Menace
13 years ago
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Dear Man Sitting Across from Me Reading Mein Kampf,
You can't be serious.
And could you please stop staring at me, like just because I'm blonde we share some secret superiority.
And don't you even think of passing me any literature.
Sincerely,
Girl in the Black Dress
I've been busy.
Also, I like to make understatements.
I've felt horribly guilty about neglecting my blog, which has been with me for the last few years in the best of times, the worst of times.
It's the best of times right now.
I'm just too busy to say anything about it.
(Proof: This morning at 1:30ish, I woke up, my mind refusing to quiet until I made a to-do list for the day. I wrote down more than 50 things and felt like crying.)
So, I'm getting a lot of things done, but when it comes to this blog, not so much. I've been starting drafts of posts and leaving them as drafts instead of publishing them, because they read like a schitzoid version of my life and I dislike that person quite a lot.
And, so.
I propose this.
Since all I have time for is the sound-bite version of life, and since I'm spending a great deal of time in a number of coffee shops, and since stress makes me snarky, and since I'm basically a coward, I decided I would switch up the format of this blog, and instead of writing about myself, I would write about other people.
Only temporarily.
Maybe.
Sunday, January 20, 2013
The Stargazer
It's 28 degrees and my husband is outside, looking up at the stars.
For me, it's a tough sell. Inside, I have warm pajamas, two pairs of socks and a comforter pulled over my legs. There's a beagle sleeping upside down next to me, caught in a dream-chase. My laptop hums vaguely on my lap.
Every so often, Will comes to the back door and calls, "You can see the Red Spot on Jupiter!" and I sigh, and snuggle deeper beneath the comforter.
***
The telescope arrived in no less than four boxes in separate, highly-anticipated UPS deliveries. It's a serious piece of equipment, and I laugh when I see the finished product. I had tried to buy him off with a child's version of a telescope, something handheld and probably better suited to spotting land from a ship already very near the shore. Once assembled, this telescope occupies a rather large section of our garage -- a space where other, less adventurous people might park a car.
***
It's not that I'm against Will having a hobby. I've got a rather time-consuming one myself (Exhibit A: 3,000 books), and I can appreciate the romance and escapism of astronomy, although not necessarily the patience and the act of trying not to squint into an eyepiece.
My objection is more practical: It's January, the temperature hovering at or below freezing, and frankly, I'd just rather be inside. Somehow when the word "telescope" first came up, I envisioned us lying on a blanket, sipping wine, telling stories and admiring the sky.
I had discounted winter entirely.
But even I can understand that the planet he sees tonight might not be there in the middle of a balmy June evening.
***
When he finally persuades me to come outside, the telescope is pointed directly at the moon. The moon looks, in case you're wondering, exactly like you think it would look: Swiss-cheesy, with a giant depression for the Sea of Tranquility. When your teeth are chattering from the cold, it's hard to keep the entire moon in focus -- it seems to be wobbling up and down, although, of course, it's actually the viewer who is wobbling up and down.
***
I come from a short line of astronomy buffs, including only my mother.
Years ago she took a class on astronomy and ever since has spent two weeks of each spring crawling through a tunnel into an inflatable dome, then lying on her back with a laser-pointer, telling stories of Orion and Andromeda to giggling groups of schoolchildren.
I come to her StarLab lesson every few years, and it's always amazing what I've forgotten in the times between. I am only capable of holding the map of the sky in my mind for minutes at a time. Close my eyes or look away, and I've forgotten it all. Maybe I just don't look up enough, or pause often enough to be amazed. But each time I do, I see the scattered sprinkling of lights, and it's all new once again.
***
One of the first gifts I bought Will, for a birthday long ago, was a moon globe. Now he has moon maps, sky charts, a stargazing app, and a binder full of observations. He stargazes with a combination of extreme seriousness and a toddler's unbridled joy. Sometimes I ask if he is looking for anything in particular, because I have a deep suspicion that he is looking not just for a planet, but for someone or something.
From the millions of interesting Will stories I have at my disposal, I offer the following:
On May 2, 2011, we were relaxing in front of the TV on a Sunday afternoon when our programing was interrupted by the announcement of a special presidential press conference. We sat up straight; I was convinced we would hear news of a national tragedy or a natural disaster, but Will thought otherwise. He became edgy and pale, growing more and more flustered as we waited.
