the space shuttle’s in the sky so you know not to do bad things

I unearthed some old fourth and fifth grade writings and decided to share them with the world. The spelling is wretched (who knew I’d grow up to become a professional editor?), but they’re worth a read, even if only to see how often blood and knives made an appearance. If you have trouble reading any of them, click on each image to see a larger size.


For shame, Mrs. Detweiler. You don’t “understand” this? Well, duh, obviously it means that the astronaut should’ve listened to the dude who told him not to go up in the sky. But he didn’t listen, and because of that, he ran out of fuel and got stuck on a cloud. It’s a fable, see? See?

I love how playful hooting and disappearing abruptly segues into cutting off people’s heads with a sharp knife, putting their blood in a stew, and forcing people to eat it.

Glad this merited five extra credit points instead of a call to Social Services.

It’s nice I was confident that I’d be safe in my bedroom and that no muggers would jump out with a knife and kill me. As they so often do in little girls’ bedrooms.

Suppose you were a teacher and one of your students wrote, “The room was covered with blood. I won’t go there again! Never!!!” Wouldn’t you wonder if maybe that kid was being, like, ritually abused or something? Apparently not.

This one...ahhh...*scratches head*...I don’t know. Maybe the assignment was to list things that one might see on Halloween? Because Halloween at my house, you see, meant knives and blood.

What a coincidence! 23 years later, I still don’t like to see work! (Note: one of the “things” I liked to see, Chris Loftus, was my fourth grade crush. As you can see, he was pretty high up on the list—I apparently liked to see him even more than I liked to see money.)

A nuclear war would make me “nervous”? Gee, ya think? Note how, in the list of all the things that would make me sad, I made no mention of my family or friends dying.

Fire away, people. Tell me how much you like me. And my shirt.

Aw, I wish I would’ve cut poor Fluffy some slack. If she were barking a lot, surely she had a good reason for doing so. But cutting my sister slack? Not so much. She was mean to me back then! She dangled my Cabbage Patch Kid out a second story window by her feet while I wept and begged for mercy! No wonder I said that she made me feel annoyed!

Pandas are still my favorite animal and obviously I still like computers and love animals. And, admittedly, there are some *ahem* Michael Jackson and Lionel Richie songs on my iPod. “Almost Paradise” is on there, too. My, how far I’ve come!


song heard most recently before posting:
Lament—Lisa Gerrard

questions

I decided to compromise and only attend one FilmFest DC film, thus freeing me to do more freelancing. Yay! Just how I want to spend my Friday night! But I felt like I had little choice, because I’ve got so much work to do and so little time, given that part of Saturday will be spent at Olivia’s baptism (and possibly hanging out with Skevy for a few hours beforehand), and part of Sunday will be spent at that Smithsonian exhibit I’m jonesing to see.

So last night I checked out a Finnish film, Lights in the Dusk. Ever since, like, 2001, when I showed up at a hotly-anticipated Icelandic film at FilmFest and discovered it was sold out, I’ve been careful to buy my tickets in advance each year. This year I just never got around to it, so when I arrived at the cinema I was nervous the show would be sold out. Thankfully that wasn’t the case. I got there nice and early and hunkered down with a big ol’ library book as I waited for the lights to dim. Several other solo nerds were there with books as well, which warmed the cockles of my normally frosty heart.

The film was okay. I must confess that I didn’t enjoy it as much as the director’s last work, The Man without a Past, but I’m still glad I went. One of the the things I love about attending FilmFest and AFI’s EU Film Festival each year is being surrounded by the chatter of foreign languages beforehand. The people behind me were speaking Russian and the people beside me were speaking something I couldn’t quite identify.

Here’s another one of those questionnaire thingies, sent to me recently by my pal Kristen:

1. FIRST NAME? Jennifer

2. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE? I don’t think so.

3. WHEN DID YOU LAST CRY? Mmmm…something on TV made me tear up a little bit semi-recently, but I honestly can’t remember what it was.

4. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING? Actually, yes! When I’m not being totally sloppy with it.

5. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT? I’m a vegetarian, so I don’t eat lunch meat, but back in the day, I was all about the sweet bologna.

6. KIDS? No. Unless my cats count!

7. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOURSELF? Yes.

8. DO YOU HAVE A JOURNAL? Yes.

9. DO YOU USE SARCASM A LOT? Sometimes, but not as much as you’d expect.

10. DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS? Yes.

11. WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP? Hells yeah!!! I’ve been aching to do this for years!

12 WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL? Cinnamon Toast Crunch

13. DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF? Yeah, because otherwise I won’t get them off. But in the past I’ve had shoes that didn’t require it—I managed to pull them off without untying anything (because I’m lazy, y’all).

