two pages.
Hello, you weary traveler. You’ll know I’m talking to you if you are one of the hundreds of people that get pinged each and every day with this old entry, this old entry or any number of other old entries. I’ve contacted Bloglines a few times and the very most cooperative they have been is to tell me it’s not their issue (when it VERY CLEARLY IS). The very least was the time they ignored me. Oh, and the other time they ignored me, too. Frustrated much?
Basically, I would suggest not using Bloglines anymore. People that read my feeds via other means, as far as I know, have not had any issues. But for the 159 Bloglines users that have contacted me, and the many others of you out there that just try to ignore it every day, let me just say – I’m sorry and I wish there was something I could do about it.
Let me tell you a little story: The last post I did? I actually posted it a week ago but it was somehow set to PRIVATE and I didn’t know it and then I realized it and then I marked it PUBLIC and now you can see it. Cool story, huh? There is no moral or arc. You’ll just have to get over it and accept it for what it is, whatever that is.
Let me tell you a big secret: I’ve gained 15 pounds in the past 2 years. Add that to the 20 pounds I gained when my thyroid started going out 4 years ago and the gazillion pounds I gained on medications for 6 years and you’re talking about a-LOT-o weight. And now I look like this. I look at that person and can’t believe it’s me. I don’t feel like that on the inside but I sure do feel like that when I get on the treadmill. I can’t exercise more than about 20 minutes without getting so sleepy, achy and wiped out that I don’t move for the next 12 hours. The doctor said that within 7-8 weeks on the higher thyroid dose I will start to feel an improvement and be able to workout longer. ‘What a relief’ said my knees. She also said my appetite should improve once my body starts functioning again like a real person and that I would actually GET HUNGRY and then WANT TO EAT and that in so doing I would LOSE WEIGHT because I would have energy to MOVE MY BODY. She also told me that I will have a harder time because I used to have eating disorders. And also not to get pregnant for the next two years. (SADFACE)
Let me tell you a little something about time management: I have three large boxes with approximately 447 photos to scan and crop and resize and put on disks for my entire family before the reunion later this month. I have had these images since last July and have not cracked them open or done a little scanning each day to cut down on the overall effort. After the reunion is Blogher and I’m supposed to have some really funny and entertaining things to say. Who thinks I can do it?
Let me tell you a very short sentence about moving boxes: STILL THERE.
Let me tell you about my kids: They stayed here for 9 days. Now they are at their dad’s for 10. And then they’ll be back for 5 and then at his for etc. etc. and on through August. You ask, Do they like it? Are they sad they have to do 50/50 time? And I answer you with the only measuring sticks I have available –
Let me tell you a tiny nerd anecdote: Tony’s friend came over and asked if we had the Pink Floyd movie, The Wall. I told him he could check the shelves. He asked where it might be and I told him they were in alphabetical order. He breathed out, ‘Coooool!’
Let me tell you a post script: LA Angst is coming up on July 11th! Reader spaces are filling up quick this time if I believe the 17 people that told me they want to read. Get off the fence, duckies! I only have room for seven six more of you.
1) Joe and I stumbled upon Rob and Big sometime on Friday and the rest of the weekend we watched episodes online whenever possible. We’ve seen them all now and the last one was just as good as the first. Pro skater Rob Dyrdek and his bodyguard Christopher “Big Black” Boykin have a relationship that kind of defies probabilities. It’s male bonding at its finest. (And his Bulldog (who gets his own pet miniature horse) learns to skate!)
2) I’ve been laughing about these photos of Kevin for days. I recommend them to anyone trying to get through a hard time.
I don’t think anyone would disagree that last night was fun. We had wonderful readers, one of whom worked at the Tangier and signed on at the last minute. The stories varied from relationships to Barbies to early bike riding to recent bike riding and more. It was delightful! There was an abundance of talent in the room and hardly a slow moment.
I spent the last few weeks wondering if I wanted to do a bang-up MC job and go all out with funny quips in between readers or if I should just keep it simple and announce the readers as their turn came up. I couldn’t stomach trying to be the lady in the funny hat so I decided to just stick with announcing their names and URLs, which sometimes I forgot to do. I thought more time for the readers was a better choice since we only had about an hour.
In retrospect, and based on the feedback of some attendees, I think next time I’ll do more of an introduction before each reader. I might even create a list/program so people know the basics of who will be reading when.
Thanks so much to all that came out to listen and those that were brave enough to read. I so appreciate your support! See you all in August. And in the meantime, come to LA Angst on July 11th.
