I have a dirty little secret that I feel compelled to share with you all.
I have a soft spot for romantic comedies (films). I have an especially soft spot for Hugh Grant. I love Hugh Grant. I also adore Drew Barrymore, and will watch any romantic comedy she makes. The RLA and I just watched "Words and Music" and we both loved it.
Does that make us shallow?
Posted by Miz Shoes at 09:47 AM | Comments (5)
The other night, the RLA*, the ADS** and I were walking our dogs, and one thing led to another and we ended up talking about tv cowboys and their horses.
Roy Rogers rode Trigger. Dale Evans rode Buttermilk. Buttermilk was a palomino, and so was Trigger. Except I couldn't remember what Trigger looked like. I could only remember Buttermilk.
The Lone Ranger rode Silver, who was a white horse, or since it was old black and white tv, maybe a light dapple grey. Tonto rode Scout, and Scout was... a pinto? An appaloosa?
Fury was black. Bret Maverick rode a black horse, but did the horse have a name? Bat Masterson only rode in stagecoaches, that I can recall.
The boys on the Ponderosa? Can't remember any of their horses, although I watched the show every Sunday night. Did one of them ride a buckskin? Did Little Joe ride a paint?
In other odds and ends, I just bought a new domain name. Reecie, of the Mild, Mild West let her domain expire, and in double checking to be sure it really did, the following phrase popped up as a related search "mild burning symptoms". How that relates to Mild, Mild West is something only a computer knows. But it cracked me up. So much so that I am now the proud owner of mildburningsymptoms.com
What do you think the content of that site should be? A wiki of Paris Hilton bashing? The place I write the stuff that's too rude for here?***
Just a page that asks the question "what the fuck are you looking for here?"
I don't know. I only know that it makes me laugh. Mild Burning Symptoms. Schnort. I have a whole line of t-shirts planned to go along with the "I'd Rather Be Widowed" shirt, and they are all rather snarky, so maybe this should be the name of my clothing line?
What else? I have nothing planned for the weekend, but my toe is good enough to stand on, so maybe it will be a long two days of sewing. Purses for the etsy shop. A couple of dresses for moi. Design and upload the art for the rest of my t-shirts.
A long, and productive weekend. What a concept.
* The Renowned Local Artist
** The Artist Down the Street
*** Is there such a thing?
Posted by Miz Shoes at 11:06 AM | Comments (3)
So many thoughts on so many subjects.
Item the first: Something has been bothering me about ANTM since Wednesday night. Jaslene didn't pass the psych test last season, and that's why she wasn't on, but she went to therapy and tried out again. Uh, maybe I read Sun Tzu, Musashi and Machievelli too many times* but if you're giving these hamsters psych tests, then you (meaning the producers et al) have a pretty good idea how they are going to decompensate during the series. This means that they ARE casting for the psycho bitch (NeNe Vibrato), the crying girl (Brittney), the gently bewildered (Natasha and Kathleen) and all the other stereotypes we know, love and have come to expect. Creepy or no?
Item the second: I keep having dreams about my old college chum Pati. I went so far as to look her up on various people-finders and she may or may not be living a couple miles down the road. The last I'd heard, she was living in Georgia with her parents.
Pati was bi-polar, and never diagnosed, until later in life, like when we were in our mid-twenties and by then, she was happy with being bi-polar and didn't want to/simply didn't take her meds. I loved being around her when she was manic, but she got vicious when she was depressed. We quit being friends when I was going through my divorce and she was in a down cycle and it didn't work too well, friendshipwise.
I'd love to see her again, but I'm afraid to call. Yes or no?
Item the third: I've come to realize that I am a tad borderline bi-polar myownself. Maybe not. Maybe I'm just prone to severe mood swings. You know, like suicidal downs and Top of the World, Ma ups.
I've been on Prozac for years, and while it shaves the peaks and valleys, the ups and downs are still there. I just don't crawl in the closet, turn off the lights and curl up in the fetal position anymore.
But. I don't know quite how to express this, the ups are still hard to manage. I am currently in the middle of one that, were I not on meds, would be dangerous. I am so full of creative energy, and have so many ideas that I want to pursue, that I don't know where to begin.
Because I'm on the drugs, I can almost prioritize and get things done, but in my bones, I feel the fire and the spin. This would be a very bad cycle, were I not damped down.
Pati hated the damping down, and that's why she wouldn't take her meds. Because I'm in this part of the cycle, I think that's why I want to make contact with her again. But that would be bad, maybe. Fuel to the fire, maybe. Or she might just hang up on me, still pissed off or whatever.
I don't know. I'm writing. I'm designing t-shirts. I'm entering photos in contests. I've got a pile of fabric on my sewing table, and another pile of patterns and a project list that I want to finish by tomorrow night.
The energy blast is good, but I know that there will be a crash after. Maybe this is the bounce back from the depression I was in for two months prior to this, though. Maybe I need to up my meds. Maybe I just need a vacation.
In any event, I have work that I set for myself today, so you'll excuse me if I leave you now.
*OK, I only read "The Prince" once, and maybe not even all the way through, but I got the gist of it.
Posted by Miz Shoes at 11:12 AM | Comments (2)
Are you ready to rumble? I am. Tonight is the big opening night at the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show Extravaganza in Madison Square Garden. I may have mentioned a time or two that I love the doggies. And the show. And the dead seriousness of the whole show.
But wait, there's more. Later this month (on the 23st) RJ and I (and our husbands) trot over to SoBe for the Great South Beach Wine & Food Festival.* The weekend ends with us returning home, hung over, exhausted and sated to ensconce ourselves our couches for the best of all possible awards shows, the Oscars. Then, on the 28th, we have the return (season 8) of America's Next Top Skank-Ho Model . I'm tired just dreaming about it.
* Yes, I have the pickled green tomatoes all ready to present to the great and wonderful Tony Bourdain. Sigh. I'm so not worthy.
But the pickles? They are. Totally. He'll be my foodie slave forever, IF I can get him to actually eat one. I don't, you know. But for people who like this sort of thing? They love love love my green tomato pickles.
Posted by Miz Shoes at 10:44 AM | Comments (1)
It's an obscure quote, from a John Hiatt song by the name of "Ethelyne" but those were the only lyrics I could come up with that had to do with bathrooms. Sorry. Anyway, and without further ado, I present to you my toilet paper collection.
The box. Even it has a certain, uh, camp appeal.
Israel was a very young country at the time, and poor. The kibbutz system was a show piece for American Jews. The toilet paper was the deal breaker, however. Recycled paper with chunks of who knows what. The art director at my office astutely pointed out that you'd pay big bucks today for a sheet of that stuff, and you'd be buying it in a high-end paper boutique. Maybe so, but you still wouldn't want it anywhere near your ass. The pink stuff was barely better, and came from a very elegant hotel.
This stuff was hard, and coated on one side. COATED, people. As in, slick... non-porous.
Different train. This was also hard, and crinkly, like onion skin paper or tracing paper.
Those are just climate stains, OK? This paper was like crepe paper, with a heavy, crinkly texture. Soft-ish. Sort of.
The famous neon pink, heavy as paper towel. Deeply textured. Ribbed, even. Swiss engineering at it's finest, eh?
I thought that you'd be able to see, in the scan, that you can read my handwriting, even where the paper is doubled. It was another example of crunchy, hard, slick tissue paper.
Pink waxed paper. Pre-cut, to add insult to possible injury.
And that is your tour of European toilet paper, circa 1966. Thank you, thank you. It was my pleasure.
Posted by Miz Shoes at 08:13 PM | Comments (8)
I have this phrase running through my head, and I've been giving it a lot of thought. Turning it around, looking at it from all angles.
The phrase is "unconditional love".
I know that I loved my parents unconditionally, but to be quite honest, it took a long time to get there, and a lot of therapy to achieve a place in myself where I could do that. I think that to truly love unconditionally, one has to love oneself the same way, and first.
In the context of my current contemplation of the phrase, I wonder, however, about the difference between unconditional love and enabling. Is there a difference? Is it so easy to mistake the two?
What are the differences? Unconditional love means accepting the flaws of the other. Enabling means, maybe, ignoring them. Or... or what? Approving them?
Is youth a flaw? Is it possible to be young and not blame your inexperience on others? At what point does youth become adulthood? Is it age or knowledge or experience, or just a mental switch?
