The Weekly Walk With Me

Four Things I Discovered This Week

1.  Mule Hell Trading Company.  Do yourself a favor and buy at least one thing from this shop.  The olive oil soaps make me happy.  The spearmint with kelp and coffee beans is my new favorite.  I'll be honest, this particular bar is borderline painful but it's awesome for exfoliating areas where you'd want to be extra careful with a spoonful of salt scrub--cuz, you know...


2.  Something new to do with apple cider.  I like cider, it's a fall staple, blah blah.  I use it to cook and drink and such.  But cold or hot,  it can be on the bland side.  I'm sure I'm not the first to add alcohol, but this weekend I added lemon juice for a little bite, and Fireball for a little kick. The next person who takes a seat at my fire pit is getting a mug of this, so prepare yourself.  It was perfect scary movies with the lights out giant mug drinking.

3.  Scary movies I missed the first time around.  First was Dark Places, which wasn't really scary but a dark suspense situation.  And dark it was.  Literally.  They could've spent less money on Charlize Theron and more money on lighting.  I felt like I could've rented this on audio book at a Cracker Barrel and took a road trip.  At midnight.  It would've had the same effect. There was about 15 minutes of the entire movie that I could actually see.  And that's not just because I'm old lady status.
Then there was It Follows.  I'm late on this, it's been around for a while, but I didn't think I'd be interested.  It was creepy and awkward and terrifying, mostly because of the score.  It was timeless in a way that you think you can tell that it's supposed to be set in a certain time, but it's not really set in any particular time. It was the small details that got me.  Kind of brilliant.

4.  I want someone to be happy for once.  And it's Adele.  Everyone lost their minds this week when Adele's new single was released.  I can't place where, but I'm sure I saw her perform "Hello" before her hiatus.  Anyway, I love Adele just as much as anyone.  She can stomp out time in a Chanel heel like nobody's business. I kind of preferred her when she chain smoked in ratty cardigans and self cut bangs, but I'm still paying attention. Anyway, you will rarely hear me say this but I'm kind of over that sad, pining, one that got away schtick.  There are certain artists that should always be miserable. Like I hate that Ray LaMontagne is doing this happy hippy thing now.  He should always be running off to a cabin in the woods, licking divorce wounds.  Trent Reznor should always be just a little twisted pissed.  But Adele should be transitioning to happy by now.  Or at least optimistic about the prospect of getting the one that got away back.  We get it Adele, a past relationship didn't work, and you have the over-singing in fall leaves black and white sads about it.  But you have a new-ish baby, and a partner/boyfriend/husband? thing going on now.  And obviously a gaggle of gays keeping you contoured and strobed within an inch of your life.  Why the long face--still?  So perk up buttercup, you're killin my buzz.

The Weekly Walk With Me

It's been a while since we took this stroll together...

Seven Things I've been Up To.  In No Particular Order.

1. I've met my soul mate.  OK, maybe I shouldn't go that far; but I met a friend who out of the blue one day proclaimed that fajitas are obnoxious.  Which is something I have always said!  No one ever understands when I say this but I hate, hate, hate a fajita.  First of all, they are loud for no reason and cause too much of a scene.  And if one is walked past your table your hair will smell like green pepper smoke for the rest of the day/night.  God forbid you are wearing anything knit when this happens, it will never come out of your clothes and even your boobs will smell like grilled meat and onions--which maybe for some people is kinda hot.  But then after all of this, you still have to put them together.  I don't want to put my own food together in a restaurant.  That's why I'm in a restaurant.

2. I also met a boy with a Rush tattoo.  And for some reason this did not stop me from talking to him.

3. I officially hate X Ambassadors.  Especially that commercial song.

4. We almost lost this face.  Again.

A couple of Saturdays ago I woke up to a pretty gross mess. Seven hours at the emergency vet to be told that it was "most likely cancer".  So the following Monday I learned what a doggy oncologist and ultrasound is all about. Turns out it was just a VERY expensive, messy,  but manageable infection.   I'm pretty sure Bella is actually a cat, because she's on her eighth life.

5. The Knick.  It has everything: rampant cocaine use, prostitutes, corruption, olden times inter-racial relationships, and yummy Clive Owen.  Only he's not really that yummy here because he's an asshole drug addict who never wears socks with boots.  Gross.  Oh, and there's medical stuff that happens too.

6. My current office listening is straight out of  the Rockabye Baby library and I am absolutely not ashamed.  Right now it's The Smiths, but I'm considering having a go at Nine Inch Nails.  It's perfect background noise for times that get serious enough to put glasses on.  I almost bought Jay Z on vinyl at one of my favorite record stores, but I don't think I'd ever listen at home.  Unless a stork left a baby on my doorstep.

7. I found a white eyebrow hair this morning.  What. The. Fuck.  I didn't pluck it out specifically so I could share it with all of you.  But it's not there now, so I guess nature took its course and let the old, dead, blaring hint that I'm not getting any younger just fall out of my face.

