I got in trouble.

The Boy said that was very bad of me to say that Tangobaby is dead and that I should apologize.

Apparently he was not the only one who thought  my sensationalism was naughty. I'm sorry. I'm not dead. Even this blog isn't dead. I'm going to leave it here for posterity.

So, I will try this again:

Hi guys! I have a new site. Come on over and see me there because I won't be over here anymore.

http:julieliveshere.com

The Tolerance Tribute

I don't know what it is about me and the writing lately. It's like I left the brain faucet on again. I should be sleeping.

***

The Boy recently found out what a "push present" is. (To be fair, I only found out what a Push Present was not so long ago, too. If you don't have kids, and don't plan to, there's just a whole entire vocabulary that you'll never acquire.)

He asked me if I had ever heard of the concept, wide eyed. To which I replied that I thought perhaps the concept of the Push Present is something akin to a Hallmark Holiday, wherein deBeers and Harry Winston, plotting in an evil jewelry cabal, cooked up a diabolical scheme to create another reason for an unsuspecting populace to buy fine diamonds.

I'm not sure when the Push Present hit the mainstream consciousness and I'll never be familiar enough with the demographic of new parents to know if this is the totally middle-class/ upper-class American phenomena that it seems to be at the outset. Did this particular gift find its start on the pages of People magazine? Anyway, I'm guessing that in the olden days (i.e., when you and I were born) that the Push Present was basically... the kid. Now it's the kid AND something encrusted with diamonds, which for an earlier generation of moms who never got a Push Present must be a little bummed to say the least, there must be some sort of retroactive compensation, to be fair?).

I'm not one for owning fancy jewelry, or even real jewelry. (Which is a good thing as I live with a guy who doesn't believe in buying it either.) I have a box full of costume jewelry and I'm BIG on rhinestones. First of all, rhinestones can be just as sparkly and exciting (and due to their being cheap bits of glass, you can have lots of them), and secondly, if a rhinestone falls out of a ring or an earring, you won't throw up thinking about how much that just cost you. I don't want the pressure.

However it did get me thinking about us non-child producing females. The Boy asked me what kind of present we should get. I don't know about the rest of you, but I decided that I should get a Tolerance Tribute (it's all about alliteration to make a catchy and lasting impact on the mind). For putting up with daily shenanigans more akin to living with someone who's part Spanky from the Little Rascals, part Harpo (as in the Marx Brothers) and the rest Calvin from Calvin and Hobbes. In short, trouble.

The Boy can be a full-time job, too. I just didn't give birth him.

Yesterday we went to the "Cartier in America" exhibit at the Legion of Honor. It's one of those things that you go to, thinking This will be cool. I'm glad I have a membership so I don't have to pay and stand in line and end up leaving saying, Yeah, I totally need a tiara. Even if in your wildest imagination you had never considered a tiara, when you leave this exhibit, you will feel like owning one now is pretty much a necessity. And, that it should be a real tiara, with real Cartier-style diamonds in it. Granted, you might not have anything to wear with the tiara, but that's not the point.

On a less shallow note, the exhibit is pretty gorgeous and extraordinary. While your eyes are dazzled and you take in all of the exquisite detail and workmanship of these artisans of a bygone era (yes, because the newer Cartier pieces can't hold a candle to the Belle Époque stuff), you also can't help imagining the subtle pressure and competition amongst the elite who commissioned, bought and wore these items. Who will have the bigger tiara, the heavier brooch, the more elaborate cigarette case? It didn't mention on the descriptions which of these jewels might have been Push Presents, but you can use your imagination there too.

The Beating

Just the other day, The Boy paid a man $25 to beat me up.

***

To be fair, he paid another guy the same to be pummeled from head to toe.

***

We went to the Relax Feet Spa. (Actually I'm playing with you. They didn't beat us up. It only felt that way. Sometimes. Sometimes I liked it.)

Actually, I'm still playing with you. Mostly I liked it except for the few times where I thought I might have a fractured bone and had very bad thoughts about the man who was wreaking havoc with my entire nervous system. I did check the following day to see if I was covered in bruises and I wasn't.

This little reflexology foot massage place is a few blocks from our house. I had passed it several times on errands and took this photo with my phone. I was so excited to see this place, meaning that I didn't need to go to Chinatown for this particular brand of exquisite torture. I have a feeling that reflexology massages like this have some sort of healthy outcome, if not solely for you being super grateful when they are over with. I do want to think that other modalities of health care have merit even if we Westerners don't understand them because we only go to doctors once something is messed up. We don't go to them to prevent illness.

(On a somewhat tangential side note, I don't know about you but I keep getting a lot of emails from Barack Obama and friends about last-minute lobbying for the health care public option. You might notice that I have stopped entirely cold turkey about blogging about politics since the election. I have given up. I now think both parties are totally useless. But I digress...)

