Our patio morning dove. Let's call her Ke$ha.
Blossoms from the plum tree, which just barely survived the August hail storm and the marauding squirrels who've been attacking it.
Two-lips.
More blooming things, coming out of hiding.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Spring Obsessed.
Sorry. I can't help it. Must...post...more...pictures...of...spring....
Our patio morning dove. Let's call her Ke$ha.
Blossoms from the plum tree, which just barely survived the August hail storm and the marauding squirrels who've been attacking it.
Two-lips.
More blooming things, coming out of hiding.
Our patio morning dove. Let's call her Ke$ha.
Blossoms from the plum tree, which just barely survived the August hail storm and the marauding squirrels who've been attacking it.
Two-lips.
More blooming things, coming out of hiding.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Dreams Are Back
I'm having dreams again. It feels like it's been months since I've remembered them, probably because I was on the coma-inducing allergy medication Zyrtec, which insured that I conked out and slept the sleep of the dead pretty much every night. I'm on the more human-friendly Claritin now, so some dreams are making their way through to the conscious side once again. And I'm finding them quite interesting.
Friday night's dream was this: my mom is planning an epic, medieval-sized party, one worthy of a Douglas Sirk film or an episode of Dynasty. She has made yards and yards of itemized lists and is now subjecting my stepdad and I to reviewing all of them. They're all written on these mini yellow-lined pads, like shrunken legal briefs. Some are written in her neat elementary-school script; others are scrawled, like they are in real life when she is in one of her manic phases and sends us all incomprehensible letters explaining herself.
So Dad and I are sitting there reviewing her lists with her--seating charts and decorations and entertainment and the like--and I start to get that itchy feeling I do with her in real life when she just goes on and on about her most recent project and you just have to listen and nod and smile. It's like playing school with Addie: she's the teacher, and your job is to simply sit and be told what to do.
I don't remember much else except this: for the party, Mom has commissioned a special trompe l'oeil painting on the wall in an "oriental" theme. It seems really tacky to me, which is odd, because my mom's taste is actually very sophisticated. But on this dream wall, there are giant geishas, gaudily painted, making their way around the kitchen. Then there is this blank spot, and my mom explains that this is where portraits of the family will be painted. Except she can't bring herself to get them up there. She shows me photographs of each of us that can be used to make the mural, and in mine, I have baggy cargo pants and a t-shirt on. Of course it wouldn't look right for me to be up there with those geishas.
Of course my being there would ruin the tableau.
In real life, my mom is about to turn sixty, and is planning a huge party to celebrate (as she should). E. and the girls and I will go a few days earlier, spend some time in McCall, and then meet my mom for dinner on her actual birthday. We won't be at the actual party at all. We will be missing.
And that's just fine with me.
Friday night's dream was this: my mom is planning an epic, medieval-sized party, one worthy of a Douglas Sirk film or an episode of Dynasty. She has made yards and yards of itemized lists and is now subjecting my stepdad and I to reviewing all of them. They're all written on these mini yellow-lined pads, like shrunken legal briefs. Some are written in her neat elementary-school script; others are scrawled, like they are in real life when she is in one of her manic phases and sends us all incomprehensible letters explaining herself.
So Dad and I are sitting there reviewing her lists with her--seating charts and decorations and entertainment and the like--and I start to get that itchy feeling I do with her in real life when she just goes on and on about her most recent project and you just have to listen and nod and smile. It's like playing school with Addie: she's the teacher, and your job is to simply sit and be told what to do.
I don't remember much else except this: for the party, Mom has commissioned a special trompe l'oeil painting on the wall in an "oriental" theme. It seems really tacky to me, which is odd, because my mom's taste is actually very sophisticated. But on this dream wall, there are giant geishas, gaudily painted, making their way around the kitchen. Then there is this blank spot, and my mom explains that this is where portraits of the family will be painted. Except she can't bring herself to get them up there. She shows me photographs of each of us that can be used to make the mural, and in mine, I have baggy cargo pants and a t-shirt on. Of course it wouldn't look right for me to be up there with those geishas.
Of course my being there would ruin the tableau.
In real life, my mom is about to turn sixty, and is planning a huge party to celebrate (as she should). E. and the girls and I will go a few days earlier, spend some time in McCall, and then meet my mom for dinner on her actual birthday. We won't be at the actual party at all. We will be missing.
And that's just fine with me.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Hobby Horse
This thing showed up in the mail this week.
I am fairly certain that, some time tomorrow, away from the innocent eyes and ears of my children, I am going to take a hammer to this foot-long papier-mache delight from Mexico and break it into a thousand little bits. Partly because it is creepy; partly because I have a little anger over not getting to go to dance class tomorrow because E. is working on a Saturday (again); but mostly because it symbolizes one of the very fucked up things about my family of origin (FOO).