14. DO YOU THINK YOU ARE STRONG? Physically? Not really. In a pinch I can lift heavy things, but afterwards my muscles quiver and ache. Emotionally? About average, I’d say.

15. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM? A three-way tie between mint chocolate chip, caramel, and chocolate-peanut butter.

16. SHOE SIZE? 10. *cough*beast*cough*

17. RED OR PINK? Red. Especially dark red.

18. WHAT IS YOUR LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF? My hips, butt, and thighs. And my gut (although Freyja doesn’t seem to mind—she loves kneading that dough).

19. WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST? My old self—the self who had lots and lots and lots of free time and wasn’t working herself into an early grave.

20. WHAT COLOR PANTS AND SHOES YOU ARE WEARING RIGHT NOW? Khaki pants, brown shoes.

21. LAST THING YOU ATE? Breakfast: a bowl of cereal and a mug of coffee.

22. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW? Nothing. But the last song I heard was Miriam Stockley and John Williams’s “Kissing in the Rain”

23 IF YOU WERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE? Midnight blue

24. FAVORITE SMELL? None. I’m fucking anosmic.

25. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE? Uh…(*tries to think*)…I don’t even know. I honestly can’t remember.

26. THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE? Clothing, probably. God, that makes me sound so materialistic! Really, I don’t care what they’re wearing—it’s just that I notice what they’re wearing because clothes can say a lot about a person.

27. FAVORITE DRINK? Hot: hot chocolate. Cold: god help my vegetarian-but-not-vegan-soul, it’s milk.

28. FAVORITE SPORT? None. I hate sports! Well, I guess soccer is okay. If I had to support anybody it’d probably be Millwall F.C., as they used to be based in New Cross, where Goldsmiths is located. Go Lions!

29. HAIR COLOR? Dark brown. That’s turning white.

30. EYE COLOR? Blue.

31. DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS? No, although I did between 1989-1997.

32. FAVORITE FOOD? Probably cereal, since that’s what I eat the most. But I’ve got loads of other favorite foods—everything from vegetarian ham to cheese and onion pasties.

33. SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDING? Both! I love scary movies, but sometimes it does my blackened heart good to see a happy ending.

34. LAST MOVIE YOU WATCHED? Lights in the Dusk (Laitakaupungin valot)—a Finnish film at FilmFest DC

35. WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING? Light blue.

36. SUMMER OR WINTER? Honestly? Winter. It can be such a pain in the ass, and it’s not like I relish being cold or anything, but I hate when it’s hot and humid. At least in winter I get a break from that. I love the landscape in winter, too.

37. HUGS OR KISSES? Neither. I’m dead inside.

38. FAVORITE DESSERT? I don’t really have a favorite, per se, but I do flip my lid over the old-school McDonald’s apple pies still sold in Europe, as well as other apple/cinnamon/caramel-y deserts.

39. WHAT BOOKS ARE YOU READING? We Need to Talk About Kevin, by Lionel Shriver. It’s a school shooting book (and I started it days before the Virginia Tech massacre!)

40. WHAT'S ON YOUR MOUSE PAD? At home it’s Rowlf; at work it’s…just black.

41. WHAT DID YOU WATCH LAST NIGHT ON TV? The Office, Grey’s Anatomy, and October Road.

42. FAVORITE SOUNDS? Silence, my favorite music, my cats’ purrs, the wind, the rain.

43. ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES? Beatles.

44. THE FURTHEST YOU’VE BEEN FROM HOME? Russia.

45. DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT? No, sadly! Besides deceiving myself.

46. WHEN AND WHERE WERE YOU BORN? June 4, 1974, in Lebanon, PA


song heard most recently before posting:
Kissing in the Rain—John Williams (music), Miriam Stockley (vocals)

blame and everything after

“Blame confers an awesome power. And it’s simplifying, not only to onlookers and victims but to culprits most of all. It imposes order on slag. Blame conveys clear lessons in which others may take comfort: if only she hadn’t—, and by implication makes tragedy avoidable.” –Lionel Shriver, We Need to Talk About Kevin

The Blame Game, regarding Virginia Tech, has begun. Actually, it began about two minutes after the killing ended. This, I think, is par for the course in most societies. Or maybe just American society—I don’t know. Blame makes people feel better, and blaming someone who can subsequently be punished works best, because it’s hard to blame a dead man. It’s even harder to blame a man who was clearly mentally ill. Severely mentally ill. But somebody needs to be blamed, so where shall the blame be cast?