When we walked in, a young girl handed us a laminated menu with several exotic selections for our foot baths. We both chose the Chinese Medicine bath. Not only did we get foot baths and foot and leg massages, but that $25 entitled us to entire body massages. The man beating The Boy was the one in charge. He pointed at The Boy after our massages and said bluntly, "Too fat." To which we both stood silently, with big eyes. I did not tell the massage man that we had a grocery bag full of melting ice cream, a big bag of marshmallows for cocoa, and some other things that aren't super healthy.

He kept repeating it. "Too fat. Too fat." We nodded to say we understood. "Broccoli," he added. "Good poopy. Broccoli." And then preceded to trace imaginary veins up his forearms. I'm not sure exactly what that signified, but it wasn't looking good. Anyway, we'd managed to make some small talk with him ("Charlie") just because, in his direct and concerned way, despite the beatings, we liked him. He was sincere and so hard working. He told us he came from Peking (he said distinctly Peking and not Beijing, which I thought was interesting). He had lived in Alaska and Minnesota and Southern California, working in Chinese restaurants wherever he went. Now he was "too old" to work in a restaurant, so that is what brought him to San Francisco.

Despite the language barrier, it was obvious that he wanted us to be healthy. Despite the feeling that we had been punished for transgressing the physical needs of our bodies, we got a golden VIP Card so we can go back to Charlie and his silent buddy Michael for more pummeling. Perhaps they'll help us get healthier, who knows. At least they care more than the people in Washington DC about that sort of thing.

incubator

Today we had a little death in the house.

***

It was probably a big death to the being who was personally involved, and I know that I tend to use the word little far too much as a descriptor.

And now I feel guilty because I'm the one that saw the streak of gray fur out of the corner of my eye, the wiggle of the inanimate paper grocery bag on the floor as though a tiny gust of wind came from behind the stove and shook the bag, surprising me. Had there been a chair handy, I would have jumped on it and shrieked, like in the cartoons.

I thought at first I had one of those optical migraines, where artifacts not real put themselves into our reality, and we believe in them even though they are entirely manufactured in our nervous systems.

How could a mouse run so fast? I thought I had imagined it. But still I got the heebie-jeebies, so The Boy did what he does best, being The Boy of the House. He bought several types of traps (the best kinds), loaded them with tiny bits of peanut butter (per the instructions) and then placed the traps on the floor, out of my line of sight.

So all this time I thought I had imagined that smooth gray swoosh, until this morning when I saw the tail.

gray. adjective. variant, also grey: 5. having an intermediate and often vaguely defined position, condition, or character

***

I got all queasy looking at that little tail. Feeling terribly guilty and wishing I hadn't said anything to The Boy. I told him he had to come and get the trap, that it was his job as The Boy to deal with such things, and he said he would get it, in a bit.

And then he said jokingly, Tell me you're not really that much of a girl! Meaning that I had gotten all wussy on him, to which I freely admitted at that point, Yes, I am a girl. You have to throw this trap away!

***

When The Boy came to take the trap, all of a sudden I realized that I could look at the mouse (or at least the tail, and then later, its hindquarters) under the mental disguise of taking a photo of it.

In that instance, the mouse became an object. Life or the lack thereof no longer mattered. It's just a mouse.

And that thought made me feel brave, but it also made me sad – in a different way.

The old chestnut remains: the camera reveals, yet it also shields. How can one be engaged and remote at the same time?

How do we decide what we wish to see?

How do we decide how we want to see?

Time Out

Door on Haight Street reads
Community: All different but all help each other get the fruit from the tree.

Ain't that the truth?!

***

Holy moly. What a week! We got our little story on SFist, Eye on Blogs, KGO News (thank you again, Carolyn Tyler!), we were tweeted and facebooked and tumblr-ed oodles of times, we got City Hall a little riled up, and goodness only knows what else.

You guys have been fantastic. You are living proof that this world is a wonderful place, full of people who care. You care a lot.

Your support of K and the kids has been mind-blowing. My inbox is so out of control that I can't even deal with it right now. But I'm totally happy with that because you have shared your best: your hearts all in the right places. I wish I could reply to each and every one of you. Some day I will. It might take me weeks but gosh darn it, I will.

Because you were there for me.

***

Just so you know, K and the kids are all set for the weekend, whether or not a shelter comes through next week, thanks to you. So they're happy and I'm happy. And hopefully we will have some progress to report next week.

But today is The Boy's birthday and it's his turn for a little well-deserved attention and some TLC.

You guys enjoy yourselves and I'll catch up with you in a few. But please do visit another wonderful blog who has been very supportive of K and her family's story, helpamotherout.org. I wrote a guest post for them today.

xoxo

little updates

I want to thank all of you who gave such great advice and suggestions about K and her family.