See, my grandmother took these trips when I was a kid. She traveled to Africa, China, and all over the US. I think this is one of the cooler things about her, and in my mind it is associated with her financially enabling me to do some travel when I was a kid, too, which was quite huge for my personal growth and desire for freedom. Those subsidized trips eventually paved the way for my one-way trip out of Idaho.
I know enough by now about my family history, however, to guess that my grandmother's many trips may have had something to do with fights she was having with my grandfather, or even with affairs she may have had when I was young. Freedom for her too, I guess.
For example, she spent quite a bit of time mining for gold in Arizona when I was very young. I'm not kidding about that. It's not a euphemism. Though perhaps it should be, because she wasn't with my grandfather. You can fill in the blanks about as well as I can. And I'm not exposing any skeletons here: she has written an autobiography about those times and asked me to read and edit it a few years ago.
Anyway, while she was in Arizona, she made frequent trips to Mexico and bought copious amount of weird shit down there, including a vast collection of papier-mache clowns in various states of dress and emotion. They are terrifying. In fact, I can't think of one souvenir from my grandmother's many travels that is not, in some way, incredibly disturbing.
So grandma calls last week and leaves a message indicating that my mother returned this little dude on the horse to her house (you know my mom is not feeling well when she actually initiates a physical visit with my grandmother). My grandmother gave it to her many, many years ago. My mother returned the little dude on the horse because she didn't want it anymore (probably never wanted it) and my grandmother strictly forbids you to ever get rid of anything she has ever purchased for you. Ever. And if you do get rid of it, she will find out. She has a secret network of yard sale and thrift store spies strategically located all over the universe.
At least, it feels that way.
So my mother has taken to returning gifts to my grandmother over the years. This has resulted in my grandmother also returning gifts to my mother, causing massive amounts of hurt feelings and confusion on both sides. It has blown up into epic proportions such that now nobody gets anybody gifts, or else one spends an entire paycheck on a gift so magnificent it cannot be returned.
And then it is returned. Or, at the very least, disparaged. Or given away to the checkout girl at Albertson's.
In recent years, as you know, grandma has taken to sending me loads of her stuff. Anything with any feeling attached to it in particular. I am the Curator of the Family Heritage and Hurt Feelings Society. She usually calls first and asks if I want something, though my answer can never be no. True to form, the last phone message from gram asked if I wanted this horse (I didn't) and asked me to call her back right away (I didn't). So then this little fucker showed up anyway.
And tomorrow or the next day, it will get the hammer. That way it will never freak any little kids out, ever again, and it will never again be regifted, returned, or serve as retribution. Most of all, this destruction will symbolize that I will not be in the middle of my mother and grandmother on this one.
Die, little dude on the horse. Die.
I am fairly certain that, some time tomorrow, away from the innocent eyes and ears of my children, I am going to take a hammer to this foot-long papier-mache delight from Mexico and break it into a thousand little bits. Partly because it is creepy; partly because I have a little anger over not getting to go to dance class tomorrow because E. is working on a Saturday (again); but mostly because it symbolizes one of the very fucked up things about my family of origin (FOO).
See, my grandmother took these trips when I was a kid. She traveled to Africa, China, and all over the US. I think this is one of the cooler things about her, and in my mind it is associated with her financially enabling me to do some travel when I was a kid, too, which was quite huge for my personal growth and desire for freedom. Those subsidized trips eventually paved the way for my one-way trip out of Idaho.
I know enough by now about my family history, however, to guess that my grandmother's many trips may have had something to do with fights she was having with my grandfather, or even with affairs she may have had when I was young. Freedom for her too, I guess.
For example, she spent quite a bit of time mining for gold in Arizona when I was very young. I'm not kidding about that. It's not a euphemism. Though perhaps it should be, because she wasn't with my grandfather. You can fill in the blanks about as well as I can. And I'm not exposing any skeletons here: she has written an autobiography about those times and asked me to read and edit it a few years ago.
Anyway, while she was in Arizona, she made frequent trips to Mexico and bought copious amount of weird shit down there, including a vast collection of papier-mache clowns in various states of dress and emotion. They are terrifying. In fact, I can't think of one souvenir from my grandmother's many travels that is not, in some way, incredibly disturbing.
So grandma calls last week and leaves a message indicating that my mother returned this little dude on the horse to her house (you know my mom is not feeling well when she actually initiates a physical visit with my grandmother). My grandmother gave it to her many, many years ago. My mother returned the little dude on the horse because she didn't want it anymore (probably never wanted it) and my grandmother strictly forbids you to ever get rid of anything she has ever purchased for you. Ever. And if you do get rid of it, she will find out. She has a secret network of yard sale and thrift store spies strategically located all over the universe.
At least, it feels that way.