#FBF

Let’s flash all the way back last Thursday, when the Governor had declared a state of emergency amid already flooded regions south and west, and ahead of Hurricane Joaquin.  I’m usually not a panicker—I’ve survived a flood myself.  And a three week power outage in August.  Every store within 20 miles sold out of ice.  So I bought beer instead and put it in a bathtub full of cold water.  (Spoiler alert: It turned into a party.) But last Thursday my fridge was already starting to remind me of my college days, so just in case, I made the mistake of making a “quick” trip to the grocery store.  

The show started in the parking lot-nowhere to park-a man with a hood, head down, running for his life with a cart overflowing with cases of soda, lost his footing and had a yard sale all over the pavement.  I feel like I should mention here that it wasn’t even raining yet.  So obviously inside was absolute madness.  It was like witnessing the annual Barney’s sale, guy with less $80 cashmere and more off brand cereal.   There was a feeble old lady muddling through in one of those scooter/cart hybrids.  She was alone, and struggling to get out of it to get her hands on something canned.  I thought hard about it, but my famous instant instinct kicked in and something told me not to help her.  So I turned back the other way, only to make eye contact with a small, smiley Jew (who, going forward will be referred to as the Rabbi) in the same aisle.  I assume he saw the whole thing.  Just as I passed him he turned in the same direction and followed so close behind me I could actually feel him.  What could the universe possibly be trying to tell me with this?  That I should be thinking of how I can be a more effectual human being in this time of crisis?  Probably.  My guilty conscious usually wins.

So about 10 minutes and 3 collisions later I ran into Grandma Moses in the scooter again.  So I thought, oh here’s my shot at redemption.  Mostly I just needed her out of my way.  Just as I started toward her another lady walks up and hands Grandma what she had been trying to reach.  The Good Samaritan gave her a nod, and walked away.  The old woman stared at what she had in her hand and let it sink in.  Then she started screaming.—THIS IS THE WRONG ONE!! YOU GAVE ME THE WRONG THING!!  THIS IS…

My instant instinct usually wins.

 

Finally at the register, I left my case of water in the cart.  Because I’m lazy.  And can’t lift a cotton ball by myself.  And because the counter had a break in it for the cashier to use the scanner gun thing without anyone moving a muscle.  While I was being rung up I listened to the mentally challenged bagboy give an updated weather report to everyone who walked by him.  I watched his googly eyes roll every which way, and independently of each other.   I realized the miniature cashier with horrible glasses and two wrist braces did not see the water, so I told her I had it. Instead of using the resources she had right there in front of her.  She walked all the way around the counter, hoisted the water out of the cart with her 23 pound body, and schlepped  it all the way back around to her side of the register.  And who should walk up behind me while I stood doing nothing?  The. Fucking. Rabbi.  With his smiley face and his environmentally friendly reusable tote.  Ugh!!  It is official.  I will not be resurrected at End of Days.

 

I risked life and limb, and my eternal soul.  And I walked out with a 12 pack of Coke, sesame seed buns (?), 3 frozen pizzas, bananas, 2 cans of Spaghettios, and a can of store brand peanuts.   If I can’t take care of my family during a weather emergency, I don’t know who can… But I did get that case of bottled water.  Which currently sits unopened on the desk in the guest room.

The Falling Leaves Drift By My Window...

Today I have no worry in the world.  My only stresser is this outfit.  I should've gone with the rust brown cardigan instead of the heather grey.  This hasty choice has me looking like I'm transitioning to spring, not fall.  It's a nail biter, I know.  I hope no one notices.  I doubt anyone in my present company will.  I'm surrounded by a lot of ladies who manage to incorporate bejeweled flip flops into their business casual repertoire.  A couple of them wear matching earring and necklace sets-different ones every day.  And this drives me bat shit because 1. I wonder how many of these sets one woman could possibly have, and 2. I wonder if they are stored in the Kohl's boxes they came in, in an underwear drawer, or if they are displayed together on a vanity like from a jewelry tree.  And what would happen if one of them took a chance and wore the faux pearl and rhinestone earrings with the enamel daisy necklace?  Would the pink, beachy themed hand-painted "It's 5 o'clock Somewhere" signs fall from every one of their office walls?!
But I'm not getting sucked into that negative line of thinking.  It's a partly cloudy 75 degrees today which means every white girl's favorite things are about to happen.  Scarves, boots, cuffing season, imaginary romantic walks in apple orchards, pumpkin spice everything.  Actually I want no parts of that last bit--it's become obnoxious and overdone.  Over saturated on a main stream media discovering transgenderism level.  Though I will admit to having a pumpkin spice chai before bed twice this week.  But I'm pretty sure that's redundant. And everyone in India wants to declare war on 'Merica right now--even the tourists.
Anyway, I am the most basic of all basic bitches and I don't even care, because this is my absolute favorite time of year. I'm already nesting.  Things are getting baked and roasted and I'm about to make cream of anything I can get my hands on soup. I'm looking forward to red wine and black honey on my lips. And on my table linen. Body hugging turtlenecks.  Smelling like fire. That there is a change in the wind, a slow purge, and an end.  I'd rather leave the muck of the year behind and watch it die than nurture it into a budding new life six months from now. It's not fresh and new, it's browning and on its last leg.  Just the way I like it.
And so it's that time of year again.  To sink down into the wool and leather, breathe in the smoke and spice, let the pace slow to a crawl, watch the leaves change and die and fall. To look straight through the trees at the blank slate grey of the concrete. And let it go.