Are you an adult when you think you are? Or when others look at you and say you are? The late, great Satchel Paige said "How old would you be if you didn't know how old you was?" By that accounting, my own age is somewhere around the mid-twenties. But the calendar tells me otherwise. My bank accounts, my responsibilities, my life-style choices, the amount of time I have left in the workforce, all tell me that I am fast approaching senior citizen status. And yet, in my head? I still heart rock and roll. I still like to go out and shake my groove thang. I have no understanding of the fact that my knees won't let me ride my bike for 20 miles at a clip.
I graduated college on my 21st birthday, and had no doubt that I was an adult. I had a degree, I was of legal age in any country on the planet, and it was time to leap into the world and see how strong my wings were. In hindsight, of course, I was still green and in many ways still the child I had been when I entered school. But I didn't think so then.
In going through my parents house, I have found letters that I wrote them from that far away point in my life. I told them not to worry about me. I told them that I believed that my wings were fully fledged and that I would fly. I told them that I knew I was green, but I was hopeful. I believed in myself. (God only knows why. Maybe I was high when I wrote the letter.)
I still believe in myself. The world has never shaken that belief out of me. It has tried, it has shaken it to the core, but it never shook it out. I love myself unconditionally, which means that I know my flaws. I even try to improve them. But there are things about myself I cannot change. There are other things I could, but would not. The rest? It's all just smoke and mirrors.
Posted by Miz Shoes at 09:21 AM | Comments (4)
God said to Abraham
Kill me your son
Abe said, Man, you must be puttin' me on.
God say No.
Abe say What?
God said You can do what you want, Abe, but
The next time you see me comin' you better run.
Abe said Where you want this killin' done
God said Out on Highway 61.
Yeah. Rock and roll and religion often go hand in hand around here at the Casita de Zapatos. In temple today, Jews heard the story of Abraham, although probably not too many rabbis actually quoted the Bob's version of events.
For many years, I attended a Reconstructionist synagogue, and the rabbi gave some excellent sermons. One High Holy day sermon included a reference to Jefferson Starship. Unfortunately, not the one I thought. The rabbi asked (rhetorically, as it turned out) who remembered what the Starship said? I yelled out from somewhere in the middle of the room: "Feed your head?"
Uh, yes, but the quote he was looking for was "No man is an island, he's a pennisula."
It was equally embarassing for everyone involved.
Another year, many, many, many decades ago, I chose not to fast, not to go to services, and instead to ride my bike to art history class. After class, I got a drink of water, got back on the old ten-speed and sailed across campus. And right into the front bumper of a woman who was running a stop sign. I broke two ribs and totalled my bike. She spoke no English (how convenient) and tossed eleven dollars at me before she drove away.
My father pointed out, with absolutely no sympathy and no irony, that had I been an observant Jew, I wouldn't be nursing broken ribs and in need of a new set of wheels. I've attended High Holiday services religiously (pun intended) ever since.
Well, except for the past two years, since Daddy died and I just haven't been able to force myself back into a temple. I don't feel anything cliche, like God's abandoned me, nor have I abandoned my religion, it's simply been too hard for me to see the old men in their tallitsim, and hear the prayers in Hebrew.
This year, I was at home, and the RLA and I went in the back yard to plot out where the trees are, for the architect to plan the studio around them. And then, while I watched, JoJo ran through a hole in the fence. A hole that isn't really there. And out the neighbor's yard and promptly disappeared. The RLA and I and half of our neighbors were on foot, bike and in cars looking for her. I called her and called her. I took the Noble Dog Nails out on his leash to help me find her. Nothing. Nada. She had vanished into thin air.
I couldn't even begin to grasp the thought of life without this dog. I was walking and crying and dying. And then I heard the RLA calling my name. He had her. She'd followed a stray cat into the gated development across the street. She was perfectly fine, and, in fact, was on her way home when he found her.
I can take a hint, you know. I've taken those two broken ribs very seriously for the past 30 years. I can take this hint, too. I'll be seeing you next week, in temple.
L'Shana Tova.
Posted by Miz Shoes at 09:24 PM | Comments (1)
So Ernesto slogged across the straights, ran aground down in the Florida City/End of the Line/Tippy Top of the Keys, and proceded to do not much.
And, just as I tried (and failed) not to make the obvious jokes about illegal immigrants, the Florida Straights and the name Ernesto, I am not going to be able to keep my fingers off the keyboard about this: Just like all the other latino men who float across from Cuba, Ernesto was full of sound and fury, and when push came to shove, did absolutely nothing.
Eso es muy típico.
Posted by Miz Shoes at 08:25 AM | Comments (3)
And I'm not talking about the kind from Star Trek, that got into Ensign Chekov's head, or any of the other varieties that are always popping up in horror movies. No, I'm talking about the song that gets in there and attaches itself to your synapses and won't let go.
Thanks to Reecie, damn her,
this is now stuck in my head and on a permanent loop on the i-pod.
Posted by Miz Shoes at 01:36 PM | Comments (5)
Where do I begin?
With the US government spying illegally on its citizens and then trying to spin it like "O, we are only collecting data on who you call, we aren't actually listening in on your conversations" but in the next breath rationalizing this illegal, unconstitutional, covert and terrifying activity by saying that not only will it help them capture terrorists (yeah. right. and I have a bridge in Brooklyn that I can let go cheap) but also child pornographers. Uh, if you aren't listening in, how would just a phone number let you know you are on the path of pedophiles? Just asking.
The whole thing is so disingenuous it makes me want to heave more than I usually do when I look at that smirking chimp and his band of devil-may-care draft dodgers, thieves, criminals, cold-hearted bastards and jack-booted thugs.
This particular cabal of evil doers (aka the Bush White House) is so fluent in double speak that George Orwell his own self could use them to write the play book for Big Brother.
I am not afraid. I will not be made to be afraid.
I will take this fight to the polling booth and despite the best efforts of the corporations who have bought this administration, I will attempt to vote all of them out of office. I will write my spineless, Republican hand-puppet representatives and demand impeachment, or at least a dog and pony show of an investigation.
While I'm ranting about the ugly and the evil, can I just say, once and for all, that I am sick and tired and disgusted with you people? You people (women) who seem to think that MetroRail is the appropriate place to pluck your facial hair and apply your pancake makeup? Look. It is really very simple.
If you need to wear makeup to appear in public, it should be applied BEFORE you appear in public. And let me define public, since that also appears to be a concept far beyond your limited capacity: Public is anyplace outside of your house. That means your car, too. Any form of transportation referred to as PUBLIC, i.e.: buses, trains, els, elevators, trams, trollies, jitneys, taxis, tuk-tuks, car-pools, camel caravans, rikshaws. All of these and anything I may have left out, are public transportation and you should shut the fuck up on your damned cell phones, stop plucking your chin hair, and curling your eye lashes and applying foundation.
And still I'm not done with the ugly and the evil, because I haven't even started on ANTM and Darth Jader. She has to be the ugliest, nastiest, stupidest, annoyingest, delusionalest (that's Darth Jader-speak for most delusioned) hamster this series has ever foisted on us. And that is saying something, since we have had girls with she-nises and Adam's apples, girls who thought all birds are blind, Camille and Ya-Ya.
She looks like a pointy, wet, pissed-off cat and acts much like one, only without the endearing quality of being cute and fuzzy when dried off. Even when the judges say they see her being soft, I only see sallow skin, squinty mean eys and an infinite abyss of stupidity.
Yet, still, I watch. I want to see her fall. I want to see her fail. I want her humbled and brought down. Is that so very wrong?
Posted by Miz Shoes at 10:07 AM | Comments (2)
I'm on the Metromover (which is a Disneyworld-style light elevated rail with no drivers) heading toward the train. I have on my headphones and I'm listening to Meat Loaf (Everything Louder Than Everything Else)* Even through that racket, I somehow manage to hear my cell phone ring (The Ramones: Sheena Is a Punk Rocker). I pull one earplug out, and answer the phone. It's RJ.
Here is our conversation, more or less in its entirety.**
RJ: Where are you?
Me: On the shuttle, we're at (looks out the window) Knight Center. Are you at the station?
RJ: Yeah. The southbound train is delayed. I think it's stuck in Overtown.
Me: Where are you on the platform? I'll catch up with you.
RJ: Hmmm. It looks like the train is coming now.
Me: Are you going to get on, or are you going to wait for me?
RJ: Ummmmmm. I'm getting on. Why?
Me: Well, if you waited, we could talk about the Oscars.
RJ: (pause) I didn't watch them.