I just wanted to let you know that me and a few other bloggers are now going to be on the lookout for her, first so we can get more information and find out how we can help her. And also so that for those of you who wanted to donate money can do that and we can get it to her and the kids.

Two little wrinkles: first of all, her voicemail is full so I cannot leave her a message to try to find her. I did try to find her on Saturday but could not. And second, today The Boy was in the hospital for most of the day (he seems to be much better now so no worries) and so I was not able to do more for K like I had planned.

But I hope to have more news soon and some viable ways of helping her, with your good advice and generosity.

I'm pretty wiped out today so I'm going to call it a night but just wanted to thank you again. I have a feeling that we'll find her soon and figure out what to do next.

xoxo

In Memoriam

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to bid farewell to a dear and constant friend, our trustworthy and true Canon PowerShot S5 1S. Your unexpected passing this afternoon was a bit of a shock, but we are grateful that you made it through an entire photo shoot before giving your spirit to the Ages.

Through rain and shine, from the first moment we held you in our hands, you made beautiful pictures. And now we lay you to rest, where you will shoot perfect images in Elysium and hosannas shall be sung in your name for eternity.

Rest in peace.

*angelic choir sings*

***

The Boy says I just wore the poor thing out, which is probably true.

The Boy had paid for a new camera before I even got across town to Tyler at Fireside Camera in the Marina. This new Canon has lots more bells and whistles, shoots in RAW and records HD video, and it took a lovely memorial photo of my dear, departed PowerShot.

Just in time for tomorrow.

Thank you, Boy and thank you little Canon PowerShot.

*sniff, cries*

The First

This was the first photo I took.

I took this photo one year ago today. March 23, 2008.

A lot has happened since The Boy let me "hold" his camera.

I can imagine my life full of changes and without a lot of things I might hold dear today, but I cannot imagine my life without a camera anymore.

Funny, that.

***
"A photographer who made a picture from a splendid moment, an accidental pose of someone or a beautiful scenery, is the finder of a treasure." ~ Robert Doisneau

If these people were my real parents

Clara Bow's hair + Albert Brooks' hair = my hair

***

Today, I have reentered the Land of Curly Hair.

I feel a little bit more like Shirley...

... but I'm working my way towards sexy Biba-dom.

I have to take the curly fabulousness in stages. The Boy is so confused. Right now I told him I'm entering my Gypsy/bohemian stage. He didn't know about that either. He keeps telling me that he's had the same hairstyle his whole life, ever since he started growing hair. He doesn't know anything about girls and their stages, even now.

I left the house early this morning with straight hair and came home looking like a moppet. He keeps asking me what I did to my hair, but I can't give away all of my beauty secrets. I told him I had a lot of curly fries for lunch and that's what did it, but he's not buying it.

***

And then I was compelled to dress up like this.

Tell me you do this sort of thing too when you get a new 'do. I just happened to have those rainbow glasses lying about from a walk down Haight Street.

Peace out, babies, peace out.
And pass the curly fries!

xoxo

***

Because I can't take all the credit: Clara Bow photo, Biba photo and Shirley Temple photo. I can't remember where I got the Albert Brooks photo from. I love him, though.

And because I really can't take all the credit, my beauty secret for today is

Angie and Martha's Hair Salon
524 Geary Street
(between Shannon St & Taylor St)
San Francisco, CA 94102
(415) 359-9375

Thank you, dutchbaby, you were right about these ladies. They are awesome!
Thank you Angie and Martha!

(insert more kisses here.)

Veni, Vidi, Legi

(Ineptly translated from my nonexistent Latin as I came, I saw, I read.)

Through this oversized book-shaped portal lies a wonderland for the curious and intense little world of book obsessives, collectors, and those who wish they were.

Who is that Boy whizzing by with his green umbrella?

The Antiquarian Book Fair pays a visit to San Francisco every two years. For anyone who might lose their mind with joy at seeing a 15th century illuminated manuscript page and actually be allowed to touch it (albeit in a clear plastic sleeve), cry happy tears at seeing a first edition of whatever their favorite children's book was (in mint condition) or hyperventillate slightly to see Abraham Lincoln's signature, this is the place to be. (Last time, I hung around a booth full of Charles Dickens' first editions. Did I almost cry? Yes.)

It's like the coolest museum, except you can touch stuff.

And if you have enough money, you can buy what you're touching.
(The above card on the copy of Candide reads: One of thirteen known copies, preceding all other editions. Printing and the Mind of Man. $100,000.) I did not ask to handle that book, fyi.

Below are some items that intrigued me for whatever reason. But this tiny collection of photos was nothing compared to the vast variety of what was there on display.

A children's book written by Nazis. Charming.

Another non-PC title for children: John Chinaman

And yet another.