I’m not a big proponent of flinging blame every which way. Of course it’s easy for me to say that, since I never lost anybody through tragedy or negligence. But I just don’t understand how persecuting someone—say, the Virginia Tech president or Cho’s parents—is going to properly rectify this situation. It can’t be rectified. The damage is done. Nobody is coming back to life. All we can really do is study which mistakes were made and try to prevent them from happening again.

For whatever reason, I feel the need to break down this blame game into its individual compartments:

Blame #1. The Virginia Tech security team and administration are responsible. The campus have been locked down after the first shootings. The school have done more to alert students to what was going on. They waited two hours to send an email to all students and did nothing to lock down the campus.

Well, the cops thought it was an isolated domestic dispute and assumed the shooter left the campus. No, they shouldn’t have made that assumption, and it’s terrible that people died because of it, but here’s the thing: no one could’ve guessed what was going to happen. It’s like how, on 9/11, so many people weren’t told to leave the first tower when it was hit, because everyone thought it was an isolated incident that could be gotten under control. Many lives could’ve been saved if everyone had been ushered out of the building right away—out of both buildings—but really, no one could’ve guessed what was lurking on the horizon: a second plane, two collapses. Hindsight really is 20/20, you know? I told some friends that this reminds me of a Swedish proverb I once heard: “The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected.”

Shawn pointed out that no one can lead a normal life if every event leads to a lockdown. Said Melissa: “Of course they should have not just assumed that the first gunman had left the state, but they did and there was something that told them that was the right decision, and I can guarantee that there are few people in the world who wish they could turn back time and lock down that campus more than the VT administration. We’re so quick to judge in this society, I suppose so we can tell ourselves oh, that would never happen to me because I would do x, y and z and absolutely prevent anything bad from ever befalling me. That, and we’ve learned to sue everyone for everything and assign blame improperly.”

Blame #2. America’s gun culture is to blame. Guns are too easy to get in the US.

I don’t like America’s gun culture because I don’t like guns. I’ve never held one; I never want to. I flinch when foreigners think that all Americans are card-carrying members of the NRA and are packing heat at any given moment. No, folks, we’re not all like that. I think I know a grand total of two people who own guns.

The gun issue is a complicated issue; it is gray and dense and can’t neatly be squeezed into the rigid confines of black and white, right and wrong. My personal belief is that rigid gun controls are essential, but there’s little point in trying to completely outlaw guns, because people who want guns will continue to get guns whether they’re illegal or not. Prohibition failed miserably. Drugs are still illegal and there’s no shortage of them in this country. It’s illegal for kids under age 21 to drink in this country but they still do it. All the time. Does that mean drugs should be legal and kids should be allowed to drink? I’m not saying this should or shouldn’t be the case—all I’m saying is that making something illegal doesn’t necessarily make it vanish into the ether.

I think Cho still would’ve gotten his hands on a gun even if they were illegal. It probably would’ve taken more work to obtain one, but it still would’ve happened. And if he hadn’t snagged a gun, then he would’ve achieved his goal through some other means. Strapped a bomb to himself, perhaps. Gone crazy with a machete. I know it seems like I’m being overly nihilistic here (“Whatever will be, will be; what’s the point of even trying”), but I just don’t see what good will come out of us saying that maybe this wouldn’t have happened if guns were illegal.

Blame #3. Blame the victims.

Yes, some people out there are bitching that the students didn’t do enough to subdue Cho. What a steaming stack of bollocks. In their situation I probably would’ve shit my pants and then passed out in terror. Okay, so maybe the number of people slaughtered would’ve been slightly lower if someone had tackled the guy, but how quick would you be to tackle a blank-faced dude with two guns and a belt of ammo wrapped around him? Especially when he catches you by surprise? Nobody can predict how s/he would act in this situation. Heroism is rarely planned; it just happens. And it did happen at Virginia Tech—just not in a huge, climactic way that ended with Cho being subdued.

People are comparing the Virginia Tech students with the passengers on Flight 93 on 9/11, wondering why the students didn’t follow the passengers’ lead and overcome their captor. Comparing these two situations is like comparing proverbial apples and oranges. Passengers on Flight 93 were brave, but they also had a lot more time to come to grips with what was happening. It’s not like they only realized they were being hijacked seconds before the plane plowed into the White House. They had time to realize what was happening and had time to call their loved ones to get the scoop on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. They knew how their predicament was going to end and they were able to convene to discuss how to handle the situation. The Virginia Tech students and professors didn’t have this option. All they had was quick thinking and adrenaline, and neither one is a guarantee when a sudden, shocking cataclysm drops on your head.