Me: WHAT??? How could you not watch them? It's like the movie lovers' religious holiday. Child, how can you NOT watch the Oscars, I mean, other than that it's boring, nobody looked too good and Jon Stewart totally sucked as the host?
RJ: Well, that. And I didn't see any of the movies.
Me: Me, neither. Does it really matter? (Sees train heading south) (Suspiciously) Are you on that train?
RJ: Yes.
Me: Bitch.
Both: Raucous laughter, then hang up.
I meant it, too. Not that. The part about Jon Stewart sucking. I don't get it. The guy is brilliantly funny. How he could have slipped into such mealy-mouthed, poor man's version of the very UN-funny Billy Crystal, I just don't know.
Isaac Misrahi was tamed down to boring. The clothes the women stars were wearing were black, black, chocolate brown, navy blue, beige, ecru, sand and black. Except for the handful of women in various shades of Kodak yellow, which, I have to say, was flattering on exactly none. As for the men, nobody even tried to pull a Johnny Depp and dress with a little out-there flair. Boring. Boring. Boring. Face it, the highlight of the evening was Sandra Bullock showing that her dress had pockets. And she was with Keanu...who just keeps getting stiffer and stiffer and thicker and thicker. It's sad.
Speaking of sad, how sad was it that the message last night was "DVDs bad. Multiplexes good." I could have bought that argument, that movies are an art form best enjoyed on a big screen, in the dark with strangers, if there were still big screens in the dark. But there aren't. There are screens slightly larger than a two-car garage door, in a dimly-lit space with strangers yammering on cell phones, playing with Blackberries and not minding their kids. Even though my big tv is smaller than a one-car garage door, I still prefer to watch movies there.
I do go to the multimegaplex on occasion, I went (with RJ, as a matter of fact) to see the latest Harry Potter movie. We went on a week night, during the dinner hour, and were rewarded with great seats, and nobody but our husbands there with us. If all movie experiences could be like that, I might go more often. Honestly, though, ever since they made movie theater popcorn healthier by not popping it in palm oil, the bloom is off the rose for me.
But I digress. I watched the Oscars, but I didn't enjoy it.
*(Go ahead, have a laugh at my pathetic musical tastes. I'll tell you something else, I love Diamond Dave. Yes. Oh yes, I said it. I love David Lee Roth.)
** My god, but we amuse ourselves. It's sad, really.
Posted by Miz Shoes at 09:37 PM | Comments (4)
So, I'm at the gym this morning, worked out with Nic Cage, then climbed on the old Precor and while I was working up a sweat, watching the "news" on Fox, I had a sudden epiphany.
That's where he's hiding! Right under our noses.
But think on this a moment: they exhibit the same sort of megalomaniacal, supremely arrogant behavior; you just know Santino reeks of patchouli and onions, just like Osama. You've never seen them in the same place at the same time...
Coincidence, or something more sinister?
Posted by Miz Shoes at 11:13 AM | Comments (0)
I've been saving this story for a while. The other day, the RLA and I were coming home around dusk, and we pulled up to our gate, put the car in park, and the RLA got out to unlock the gate. It's not that we're Luddites, but we rely on a lot of old-fashioned technology: manual can openers, a gate troll instead of an electric gate, a chain-link fence to keep the dogs in the yard instead of zapping them with electroshock... like that. So, the RLA gets out to unlock the gate, and as he does, a big-ass SUV (a Cadillac, I think) driven by a guy with a blue light in his ear goes whizzing past at a much-too-rapid-for -a-one-lane-road clip... almost clipping the side mirror off our car.
Well, it's a small neighborhood, and we know everybody in it, and what they drive, so we knew that this guy was probably lost. And he was, evidenced by his hitting the end of the street, making a u-turn and coming back up the one-lane road, still at a clip, and still almost removing my side mirror.
Well, the RLA lost it, and yelled at the driver that he was a jerk, and that we live here, and he doesn't and we're unlocking our gate, and he can just wait a second, because the RLA is NOT moving the car.
The Cadillac SUV screeched to a halt. The middle-aged driver threw it in reverse and stopped next to us. He reached under his seat (I'm thinking... oh, fucking great. A gun. Now we're in for it.) but only to roll down the window.
He proceded to yell at the RLA and called HIM a jerk and a few other names before coming to the crescendo of his response:
"You," he shouted at us, "are like a spaz!"
Well, that just set us back on our heels. Was blue light man saying that the RLA is a spaz, or was he saying that the RLA is merely spaz-like?
We debated this for several minutes, with me offering the opinion that maybe the word like was just an interjection, as in; "it's, like, you know", even though there was no audible comma or pause. We also opined that the driver was like a Borg, in that he had a piece of electronics embedded in his ear and it was lit up with a blue light. We never did get a definitive answer from the SUV driver, because once we started parsing out his sentence, he seemed to loose interest in us entirely.
But this phrase has crept into our vocabulary, so that everything is now "like". It's like a bridge. You know, it's sort of bridge-like, in that it spans a body of water, but maybe it's not totally a bridge.
I'm like hungry. I could eat, but I'm not ravenous, so I'm hungryish. I'm close to hungry, but I'm not exactly hungry, so I'm only like hungry.
We have been entertaining ourselves and our friends with this for like a month. It may not be a real month, or a whole month. Maybe it has been longer than a month, in which case it is only like a month, not exactly a month, but sort of a month. Similar in time to an exact month and yet, not.
This entry is like done.
Posted by Miz Shoes at 11:10 AM | Comments (3)
Here's another quote from the AP... this is from the head of Homeland Security.
"Earlier in the day, Homeland Security Secretary Michael Chertoff had declined to estimate the death toll, but conceded that an untold number of people could have perished in swamped homes and temporary shelters where many went for days without food or water.
"I think we need to prepare the country for what's coming," Chertoff said. "What's going to happen when we de-water and remove the water from New Orleans is we're going to uncover people who died, maybe hiding in houses, got caught by the flood, people whose remains are going to be found in the streets. ... It is going to be about as ugly of a scene as I think you can imagine.""
DE-WATER??? De-water? Oh, fuck me. What's wrong with the word "drain"? Is it too much of a reminder that the city is sunk?
My friendgirlfriend tells me that's the word (as well as "un-water") that's all the buzz on CNN.
Drain. If you empty the water from a basin, you are draining it. They didn't de-water the swamp to build on it, they drained it. (And we all see how well that works.)
And don't even get me started on the new reports that are focusing on all the dying, starving animals.
There isn't enough Prozac and alcohol in the world to numb my senses enough to listen to the news.
Posted by Miz Shoes at 02:22 PM | Comments (1)
That's a misnomer, but in keeping with my own personal tradition of trying to name these posts using rock and roll lyics or references, it was the best I could do. Actually, it's two men I admire most and a massive in-human corporation.
Dear Steve Jobs, Bob Dylan, and Sony Music,
I'd like to suggest a colaboration between the three of you to raise money for the rebuilding of New Orleans: specifically whatever charity pops up to help the old bluesmen, or to rebuild sites like Preservation Hall.
Put Bob's version of "Down in the Flood" from the Masked and Anonymous soundtrack as a special download on i-tunes. All of the money, all ninety-nine cents per download, could go to that rebuilding fund.
It's a winner, and I think it's on-message for all of your interests.
Sincerely,
Bob's biggest fan.
Posted by Miz Shoes at 04:20 PM | Comments (1)
Yeah, baby. There is nothing I like better than taking part in a random survey. This one is being run by MIT's Media Lab, and any time I can be part of their science, I am one happy puppy.
My sistergirl sent me an article about Mars being closer to Earth this August than any time since the Neanderthals looked up, but it turns out it was one of those web things that circulates and circulates and circulates. The actual time of the Mars event was two summers ago. Still and all, I suppose that looking up is a good thing to do anyway.
And if you're looking up and out in mid to late August, you'll be seeing the Perseid Meteor Showers. So how bad could it be, if you get to see a few shooting stars?
Posted by Miz Shoes at 11:43 AM | Comments (1)
This is a day off for me, and it started out lamely enough with me waking up with a headache. Like, the kind of headache that feels like someone with a fifty-pound thumb is trying to press out your eye, from behind the eyeball.
Ignoring that, I went off to work out with Nic Cage (aka The Marquis de Steve). There was no parking at the gym within a three-block radius. I circled three times. I would have gone into a four-block radius, but the fourth block is Dixie Highway or residential areas and they frown on parking in either location.