"What is it?" I demanded.
He began to pace the room, muttering under his breath as he went. It sounded like he was saying, "It's finally happened."
"Um, hello? What are you talking about?"
His eyes glistened, in a way that seemed almost... other-worldly, and he said, "I've been waiting for this! We've made contact."
***
You've probably figured out -- or remembered, or remembered after following the link -- that May 2, 2011 was the date that Osama Bin Laden was killed. President Obama revealed as much at the press conference that evening, and for days -- weeks, maybe -- media everywhere was consumed with the story. Everything from euphoria to concern to outrage was voiced, but in our little house, we were more subdued.
I didn't have the heart to say, "I told you so."
And Will was too despondent to do anything other than wander out into the backyard, and stare up at the sky.
For me, it's a tough sell. Inside, I have warm pajamas, two pairs of socks and a comforter pulled over my legs. There's a beagle sleeping upside down next to me, caught in a dream-chase. My laptop hums vaguely on my lap.
Every so often, Will comes to the back door and calls, "You can see the Red Spot on Jupiter!" and I sigh, and snuggle deeper beneath the comforter.
***
The telescope arrived in no less than four boxes in separate, highly-anticipated UPS deliveries. It's a serious piece of equipment, and I laugh when I see the finished product. I had tried to buy him off with a child's version of a telescope, something handheld and probably better suited to spotting land from a ship already very near the shore. Once assembled, this telescope occupies a rather large section of our garage -- a space where other, less adventurous people might park a car.
***
It's not that I'm against Will having a hobby. I've got a rather time-consuming one myself (Exhibit A: 3,000 books), and I can appreciate the romance and escapism of astronomy, although not necessarily the patience and the act of trying not to squint into an eyepiece.
My objection is more practical: It's January, the temperature hovering at or below freezing, and frankly, I'd just rather be inside. Somehow when the word "telescope" first came up, I envisioned us lying on a blanket, sipping wine, telling stories and admiring the sky.
I had discounted winter entirely.
But even I can understand that the planet he sees tonight might not be there in the middle of a balmy June evening.
***
When he finally persuades me to come outside, the telescope is pointed directly at the moon. The moon looks, in case you're wondering, exactly like you think it would look: Swiss-cheesy, with a giant depression for the Sea of Tranquility. When your teeth are chattering from the cold, it's hard to keep the entire moon in focus -- it seems to be wobbling up and down, although, of course, it's actually the viewer who is wobbling up and down.
***
I come from a short line of astronomy buffs, including only my mother.
Years ago she took a class on astronomy and ever since has spent two weeks of each spring crawling through a tunnel into an inflatable dome, then lying on her back with a laser-pointer, telling stories of Orion and Andromeda to giggling groups of schoolchildren.
I come to her StarLab lesson every few years, and it's always amazing what I've forgotten in the times between. I am only capable of holding the map of the sky in my mind for minutes at a time. Close my eyes or look away, and I've forgotten it all. Maybe I just don't look up enough, or pause often enough to be amazed. But each time I do, I see the scattered sprinkling of lights, and it's all new once again.
***
One of the first gifts I bought Will, for a birthday long ago, was a moon globe. Now he has moon maps, sky charts, a stargazing app, and a binder full of observations. He stargazes with a combination of extreme seriousness and a toddler's unbridled joy. Sometimes I ask if he is looking for anything in particular, because I have a deep suspicion that he is looking not just for a planet, but for someone or something.
From the millions of interesting Will stories I have at my disposal, I offer the following:
On May 2, 2011, we were relaxing in front of the TV on a Sunday afternoon when our programing was interrupted by the announcement of a special presidential press conference. We sat up straight; I was convinced we would hear news of a national tragedy or a natural disaster, but Will thought otherwise. He became edgy and pale, growing more and more flustered as we waited.
"What is it?" I demanded.
He began to pace the room, muttering under his breath as he went. It sounded like he was saying, "It's finally happened."
"Um, hello? What are you talking about?"
His eyes glistened, in a way that seemed almost... other-worldly, and he said, "I've been waiting for this! We've made contact."
***
You've probably figured out -- or remembered, or remembered after following the link -- that May 2, 2011 was the date that Osama Bin Laden was killed. President Obama revealed as much at the press conference that evening, and for days -- weeks, maybe -- media everywhere was consumed with the story. Everything from euphoria to concern to outrage was voiced, but in our little house, we were more subdued.