Blame #4. Psychiatrists, Cho’s parents, and his professors are responsible—they didn’t do enough to get him locked up when they suspected he was unstable.

By now we’ve learned that more than a year before the massacre, Cho was accused of sending unwanted messages to two women and was taken to a psychiatric hospital for 48 hours—the longest they could hold him without any proof he was a danger to others. He was released with orders to undergo outpatient treatment. Also, his violence-filled writings and odd demeanor disturbed professors and students so much that he was removed from one English class and was repeatedly urged to get counseling.

Despite all this, I don’t see how anybody can be held accountable for failing to get him thrown long-term into a mental hospital. We live in a country where you can’t get somebody institutionalized against their will simply because you suspect he might be dangerous. You need some semblance of proof. And thank god for that!! I, for one, am glad this is the case. Not because I relish the idea of potential killers populating my daily life, but because I don’t want to live in a society where suspicion alone is enough to condemn a man who may be innocent. I don’t want to live in Soviet Russia, North Korea, or Myanmar, mmm’kay?

The operative word here is that people suspected he was unstable. Yes, he did turn out to be unstable in the end, but nobody knew this beyond a shadow of a doubt until he opened fire. It’s possible he lied his ass off when he was in that mental hospital—giving them the answers they wanted to hear. Violent writings do not automatically equal homicidal behavior. I wrote some creepy shit back in the day, too, and I’m no killer. Pestering crushes, being deemed “weird,” showing strange behavior, and having flattened affect can—although not always—indicate the presence of a mental illness, but the presence of a mental illness does not immediately indicate homicidal tendencies. And, biggest of all, being a loner does not automatically mean you’re a killer!

I know I’m being hyper-sensitive here, but I loathe when the media fixate on killers being loners. It just adds fuel to this society’s already rampant suspicion of anyone who likes being alone. Not all loners are one gun away from becoming killers! And not all killers are loners! Let’s recall Ted Bundy and the BTK killer, shall we? As a lifelong loner, this whole attitude is so offensive to me.

I just worry there’s a real risk that anybody who is different, acts unconventionally, writes strange things, or listens to strange music will become suspicious in everyone’s eyes—labeled a potential killer. I’m not saying everyone should turn a blind eye when there’s a person displaying noticeably strange, erratic behavior. But there has to be some sort of middle ground between automatically assuming every weird, introverted person is a killer and automatically assuming s/he’s just shy and harmless.

Moving on to far less significant things...

FilmFest is here, and, as always, there are a slew of films I want to see. Whereas in the past my selections were limited because of cash flow issues, this year it’s a time issue. I've just got too much freelancing on my plate to allow me to see many films. I think I’m going to squeeze in a Finnish film tomorrow and a French film on Friday, even though doing so will put a serious cramp in my freelancing schedule. Also, there’s an exhibit at the Sackler Gallery I really want to see, and because it ends on Sunday, I’ve got no choice but to hit it this weekend, which further impedes my freelancing. This is one of those rare instances when I’m not backed into a corner because of procrastination, but because I only just learned about the exhibit a few days ago. But, you know, regardless of my time crunch, I gotsta make room for art!


song heard most recently before posting:
Ngankarrparni (Sky Blue Reprise)—Peter Gabriel

Rest in Peace

Bernard Patrick Reilly

July 16, 1935 – April 19, 2007

Bernie was a man amongst men; a gentleman and mentor to all who had the privilege of knowing and working with him. His devotion to his career was only ever exceeded by his love for his children and longing for his departed wife...God knows, he spoke about both daily! May God be with his family during this time of sorrow. He was a wonderful friend and mentor to so many.....his mark on the world will never fade!Thank you, Bernie for all that you have done for so many over the years! Thank you so much. –RG

Bernie was a devoted friend who knew the true value of a friendship. He loved his family and was devoted to them without question. He remained in love with his wife long after her death and showed a sense of loyalty that I admired so very much. He was a man who lived his life to the highest ethical and moral standards. He was a man of real courage. He was a man of “true grit.” He was the most well read and intelligent law enforcement officer that I had ever met. He was always well versed on the latest in law enforcement techniques and management even long after he retired. He was the most progressive police chief and true leader that ever served the Lebanon City Police Department. He was my friend, my mentor, my teacher and my guide—I loved Bernie and I will miss him forever. –Greg Holler

I will always remember Bernie as a mentor, colleague, neighbor, leader, and most importantly, a friend and confidante. He provided constant guidance to all who served with him in LPD, and nurtured us as his own children. I fondly recall the many conversations we shared over the back fence and on the front porch on Hanover Street, regarding law enforcement specifically and society generally. Bernie was both intelligent and compassionate, and served the City of Lebanon with unwavering dedication. He served as an inspiration to all of us.Rest in peace, my friend. I will miss and never forget you. –Gary L. Boyer, Sr.