I had to valet park. At the gym. Which is so against my religion. That religion being if you're going to work out, anything that makes it easier (i.e.: parking next to the door, valet parking) is prohibited. You're there to sweat, not take it easy. And yet, due to the fact that there was absolutely no place to put Zelda Bleu, I had to valet. Which I still would not have done, had all this circling around like a shark hunting blood not made me very late.
Got home and logged on to the i-tunes music store, because there were some things I wanted to download. I shopped until I had a cart full of obscurities, then went to download and check out. No can do. Need to update to i-tunes 4.8. Not a problem. Except, it was a problem. For some reason, I can't update because, although I'm an administrator on my own computer, the stupid Wintel device thinks I need to talk to a system administrator. I even tried creating a new account that was strictly admin with no customization at all. Still won't let me update. Fatal error.
Yeah, I'll say. The fatal error being it's a piece of shit Wintel computer that I had to buy because the hospital took away my Mac and wouldn't let me use one anymore, and then gave me such a load of work that I had to get a Windows machine on my own dime so I could work at/from home, too. Then the asshats laid me off and here I am with a stupid Windows machine that I'd never in a million years have bought of my own volition.
Except. Now I don't have to use a Wintel machine, do I? And if I wanted that sweet, sweet, sweet 15" PowerBook, I could get it. And you know what that means, don't you? This Windows machine would be a doorstop faster than than you could say reboot.
Posted by Miz Shoes at 02:22 PM | Comments (1)
Due to stupidity on my part, comments have been turned off for a couple of weeks. I have now turned them back on. Feel free to leave one.
Posted by Miz Shoes at 11:44 AM | Comments (3)
Happy Birthday, Bob*. As usual, I baked a cake, and made a special dinner for you. As usual, you didn't show up. I suppose the fact that you haven't the faintest whiff of an inkling of a vague imagining that I exist is the reason you never come for your birthday dinner, but that doesn't stop me.
One day. One day I'll meet you outside my dreams. Not that I'm a stalker or anything. I'd never do that. Nosirree, Bob, not me.
But if you're ever in Miami and want a nosh, or a little drinkie, just give me a call. My door is always open.
*Dylan. Bob Dylan. Duh.
Posted by Miz Shoes at 09:22 PM | Comments (0)
I don't want to be morbid, I don't want to dwell, but what has always been my favorite Jewish holiday is starting to depress me. The RLA has, since we've been a couple, hated Passover, because his mother died right after the seder.
My father first realized that he had a problem when he was at my house for Passover, and felt his enlarged pancreas as he lay in bed. And this year, because Passover comes so late, it coincides with the anniversary of his death.
Shortly after he died, I asked one of my friends if I had always talked about him so much, or if this was something new, brought on by his passing.
She assured me that, no, I had always talked about my father, I only heard myself do it now.
Last year was the first time my dad skipped a seder. He just couldn't go. This year is the first time that I haven't held one for my family of friends. The bank account can't support it, the RLA isn't feeling well enough to endure it, and, quite honestly, I just can't drag myself into the kitchen for the extended frenzy of cooking that it usually entails.
We'll be going to R&MJ's, where the doors will be flung open for their extended family and family of friends, as well as Elijah. RJ is graciously allowing me to bring two dishes: Sephardic eggs and a Persian Haroset. Both recipes can be found in the ever-reliable Joan Nathan's Jewish Holiday Cooking.
On another note, I have spent the day fighting with my Bernina and my laptop, trying to make them communicate with one another. It entailed a trip to the store to buy a usb to serial cable converter, any number of reboots, several downloads from the Bernina site and finally, just before ANTM, my computer announced that, although it could see the Bernina, since the embroidery module was not attached, the design could not/would not be passed to the machine.
I cried Uncle, and went off to watch the dreary Tatiana get sent home. Have I mentioned that I'm starting to really like Michael/Michelle?
Posted by Miz Shoes at 09:43 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Last night I made a baby portobello mushroom and brocolli rabe risotto. It was magnificent, thank you very much, but that isn't the point. It was merely the starting point for a poignant train of thought.
I was prepping and preparing my "meez" and realized that my knife was dull. One of my crazy neighbors had just sharpened it, too, and so that led me to think of how my father could sharpen a knife so that it held a razor edge. Many scars on my fingers are proof of that.
The thought of my father and his knives led me quickly to a scene in the family kitchen, shortly before his final decline. I had gone up to visit and he made kippers for me and my brother on a Sunday morning. He could barely stand, but he insisted on doing this for us.
Fried kippers were a Sunday morning treat for most of my growing up time. It was Daddy's signature dish. Fried, greasy, fish-stinky and with lots of chopped onions, sauteed in butter until they were carmelized (if not slightly burnt) and eaten hot with garlic toast... for breakfast. My mother hated the smell. My cousins were appalled by them. The RLA nearly passed out the first time he saw/smelled kippers. In fact, in all the years of trying to share this delicacy with friends and family, the only person who ever warmed up to kippers was Star, and she's Swedish.
I finally managed to shake off the funk, and started sauteeing the onions and the baby portobellos. I added the arborio rice and started to think about my mother's cooking as I waited for the rice to become transparent.
My mother was a fine cook and an even better baker, but she was also a homemaker in the 50s and 60s. Even though she owned Julia Child's cookbooks, she was much more at ease with The Joy of Cooking. My mother never made a risotto.
Which thought then led me to her current state, and how the nurses at the home all think I look just like her. An assessment which is only right and fair. And that takes me back to a conversation with my mother maybe thirty years ago, when she told me that, not only did she believe in reincarnation, but she believed that I was her mother, who had died when my mother was only six months old.
That has always stuck with me, that I am my mother's mother. Now that she has Alzheimer's, she has regressed to a point where she thinks she's still in school. She talks about her father's store. And I am her caregiver, so in some sense, I am, in fact, her mother. And so why shouldn't I look just like her, or her me, since this whole thing is becoming a quantum singularity.
Now the rice is ready, and I must shake off all the ghosts, and continue my meal. But my mind? it is a weapon of mass distraction, and many things remind me of many things.
Posted by Miz Shoes at 09:36 AM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
I read all of the comments on my previous post. I watched the video that Allie suggested I watch. My interpretation of that video was light years opposed to hers.
She saw a person capable of relating to the things around her. I saw the random grunts and cries that issue from someone in a persistant vegetative state.
I have been in the hospital room with someone in that condition. It is heartbreaking, and one wants to believe that those noises are coming in response to some stimulus one is providing, but it just isn't so. The groans coming from my father in law were just that. Groans. They were in response to the pain of breathing through a respirator.
If I were asked, and I am not, to decipher Ms. Schiavo's moans I would say that they are pleas to be let slip this mortal coil.
Which brings me to the (once more) faulty logic of the so-called Christians who rally to her hospice to beg for her life. If they believe in a just and righteous G-d, then they should be begging for Ms. Schiavo to be disconnected from life support so that their G-d can grant her healing via miracle.
If they don't think their G-d capable of a miracle, or merely disinclined to prove Himself for the likes of us non-believers, then they should be praying for her death so that she can be granted access to the perfect afterlife that they believe awaits her. Why would they want her to "live" like this when in their version of heaven, she can have her complete body back and attain bliss?
In some way or another, this brings me round to this article:
"Evolution Reference Hurts Volcano Movie"
"CHARLESTON, S.C. (AP) - IMAX theaters in several Southern cities have decided not to show a film on volcanoes out of concern that its references to evolution might offend those with fundamental religious beliefs." (Read the complete story)
I have a suggestion for all of us not offended by references to evolution (NOT A FUCKING THEORY, asshats) but offended by the ability of a vocal, religious minority to overthrow the rights of the many:
Boycott. Yes. Boycott. If IMAX refuses to show a movie because they don't want to offend the religious right who might boycott them if they do show the movie, then boycott IMAX for being craven cowards. Not just during the run of whatever they show in place of the volcano film, but until they grow a fucking spine. Ditto for anyone and anything else that caves to the right. If some business or other wants to keep the minority among their list of paying customers, then let that be their ONLY customer base.
If the basis for caving in to a threat of a boycott of the religious right is that the money is too great to lose, then let the entity that has caved discover how much more money there is to lose when they lose their integrity.
Which also ties in with this story referrenced in today's Dear Abby:
"The majority of high school students assign little or no value to the rights guaranteed by the U.S. Constitution's First Amendment: freedom of the press, speech and religion." (read the complete story)
And it only gets worse, as 36 percent of them think newspapers should not be allowed to publish without government approval.
Back when I was still a Yellow Puppy, I started an independent student newspaper at my high school. It's title? "The First Amendment" and we published poetry and storied and things that had little to do with what the administration told us was fit to publish.