These children's books make me hope we've made some sort of progress. (We have, right?)

Maps of a world that no longer exists.

Fascinating stuff for explorers and armchair travelers.

I'm still not quite sure what purpose this lovely certificate had, but I'm sure the Red Man didn't come out to be the winner here, despite the bright colors and the gold seal.

This book reminded me of Brad.

Not that you could tell from this crap photo, but here is a letter written by George Washington. You'll be glad to know that he had lovely penmanship.

Who doesn't want a first edition of To Kill a Mockingbird?
(A steal at $26K)

Besides the books, incredible maps, posters, and autographs were everywhere.

A folio of Shakespeare's comedies, histories and tragedies, for the drama geek in your life.
Dated 1678.

Descartes, with someone writing in the margins.
Dated 1737.

Tiny perfect miniature sets.
This is a collection of Shakespeare.

I tried to give you an idea of how many booths there were but there was no way to get the scale of this place. You'll just have to see it for yourself in 2011.

One mind-boggling display after another. Booksellers from all over the country packed up their best items to sell here. Many many from England, and also France and Germany.

A Hebrew grammar book from Paris. Dated 1636. It looked new.

What every child needs to know about Vladimir Ilych Ulyanov (V.I. Lenin). Sorry, I have to throw some Big Lebowski in whenever I can. You should know that by now!

You can pick up a first edition of Mao's Little Red Book for a mere $25K.

I don't collect things and normally don't really covet them. But this was the one item (only $950) that I would have bought if I could. From Vienna, a policeman's ball, this petite pouch in soft white leather with a matching tassel contained a tiny vial of perfume and a miniature dance card and pencil. These dainty trinkets were given to the ladies attending just a run-of-the-mill ball in 1913. *sigh*

And there you have it... a day's mania in one post!

Come Rain...

Or come shine.

The Boy had a rough day today.

He picked me up from work today, just wanting a buddy. He wanted to get some fresh air and be near the water.

In The Boy's cool ass vintage Jeep Wagoneer, we drove down to Fort Point, where you can get closest to the base of the Golden Gate Bridge. We listened to a mix of songs he put together, all about rain. (It was raining.)

The music, the rain, and the sound of the waves coming in... it worked like a charm.

I even forgot the part about not getting my camera wet. I must have my head examined. But I did get this shot before I came to my senses. Raindrops backlit by the Golden Gate Bridge.

San Francisco, you totally have me wrapped around your little finger.

***

This was my favorite of the Rainy Day songs: Come Rain or Come Shine.

We listened to the Billie Holiday version, but I like Sarah Vaughan's very much. This song makes you forget about your bad day, that you're flat broke, that you're tired.



I'm gonna love you, like nobody's loved you
Come rain or come shine
High as a mountain, deep as a river
Come rain or come shine
I guess when you met me
It was just one of those things
But don't you ever bet me
'Cause I'm gonna be true if you let me
You're gonna love me, like nobody's loved me
Come rain or come shine
We'll be happy together, unhappy together
Now won't that be just fine
The days may be cloudy or sunny
We're in or out of the money
But I'm with you always
I'm with you rain or shine

Our next child will be named Santonio Holmes

I've never seen The Boy like this. He looks like he narrowly escaped death by getting run over by a Greyhound bus driven by Kurt Warner and the Arizona Cardinals. The Boy was really green around the gills for a while. I'm not from Pittsburgh, so I didn't really have a preference. I am totally impartial because my favorite team died long ago.

I thought it was crazy exciting there at the end. I called some plays (he always looks amused like how do you know this stuff? you're a girl when I talk about touchbacks and flea flickers-- hey, I might be a girl but I still know my sh*t) but when I said how I thought Arizona could pull it off, I got a look. And then it was like I was a psychic or worse-- putting bad juju on the Steelers.

He's recovering now by calling family in Steel City, and I hear that our next child will be named Santonio. I'm off to cook some red meat now.

(Don't worry... I won't be writing a lot of football posts.)

***

ps.: No joke, congratulations Pittsburgh. I've got a Native Son here who's very relieved but he is ready for you to replace your entire offensive lineup.

Invisible Cities

"At times I feel your voice is reaching me from far away, while I am prisoner of a gaudy and unlivable present, where all forms of human society have reached an extreme of their cycle and there is no imagining what new forms they may assume. And I hear, from your voice, the invisible reasons which make cities live, through which perhaps, once dead, they will come to life again." ~ Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities

Tonight, my friend Chipmonkey (the lady of the long eyelashes) and The Boy and I will be attending a presentation called "Lost Landscapes of San Francisco."