I met Bernie during the sixties when he was both a patrolman and a part time student at Millersville. I knew him as both. And I respected him as both. Whatever he did he did with passion and compassion. Bernie was not so much concerned about doing things right but more with doing the right thing. And that he did consistently and flawlessly. He was a man of enormous skill and character. Lebanon has lost one of their finest. My deepest sympathies to his family. –Mike Bowman

I had the pleasure of getting to know [Bernie] toward the last year of his life. It was evident that this was a man a superior character and integrity. He displayed such grace even in the face of such terrible news. His only concern was for his family. His joy was talking about his children and grandchildren and remembering his wife lovingly with much dedication and devotion. –Jan Valentin

Lebanon City Police Department was fortunate to have Bernie Reilly, but others in law enforcement also benefited by Bernie’s knowledge, leadership, and kindness, As a Derry Township Police Officer I was privileged to know Bernie. It is with great sadness that I acknowledge the passing of a Policeman’s Policeman. –Jim Negley

He was a wonderful, sweet, intelligent, loving, family oriented man who told the best stories ever!! –Roni Bentz

When the body sinks into death, the essence of man is revealed. Man is a knot, a web, a mesh into which relationships are tied. Only those relationships matter. The body is an old crock that nobody will miss. –Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Flight to Arras

We sometimes congratulate ourselves at the moment of waking from a troubled dream; it may be so the moment after death. –Nathaniel Hawthorne, Journal, October 25, 1836

Perhaps the best cure for the fear of death is to reflect that life has a beginning as well as an end. There was a time when we were not: this gives us no concern—why then should it trouble us that a time will come when we shall cease to be? –William Hazlitt, Table Talk

Perhaps passing through the gates of death is like passing quietly through the gate in a pasture fence. On the other side, you keep walking, without the need to look back. No shock, no drama, just the lifting of a plank or two in a simple wooden gate in a clearing. Neither pain, nor floods of light, nor great voices, but just the silent crossing of a meadow. –Mark Helprin, A Soldier of the Great War

song heard most recently before posting:
It’s Good (to be Free)—Oasis

interrupted

It’s one of those times when the world seems anemic and grim, when I shrink in disgust from what we cavalierly call civilization. The horror continues unabated in Iraq; today alone 170 people were killed in Baghdad. It doesn’t seem like anybody can staunch the flow of hemorrhaging violence in that country. Steady and resolute, the genocide continues in Darfur. In the past month the DC area has witnessed a slew of murders in PG County, a hit-and-run road rage incident in Montgomery County that left two people dead, a domestic murder-suicide in Montgomery County that left two little children and their father dead, and a domestic murder-suicide in Frederick County that left four little children and their father dead and their mother missing. On and on it goes.

And then there’s Virginia Tech. There are layers upon layers of tragedy here. Young lives interrupted. A Holocaust and cancer survivor who endured so much, only to be gunned down in his classroom in the mountains while protecting his students. Freshmen just starting out in life. Seniors on the cusp of graduating. Aside from the professors who were killed, all the victims were kids. Just kids. Just over a decade ago I was one of those kids. Not at Virginia Tech...but in the end, a college is a college is a college. When you’re a 20-year-old college student, whether you’re in a community college in Montana or a massive university in Munich, you don’t expect your world to end on a bluebright Monday morning in April. You don’t expect your world to end when you’re sitting in class in your sweatshirt and jeans, backpack at your feet, notebook and pen or laptop in front of you, thinking about Finals and summer break, maybe, or just thinking about when you can grab your next cup of coffee.