But that was the 1960s, when the SDS was in full flower, and to question authority was a duty of all youth. Now? Feh. All this latest generation wants is to be, like Ms. Schiavo, force fed what others tell them is the truth. G-d forbid they ever wake up.
Posted by Miz Shoes at 05:01 PM | Comments (7) | TrackBack
I had a dream last night that I refused to wear something because if I did, I just knew that I'd end up on Go Fug Yourself as a bad example.
Do you think I'm spending too much time on my computer?
This is for my sistergirlfriendgirl and her good dog Oliver. This is Levi, a blue marl Pembroke Welsh Corgi that I saw at the dog show. He has baby blue eyes and he is just beautiful.
Posted by Miz Shoes at 11:31 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
My GirlCousin and Star have, independent of each other, decided that I should do this.
That is the Martha Stewart Apprentice, of course.
And I gave it serious consideration for about fifteen minutes. Then it struck me: "What if I win the audition, and have to actually play the game?"
Granted, my twelve years at the hospital have given me super powers in the areas of toxic work environment, backstabbing and evil axis building, and granted, those could come in handy in a "reality" TV competition, but the bottom line is, I'd have to be on TV.
Eww. And ewwwwww. And maybe a retch or two. I don't want to be on TV. Ever. And certainly not in a situation where the editors have plenty of footage to cut together to make me look like an even bigger bitch than I can accomplish on my own. And let me tell you, I do just fine with that, thanks.
Reality TV series all have archetypes: The Bitch, The Bimbo, The Backstabber, The Nice One, The Smart One Who Loses The Game Despite or Because Of Being Smart. I have enough problems with my personality as it is, I do not need editing to accentuate the negatives.
I often say that I am like asparagus; people loathe me or love me and there is no room for indifference. Great. I should go on TV and try that phenomenon out with a few million people all at once.
Um, no.
Or worse, I could get on the show and actually last for more than a week. I could get into the show. I could want to win, and my naturally competitive nature could be unleashed. Bad idea. Bad idea for me, bad idea for anyone in my path, probably great TV. Ick.
So, despite urging from family and friends, and despite the fact that the whole concept of trying to be Martha's avatar appeals to some really dark part of my soul, (Oh, come on, be honest with yourself. Wouldn't you want to go out and abuse the gardeners? Stand around and complain that the exact shade of lilac you wanted the living room to be painted is not the one that is now on the walls, and they have fifteen minutes before air time to fix it...) I think that I shall have to pass on this chance for fame and fortune.
Posted by Miz Shoes at 05:11 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
A fact that everybody in the known universe seemed to know except me and the people who printed my calendar, where today has printed on it "Superbowl Sunday." This calendar has all kinds of holidays printed on it, and I am now wondering if any others of them are wrong.
So here I am planning a party and making menus and pestering the RLA to let me buy a widescreen, big screen, HDTV to watch the big game... a game where I am forced to admit I haven't a clue who's playing, but you need all that for the commercials.
It's next week. Next week. February. Since when does football season run all the way up to spring training?
Oh well, it just gives me that much more time to work on my menus.
I'm planning on making orange marmalade sometime this week, since the sour orange tree in the front yard has outdone itself with fruit this year, and I can only marinade so much chicken, and even my housekeeper is giving me the fish eye when I ask if she'd like any more sour oranges.
Posted by Miz Shoes at 10:41 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
I have been noticing more and more of those damned W04 bumper stickers around. Before the election, nobody seemed to want to state out loud that they were going to vote for that goober. All I saw were Kerry bumper stickers. Believe me, I was looking and seeing what was out there, because it was my own sort of market research. To go by bumper stickers, Kerry was a shoo in.
Now that the fix is results are in, everybody and their dog has a Bush sticker somewhere on their vehicle, be it gas guzzling Hummer or rust bucket piece of shit.
Beats me.
Posted by Miz Shoes at 05:03 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
I spent the day with the RLA yesterday, and most of it went along these lines: I'd watch him doing something and think, hmmm, that would make a great entry for my blog... if I wanted a divorce.
No, really. I mean, we're walking the dogs in the dead of night, and first one dog pees, then the other dog pees, and then the RLA takes a piss in the trees.
Just marking his territory, he says. But. We live in the suburbs, for chrissakes. With lights and stuff. And people driving by. Granted, not at eleven at night, and we were in a particularly dark part of the street, but just the same, I have to ask you: Does your man piss on trees to mark his territory?
For whatever it's worth, the dogs in the neighborhood seem to respect it, because the really big dogs do not poop on our lawn over by that particular tree, so maybe he has a point. But. It's the twenty-first century. We are (allegedly) civilized people. Pissing in the bushes?
On another note, living with two dogs of such disparate breeds is like having my own private Westminster Show on a daily basis. There is the noble dog Nails, a Jack Russell Terrier, not AKC, but Jack Russell Terrier Club of America registered, which means he's from before the AKC accepted and standardized the breed. He is a dog's dog. He barks at squirrels. He chases things. He is (for a Jack) Very Well Behaved. He goes for a swim in the pool after every walk. (His choice, by the way. He does doggies laps, too. He jumps off the steps and swims in 4-foot circles, then goes back to the steps and sits down, like a little old man at the hotel pool.) He plays with gravity by pushing balls off the couch, or into the pool so he can chase them. He will watch the ball floating in the pool and wait until it gets close to the edge, then paw it in to within mouth distance. You can watch him calculate the time it will take to float to him. If he doesn't like the distance, he will bark at me or the RLA to push the ball closer to him. For a dog, the animal is a genius.
And now we have Miss JoJo. She's a flopsy puppy. She never barks, except when Nails is barking at another dog, and then she'll add her two cents, and stop. Nails will bark until the other dog has passed beyond his sight.
JoJo is a digger. I have gopher holes all over the yard, now. She chews on all the toys that Nails disdained. She loves her Frisbee, where Nails is afraid of them. She digs. All. The. Time. She never makes any noise. If she needs to go out, she pokes me with her nose.
Watching them play together yesterday was a hoot. Nails is clever, stealthy and plots ahead. JoJo is a gonif, and will wait until Nails is distracted, and then steal his toys. Nails, knowing that JoJo doesn't go in the pool, kept dropping his ball in the pool to keep it away from her. Then he'd pull it out, and tease her with it.
There should be a groove in the pool deck by now, from the number of laps they ran around it. Fist JoJo in the lead with Nails' toy, and then Nails playing keep away with her.
This is why I got a puppy. I laughed until my cheeks hurt.
Posted by Miz Shoes at 11:36 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
During my daytime stint as mermaid, at the Raleigh Pool Party, I was without my glasses. Because, really, who ever heard of a mermaid in glasses?
Nevertheless, I was able to see well enough to notice that I was surrounded by stunning, gorgeous men. I will digress momentarily to tell a story about my mother.
Mummy did her part for the war effort (WWII) by dancing with the sailors and the soldiers at the local USO. She would go with her friend Millie, who was from Tennessee, or Georgia, or some other deep south state. When Mummy and her dance partner of the evening decided to head on off to another road house, Mummy would tell Millie to pick one and let's go. But Millie couldn't choose, and she would, without fail, say to my mother, "But Florence, I cain't choose. It's just like picking flowers. Each one is prettier than the next."
At these White Party week events, I always think of Millie because, just as she said back in the day, each one is prettier than the next. And since they are all gay, the allusion is even stronger. All I can do is smell them, and not even pick a little bittie bud.
Anyway, so there I am, sitting on the edge of the stage, flapping my tail and waving prettily at the pretty boys. Many of them asked to take their photos with me, and I was only too happy to oblige.
But there was one man who didn't ask. I watched him all afternoon, and kept thinking that there was one major hottie. "If he weren't gay," I kept saying to myself, "I would eat him with a spoon. Yum, yum fucking yum."
He was dark. Black hair in white-boy dreads, little twisty ones. Black five-o'clock shadow and it was barely past noon. Built just so. I'm telling you, he was just edible.
So when I was getting ready to pack it in, I asked one of the roving photographers if he would take a shot of me and this gorgeous thing. In fact, I was quite specific: That one, the guy that I just want to lick all over because he is just so gorgeous.
I'm sorry if I can't come up with another word other than gorgeous, but that's what he was.
The photographer went over and, I assume, passed along my assessment of his looks and request for pictures. He trotted right over and sat down on the edge of the stage with me. I flapped my tail, and blushed prettily, and batted my eyelashes, and twiddled my finger in his chest hair and we started to talk as the photographer snapped.