This lecture will be part of the ongoing use of my Mental Stimulus Package that I came up with recently. For those of you who know my penchant for history, and especially the history of this particular city that has captured my imagination, I can't wait for the rare finds we'll get to see tonight. From the program description:

Rick Prelinger is a guerrilla archivist who collects the uncollected and makes it accessible. Prelinger will be presenting his third annual "Lost Landscapes of San Francisco" event, an eclectic montage of lost and rarely-seen film clips showing life, landscapes and labor in a vanished San Francisco as captured by amateurs, newsreel cameramen and industrial filmmakers.

How we remember and record the past reveals much about how we address the future. Prelinger will preface the film with a brief talk on how fragmentary, incomplete histories are being overtaken by pervasive real-time documentation, and how history, memory and property are combining into a new matrix of experience.

***

On my own, I'm always looking for remnants of San Francisco's past, juxtaposed against the constant construction I see on a daily basis. One of our favorite pastimes is to watch old movies set in San Francisco, and freeze frame scenes that show a location that we might try to place in the maps of our minds. And when we can, we make little pilgrammages, too.

I happen to love finding old brick buildings, because brick buildings of unreinforced masonry are a little more rare when you live in a town associated with earthquakes. But even more so, I love finding these old painted advertisements on the sides of buildings.

These painted signs are becoming an endangered species, whether due to the desecration by graffitists or destruction in the wake of "progress." I treasure my glimpses of them and rejoice when I find a new one in my wanderings. I am trying to take photos of as many of them as I can, my own little collection of San Francisco's city within a city.

I have a recent photograph of a building and that is all that remains. I found the yellow painted billboard advertising for an ancient brand of cigarettes on an early morning walk on my way to the office. And now that building is no more. Just my memory of it and the photograph. Places are always devouring themselves and becoming new, but how quickly a place can become unrecognizable to itself.

I was never able to finish Invisible Cities before. I really wanted to, but it always made me sleepy (I fault myself and not the author). I tried to read the book before I went to Venice, and also when I returned home. Perhaps after tonight I will try it again (I have two copies of it floating around the house), and see if I can't start to weave my own imagined stories of San Francisco, for me and to share with you.

***

ps.: First two photos taken downtown, on Kearny Street. Last photo taken in the Tenderloin.

Dig Deeper

"And, everyone who ever had a heart
They wouldn't turn around and break it
And anyone who ever played a part
Oh wouldn't turn around and hate it."

~ Lou Reed, "Sweet Jane"

***

Here I am.

No, Oprah did not call.

No, John Podesta did not call.

Despite my apparent virtual fame (lol), I'm still here.

***

I can see now where those people who were on a season's reality tv show or that poor doofus Joe the Plumber got all bedazzled by some sudden portion of starlight and sunshine. Look at me! You finally found me!

I'm somebody!

Well, truth is that we were all somebodies before the searchlight, right? We all had a life. You don't need 6,102 hits in a day to prove it (truth be told, the vast majority of hits are not readers).

It's nice to think that some of you here suddenly feel like I'm the little golden nugget you found after spending hours in the cold stream, panning through muddy silt. And here I show up in the bottom of the tray, glinting at you. That's cool. But dig deeper. I dare you to read this blog. Not just the last three posts but a whole bunch of 'em if you really mean it. Then you can decide if I'm still golden and if we still have something to say to each other.

And for those of you who've been here with me the whole time, maybe months or more than a year, you know, as with your own selves, you scratch the surface and there's so much more than you can even begin to write. And then there are the things that will never get said at all, but you still hope that people can read between the lines. Or see it in a photo because words just aren't enough sometimes.

***

"If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don't write, because our culture has no use for it." ~ Anaïs Nin

A few types of comments jump out at me:

I'd love to have a blog but I don't know how.
I don't have anything to say.
I'm boring.

For those of us who've been blogging for a while, we've been more than pleasantly surprised that the act is a reward in itself. Our blogs become a virtual studio, an open creative space, and a salon where like minds congregate. There's no impetus to succeed or stand out; in fact, it's a place to get away from all that stuff: Stretch your brain while you exercise your fingers. Manipulate thoughts into words and see if that effort translates into something beyond what you meant.

So grab that brass ring and write and share, for reals. And if the blog doesn't feel like your thing, then go out and do something else. There are no real rewards at the end of the day, just your creativity and your happiness.

***

This morning I made my own infernal music loop (in response to the earworm saga yesterday) by listening to the Cowboy Junkies' cover of Velvet Underground's "Sweet Jane." But this time it's a song I really love, sometimes crave to hear (isn't it funny that you can crave a sound just like something to eat?) so I purposely wanted to hear it as many times as I could before leaving for work.

The Boy had not heard this song before, and we slow-danced in our pj's to it. I nuzzled his neck. Margo Timmins has such a sexy voice.

Before I left for work, he says, "You know what Sweet Jane really is, right? It's heroin."

I figured the lyrics had something to do with drugs, but never gave it much thought. I just like the song. But that's what I mean. Dig deeper. There are little hidden truths buried all over the place. Not just here.