I threw clam chowder up once and I couldn’t eat it for about 6 years and that was a onetime vomit deal. Nothing like the incredible amounts of awesome pain I’ve been in with our old friend Blue Cheese. You’d think I got ran over by a truck and then wrung out like an old dishrag. Picture me lying prone, moisture-less and wrinkled up like an old prune, arm extended slightly up and meekly calling for water. Additionally, I’ve had about 10 narcoleptic naps the past few days and as Joe will tell you, normally I can’t fall asleep anywhere except in the bed with about 15 pillows moated around me, the lights out and the fan on low to lull me into unconsciousness. Sometimes there is chanting going on in the background and incense rolling out in tufts over the headboard. If he so much as breaths wrong, I stiffen and have to start the whole relaxation process* over again, starting with my toes. Man, I’m a party in the sack.
The first and only time I ate blue cheese prior to this past weekend was in high school. Someone dared me to taste it so I tongued a chunk, gagged, and then spent my hard-earned 5 dollars on a new Duran Duran cassette tape. I probably had an eating disorder and I threw up on purpose so I could fit into my super tight button fly stonewashed 501s, so I don’t think you can count it as a really sad episode in my life. Plus, Double Duran? I scored. (Simon! I waited for you for so long!)
Joe will routinely get salad with blue cheese. I still kiss him but I have to admit that it’s not high on my list of Things Joe Eats That Make Me Lust. It’s higher than onion and garlic but lower, much lower, than say, strawberries or chocolate.
Last weekend I took Alex to San Diego with me for a get together with the photabulous women I shoot photos with occasionally. (I can say occasionally now that it’s happened twice, right?) Anyhoo, we started the wonderful day eating brunch and then walking downtown looking for things to take photos of. We only annoyed a couple of people. Quite a successful feat for us. I must say that what Ocean Beach was lacking in silicone it more than made up for in body odor. BO in OB. GET IT?? And also? Unfortunate clothing choices.
While we waited for our food at Hodad’s, I heard my name called through the open window. And lo and behold, there was Joe’s Aunt Joan! Fun surprise. We chatted through the window until the angry man (ASShole!) sitting in between us “asked” us to stop.
At the beach we saw a dude with friendly parrots who used a very unique call to get them to come back. I believe it went something like, “Hey! Get back here!! NOW!!” And the weird thing is that they did.
Margot, Susan, Alex and I went to Old Town to the Living Room to eat fish tacos for dinner. And then Margot went home. (sadface)(hello, matt!)
On the way to Susan’s home, we stopped at Aaryn’s home. The minute I walked into the door her husband Sam put me to work folding towels. Just kidding. I love to fold clothes so I pushed my way into the Folding Circle. I just don’t like putting them away or hanging them up. Their home is quite lovely and we had great conversation but we missed seeing Ruby in the flesh. What? Kids don’t stay up past 11?
We finally made it to Susan’s where we found hand written notes scattered along the kitchen counter intermixed with plates and bowls of food. Twas a veritable smörgasbord and all fixed lovingly by Mr. Susan, Doug Myrland. Yes, Doug had given up on us ever really making it to the house and had long since gone to bed, but he left behind him the very best parts of himself and we consumed the delectable chicken wings and veggies and fried zucchini and fried olives. (Olives? Really?? Yes. They were yummy.) And herein is where we meet our old friend Blue Cheese because what would you dip all the wonderful crudités in if not blue cheese dressing? And it wasn’t just an ordinary blue cheese dressing. This was a Doug Myrlandized blue cheese dressing with additions that I can only imagine. Probably magic and fairy dust because it was the most delicious thing I’d ever had on raw carrots and celery sticks.
About a half gallon later, I went straight to bed where my stomach proceeded to not digest a single, solitary iota of any particle of food. One of the fun effects of stupid hypothyroid is slow digestion, which makes me never really feel hungry and I forget to eat because the food just sits there. It also means I’m pooping out chicken and blue cheese today from 3 days ago even though I emptied my stomach through the top vent by throwing up the entire drive home. Yes, I loved the blue cheese the first time but not the next 17 times. But, Doug! Thanks for being so sweet and next time we’ll get there sooner and eat with you. But I’m afraid I must bid the blue cheese adieu.**
I saw my old/new doc the other day and she upped my dose by about a kazzillion percent, was astonished at the lack of care I’d received during the year and a half I had been away from her and was righteously angry on my behalf as I told her all about how ridiculous and obtuse that dumb doctor was. I felt validated and safe. And then I cried real puppy dog tears and thanked her from the bottom of my heart for being so informed and saying all the things I needed to hear. After feeling my throat for what seemed like ages, she determined that the nodules are actually getting smaller. Instead of going crazy with some kind of invasive procedure, we’re going to wait and see. I like that. She even hugged me on the way out and gave me a two-month supply of Synthroid at the new, higher dose to save me money. You can’t beat that. As bad as the old place was, the new/old place is that great in contrast and I’m so glad to be back with them. There is a reason they don’t accept HMOs. It allows them to keep their level of care so much higher.