I learned that his name is George and he is the manager for several of our DJs. I also suspect that he is not at all gay. This made things very uncomfortable for me, since I'm married and by no means available. I couldn't ask right out. I couldn't do anything except maybe pull my fingers out of his chest hair and stop flapping and batting, and so I did.
Anyway, I felt and feel like an idiot, but in my own defense, you have never seen anything as hot as George.
Posted by Miz Shoes at 01:50 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
I was a mermaid at White Party, and according to the buzz, I was "fabulous." The photos don't do me justice, probably because I photograph like an overweight, wrinkled old hag, whereas in real life (or at least in my mind and mirror, I am none of those things.
People, let me tell you, life is worth living when you are swimming in the warm seas of admiration from gorgeous men who tell you things like "you are so working it, girl".
Yas, yas.
I was wearing the most glamorous gown in the history of me. My sweetie, Paul Gallo, of the fabulous house of Gallofornia, made a silver lamé halter dress with a tail, and fringes of kelp in silver and white and seafoam. I had on yards of faux pearls (also known as Christmas tree garlands) and an Art Nouveau crown of beads and mylar sequins (also Christmas tree garland). There were fake eyelashes with glitter, and glitter all over my exposed parts. There was way too much eye shadow in silver and teal and teal with glitter eye liner.
Opera length gloves. Silver shoes. (Sensible flats, of course, because it is just exhausting being fabulous.) I perched (ha, fish joke) around on things and flapped my tail.
I had a million photos taken with a million beautiful men. I took a tumble down a flight of stairs (bump, bump, bump on my butt) and allowed as how it was only my dignity which was damaged, whereas I have a bruise the size of a grapefruit on my ass. Hokie smokes, Bullwinkle, it hurts like a booger.
And most fabulous of all, I got to meet, shake hands with, talk briefly to and be photographed with the most fabulous Miss Yoko Ono.
She is tiny, tiny, tiny. She was wearing this fantastic straw hat, which I would have bet money was a Phillip Treacy, but which she swore was not. Her skin is absolute egg-shell porcelain, and let me tell you, she has not had any work done. She is just that delicate and flawless.
I said hello, as part of the Board contingent, and couldn't help myself... I had to swing right around and go back and gush admiration, devotion and outright awe for her works, art and philanthropic and then told her it was an unexpected honor to meet her. She looked me in the eyes, said thank you and shook my hand, and didn't make me feel like Wayne before Alice Cooper, sobbing "I'm not worthy", but in my heart, I felt that stupid. Didn't matter, I do adore the woman, and had enough presence of mind not to say "I never believed you broke up the Beatles, it was that skank Linda."
Probably would have made more of an impression, I imagine. (Ha, John Lennon joke.)
I promise that I'll post photos as I find/get them. And more stories as I make them up remember them.
Posted by Miz Shoes at 09:50 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
I was called for jury duty yesterday, in the district court, civil division. One day or one trial. Sworn in to tell the truth. I swelled with civic pride and duty. Unlike most people, you see, I love jury duty. It's a good thing, too, because I must get called every year.
Of course, I wasn't actually chosen for the trial. I think the defense attorney would have wanted me on the case, but the plaintiff's attorney couldn't throw me off fast enough.
It was a medical malpractice case. Negligence on the part of the primary care doctor. The plaintiff had bladder cancer. I could see, by the questioning, where this was going. So I answered those questions as honestly as I could. Even those questions that were unasked, but implied.
I was potential juror number 14, which meant that I got to listen to a lot of answers to the same questions before they got to me. The question was "What do you think about cigarette smoking?" Most of the other jurors answered that they didn't like it. Or that it was a nasty habit. One or two people said they smoked. I said that it was a matter of personal choice, but one that carries with it personal responsibility.
Danger. Warning. This person thinks. Whoop, whoop, whoop.
They asked us if we would be capable of judging a doctor, of holding one accountable. I said yes. I did NOT say that I'd be even more capable of holding lawyers accountable.
They asked how we felt about large money awards. Most people said, of course, if they're called for. I said: "I'm ambivalent." GAH!!! That juror used a multi-sylable word. Danger! Warning!
Could you elaborate? I could, and I did. Pain and suffering are pretty subjective things, no? Sometimes there is merit in the claim, but there are a lot of frivolous lawsuits in this world.
Have we ever had a problem with a doctor? Yes. Elaborate. I did. But then, I allowed as how I was very young and naive, and never sought a second opinion. By the time I did, years later, for what the first doctor claimed was a relapse, there was no sign of the condition the first doctor wanted to do surgery on, nor was there any sign that I'd ever had the condition. I fired the first doctor. I never looked back. And (although I didn't say this)neither did I sue.
What about cancer? Family members? Yes. And close friends. By the time I'd finished my list, the whole room looked a little dazed. Uh, OK, so this is something you might have strong feelings about?
One attorney asked about Monday morning quarterbacking. The young man to my left didn't understand the term, nor had he ever heard of 20/20 hindsight. The lawyer explained the concept and then turned to me... And you? Can you look at the facts and not be a Monday morning quarterback? I snorted, C'mon, anyone who's been a Dolphin fan as long as me knows the futility of that exercise. The room cracked up.
Good. Leave 'em laughing. We were interrogated a little more, and then the lawyers settled in to pick the jury. It came as no surprise to me that I was not selected.
When they say a jury of your peers, what they mean is, someone who has no opinion and never reads the paper.
Posted by Miz Shoes at 10:31 AM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
For whatever reason, I woke up this morning in a great mood. Maybe the endorfins are still pumped from last night at the gym with my trainer, Nic Cage.
Maybe it was the cool, moist air, a harbinger of fall. Maybe it was the sausage biscuit hidden in my knitting bag as I rode the train.
Or maybe it was the random playlist that the l'il pink i-pod produced.
1. Fruitcakes, Jimmy Buffett
2. Summer Days, Bob Dylan
3. Scar Tissue, The Red Hot Chili Peppers
4. Don't Fence Me In, David Byrne (From Red, Hot and Blue)
5. Is Anybody Goin' to San Antone, Doug Sahm
6. Prince Charming, Adam & the Ants
7. Girls Just Want to Have Fun, Cyndi Lauper
8. Because I Got High, Afroman
I couldn't have programmed that in a million years. Some sense or sensibility would have prevented me from mixing it up.
It's Friday, and today I'm going to research and write a white paper on targeted pop-up advertising for our web site, and content available for purchase. This will be the third time in six years that I've done it. The second time for the same guy. But this round, he seems to be winning control of the site, so maybe it isn't just wheel spinning.
Tomorrow, I'm going to begin work on my Halloween costume. The lovely RJ is hosting a fancy dress affair for the holiday, with an Alice In Wonderland theme. Come as a character from Through The Looking Glass or Alice. So I'm going to be a flamingo.
Oh, come on. She played croquet with the Red Queen, and they used flamingos as mallets and hedgehogs as balls. Don't you guys remember anything?
Posted by Miz Shoes at 09:50 AM | Comments (5) | TrackBack
This year has sucked in ways that things have never sucked before.
I have suffered through death, hurricanes, more death, job uncertainty and more stress than I ever thought I could handle.
But yesterday, it was all made better by the receipt of a single e-mail from the forces behind White Party. I am going to get to live my most precious childhood dream and desire, and do so in the company of the most fabulous men on the planet, at one of the most fabulous parties on the circuit.
What am I going to do?
I get to be a mermaid at White Party. Tail, pearl tiara and all.
When I was a little girl, I used to spend my summers on the bottom of the pool, pretending to be a mermaid. My career ambition was to be the head mermaid (the one who got to wear the glittery tail) at Weeki-Wachee Springs.
I turn 50 in December, just a couple of weeks after this event. If that isn't kicking 50 in the ass and telling it to go home, I don't know what is.
When I turned 40, a friend built a big 4-0 out of straw and I took an acetelyne torch to it. We pulled bits and pieces of ash and melted beads out of the pool filter for two years. The screen had a scorch mark in it until the screens were replaced a couple of years ago.
It's not that I have a fear of growing older, as Jimmy Buffett would say "I'm growing older, but not up." Or maybe the late, great Satchel Paige is a better quote, "How old would you be, if you didn't know how old you was?"
Somewhere in my twenties. Old enough to be responsible, young enough to let responsibility slide once in a while.
I get to be a fucking mermaid. How cool is that?