***

ps.: I took that photo a few weeks ago, in the Tenderloin before going to that talk about Benjamin Franklin I told you about. What's really attracting me lately in my photos as I sort through them are the ones that are full of contrasts or contradictions. This image in particular really says more to me than I can describe.

Cruel and Exceptionally Unusual Punishment

Before I get started, I have to ask you two questions:

1. Can you give someone up for adoption who is not related to you?

2. How do you try to forget a horrible song that's on infernal eternal loop in your head? What if there are two songs, equally heinous, alternating tracks and you can't stop them? (And a round of cocktails is not an option because it's 8:36am and I just got to work.)

***

Note: If you like Janis Ian or the musical Annie, you shouldn't read any further.

I know a lot of you really enjoy stories about The Boy. I am thinking of sending him to live with some of you on an alternating basis, kind of like some worldwide joint custody agreement.

We both have random bouts of insomnia, but the nice part is that we have it at different times of the night so we don't conflict and have to share the DVD player. But this morning The Boy had an early morning bout and was watching the first episode of SNL when I rolled out of bed.

He asks, "Hey, have you ever heard of Janis Ian?"

Of course I have. Janis Ian made me totally depressed about the idea of being seventeen many years before I was even a teenager. The only two songs I can recall my parents playing on the hi-fi set in the family room were "At Seventeen" and "Hey Nineteen" by Steely Dan (I just realized that's some sort of very weird coincidence... dumb songs about teenage girls... hmmm.)

I learned the truth at seventeen That love was meant for beauty queens And high school girls with clear skinned smiles Who married young and then retired

and

The Cuervo Gold The fine Columbian Make tonight a wonderful thing

There you have it. My musical childhood.

***

So The Boy starts singing "At Seventeen." Honestly, it's not just me. That has to be one of the worst songs ever written, right? Gads. And because I'm overly sensitized to it, I immediately get hooked on it in my mind. There's a deep groove in my brain where this song is lodged. I can even sing all of the lyrics back to him instantly and he's got this look of semi-admiration.

To punish him for sticking that song in my head before my eyes were properly open, I started singing "Tomorrow," from Annie, which is probably something that they used at Guantanamo Bay as a form of behaviour modification. And to my dismay, he's never seen Annie and doesn't know the song. He is immune to Annie. Cripes.

So now I am stuck on "At Seventeen" and "Tomorrow" playing on dual tracks. Mentally, it's the equivalent of stubbing your toe really hard on a big piece of furniture and then you got so mad you kicked the furniture with your other foot.

Please help me. I don't know what else to sing. And who wants dibs on The Boy's first visit?

UPDATE 10:02am: dutchbaby is mean. Funny, but mean. She just emailed me the lyrics to "It's a Small World." How can friends do that to each other? *Edvard Munch face screaming inside*

Four Years and Change

"I was going to ask you to play House, but I think you'd be a weird example for our children." ~ Susie from Calvin and Hobbes

***

Last week at dinner, The Boy and I were chatting over some Thai food and he said to me, "You understand me better than anyone else I know." He said it in such a sweet and sincere way that I wanted to jump across the dishes of food and give him a big smooch, but I restrained myself. I'll remember the way he said that for a long time. (Although sometimes I know him too well and it annoys him, like when your mom knows you're doing something naughty even though you deny it.)

***

Four years and almost 365 days ago, I met The Boy under circumstances that involved him thinking that I was British (and thus having a cute accent), that my name was Bridget, and that I looked good in a sweater (a la Lana Turner). Only one of those three scenarios somewhat resembles the truth.

The anniversary of our 5-year meeting is coming up next week, although neither one of us is quite sure of the exact date. I blew off an initial invite with him to see a Sunday matinee of Duck Soup (which he still mentions on occasion) and he was over two hours late to our eventual first date that might have been on a Wednesday (and that is what I counter with). But the rest of the "four years and change," as he puts it, has gone quite swimmingly, all things considered. Life with The Boy's been the best and brightest example in my life of where jumping into something (or someone) with total abandon and impulsiveness was the best thing I could have ever done. I can't even imagine what my life would be like without my Boy, all of these details that make up our days are like the colorful sprinkles on our Cupcake of Life:

He is all Brooks Brothers and I am all about $5 sunglasses and big rhinestone rings...
He loves Ealing Studios comedies and I love Stanley Kubrick (but we both agree on Billy Wilder)...
He'd throw me over for Carole Lombard (and I totally support him on that one), although he's the one that bought me the large vintage photo of Errol Flynn...
He has two expensive watches but is always late and I don't wear a watch but am compulsively early...
He's a Presbyterian and I am some sort of infidel...
He steals my fuzzy socks and I steal his t-shirts with the holes in them...
He likes Paul and I like George...
I've been to Paris, Venice and Buenos Aires without him but together we've been to a party at the Playboy Mansion and to Disneyland...
He bought the camera and I take the pictures...
He makes me laugh--a lot. I hope I make him laugh almost as much...