*My relaxation technique was given to me by one of my therapists where you start with either your head or your toes and consciously think about each body part relaxing while steadying and deepening your breathing. It usually works for me but it takes a dang long time.
**Alex just came home and told me that her stomach feels terrible and that she might start ralphing. I wonder if we caught a bug and that it had nothing to do with blue cheese at all? If that is the case, I’d like to apologize to Doug’s Blue Cheese Dip. Aaryn, did you say you got sick, too?
Guess what tomorrow is? No, forget it. I’ll just tell you. It’s the first ever LA Bloggers Live!
Readers list:
Joe from Artlung
Lynda from One Day at a Time
Deezee from Confessional Highway
Neil from Citizen of the Month
Jenn from Aka Jesais
Abigail from My Life According to Me
Will from Wildbell
Kevin from Kevin Charnas
Peter from The Buddha Diaries
Tim from LA Daddy
Join us tomorrow, Thursday, June 28th at 6:30pm at the Tangier Lounge.($4 cover charge at the door)
In other news, once upon a time, a long, long time ago, Grace and I were talking and she was all ‘You should see if Amy Sedaris would be on your craft panel at Blogher.’ and I was all ‘Oh, ya. Right. Like that would happen.’ and Grace was all ‘No. Seriously. You should because it would be so great.’ and I was all ‘Dude. If I could make that happen I think I might crap my pants.’ and she was all ‘I’m sure you can figure it out. Go forth! Make it happen!’ (Insert pretty illustrations here showing me pounding the pavement.) And so I did. And Amy Sedaris is going to be on my craft panel at Blogher along with Kathy Cano Murillo, Kristin Roach, and the fabulous Natalie Zee Drieu. And then we all lived happily ever after.
Busy.
Weekend.
Travel.
Sick.
Busy again.
Will write more soon. xo
Yes. We’ve heard the pitter patter of tiny feet around here for the past few days. Very tiny feet. It was so funny and cute when we thought it was a lizard. OH-ho! Ho! Look! It’s a lizard! Our home is blessed and we’ll have no insects running around willy-nilly! Let’s set up a small bed in an empty matches box! I’ll make him a tiny quilt in case he gets cold! Good times.
Apparently, birdseed attracts rodents. Who knew? And our bird (with no name) is messy. I’ve had birds before that were messy and so I’m not surprised at the end of the day when there is a smattering of seeds and hulls on the carpet underneath the cage waiting for a good dustbustering. But I swear, this bird sticks his beak in the seed dish and just writhes his head back and forth. He looks like a dog exuberantly shaking his fur after a bath. Or me shaking my hair in the wind. He sometimes hits me over 6 feet away! Maybe he’s aiming. (Give me an effin name already, woman!) I’m making him a cage skirt toot sweet. He looks great in green.
In any case, these brazen mice that run the baseboard from the cage to the fireplace and up and out are not lacking for food. They dosey-do, do the soft-shoe and then tip their tiny hats in thanks as they leave. And then they party all night at their secret hangout at the top of the chimney getting drunk on zinfandel out of tiny thimbles and sharing a cheesepuff while talking about what terrible television we watch at our house. We’re completely uncultured.
Call me old or ornery or curmudgeonly (or sad since I wasn’t invited to the party) as you please but I’m sorry – no more mice in the house. Thank you.
But I did cry when the first little guy got stuck on the sticky strips. He squeaked. I cried. I called Joe and he walked me through the steps of putting him in the dumpster. (Which, seriously, I think I could have figured out. I’ve got a few ounces of common sense. But I tend to use My Man for these types of things. Does that make me weak? Look! A spider!)
I realize that the more humane way to deal with the mouse would have been to put him out of his misery, but I could not abide smashing him in any way shape or form. And I didn’t want to let him go because he would most likely just come down the chimney again and back into my rodent-free zone. And I didn’t have enough oil to pour on him anyway to remove him from the sticky strip. And if it’s hot tomorrow, won’t the oil on his fur just get really hot and crispy and make him a tasty fried snack for a bird, cat or snake? And that, in turn, would most likely make those animals ill. I can’t take all that responsibility.