#TBT

The waifish young girl with the delicate hands holding that so over it baby is not a waifish young girl at all. That's my Dad.  Which is reason number 9,803 why I will always be a daddy's girl.  That and just this week he brought me candy corn like I was ten.  I am loved.
And yes, as a matter of fact I do still make that face, but I don't have those PJs anymore.  Kinda wish I did.
Happy. Thursday.

Out On the Streets and You Could Hear From Inside...

I've always had a certain sixth sense about things.  Not in every situation, but often enough that I am aware of and trust it. Maybe it's just that I'm a little more observant than most, maybe it's the sloppy mix of Gypsy and Jew in my blood--I am named for a book of mysticism after all. And my dreams tell me truths about the people around me, give me a tiny glimpse of what might be about to happen. Deja vu happens to me all the time. I see places for the first time that I've already seen. I meet people I already know...

On September 11, 2001 I woke up early, I jumped in the shower, I washed my hair.  And the thought hit me out of nowhere--what if someone blew up the White House?  What kind of chaos would ensue? What would we do as a society? Why am I thinking about this in the shower on an early Tuesday morning?  

I had a roommate at the time, and as I stepped out into the kitchen I yelled to him, "I just had the most fucked up thought. I was thinking about someone bombing the White House."  I got no answer, but I could hear the TV from the other room. I walked in to find him pallid and terrified.  We watched without really talking, trying to process what was going on, and then word came that a plane had hit the Pentagon.  Too close to home, and too close to what had happened in my head an hour earlier.  

And then the dreams came. A little girl in a desert, about 4 years old I think, blonde in a pink flowy dress.  There were ruffles.  She stood alone, nothing around her but sand. Everything was sort of orange/yellow.  She looked right at me, and then turned to white dust. Anthrax.

It soon came out that roomie had actually been terrified of me that day.  It changed us.  My next Rolling Stone came with an American flag pin on the cover.  I had friends who got married soon after, claiming 9/11 put things in perspective for them.  Two months later my youngest nephew was born.  And my mother began her long, slow flirtation with death.  Life went on.  It still does.

I've known two survivors of the WTC attacks, and countless friends and connections affected in the city. I've observed moments of silence with the white noise still buzzing in my head. I brag that my Dad volunteered at Ground Zero. And I wait for the next mass hysteria, the next scene of human tragedy that will feed our insatiable appetite for carnage, and our need to feel connected to something.  And life goes on.

#TBT

All along I've told myself the point of this blog and most of my creative endeavors in my current life is to work myself through/hash out the struggles of my maturing, adult self. Well, I found an old post from about seven years ago. And interestingly enough, some things really never do change:


Current Listening: Rufus Wainwright
Hours of Sleep: 3.25

I came home early last night though I was having a lovely time with some of my favorite boys. I decided that Monday night was a good one to put the night life on hold and try to catch up on some sleep. I didn't. And the drugs don't work anymore.
People tell me I should write while in the throes of insomnia. And I do, but I don't think those people understand the complete incoherence that goes along with lack of sleep. Just because I'm awake doesn't mean I'm clear enough to work on a diabolical plan to take over the world like some genius artist cutting off his own ears. Actually, I'm usually not even clear enough to tie my own shoes even when I am sleeping well. So now we're looking at a rough schedule of what goes on in the middle of my nights when I'm not otherwise engaged:

12:15 ish: in fabulous bed that everyone I know is jealous of
12:45 ish: tossing and turning in bed that is becoming less fabulous
1:30 ish: reading in wretched bed
2:30 ish: reading on fabulous sofa
2:45 ish: paint nails, color: Cranberry
3:30 ish: sleep
4:45 ish: eat Froot Loops in embarrassing quantity
5:00 ish: watch The Patty Duke Show
6:00: hand wash dishes with newly painted nails
7:00: pissed at pretentious personality lacking local weatherman, flip channels
8:15 ish: bored to tears by the year that changed Diane Sawyer's life, sleep
10:00: call to schedule manicure for ravaged, suffering, newly painted/dish washing hands

So now with Froot Loop regret and stunning fingertips I am thinking of who I should see tonight and how late I could possibly stay out on a Tuesday. I probably won't make it through dinner...