There’s nothing I can really say about this tragedy that hasn’t already been said—more astutely and eloquently, I may add—by the media and folks online. There are a few issues I discussed with friends that I’d like to mention here as well, but I will only do so in a few days’ time. Why? Well, over on the BBC News boards, accusations are flying between pro- and anti-gun believers. Between Americans and countries where guns are illegal. The Virginia Tech situation is bound to devolve into a screaming match about America’s gun culture and whether the right to bear arms is really a right at all. This is on top of the blame being heaped upon the university’s administrators and security force for not doing more to stave off the tragedy. I guess that’s inevitable, but here’s the thing: do we really need to talk about this now? Only two days have passed since the massacre. We don’t even know the names of all the victims yet. Not a single victim has been buried yet. Before everyone starts slinging blame, hunting for scapegoats, and lambasting the US’s gun policies, can’t we just have a period of peace when people reflect on what really matters—the victims and the people left behind?

You think it’s a day like any other. What you don’t realize is anything can happen. And then it does. It happens. And there’s so much left unsaid. And it was all just wasted time. –Harriet Sansom Harris, in Six Feet Under


I could have told him that nothing was safe and that no matter how careful you were and how hard you tried, there were still accidents, hidden traps, and snares. You could get killed on an airplane or crossing the street. Your marriage could fall apart when you weren’t looking; your husband could lose his job; your baby could get sick or die. I could have said that nothing is safe, that the surface of the world is pretty and sane, but underneath it’s all fault lines and earthquakes waiting to happen. –Jennifer Weiner, Little Earthquakes


What you were preparing against—that never happened! All the best-laid plans could not prevent the disaster against which no plans had been laid. –George Stewart, Earth Abides


Bottom line is, even if you see them coming, you’re not ready for the big moments. No one asks for their life to change, not really. But it does. So, what are we, helpless? Puppets? Nah. The big moments are gonna come, you can’t help that. It’s what you do afterwards that counts. That’s when you find out who you are. –Max Perlich, in Buffy the Vampire Slayer


You must not let terror overtake you.
It is a bone breaking in the middle of the night.
It is a misspelled word.
It is everything you thought you knew
becoming unknown, the leaves
stripped from the tree,
all the greenness orange and dry,
it is a pain past bearable, you must not.
–Susan Griffin, “Prayer for Continuation”


But everything went wrong for me and upside down, the nature of things was reborn for me. – Vinsentsos Kornaros, Erotokritos


Learn the darkness.
Gather round you all
the things that you love, name
their names, prepare
to lose them. It will be
as if all you know were turned
around within your body.
–Wendell Berry, “Song in a Year of Catastrophe”

song heard most recently before posting:
Thief of Your Heart—Sinead O’Connor

Easter with the Sopranos

Easter, Easter, Easter. I spent it working, reading (a fabulous disaster book), updating my quotes pages, and watching the first disc of Season 2 of The Sopranos. Oh, and listening to my upstairs neighbors gather with their extended clan for the sole purpose of tormenting me with their noise levels. (So, in turn, I jacked up the volume on my TV so their Easter would be peppered with Tony Soprano bellowing “You fucking fat sack of shit!” and the like.) Also, the first thing to fully wake me on Easter morning wasn’t the noisy neighbors getting ready for church, but the sound of Plath vomiting on my bed. Then I realized that my period had started, too. Happy Easter to me!

Well, it’s not a holiday I celebrate anymore, anyway. To me it really only matters if you’re religious or a kid. Or, if neither applies to you, it’s worth celebrating if you have nice family traditions to uphold. We started going to a fancy Easter buffet at the Hershey Lodge and Convention Center when I was in junior high, I think (or maybe 6th grade at the earliest), and this was something I always enjoyed. The meal was great, there were loads of decorations and a big ice sculpture, and a tux-clad pianist played lovely tunes while we ate. Plus the hostess looked like Dionne Warwick, which, back in the ’80s, I thought was kind of cool. This all began before my parents divorced and my grandmother died, so as the years progressed, the tradition felt like a relic from a better era (even though, okay, technically things were much better after my parents split—those are two people who never should’ve married each other). But when we stopped going to Hershey ’round about 2001 or 2002, because they were raising their prices and the food quality was dropping, I took that as my cue to stop celebrating the holiday altogether. There just didn’t seem to be any point to schlepping up to PA for a holiday that didn’t matter to me.

My sister invited me over for dinner, but I wanted to make some headway with my latest freelancing project and also tackle some long-overdue website updates. Plus I just didn’t feel like getting dressed or going anywhere. Getting dressed and going somewhere are so overrated. For Easter dinner I ate some vegetarian salmon and that was the extent of my celebratory fressing.

My plans to check out the cherry blossoms with Mom and Bill on Saturday fell through. We cancelled on Friday night because we thought the weather was going to be worse than it was. The weather was okay in the end (it remained quite cold but we only received a dusting of snow), but by then it was too late to really do anything about it. I added quotes to my website, watched an excellent German film (The Tunnel), read the aforementioned disaster book, and edited two chapters of my freelancing project.