And I am in denial because I’m imagining he found tiny broken toothpicks and was able to extricate himself like we would in quicksand, completely intact but with rumpled clothing and wacky hair. Immediately afterwards, he put on a freshly ironed Hawaiian shirt, wrapped the kerchief around his walking cane and took a train to Philly. He’ll soon be working as a bouncer in a bordello.
But, no! Instead, he is in a box with a bag tied around him in the dumpster. And all I can think about is The Secret of NIMH and how now I’m the really awful People who are evil and kill the mice.
I imagine I’ll get over it. Not going through the couch cushions looking for and vacuuming up tiny mice poopy-pellets every morning is going to help.
My friend Susan and I play this game sometimes. It doesn’t really have a name but the basic rules of the game are – have the worst life/circumstances of everyone around you. But you have to laugh about it. Ya, I think that’s it in a nutshell.
For example, if I got a ticket for illegal parking but she broke her arm, she wins. If she got stung by a bee but I broke the heel on my Manolos, I win. Actually, that might win a lot of stuff. Unless she is allergic to bees and has to go to the emergency room and almost dies, then I guess that would win. Maybe.
In any case, Susan’s mom died recently so she totally won, for like, days and days and maybe weeks. I mean, you can’t really top that, right? The things that could happen to trump the death of a parent are pretty far and few between. Except now. Now I think I might win for a bit.
But the second part of the rules, the laughing at the situation part, I’ve been unable to do until today. Today it just seems hysterical in a sad, yet funny way. I mean, imagine this last chapter of my life as a movie. Mom goes to mental hospital. Kids and father move. Mom spends the next four years job after job and house after house inching closer in a very dramatic and pragmatic fashion, always repeating some mantra like, ‘This will all be worth it someday when my kids are living with me again!’ and throw in some arm shaking and maybe background music. Oh, I think Climb Every Mountain or Ain’t No Mountain High Enough would work great. There would be close-ups of sweat falling from my temples, little ringlets of hairs coming out from my bun all misty and dewy over the kitchen sink.
Hey, I know! Let’s put me in a covered wagon – the preferred mode of transportation of My People. I can wear the Bonprons I made and some bloomers made of scratchy, low-grade cotton so my knees will get irritated as we go along. I’ll walk and walk and walk and walk aaaaaaand walk. I think there better be falling down in crevasses and storms of many kinds.
And then, as the smoke clears and a slight wind rustles my hair, you’ll see the determination set in my jaw line as I go those last few feet on my hands and knees. My fingernails packed with dirt from pulling my limp body (did I forget to say I got paralyzed from the waist down somewhere along the line? Probably a freak accident with an Emu.) along the muddy grassland, clump by clump.
Then let’s fast forward past the part where I built the cabin after wrastlin’ the miners for the plot of land that was my great grandfathers and rightfully mine. And past the part where I spin the wool and make fabric and then sew curtains for every room. And past the part where I planted the garden, toiled in the fields and then bottled 1,364 bottles of corn for the winter. And past the part where I send the telegram to the children and tell them the homestead is finally, FINALLY ready for them.
Let’s just go straight to the part where they get the telegram and go, ‘Meh. No thanks!’ because that, my friends, is comedy gold. And I do believe it’s a comedy. Anything that depressing has to be a comedy just to sit through it.
I know I’m winning more than just Susan. The past few days when people call on the phone I’ll say, ‘Hey – I heard about [whatever-I-heard-here] and how are you doing with that?’ And they’ll say, ‘Oh, Leah, no biggie. We didn’t lose the farm and no one got hurt and my kids still want me to, you know, be their mom…’ at which point their voice kind of trails off.
Thanks for the kind emails you’ve sent. Mostly they were very thoughtful and I appreciate you taking the time to write me. However, I’d like to point out that, as one friend said, teens are in the height of their asshole stage and I have four of them and I know this. I was the Queen of Bitch during my teen years. I realize this and recognize this and being their mom, I’m allowed to say it. But please refrain from expounding on that idea in emails or comments. No matter what they do or say, they are my children and I love them with a fierce passion that will cause me to cut you if you attack them with your words. Personal stories of how YOU were an asshole are fine, though. And, please feel free to send love and candy! I like candy. And yarn. And tiny dogs.