I didn't have the heart to say, "I told you so."
And Will was too despondent to do anything other than wander out into the backyard, and stare up at the sky.
Monday, January 7, 2013
The City at Night
We wake from a late-afternoon nap, dress, and step outside.
San Francisco is hushed, a quiet brought on by the deepening evening, the
susurration of cars passing in the rain. And it is raining – alternating between
a gray mist and insistent droplets. We pull our coats tighter, thinking fondly
of the umbrella packed in case of such an unlikely occurrence, an umbrella
safely stowed in our car, which is safely stowed in a parking garage six blocks
away.
We laugh. It’s not so bad. Every third of a block or so we
stop beneath a store awning, catching our breath, peering inside at the people peering outside at us.
Two blocks later we hail a cab, slide giggling into the back seat, patting rain off our heads. We give the driver the address of our eventual destination: 261 Columbus Avenue. It's raining harder when we emerge, and we take cover beneath an overhang, catching our bearings.
First, dinner. We head up one block, where North Beach begins its merge to Chinatown. There are wet figures on every corner, waiting for streetlights. Pizza-by-the-slice, topless shows, gelato. We pass a half-dozen Chinese restaurants and reverse direction. It's raining harder, now. At any minute what seems a romantic, half-waking dream will become the stuff of bad memories. What about that time you dragged me through half of San Francisco in that downpour?
The restaurant we are looking for seems not to exist, and no amount of reasoning with our Maps app produces results. Half a block in another direction, toward Russian Hill, we see a miniscule awning and make a run for it. It's either this or pizza-by-the-slice. It's either this or starvation.
The restaurant has fewer than twenty two-seater tables, and appears to be at capacity. But no, miraculously -- there is a table near the kitchen, and yes, we will take it. We shrug out of our coats, place a wine order, listen to the specials. "My mamma handmade that pasta this morning," the waitress tells us. Beginning to dry off, we look around, noting the family resemblance in the servers. There is the matriarch, slightly stooped, a black skirt past her knees, orthopedic shoes. The two daughters, in black pants. A pre-teen girl, obviously a granddaughter, bringing checks to tables.
The arrival of the patriarch coincides with the arrival of a crusty bread, to be dipped in olive oil and balsamic vinegar. "This is just what this place needed," my companion says. "A mafia don." And he does seem severe at first, in dark pants and overcoat, rainwater dripping off his fedora. Then the matriarch steps forward, using her thumbs to pat his face dry.
I realize that the table by the kitchen is the best seat in this house.
It would be too simple, too anti-climactic to say, And then the food arrived, and then we ate. Yet it would seem hyperbolic to say, And then the single best plate of food I have ever eaten was served to me.
There have been other good meals, some even fantastic. This one nearly made me cry with happiness, like a batty old lady in a children's book. To put a bite of this food (gnocchi pillows stuffed with ricotta and spinach, topped with a tomato and gorgonzola cream sauce) into my mouth was to realize that I had never really eaten before, and would probably never do so again. It was the most intense food experience of my life. My companion -- he of the flat-noodle pasta, tossed with Italian sausage, peppers and a tomato sauce -- fed me off his fork, and I returned the favor. We were full long before our plates were finished, but there was no choice but to press on, despite an uncomfortable fullness. It was simply a moral imperative.
There have been other good meals, some even fantastic. This one nearly made me cry with happiness, like a batty old lady in a children's book. To put a bite of this food (gnocchi pillows stuffed with ricotta and spinach, topped with a tomato and gorgonzola cream sauce) into my mouth was to realize that I had never really eaten before, and would probably never do so again. It was the most intense food experience of my life. My companion -- he of the flat-noodle pasta, tossed with Italian sausage, peppers and a tomato sauce -- fed me off his fork, and I returned the favor. We were full long before our plates were finished, but there was no choice but to press on, despite an uncomfortable fullness. It was simply a moral imperative.
The granddaughter brought our check, we drained the last of our wine, the owner thanked us, and we left, food-drunk and happy.
It was still raining, and the streetlights cast a faux glow over us. We linked hands; we made a run for it.
It was still raining, and the streetlights cast a faux glow over us. We linked hands; we made a run for it.