So my mother has taken to returning gifts to my grandmother over the years. This has resulted in my grandmother also returning gifts to my mother, causing massive amounts of hurt feelings and confusion on both sides. It has blown up into epic proportions such that now nobody gets anybody gifts, or else one spends an entire paycheck on a gift so magnificent it cannot be returned.
And then it is returned. Or, at the very least, disparaged. Or given away to the checkout girl at Albertson's.
In recent years, as you know, grandma has taken to sending me loads of her stuff. Anything with any feeling attached to it in particular. I am the Curator of the Family Heritage and Hurt Feelings Society. She usually calls first and asks if I want something, though my answer can never be no. True to form, the last phone message from gram asked if I wanted this horse (I didn't) and asked me to call her back right away (I didn't). So then this little fucker showed up anyway.
And tomorrow or the next day, it will get the hammer. That way it will never freak any little kids out, ever again, and it will never again be regifted, returned, or serve as retribution. Most of all, this destruction will symbolize that I will not be in the middle of my mother and grandmother on this one.
Die, little dude on the horse. Die.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Oh What A Night
Have you ever had that feeling where everything feels just right, like everything you've gone through in your life--the good stuff, the bad stuff, the stuff you weren't sure you would survive and come out the other side--somehow all makes sense? It was all so you could just have that one moment?
That was pretty much all of Saturday night for me. Because E. pulled off the double-mctwisty-birthday-surprise-party. And, well, I don't know how else to put it: I somehow felt, "I've arrived." Or, "Ah. This is what it has all been for." Or, "Holy shit, what have I done to deserve such happiness."
I don't know. Those things sound too dramatic and momentous for a little old surprise party. But something about people going to that kind of trouble, and having so many wonderful people in one place, and just being able to enjoy it, was very fabulous.
Am I making too much of it? Should feelings like that be reserved for, I don't know, accomplishments? Feats of daring? Saving the world?
Perhaps, too, I'm just narcissistic. Maybe people said to themselves, "That Jen. What a pain in the ass. But I guess I'll go to the party anyway. There will be jello shots. And karaoke." That could be. Maybe I was just high on my own pomposity.
But what I felt, really, was love. So, I'm just going to enjoy that for a momentito.
Or a lifetime.
I won't go too into the details, but the general outline was E. getting a babysitter and then arranging for a few friends to meet us at a restaurant. I thought this was the surprise. And it was a good one! It was a lovely dinner with people I love, and also hummus. But then one of the couples said, Oh, we've got this vegan dessert for you back at the house, let's go hang, and I walked in the house and a bunch of people jump out and yell surprise and I scream and hit the deck and then roll around the floor in delight (mostly at the surprise, but also because I didn't pee my pants). And then very interesting renditions of American pop hits ensued, lubed by delicious double jello shots.
That Eric. My goodness. And all of you! Keeping your traps shut. Very impressive.
I'll never forget it. Thank you loves, for everything.
That was pretty much all of Saturday night for me. Because E. pulled off the double-mctwisty-birthday-surprise-party. And, well, I don't know how else to put it: I somehow felt, "I've arrived." Or, "Ah. This is what it has all been for." Or, "Holy shit, what have I done to deserve such happiness."
I don't know. Those things sound too dramatic and momentous for a little old surprise party. But something about people going to that kind of trouble, and having so many wonderful people in one place, and just being able to enjoy it, was very fabulous.
Am I making too much of it? Should feelings like that be reserved for, I don't know, accomplishments? Feats of daring? Saving the world?
Perhaps, too, I'm just narcissistic. Maybe people said to themselves, "That Jen. What a pain in the ass. But I guess I'll go to the party anyway. There will be jello shots. And karaoke." That could be. Maybe I was just high on my own pomposity.
But what I felt, really, was love. So, I'm just going to enjoy that for a momentito.
Or a lifetime.
I won't go too into the details, but the general outline was E. getting a babysitter and then arranging for a few friends to meet us at a restaurant. I thought this was the surprise. And it was a good one! It was a lovely dinner with people I love, and also hummus. But then one of the couples said, Oh, we've got this vegan dessert for you back at the house, let's go hang, and I walked in the house and a bunch of people jump out and yell surprise and I scream and hit the deck and then roll around the floor in delight (mostly at the surprise, but also because I didn't pee my pants). And then very interesting renditions of American pop hits ensued, lubed by delicious double jello shots.
That Eric. My goodness. And all of you! Keeping your traps shut. Very impressive.
I'll never forget it. Thank you loves, for everything.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Kindle Craft
When one has been gifted something so special as a Kindle for one's birthday, it is only right to craft a goofball felt cover for said Kindle.
Carry on.
Carry on.
Product Review
Eric got me a Kindle for my birthday!
Eric got me a Kindle for my birthday!
Eric got me a Kindle for my birthday!
WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
Eric got me a Kindle for my birthday!
Eric got me a Kindle for my birthday!
WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
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