***

We always seem to be entertaining each other and not on purpose. Our life seems to be all about what happens when you could be surprised at any moment.

I look at all of our little quirks and our life together is like mish-mash of ideas and comings and goings, an intricate puzzle that wouldn't seem to harmonize but in fact meshes perfectly in many ways, on many levels. His neverending boyish charm and giant dimple suckered me, but it's his fine mind and genuine compassion that tethers my heart. Plus he's a good kisser. I'll probably get in trouble for saying that.

So here's to our random meeting, our random anniversary on whatever day we think it was, and to lots of years and "change" to come, Boy o' my Heart.

***

Photo of Harold Lloyd and Jobyna Ralston in a still from one of our jointly favorited movies, Girl Shy (1924). Thanks to Bill for directing me to DoctorMacro and the amazing images there.

I Think My Food Combiner Is Broken

Warning: This is one of those silly posts. I am going to blame it on my head cold.

***

I think my food combining instincts are going completely wonky. I think because I had been left alone as a Bachelorette for two solid months that I became a weird culinary hybrid of frat boy, ascetic/hermit and kosher foodie with a vitamin B deficiency.

I am not going to say how many nights I had popcorn for dinner while The Boy was away. I am not going to say because 1) it's embarrassing to think about how many times I ate popcorn for dinner and sometimes breakfast, and 2) I don't remember. It was that many. And those nights where the side dish was Cherry Garcia ice cream. Nope, don't remember those either.

***

I am going to blame my little friend Chipmonkey for this popcorn fetish. She came over with her nutritional yeast (which I had never even heard of before October 11 as I am not in any way a vegan or a health food person, you know that) and her popcorn and started my whole craving/obsession at my Movie Maven's Movie Marathon for America thingy. And now I have an enormo can (12 oz.!) of nutritional yeast in my kitchen. And the only thing it tastes good on is popcorn. I have been eating loads of both ever since.

Today, I had stale popcorn and a side of pickled herring in sour cream for breakfast. The Boy always looks at me like I am Cat Woman when I eat these fishy things (and will not be kissed and runs away from me) and in the midst of eating this "breakfast," I really do have to stop and wonder what is wrong with me. This meal can't be as bad as Mia Farrow eating the raw liver in Rosemary's Baby, but it's still not quite right.

Why do I never want to eat normal foods for breakfast? Why is the only decent sounding meal to me this morning something that could be in a Monty Python skit? Yes, I eat the herring with these guys reciting in my head ("... and then you must cut down the mightiest tree in the forest with...... A HERRING!"). Do you do this? Eat foods that immediately make you recite Monty Python scenes? ("And Saint Attila raised the hand grenade up on high, saying,’O Lord, bless this thy hand grenade that with it thou mayest blow thine enemies to tiny bits, in thy mercy.’ And the Lord did grin, and the people did feast upon the lambs and sloths and carp and anchovies and orangutans and breakfast cereals and fruit bats and...")

I'm wondering what made me combine these two foods, like if there was a reasonable physiological cause then that would explain it. They're both white foods? Salty foods? Have no real nutritional value foods? Or I've learned my food combining from years of Monty Python watching?

My tangobaby food pyramid is very bizarre. It consists primarily of har gow, Funyuns, Junior Mints, Ovaltine and popcorn. And sushi and bratwust. Now I am even grossing myself out.

***

I recently discovered, through a cute little Minnesotan transplant at my work, about such things called hotdish. I partially thought that hot dishes only existed in Lake Wobegon, but no--hotdish even has its own wikipedia entry. But now I find that there is even such a casserole creation that is topped with Tater Tots. And another one made with herring!

Perhaps I am really a Midwesterner at heart? Can someone please help me with my food identity?

***

The only other thing I am going to leave you with now is a clip from Stephen Colbert's A Colbert Christmas because it is a very funny song about nutmeg.

The Colbert ReportMon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c

A Colbert Christmas: John Legend

Colbert at Christmas
Colbert Christmas DVD

Green Screen
Bill O'Reilly Interview

If you don't come back to this blog for a while, I understand. I don't know what comes over me sometimes. But if you do eat weird things that make other people look at you askance, I really hope you'll fess up so we can start some sort of self-help group together.

The Day After

Today is the traditional first day of my personal "I Hate Turkey" season. I should be wearing an outfit of baggy sweatpants where I've snipped the elastic in the waist, one of my seasonal post-Thanksgiving t-shirts ("JUST SAY NO TO CRACK [POTATOES]!", "FUTURE BREATHARIAN," or "MY BABY IS A FOOD BABY"), with a square of duct tape affixed firmly over my mouth.