Monday, December 31, 2012
Wild Rabbit Chase
For reasons I will not divulge, I once chased a wild rabbit across a freeway off-ramp.
Ouch!
Okay, okay.
Enough with the arm twisting. I will divulge. And maybe you can help me make sense of it.
***
To understand this blog post, you should know that:
1. I love animals.
2. Sometimes I love animals more than I love people.
3. I once saw a cat get hit on a city street and I did nothing about it. I wasn't the driver, and I wasn't in the car, and it wasn't my cat. If I had blinked at that moment, or decided to dig in my purse for a lone stick of gum, I might have missed the whole thing. But I didn't. And it haunts me.
4. One of my MFA professors once told me, "You really have a knack for writing about dying animals."
5. I sometimes do very, very stupid things.
***
Also, as disclaimer, I wish I could say that this happened a long, long time ago, like when I was 12, right about the time that girls who love horses but realize they will never own a horse decide to settle for a rabbit.
Or maybe when I was 18, and doing stupid things was what I did best.
Or maybe when I was 25, when I still had a job but not yet a career, lived in an apartment and not a house, and sometimes slipped and called my husband "my boyfriend," since it was all so new.
But no. This happened when I was a full-grown, career-minded, mortgage-paying adult who had been married for more than 12 years.
In fact, it happened only a month ago.
***
We had just turned onto the Briggsmore overpass from Ninth Street, which will mean little if you don't know the area. To try to give this a bit of perspective, locals tend to refer to this area as the "Briggsmore parking lot," since it is often clogged with cars trying to head north on 99, south on 99, west to Carpenter Road, east to Briggsmore Avenue, or north on Sisk Road to Walmart/the mall/Target/Costco. In other words, it was a regular zoo -- even before I saw the rabbit.
Will was driving. (This is only a statement of fact, not of blame or censure.) I was happily musing over the gift we had just bought ourselves -- an eighty-year-old steamer trunk that we absolutely didn't need and probably wouldn't have room to store.
Up ahead of us, there were sudden brake lights, some swerving and a few honks -- and I realized that a van had rear-ended a compact car, and all the occupants were hopping out.
This particular van looked like something that might have toured with the Grateful Dead or Phish; it was packed with people, blankets, and the sort of household objects that suggested its occupants were permanently on the move.
Will put on his blinker, trying to avoid the two lanes that were now blocked, and that's probably why I saw the rabbit first.
***
My mother tells a story -- a pretty good one, too -- of a deer that ran through our residential neighborhood in Napoleon, Ohio, across a street, through a garage and into someone's backyard. Everyone was amazed: one minute there had not been a deer, and then the deer was there, and then it was gone.
It was the same with this rabbit.
***
When all the occupants of the Grateful Dead/Phish/Gimme Shelter van had hopped out, so too had their rabbit. ("A wild rabbit," Will would point out, if he were in my head writing this story. But I'm getting ahead of myself.)
I screamed. Yes, literally. It was a largish rabbit, with giant, stand-up ears, and it was frantically hopping toward six lanes of flowing traffic.
A teenage boy from the van followed in half-hearted chase, saw the coming onslaught of traffic, and gave up. At this point, the driver had hopped back into the van, and the boy ran behind it for a few paces, grabbing at the door. You've seen this, I'm sure -- only it might have been a villain, trying to catch a handle and therefore a leg up into a moving train. But the boy made it into the van, and the van took off, and cars started to fill in the space on the road where the accident had been.
And the rabbit was still there, bewildered. Like a sitting duck.
I had my seatbelt off and had opened the door before I could think what I was doing.
Will said, "What -- you are not --"
But I was. I was out of the car, running in my black-and-white tunic, my black leggings, my black boots. "Come here! Come here!" I screamed.
I was calling to the rabbit.
***
I'm not exactly sure what I would have done with the rabbit if I had managed to catch it. Maybe I would have secured it in the trunk somehow and headed out to the country, popped the back hatch and yelled, "Run free, little rabbit!" Maybe I would have built it a hutch and let it live in my backyard ("No way," says the Will in my head).
But the rabbit was much faster than me, and it immediately darted forward (followed by me, panting; followed by Will, driving slowly with his blinker on) and sprinted down the right lane, crossed in front of two cars stopped at the southbound off-ramp, and ran quick-as-a (well... you know) down the embankment to a wooded area behind an I-Hop and a Denny's and a Sonic Burger.