Posted by Miz Shoes at 10:02 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
So there I was, climbing down from the train this morning, listening to the racket of traffic and leaf blowers and random loonies, and unbidden, this came into my head.
The world is too much with us
The World is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours
And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.—Great God! I'd rather be
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn,
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.
W. Wordsworth
Thank you very much, Professor Newman. Still with me thirty years later.
Posted by Miz Shoes at 10:26 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
Well, kiddies, the New Shoes have fully propagated. Don't you just L-U-V them? I do.
On the other hand, the list of Things I Do NOT Love has expanded exponentially lately.
Last night, watching the Olympics on NBC, there was a color piece about the original games. It opened with these words:
"While the theory of evolution is highly controversial, there is no disputing evolution of sports..." or some similar tripe. But the reporter definitely said that the theory of evolution is highly controversial. To whom? Creationists, maybe, but I can't think of any other group of civilized humans who question the evidence. Are we going to have a new Scopes Monkey Trial in this century?
And for NBC to broadcast something so pandering and, well, flat out stupid... I'm speechless. For once.
Other things that I've seen on the Olympics that make me see stars (and not in a good way) include the new Corvette commercials that sexualize pre-pubescent children. Children, I may add, who are shown driving, and driving with wild, video-game abandon. Oh, yeah. Real fucking responsible.
Then we have the devotion to the stars and the hotties. I'm watching swimming, for example, and the sportscasters are talking (non-fucking-stop) about one athelete or another, and how they are expected to win, and how they're currently swimming behind the pack, and there, in some other lane, completely unremarked upon, is a dark horse tearing up the water, and winning the gold, which is just an apostrophe to the "real" story.
Another thing that I have lately come to detest is that stupid bright yellow rubber band that signifies Lance Armstrong's something or other. He won, OK. He beat cancer. He's got a cool girlfriend. He's got some charity. Fine. Do we all have to wear the yellow rubber bands?
I didn't think so.
Posted by Miz Shoes at 02:57 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
"What ever happened to Fay Wray?
That delicate satin-draped frame?
As it clung to her thigh,
How I started to cry,
Cause I wanted to be dressed just the same"
Dr. Frank N Furter, Rocky Horror Picture Show
Well, she was 96, and frankly, I thought that she'd been dead for decades. But, no.
I'm sorry, I'm just too dispirited to tell you stories of workplace stupidity, or kitchen follies.
The air conditioner, which had been broken for all of June, has just broken again, and the "service" people won't fix it and the "service" desk at Circuit City doesn't want to hear about the lack of service by their contractors.
Don't start me about the concept of service in the service industry. As I said to them last time, "If your contracted HAD actually fixed it, I wouldn't be screaming at you right now, now would I?" Or, on being told that I had called after working hours, "Well, you're working, are you not? You are not a service or an answering machine. And I'm sitting at my desk, talking to you. So both of us are, in fact, at work. How is this not working hours?(BIATCH!!)"
Bite me. Time for lolling in the pool with a tall one.
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Posted by Miz Shoes at 03:26 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Kerrystock ended, and I feel good about my candidate. What made me happiest? Was it his one daughter identifying the core value of her father as "integrity"? Was it his speech? Was it his band of brothers, his Swift Boat crew, standing behind him? Was it that he truly is a war hero, and our war president is an AWOL dolt? Nope. None of that. It was that he entered the hall to the strains of "No Surrender." And it wasn't a cover version.
"Blood brothers in the stormy night with a vow to defend
No retreat, baby, no surrender."
The fact that Bruce hasn't issued a cease and desist is what makes me the happiest girl in the world.
Tonight is movie night at the Casa de Zapatos. We're having a special showing of "Bubba Ho-Tep", arguably one of the odder cult films of recent history. It stars Bruce Campbell (he of "Army of Darkness" fame) as Elvis Presley. In a nursing home. Fighting to save the residents (and his own soul) from the death kiss of a rogue mummy (the titular Bubba Ho-Tep). It co-stars the incomparable Ossie Davis, as JFK. It's a redemption story. It's a mystery. It's a horror story. It's a hoot.
I have been the recipient of some pretty nasty offers of some pretty nasty porn, coming in through the spam transom. But the names the spammers are using these days is so amusing, I have to share:
Monologging J. Fairies
Jubilation L. Bobbin
Posted by Miz Shoes at 04:52 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Now I, myself, do not like to speak in front of large crowds, but have, on occasion, done so. Neither do I consider myself to be an expert on the art of public speaking. Having said both of those things, let me critique last night's oratory at the DNC.
There is a tendency, and I don't know when it started, to have a catch phrase that the audience chants along at intervals. Maybe this is a nod to the call and response of traditional Black churches, but let me tell you now, it just sucks when some stiff white guy tries to get it going. *
It does nothing for the message, either. I mean really, who's going to be quoting "Here comes hope!" when you can use "I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give me liberty or give me death."? Right. Not one soul. Not even the hack who wrote it.
If I were the person who scheduled the speakers, I would not have led with Barack Obama on Tuesday. He was too hot, too passionate, too good to be wasted on day two. Last night we had the Rev. Jesse Jackson, and, in my humble (yeah, right) opinion, he has had his day. His delivery was off, his rhetoric was stale. He's lost the fire in his belly.
Al Sharpton? Better than I expected, but still not the kind of rallying, blood-boiling speech that one wants on day three. Oh, and that stiff? Marvin? Melvin? O'Malley? ( I had to look him up: Mayor Martin O?Malley of Baltimore) Oh. My. God. He sucked. He sucked big. He sucked so badly, that even I, political junkie from Yellow Puppyhood, had to turn the sound off.
All I can think is that they needed people who'd make John Edwards look good. Not that he needed that much. Is it just me, or does he have that whole Dennis Quaid thing going on? Not that there's anything wrong with that.
The high point of the whole night for me was the video from the Firefighters Union. The photography was chilling, riveting. And the music? Well, we know where I fall on that, don't we. They used one of the best of the best, Bruce Springsteen's "No Surrender." And must have had permission to do so, as it was a real version (I think it was from the New York City Live shows, but I could be mistaken). The last time someone tried to co-op one of his songs (Reagan and "Born in the USA") he shut them down in a heartbeat, and even went so far as to explain to the Republicans that it was a protest song, you morons, and not a paean to the glory of being an American.
I couldn't stay awake for my very favorite part of any of these conventions, the Roll Call. Is there anything more quintessentially American than the roll call? I just love it: "The Great State of East Elbow, home of the quadruple cheeseburger on rye with onion relish, Silverfish Capitol of the Universe, and center of everything to the left of Cleveland, proudly casts its fourteen votes for...." They had the Roll Call on after eleven p.m. Who the hell would or could stay awake for that after an evening of mediocre public speaking and even more random musical acts?
Oh, yeah. The music... Uh, John? John Mellancamp? A little Queer Eye advice: stop with the dying and teasing of that pathetic mop of what used to be a magnificent head of hair. You look like Elton John before the hair transplant. And another word, if I may? Do not, under any circumstances, ever, ever, ever repeat the lyric changes in "Small Town" to reference the fact that your wife was only 10 years old when you wrote the fucker in the first place. It caused me, and probably many more folks to do the math, and all I can say is: EWWWWWWWWWWWW.
Thanks, I'm done now.
*OK, so Springsteen can do the revival call and response like a a first-class tent preacher, but then, he is hardly the definition of a stiff white guy.
Posted by Miz Shoes at 09:50 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
I saw a bumper sticker on the back of an FPL* truck this morning. Context is everything, y'know? This is what it said:
"Working people who vote Republican are like chickens who support Colonel Sanders."
And I have a rhetorical question for all those young'uns wearing their pants below their butt cracks: If they slide and you have to hold/pull them up (and I'm not saying there's anything wrong with that. I, of all people, understand the pull of cool and how it is the overriding motivator of youth) why must you hold/pull directly over your nads? Huh? How come you can't grab the sides, why must you pull your pud in an effort to keep your pants up?
I'm just asking.
* Florida Power and Light, also known as Florida Plunder and Loot
Posted by Miz Shoes at 10:02 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Yesterday morning, I had the old i-pod loaded with Bob Marley. I was totally plugged in, and left myself plugged in for an hour or so, before I decided that I didn't want to run down the battery to the point where I couldn't be cocooned against the unwashed masses on the ride home.
Just before I left work, I checked my e-mail and there was a message from someone who said they were writing a book about Mr. Marley's live shows from the mid-seventies to his death. They'd found me via my list of concerts I'd seen, and wanted to know if I had any memories I could share.
