A Daily Dose of Zen Sarcasm!

Returns of the Day, or Not

Heart, originally uploaded by Madame Meow.

Dear friend from long ago,

Today, I turn thirty-four years old.

Yesterday, it would have been your turn. But you're dead.

I hadn't thought about you in quite a while; but life being the constant tide of memories that it is, it brought you back to me not too long ago, and reminded me of the fact that we once celebrated our birthdays together.

One of thirty-four. It seems like it never really happened.

When I think of a inky sky lit up with stars --because here in the city the sky only lets the brightest of the bright come forth and therefore recalling is all I can do-- I also think of you.

I don't know what choices led up to my being here, so far away from where we met and leading a relatively simple and bourgeois life, while you no longer exist except in the memory of those who knew you.

But I am glad that I knew you, and that thinking of you always brings a bittersweet happiness that will only become sweeter as I age.

And you won't.

I sometimes refuse to believe you are dead. I would like to think that you made peace with your demons and found stability in your life; I would like to believe you found a happily ever after and that someone loved you as much as you deserved to be loved.

But maybe that's what death is all about, right?

Happy birthday, J. I am thinking of you.

Night, Beautiful Night

Public Transportation, Anyone? (Day two hundred four), originally uploaded by Madame Meow.

To say that I love the night would be an understatement.

Everything that by day looks dirty, grimy, sad or tired, takes on a new coat of paint and shimmers in light when it's dark outside.

Night transforms the ugliest, most pissed-upon corners of the city into mysterious alleys, rife with possibilities and innuendo. The magnolias, the tuberoses and the moonflowers emit their most intoxicating notes to drown out the human soil and pollution.

By night, the city's acne is deflected by millions of twinkling bulbs, which smooth out her pockmarks and give her a veiled aura of possibility.

I know bad things happen at night, too. But on a night as pretty as this one, the darkness itself seems to be blind to anything but the possibility of something -- anything -- to break the routine of gritty, naked, outlined day.

What You See, What You Get

Dog In Yard (Day one hundred ninety-six), originally uploaded by Madame Meow.

Sometimes, there is real value in knowing what you're getting yourself into, or out of.
Sometimes, people are not straightforward. Situations are not straightforward.

People lie. People deceive you. Circumstances help hide the truth from you. And the truth, fickle, eel-like thing that it is, finds a way to slip around any and all constructs. And if you don't watch it, it electrocutes you on its way to freedom.

So this is perhaps why I can really appreciate this situation and this picture, and the friendly dog who allowed me to take her picture more than once without growling or becoming agitated.

Thank you, Paisley, you darling dog in the yard, for being you.

Filled With The Intent

I just said goodbye to a few plants I've known and loved.

I'm a little sad, even if a couple of those plants were dwarf Alberta spruces and, having pulled them out of their cheerful green glazed pots without gardening gloves on (so macho of me!), they left little thorny spikes all over my hands.

(Who am I kidding?  I'm blinking back tears as I type.)

The spruces' spines seem to have more teeth than they really do.  They seem to embed themselves in the skin and they gnaw and they prick.  You feel itchy and even a little bloody.  But then you dust your hands off and they come out too, with docility.  It's a little like magic.

Dead plants: they make me feel like a failure.

I see the little plant corpses and feel I've failed them-- they trusted me blindly and I, in turn, did not repot them promptly; did not water them enough; gave them too little plant food.  Really, I forsook them.

I lost them.

Why is it that sometimes it takes small, nearly insignificant details to make us feel the hurt that bigger things do not seem to impact upon us?

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Curious about the title?  It comes from the poem "One Art" by Elizabeth Bishop.  You should read it.

File Under "Warts and All"

Battle Scar (Day one hundred and one), originally uploaded by Madame Meow.

Sometimes, it's hard to stop and realize things are not okay.

When you are a person prone to (ahem) wit and (fsh!) humorously making light of a situation, your suddenly serious and possibly dramatic behavior becomes kind of a weird oxymoronic dobule-whammy of bafflement to some people.