***
"Paula," Will said when I was back in the car, my seatbelt fastened, my heart still pounding. He seemed to be struggling very hard to find the right words to say to me -- part-reprimand, part-consolation, part-bafflement -- and in the end, he just shook his head.
I really couldn't even tell you why, unless this was just one more sign of craziness in an entire episode of craziness, but I found myself wiping real tears from my eyes.
And wishing that rabbit all the best.
Ouch!
Okay, okay.
Enough with the arm twisting. I will divulge. And maybe you can help me make sense of it.
***
To understand this blog post, you should know that:
1. I love animals.
2. Sometimes I love animals more than I love people.
3. I once saw a cat get hit on a city street and I did nothing about it. I wasn't the driver, and I wasn't in the car, and it wasn't my cat. If I had blinked at that moment, or decided to dig in my purse for a lone stick of gum, I might have missed the whole thing. But I didn't. And it haunts me.
4. One of my MFA professors once told me, "You really have a knack for writing about dying animals."
5. I sometimes do very, very stupid things.
***
Also, as disclaimer, I wish I could say that this happened a long, long time ago, like when I was 12, right about the time that girls who love horses but realize they will never own a horse decide to settle for a rabbit.
Or maybe when I was 18, and doing stupid things was what I did best.
Or maybe when I was 25, when I still had a job but not yet a career, lived in an apartment and not a house, and sometimes slipped and called my husband "my boyfriend," since it was all so new.
But no. This happened when I was a full-grown, career-minded, mortgage-paying adult who had been married for more than 12 years.
In fact, it happened only a month ago.
***
We had just turned onto the Briggsmore overpass from Ninth Street, which will mean little if you don't know the area. To try to give this a bit of perspective, locals tend to refer to this area as the "Briggsmore parking lot," since it is often clogged with cars trying to head north on 99, south on 99, west to Carpenter Road, east to Briggsmore Avenue, or north on Sisk Road to Walmart/the mall/Target/Costco. In other words, it was a regular zoo -- even before I saw the rabbit.
Will was driving. (This is only a statement of fact, not of blame or censure.) I was happily musing over the gift we had just bought ourselves -- an eighty-year-old steamer trunk that we absolutely didn't need and probably wouldn't have room to store.
Up ahead of us, there were sudden brake lights, some swerving and a few honks -- and I realized that a van had rear-ended a compact car, and all the occupants were hopping out.
This particular van looked like something that might have toured with the Grateful Dead or Phish; it was packed with people, blankets, and the sort of household objects that suggested its occupants were permanently on the move.
Will put on his blinker, trying to avoid the two lanes that were now blocked, and that's probably why I saw the rabbit first.
***
My mother tells a story -- a pretty good one, too -- of a deer that ran through our residential neighborhood in Napoleon, Ohio, across a street, through a garage and into someone's backyard. Everyone was amazed: one minute there had not been a deer, and then the deer was there, and then it was gone.
It was the same with this rabbit.
***
When all the occupants of the Grateful Dead/Phish/Gimme Shelter van had hopped out, so too had their rabbit. ("A wild rabbit," Will would point out, if he were in my head writing this story. But I'm getting ahead of myself.)
I screamed. Yes, literally. It was a largish rabbit, with giant, stand-up ears, and it was frantically hopping toward six lanes of flowing traffic.
A teenage boy from the van followed in half-hearted chase, saw the coming onslaught of traffic, and gave up. At this point, the driver had hopped back into the van, and the boy ran behind it for a few paces, grabbing at the door. You've seen this, I'm sure -- only it might have been a villain, trying to catch a handle and therefore a leg up into a moving train. But the boy made it into the van, and the van took off, and cars started to fill in the space on the road where the accident had been.
And the rabbit was still there, bewildered. Like a sitting duck.
I had my seatbelt off and had opened the door before I could think what I was doing.
Will said, "What -- you are not --"
But I was. I was out of the car, running in my black-and-white tunic, my black leggings, my black boots. "Come here! Come here!" I screamed.
I was calling to the rabbit.