Since I’m moving backwards here, I’ll mention that I cleaned on Friday night for the first time in ages. I even went to Target beforehand to stock up on new cleaning supplies. Although I knew Mom probably wouldn’t visit after all, because the weather forecast wasn’t looking so great, I decided that a clean apartment would be good for me; perhaps it would even disrupt this paralyzing stasis I’ve been in lately. But really, part of what drove me to clean was my embarrassment over Wednesday’s intruder seeing my disgusting apartment. He used or at least looked at my toilet, and it was foul. It seriously looked like a toilet from Trainspotting. I was just so humiliated, it drove me to clean.

Oh…wait. Did I ever mention my intruder? It’s not a huge deal, really. Last Wednesday I got home from work and one of the first things I noticed was that the door to the laundry room was hanging wide open. I figured the cats must’ve pushed it open—it’s happened before, although never that wide. Then I noticed that my thermometer/hydrometer, which is perched on a little shelf outside the kitchen, was facedown on the floor. Then I noticed that the big plastic container of cat food that I keep in the laundry room was sitting in my living room. Then I noticed that my toilet seat was up, like a guy pissed in it. What. The. Fuck. Well, I’m not that stupid—I understood that someone had been in my apartment. And that someone was clearly one of my upstairs neighbors (the laundry room connects my apartment to their side of the house) or a service employee sent in there to examine the house’s phone connection box, or the water valve, or the gas/electricity meter (all of them are in my apartment). But why? That’s what I want to know. Why would they come into my apartment? And not call me beforehand? Or, in an emergency (like if flooding were imminent and the water valve had to be turned off immediately), why didn’t they at least tell me afterward? Nobody said a word to me. I was pissed. And I felt violated to some degree. Plus, let’s not forget that the last time they had a service employee enter my apartment without asking me, he broke the stained glass star I’d just brought home from Iceland. And there was that one time my previous landlord entered my apartment (without first asking me), to fix one thing or another, and ended up breaking one of my San Francisco magnets and the stained glass Chagall piece I bought in Chicago. So, to say that I’m touchy when it comes to upstairs people entering my apartment without my permission would be an understatement. And since then, I have been locking my door every day. Yes, I learned my lesson, thanks.

So…back to Friday. I’m not an unclean person (haw haw haw, well, in some ways I am)—I’ve always prided myself on keeping a clean and tidy apartment. But ever since my landlord and landlady died two years ago, leaving me thinking that I’d have to move, my apartment has been in disarray. Possessions are packed away and boxes are stacked everywhere. I gave up dusting and cleaning except on a sporadic basis because I just didn’t care anymore. All I want is to get the hell out of there, but naturally the housing market exploded when all this began, and I couldn’t afford a home. I could move into another rental, but…ugh. No thanks. I need to avoid that if I can, for a lot of different reasons.

Anyway, so I cleaned on Friday to eliminate the Trainspotting toilet and all the other nastiness plaguing my apartment thanks to my apathetic sloth. Halfway through the cleaning frenzy I ended up getting badly scratched by Freyja, who I tried to put into the living room while I was vacuuming the bedroom. She’d been in the bedroom and got a crazed, wild-eyed look of panic when she thought I was going to corner her with the vacuum. I decided to carefully pick her up and move her into the living room so she wouldn’t feel trapped. Simple, right? It misfired. She became a puffy, yowling ball of knives and within seconds I was spurting blood. Excellent. But I have to say that I’m impressed with her ability to rip a gash in my chest without actually tearing my shirt. That’s quite a skill to have.

Speaking of cats, the disaster book I just finished mentioned that the narrator’s cat was a gray tabby who yelled a lot. I nudged Plath and sneered, “Why does that sound familiar?” Then the cat disappeared for a while and the narrator was afraid that one of her starving neighbors ate him. I scooped up Plath in a death-clinch, buried my face in his stomach, and screeched, “Plathy, I won’t let the neighbors eat you! I WON’T! I’ll smother you and your sister before I allow the neighbors to eat you!! I’ll keep you safe, I promise you! I won’t let you be their dinner!!!” He was just like, Oh, Jesus Christ.