This was my response:
I saw him in Montego, Jamaica at the first Reggae Sunsplash. Maybe it was the second. In any event, it was one of his last concerts prior to his death, so the summer of '79 or '80. The venue was a soccer stadium. The field was packed; I can't imagine that the show was not sold out.
There were armed guards at the gates. I handed my ticket into an outstreched hand, only to have a rifle dropped between me and the hand. "No, Miss," said the soldier, "That's not a ticket taker."
Other hands came from out of the crowd and unclasped my watch from around my wrist. I pulled on one end of the band, and the unseen person tugged on the other. Then the crowd surged and my watch was gone.
I was with a group of friends who had all traveled to Montego Bay for Sunsplash. There were about 8 of us, and, as I recall, we all piled into a little Ford rental to get to the show. We were two deep on laps, someone was stretched sideways across all the other's laps, making a third layer.
There were a number of opening acts: I remember Burning Spear and Peter Tosh. I remember when Bob Marley sang "Chase the Crazy Baldheads" my friends and I all looked at each other, then at the crowd, and realized... we were the only white people we could see. We just kept dancing. He was amazing. The energy on the field was palpable. But it was a little scary, too. We made jokes about the MoBay Massage, which was the pitter patter of little fingers all over your body, as anything liftable was taken off of you.
I'm sorry that I can't remember more at the moment. Twenty years, my friend, is a lifetime. But one of the guys who was with me is reachable via the internet. He's a sound engineer, and may be able to give you more details.
Did any of you ever see Bob Marley? Want to send your memories to this guy? Drop me a line, and I'll send you his request and address.
Posted by Miz Shoes at 10:03 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
I had a dream the other night. I was forced to go on a date with President George Bush. We were going to the opera. It was black tie. I didn't want to go with him, and kept protesting that he was already married, and so was I, and we were not wed to each other.
To no avail. I had to put on an evening gown and go. I was in my parent's house, but it had been appropriated as a temporary White House. The Bush women were ridiculing my mother's decorating. They stuck their heads in my bedroom and made loud noises about how this room certainly was NOT part of the official residence.
I told them that it was my childhood bedroom and off limits. Then I had to go into their area to put my makeup on in their bathroom. They didn't know how to turn the lights on and were only barely polite when I showed them where the switches were.
We (the President and I) finally got into the limo to go to the opera. Only it wasn't a limo, it was a Lincoln, and the POTUS was driving it himself. I was pissed because we were late and they were holding the curtain until we arrived. I felt that he was taking advantage of his position, and that the curtain shouldn't have been held.
When we finally got to the opera house, the POTUS had someone take off his overcoat, and I saw that he was only wearing a tux jacket, shirt and tie, and that from the waist down, he was dressed in jeans, boots and leather chaps. He then left me in the lobby to tip the help and pay for my own program.
I thought he was a major ass hole. By the time the opera was over, I had organized a demonstration in the lobby, and the crowd was chanting "Defeat Bush" when he came out.
End of dream.
Posted by Miz Shoes at 11:45 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
I am so loving the little pink i-pod. I have new regard for the a-holes I see everywhere with headphones on. I am now one of them, and I couldn't be happier.
Today I was listening to the greatest song in the world, ever. Period. End of discussion.
Layla. The original recording, by Derek and the Dominos. Eric Clapton and Duane Alman exchanging licks. Both at the height of their youth, not that Duane ever got past it. First one, then the other, delivers up these wailing guitar solos of the pain that comes with love. With headphones on, and cranked up so loud that the entire train could hear the music leaking out of my head, it was a wonderful way to start the morning.
It put a rhythm to my step. It put a smile on my face. I didn't care that the PHB accosted me before the last notes died to ask a typically stupid question.
I was one with the greatest song ever. Until tomorrow, when it may be a bootleg cut of Bruce Springsteen from 1978, doing the extended version of Rosalita.
Posted by Miz Shoes at 09:52 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
No, actually, he wasn't universally beloved and idolized. Certainly not by me, who lost so many of my gay friends during his administration, when the AIDS crisis was in its infancy, and he and his neo-con cabal refused to acknowledge the "gay cancer" and spent no money on research, education or prevention.
I spent the eight years of Reagan's presidency waiting for nuclear winter, waiting for the hands of the doomsday clock to move to midnight.
I have not forgotten that under his stewardship the government grew, Marines were slain in their barracks in Lebanon (and why, exactly were they there?), and his administration side-stepped the rule of law to sell arms to Iran in order to fund the Contras in Nicaragua.
I am neither saddened nor made joyous by his passing. The moving hand has written. The cosmic horse laugh, that the man who remade the Republican Party in his own, ultra-conservative image, could have benefited from stem-cell research (an anathema to those same neo-cons)is merely a sad echo in the universe.
My own mother has Alzheimer's and membership in that awful club somehow connects me to Mr. Reagan's family. For them, and for him, I feel pity. Pity only, and nothing more.
For what this country has become, for the journey that began with Mr. Reagan's single step, for that I feel deep sorrow and loss.
Posted by Miz Shoes at 09:46 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Oh, ye of little faith. Did you think I'd forget my man's birthday? I would not. I could not. Bob, where ever you are, Happy Birthday, big guy. I wish we could celebrate it together, but alas, as ever, it is not to be. Maybe because you don't know that I exist, but I prefer to think that it's because our schedules just never work out.
Happy Birthday, Mr. Dylan. And many, many more.
Posted by Miz Shoes at 11:08 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Spam, wonderful spam....
squishy nebulae
itinerant shrink
minuend arsine floyd
hydrology fallout competent midwinter
gadgetry gilt bradley quadruple feminism
estes doubleday juno gregory contiguous
client frail frizzle indochinese
And yet, despite the wonderful alliteration of some of those subject lines, the mystery they promise, the cosmic quandaries they profess to ponder, all of them are selling the same thing: male sexual enhancement drugs.
To which I can only yawn.
Posted by Miz Shoes at 12:54 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
A few seasons ago on the Sopranos, when Chris was shot and had a near-death experience he described his vision of hell to the rest of the boys. "Hell," he said, "is an Irish bar where it is always St. Patrick's Day."
Don't start sending me hate mail, but I think he's right.
Another reason to love this little town is that it is 99.99% Danish. Guess what? None of that kiss me I'm Irish for today crap. No wearin' o' the green by people who have no relationship to Ireland other than that they think Kathy was a pretty hot model in her day. No hostile glares for wearing orange. No green beer, no green bagels, or green cream cheese or green rivers. No nada. And I couldn't be happier.
And my cousin, who I have never met, but who lives just up the coast, is going to come down tomorrow after my training session ends to get together. Has this been a great trip or what?
Posted by Miz Shoes at 05:56 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Cat, I'm a kitty cat, and I dance dance dance and I meow meow meow. (Thanks to Styrofoam Kitty for the heads up on this. And thanks to G-Shack, from whence I stole this, and loaded it on to my server. Full credits and kudos, but no link, cause it wasn't working.)
I can't stop playing that. Over and over. As for the Squirrels that go WHEEEEEE!, you can find them here. It's an acquired taste.
I'm blogging instead of packing. I told you I was into avoidance in a very big way.
Posted by Miz Shoes at 11:45 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
I crack myself up, even when I'm asleep.
Last night, I dreamt I was driving down the main street of the old down town of my home town. My husband was driving our car, and he pulled over at a cafe/cd store (which isn't there in real life, except for the cafe). He said, "Get what you need, and I'll drive around the block."
So I went in, to this old shop with wooden floors, and worked my way through the cafe to the Virgin Megastore-type cd store in the back. This was a 5 & 10 in my childhood, and there were still elements of that in my dream: high dark ceilings, wooden display tables. I saw a table that held stationery, with a sign that said 30% off, so I looked to see if they had any Shag art. As I was leaning over, a clerk came up behind me and said something unintelligible about a nice bag. Nice bag? Huh? What am I carrying? I reached around behind myself to feel for my purse and realized that I'm only wearing a sweater and an olive green Coach hobo bag. My ass is hanging out.
"Damn! Naked AGAIN??!!" I yelped. I must be dreaming. I grab the clerk, to see if I can feel him, which I can. Never mind. I know I must be dreaming, and so I force myself to look around the store and confirm that I am, in fact, asleep. I then clap the clerk on the shoulder and say "Thanks, dude. I needed to wake up."
I leave the store, and wait on the corner for my husband to come back with the car