***
I'm not exactly sure what I would have done with the rabbit if I had managed to catch it. Maybe I would have secured it in the trunk somehow and headed out to the country, popped the back hatch and yelled, "Run free, little rabbit!" Maybe I would have built it a hutch and let it live in my backyard ("No way," says the Will in my head).
But the rabbit was much faster than me, and it immediately darted forward (followed by me, panting; followed by Will, driving slowly with his blinker on) and sprinted down the right lane, crossed in front of two cars stopped at the southbound off-ramp, and ran quick-as-a (well... you know) down the embankment to a wooded area behind an I-Hop and a Denny's and a Sonic Burger.
***
"Paula," Will said when I was back in the car, my seatbelt fastened, my heart still pounding. He seemed to be struggling very hard to find the right words to say to me -- part-reprimand, part-consolation, part-bafflement -- and in the end, he just shook his head.
I really couldn't even tell you why, unless this was just one more sign of craziness in an entire episode of craziness, but I found myself wiping real tears from my eyes.
And wishing that rabbit all the best.
Friday, December 21, 2012
The Christmas Sock Photo Shoot
Every year in the middle of the summer, I start brainstorming about what Christmas cards the W and I will send that year. This is not because I'm one of those people who feels the need to outdo herself each year -- really. But neither can I buy a pack of cards at Target and scribble our names inside them -- I just can't. For this I would like to blame my family, they of the long, newsy annual letters detailing the amazing feats of their spouses, children, and pets, and also they of the stunningly beautiful families in matching Christmas sweaters. For whatever reason, I struggle each year with our card.
For my entire adulthood, I have mailed "holiday" cards in January, around the time kids are back in school and Christmas trees are laying in sad heaps at the curb, waiting for the city disposal system to get around to them. Merry (LATE!) Christmas, and (HOPE YOU'RE HAVING) a happy New Year!
But not this year, I told myself. This year, instead of working two full time jobs, I was only working the equivalent of one, or maybe 1.2. I had time to read, to plan, to get things done.
During these months of introspection, I stumbled across someone else's idea for a Christmas card online and was quickly determined to steal it and make it my own. It was simple, yet brilliant. It said everything I wanted it to say.
I would take pictures of our feet, clad in brightly striped Christmas socks.
***
You see, the W and I have no human children, and renting a few for the purpose of taking an adorable family picture has always seemed disingenuous. Our pets, although quite lovely in real life, are not at all photogenic. This has something to do with their refusal to sit still in the presence of anything resembling a camera. At the sight of said camera, the cats switch into full Kitty Olympics-mode, running across the back of the couch, zipping down the hallway and tearing in and out of bedrooms, until finally coming to rest behind the shower curtain. Baxter loves the camera a little too much -- in most photos, he is a massive black nose approximately an inch from the lens.
And the W and I -- well, forget it. Neither of us loves the idea our cheesy mugs being affixed to anyone's refrigerator for any length of time.
As I saw it, this left only our feet.
***
We scheduled the Christmas Sock Photo Shoot for a Sunday night, in between Will's marathon weekend-of-work and our very busy Monday morning. We were exhausted and had deep, painful looking circles beneath our eyes -- but it didn't matter. That was the beauty of taking a picture of our feet.
My idea was that we would prop up our feet on our coffee table in a cutesy kind of way, snap a picture, and be done with it. First, there was the problem of getting Baxter out of the way. Then, the background (a zillion books on our living room shelves) looked too busy. I laid out a white sheet, thinking this would be a nice contrast to our Christmas socks, but then it looked like we were in bed, which wasn't exactly what I wanted, either.Finally, we stood and shot down at our feet, which involved leaning over and bumping our foreheads together at inopportune times.
The W, who is generally willing to humor me in situations such as the Christmas Sock Photo Shoot, submitted to the arranging and rearranging of our legs and feet for a good ten minutes, during which two things happened. One, I shot twenty photos, all of which were incredibly stupid-looking, and two, I realized that feet are incredibly ugly things. Also, three, I suddenly remembered that I do not have an artistic bone in my body.
"It looked so cute online," I lamented, scanning through our pictures. "Maybe what we need to do is just take pictures of our socks, without our feet in them."
We took the socks off and did a few "still life" shots against the white sheet.
"Nothing says Merry Christmas like two pairs of dirty socks on a bed sheet," Will mused, at which point I tossed one sock at his head, and Baxter grabbed the other and ran into our bedroom to chew it in peace.