song heard most recently before posting:
Con te partiro—Andrea Bocelli

shakes on a plane

A big YAY! to the FAA, who graciously decided to maintain its rule that cell phones can’t be used on planes. They say it’s because there’s no conclusive proof that phones won’t interfere with a plane’s navigation/communication tools, but I’d like to think a certain amount of common sense—or at least a fear of air rage—also has something to do with it. Because, let’s be honest here, I can’t imagine the general public would honestly be okay with having to spend hours in a confined space listening to a dozen one-sided cell phone conversations flittering about the cabin. Especially when you consider how many people still talk LOUDER THAN NECESSARY when using cell phones. Planes are annoying enough as it is, unless you’re lucky enough to afford First Class, which I’m not. You’ve got the cramped space, the long toilet queues, the stale recirculated air, the crappy in-flight entertainment, the crying babies, the whining toddlers, the seat-kickers, the push-their-seats-so-far-back-they’re-lying- in-your-lappers, the people behind you who gab loudly at 3am when you’re attempting to snag even a few minutes of precious sleep. Imagine throwing cell phones into the mix. Cell phones with egregious ringtones. Surely I wouldn’t be the only person shaking with rage? Granted, not everyone hates cell phones as much as me, but even people who use them and love them would surely find their patience wearing thin after listening to nonstop cell-gabbing on a long flight. A quick puddle-jumping flight might be okay, but a transatlantic, transpacific, or transcontinental flight? Highly unlikely. Air rage already exists; won’t cell phones make it worse? For me it’s bad enough when the plane lands and everyone immediately pulls out their phones to start gabbing while the plane slowly makes its way to the gate. I can’t imagine dealing with that on a long flight to Europe. So kudos to the FAA, and let’s hope they don’t change their minds on this one.

A big BOO! to Mother Nature, who, after giving us a tantalizing glimpse of spring’s balmy, delicious powers, proceeded to smack us over the head with the blunt hammer of winter. I actually like cold weather—I love winter and I much prefer cold weather to hot weather. [PA Dutch accent] Well I do believe I mind the heat something awful now, ain’t? [/PA Dutch accent] But this is the one weekend when I’d like warm, calm weather, because Mom and Bill are planning to visit me tomorrow so we can see the cherry blossoms at the Tidal Basin. Shivering beneath the blossoms won’t be fun, but it’ll be doable. What won’t be doable will be visiting the blossoms if they’re all dead/missing from the subfreezing nighttime temperatures, the flurries, the strong winds. Heck, we even had hail the other night during a thunderstorm. So, basically, at this point I’m not sure if our day will have be cancelled yet. The cherry blossoms outside my office are still holding strong, so presumably the ones at the tidal basin are doing okay as well, but the images shown on the National Parks Service’s online Cherry Blossom Cam aren’t very helpful. It’s hard to tell from those images whether the blossoms are doing okay or not. If they are still around tomorrow and Mom’s visit proceeds as planned, I think I’ll suggest that we eat lunch at the Elephant & Castle, a British pub in DC, mostly because they serve curry chips, and I heart curry chips. Whether our day gets canceled or not, my weekend will also involve working (shocker!) and doing some massive updates to my quotes collection. Yawn.


song heard most recently before posting:
Looks Like We Made It—Barry Manilow

the cat burglar with zit cream smeared on her face

I assumed the mantle of babysitter on Saturday and managed to watch my beloved little niece Olivia overnight without inadvertently killing or maiming her (my childcare experience is minimal, to say the least). Spending time with her is always a treat, even though getting her to eat and potty isn’t so easy. We spent loads of time outdoors blowing bubbles, zooming around the driveway (her on the little horse scooter I bought her for her first Christmas and me on my rollerblades), playing with rocks, and playing hide and seek. I read several books to her, we watched cartoons, and we built snakes with Play-Doh. On Sunday afternoon her parents and I took her to an Easter Egg hunt at a park in Frederick, followed by a stint in the park’s playground. The best part of the hunt is the fact that we totally forgot to bring along one of her 80 million Easter baskets, so she had to use an Henri Bendel shopping bag as her basket, as that’s the only bag that could be found in her parents’ minivan. It awesomely made us look like a bunch of rich twits.

The only downside: when I let the dawgz out on Sunday morning, I accidentally set off the burglar alarm. My sister set it when they got home at 3am and I didn’t realize this, so I didn’t disarm it before opening the door. The next thing I knew, a trooper was ringing the doorbell. Oops. Seeing as how I was in my pajamas and bare feet and had a toddler scampering around my legs, it was pretty clear to him that I wasn’t a burglar, although who’s to say Olivia and I weren’t a cat burglar team in disguise?

The big spenda hunts for eggs.

song heard most recently before posting:
Duden (Talvin Singh remix)—Natacha Atlas