But no, I am at work today (which the sad few of us here have deemed the practice to be a hybrid of unsupervised day care and being sent to after-school detention. We have also deemed our presence here at the office to be very un-American of our employers because we should be out supporting Black Friday and our crumbling economy).

Because I am here, I had to forego the modified sweatpants and baggy top in favor of regular clothes (found some that fit, perhaps there is a god) and brought the requisite turkey sandwich for lunch (which has been made more enticing by adding some thick slices of Delice de Bourgogne atop slices of rustic Italian bread, and topped with my homemade cranberry relish, which will be my fruit ration for the next week.). And true to my word, once I finish this post, then I will be off on a virtual spree of visiting you all in blogland for the next 6 hours or so.

***

I hope you all did have a lovely Thanksgiving, and that if you're reading this, you're idling in front of the computer in your jammies today. Even those of you who don't live in the US, I hope you're benefitting from some of that Thanksgiving spirit too, even if you're not feeling the fatness.

We had a very quiet and restful day, mostly. No computers, no phones. Days like this always involve extreme couch-potatoey-ness because our home is very well equipped for the sport of marathon movie watching. Although we've been TV-free for well over a decade (both as individuals and in our coupledom), that doesn't mean we suffer from a deficit of visual entertainment. We have a self-made home theatre, with projector, surround sound speakers and a pull down 10' movie screen that's mounted in the ceiling for hard-core movie watching. Those of you who attended the famous Movie Maven's Movie Marathon for America can attest to this.

The Boy selected The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance as our first film of the day. With extreme deference to John Ford, Jimmy Stewart and John Wayne, this is a boring classic film. The Boy fell asleep, which is added proof because he loves westerns and I don't. So while he snoozed, I swapped that movie for Little Big Man. The Boy's never seen this film (!) and I've seen it many, many times. There's something really fun when a friend watches a really great movie for the first time in your presence.

Even though you cannot watch this film with the idea that it's a documentary, there's enough truth in the relationship between the Native American and Caucasian cultures to provide some historical perspective and give some food for thought at Thanksgiving time. Our national myth of the first Thanksgiving, complete with the deliverance of the English settlers by the Indians with the bounty of this country's native foods adds a poignant sadness to the fact that the cultures of these noble natives were almost completely destroyed 150 years later. Not that I don't want to be thankful for the bountiful life that I have, because I am, but lately it just seems right to be even more focused on our nation's checkered past. Its perceived greatness and promise as well as its tragic cruelties. I still feel sensitized and overly aware of our American myth, as a result of this past election. Everything I read or see makes me view our current situation from the continuum of history that has gotten us to this day.

To me, the best scenes of this film are the ones that feature Chief Dan George. And of those scenes, this one is my favorite:

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One aside (which has nothing to do with anything really) after watching Little Big Man again is that there was a certain type of actress in the 70s: Faye Dunaway, Julie Christie, Marisa Berenson, to name a few, that had this willowy, high-cheekboned and exotic beauty that is not seen on the screen anymore. Even overly made up, these women had a lanky grace that I identify as a symbol of 70s films.

***

The second viewing selection between feedings were two episodes of Earth: The Biography, made by the BBC in conjunction with the National Geographic Channel. Is it just me, or do the Brits just corner the market on amazing scientific programming? Plus, geologist Iain Stewart is a super hottie, if you like really smart guys who are crazy adventurous and have great accents (I do).

The first episode, "Volcanoes," is simply spectacular. Spectacularly exciting, wildy entertaining, and full of stuff you never knew about our planet and which also makes you very very glad to not be living near a volcano if you can help it. Although it doesn't make you real excited to be living on a moving tectonic plate, either. This episode really puts the concept of our planet and how it came to be formed, and how it continues to evolve, into fascinating perspective.

The second episode, "Atmosphere," was similarly educational, but as The Boy put it, "very intense." And "scary." The last part about greenhouse gasses and melting permafrost and methane was sobering, to say the least.

When faced with a bit of overwhelming reality, the best thing to do is take a break.

That means get some pumpkin pie (not homemade but certainly delicious), a cup of hot cocoa (I'm now a big fan of Mexican Chocolate Abuelita by Nestle ) and plug in some escapist adventure.

For me, that's Matt Damon as Jason Bourne in The Bourne Identity. You guys can keep your James Bond in all his incarnations.

Plus, you get a trip to Paris in this film.

***

So there you have it. Our little holiday of gluttony, sloth, historical perspective, adventure and general condition of the planet, all in one day. Maybe it is good to be back at work.

And with that, I am off to pay my visits to you!

;-)

Mushroom cloud/exploding stomach image from here. The Day After reference definitely an homage to the Russian menace exploitation of the Reagan era.