***
Somehow, it is now December 21. Our sofa table is cluttered with brightly colored Christmas cards from all around the country. I have read the Christmas letters from my family members, marveling at the different paths our lives have taken. I have affixed pictures of smiling children to our refrigerator.
And of course, I haven't sent one. single. card.
For my entire adulthood, I have mailed "holiday" cards in January, around the time kids are back in school and Christmas trees are laying in sad heaps at the curb, waiting for the city disposal system to get around to them. Merry (LATE!) Christmas, and (HOPE YOU'RE HAVING) a happy New Year!
But not this year, I told myself. This year, instead of working two full time jobs, I was only working the equivalent of one, or maybe 1.2. I had time to read, to plan, to get things done.
During these months of introspection, I stumbled across someone else's idea for a Christmas card online and was quickly determined to steal it and make it my own. It was simple, yet brilliant. It said everything I wanted it to say.
I would take pictures of our feet, clad in brightly striped Christmas socks.
***
You see, the W and I have no human children, and renting a few for the purpose of taking an adorable family picture has always seemed disingenuous. Our pets, although quite lovely in real life, are not at all photogenic. This has something to do with their refusal to sit still in the presence of anything resembling a camera. At the sight of said camera, the cats switch into full Kitty Olympics-mode, running across the back of the couch, zipping down the hallway and tearing in and out of bedrooms, until finally coming to rest behind the shower curtain. Baxter loves the camera a little too much -- in most photos, he is a massive black nose approximately an inch from the lens.
And the W and I -- well, forget it. Neither of us loves the idea our cheesy mugs being affixed to anyone's refrigerator for any length of time.
As I saw it, this left only our feet.
***
We scheduled the Christmas Sock Photo Shoot for a Sunday night, in between Will's marathon weekend-of-work and our very busy Monday morning. We were exhausted and had deep, painful looking circles beneath our eyes -- but it didn't matter. That was the beauty of taking a picture of our feet.
My idea was that we would prop up our feet on our coffee table in a cutesy kind of way, snap a picture, and be done with it. First, there was the problem of getting Baxter out of the way. Then, the background (a zillion books on our living room shelves) looked too busy. I laid out a white sheet, thinking this would be a nice contrast to our Christmas socks, but then it looked like we were in bed, which wasn't exactly what I wanted, either.Finally, we stood and shot down at our feet, which involved leaning over and bumping our foreheads together at inopportune times.
The W, who is generally willing to humor me in situations such as the Christmas Sock Photo Shoot, submitted to the arranging and rearranging of our legs and feet for a good ten minutes, during which two things happened. One, I shot twenty photos, all of which were incredibly stupid-looking, and two, I realized that feet are incredibly ugly things. Also, three, I suddenly remembered that I do not have an artistic bone in my body.
"It looked so cute online," I lamented, scanning through our pictures. "Maybe what we need to do is just take pictures of our socks, without our feet in them."
We took the socks off and did a few "still life" shots against the white sheet.
"Nothing says Merry Christmas like two pairs of dirty socks on a bed sheet," Will mused, at which point I tossed one sock at his head, and Baxter grabbed the other and ran into our bedroom to chew it in peace.
***
Somehow, it is now December 21. Our sofa table is cluttered with brightly colored Christmas cards from all around the country. I have read the Christmas letters from my family members, marveling at the different paths our lives have taken. I have affixed pictures of smiling children to our refrigerator.
And of course, I haven't sent one. single. card.
Monday, October 22, 2012
The First Rainy Day of the Rest of Our Lives
I live in central California, where we have two seasons: summer and winter.
Between each season are a couple of weeks that I like to call "pre-summer" and "pre-winter" -- the temperature begins to turn in the other direction, leaves start to grow or fall, depending, and the thermostat needs to be adjusted, just slightly.
I told this to a friend once, a person who lives in a part of the world where there are four distinct seasons, and she scoffed. You don't have a winter! she said. You have three official seasons: pre-summer, summer, and post-summer.
And even though I know she's probably right, I'm sticking to my initial assessment.
Today it rained, and for me, that means winter is here.
* * *
Last night we slept with the window by the bed open and the duvet pulled right up to our chins. Baxter took up his customary spot under the bed, and the cats, feeling the chill in the air, abandoned their nightly wanderings to cuddle up on top of our covers. Copper prefers to sleep directly in between my head and W's, which is fine, except when he purrs too loudly or puts a delicate paw on my forehead or decides he needs to stand, circle, and find the right spot again. Which is to say, it is never fine. Roscoe is a perfect substitute for a thick pair of socks, but every now and then he pounces on one of my feet, just to remind me that he's in charge. We have a snuggle-claw relationship that is decidedly unhealthy.
Somewhere during the night, it started to rain.
"Do you hear that?" W whispered.
I did, but I made him tell me what it was, anyway.
It had been a long time since the last rain.
***
This morning, Baxter insisted on his walk, although it was blustery, cold, and a few stinging sprinkles were hitting the ground. I located the boots I hadn't worn since last Mach, at the start of pre-summer, and shook out the cobwebs. After a little digging in the hall closet, I found W's massive winter coat, the coat-to-end-all-coats, and slid it on. Good thing, too -- Baxter and I had only covered half a block before the deluge began.
Baxter, unhurried, made his way through the streets. I trailed six feet behind, loving how the rain drowned out the sound of street traffic and the distant, omnipresent drone of Highway 99. Leaves fell at our feet and we trampeled them, gleefully. Baxter's undercarriage was coated with a slick layer of mud -- all the dust and grit from six rainless months rising up to meet his stomach.
We had the park almost to ourselves, save for a few homeless men who had moved their belongings under the overhanging near the restrooms. One of them called to me, "Don't you know it's raining?" and I called back, "I'm loving it!" Rain has a way of bringing us all together -- homeless people, best-loved beagle, and the person who should be writing her novel instead of dithering over her blog.
At home, Baxter and I dry off and curl up together on the couch. We look out the window, where branches shake and tree limbs bow ever-so-gently.
Winter is here.
Between each season are a couple of weeks that I like to call "pre-summer" and "pre-winter" -- the temperature begins to turn in the other direction, leaves start to grow or fall, depending, and the thermostat needs to be adjusted, just slightly.
I told this to a friend once, a person who lives in a part of the world where there are four distinct seasons, and she scoffed. You don't have a winter! she said. You have three official seasons: pre-summer, summer, and post-summer.
And even though I know she's probably right, I'm sticking to my initial assessment.
Today it rained, and for me, that means winter is here.
* * *
Last night we slept with the window by the bed open and the duvet pulled right up to our chins. Baxter took up his customary spot under the bed, and the cats, feeling the chill in the air, abandoned their nightly wanderings to cuddle up on top of our covers. Copper prefers to sleep directly in between my head and W's, which is fine, except when he purrs too loudly or puts a delicate paw on my forehead or decides he needs to stand, circle, and find the right spot again. Which is to say, it is never fine. Roscoe is a perfect substitute for a thick pair of socks, but every now and then he pounces on one of my feet, just to remind me that he's in charge. We have a snuggle-claw relationship that is decidedly unhealthy.
Somewhere during the night, it started to rain.
"Do you hear that?" W whispered.
I did, but I made him tell me what it was, anyway.
It had been a long time since the last rain.
***
This morning, Baxter insisted on his walk, although it was blustery, cold, and a few stinging sprinkles were hitting the ground. I located the boots I hadn't worn since last Mach, at the start of pre-summer, and shook out the cobwebs. After a little digging in the hall closet, I found W's massive winter coat, the coat-to-end-all-coats, and slid it on. Good thing, too -- Baxter and I had only covered half a block before the deluge began.
Baxter, unhurried, made his way through the streets. I trailed six feet behind, loving how the rain drowned out the sound of street traffic and the distant, omnipresent drone of Highway 99. Leaves fell at our feet and we trampeled them, gleefully. Baxter's undercarriage was coated with a slick layer of mud -- all the dust and grit from six rainless months rising up to meet his stomach.
We had the park almost to ourselves, save for a few homeless men who had moved their belongings under the overhanging near the restrooms. One of them called to me, "Don't you know it's raining?" and I called back, "I'm loving it!" Rain has a way of bringing us all together -- homeless people, best-loved beagle, and the person who should be writing her novel instead of dithering over her blog.
At home, Baxter and I dry off and curl up together on the couch. We look out the window, where branches shake and tree limbs bow ever-so-gently.
Winter is here.
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