Confusion ensues. Bitterness overfloweth cup. Mind explodes-- most things remain unsaid.

So sometimes it's easy just to write about your feelings, as cheap and high school as that all sounds. Here goes an attempt to organize my mind. I share it mostly so that any of you out there who have ever wanted to say these things to a friend can sit back with me and go, "YESSSSS."

Then, we can all be silent together. Deal?

___________

Dear charmingly, but utterly, self-absorbed friend who I still talk to, in spite of the years and despite the fact that most conversations revolve around the fact that your life is awesomer than mine even when things are not well; and who I know for a fact that you don't read my blog because you kind of think blogs are ridiculous things that nerdy people "do",

Yes: I have reasons to grieve. Grief is not limited to death and dying. People can grieve over temporary changes, if those changes are life-altering enough.

Even if 99% of the time my Facebook status update has something baffling and semi-obscure such as, "Now with more pep!" or "Swimming in a bubble of my own making," or my personal favorite, "Ferrying souls across the Styx for fun and profit," sometimes I get emo.

I said it: I get totally down-on-myself, why-is-my-husband-in-a-scary-place, why-am-I-getting-older, damn-kids-won't-shut-up, woe-is-me, overgrown-bangs and shuffly-walk emo.

In other words, even those of us who joke a lot (or fail trying) have our feelings. And sometimes, amazingly, we don't want to hide them behind a wall of obscure popular culture references.

Sometimes we want you to ask (and want you to mean it, when you ask) how we are doing. You can indicate this by pausing longer than three seconds before you launch into "mm-hmm" mode-- you know, those vocal fillers that indicate to me that you're thinking about your next awesome thing happening in your life rather than paying attention to boring old mine.

For crying out loud: even when you were nearly destitute you were still carrying on about how awesome your life is! I don't know if that is indefatigable optimism or something more Machiavellian whose purpose I cannot entirely elucidate (Intimidation through gritty awesomeness? It's very 1930s in a way).

I realize I have issues. I also realize I sound very petty here, but honestly, I should probably be saying some of these things to your face.

I realize as I write this that I've sat back and let you take the reins in this friendship-- you are Batman and I am Robin, forever stuck with unflattering yellow tights and eternal pimply youth in your mind.

Finally, I realize that people change. I treasure our shared past and I treasure the many great memories and times we have shared over the years. And I think that next time we talk, I'm just going to unload on you.

And in the immortal words of Wayne Campbell, "If you blow chunks and she comes back, she's yours. But if you spew and she bolts, then it was never meant to be."

True friends don't bolt. They are allowed to tease you mercilessly about how pathetic you looked when you hurled, but they pass you the mop and bucket afterward.

Cherry-Mandering

There are few things as gorgeous as cherry trees blooming.

It's a gross platitude, but I don't mind indulging: in all their varietals (not just the iconic Yoshino Sakuras that have become a symbol of DC in the spring), cherry trees are majestic and simple; delicate and strong; feminine and masculine in one.

(And yeah-- I totally went there and pretty much hinted that men are stronger than women.  Smite me now.)

The aroma of flowering cherries in bloom is like an illusion: you know it's there but can't really capture it or describe it.  It's not like, say, the trickery and weirdness of the sweet violet's ionones that numb your nose so you can't smell the same violet twice (or at least not for an hour or so).

The irony of this beautiful process is many-fold to my deranged mind:

1. Every year, the trees will bloom and we will all be amazed.  They usually bloom between the end of March and the beginning of April, but we always seek to pin down the exact date, so we can make grandiose plans about which we'll grumble because we get to share "our" moment with 10,000 others.
2. The obsession causes many not to notice the earlier-flowering varieties (as in, not like the Yoshino we got from the Japanese), which are usually just as gorgeous lining boulevards and gracing backyards.  It also causes them not to recognize the later-flowering double cherries as, well, cherries.
3. Craploads of teenagers are forced to confront what winning at adolescence is like-- spring being the tender and messy adolescence of many flowering plants.  These young'uns --many sporting massively bored-looking pizza faces-- get to walk around looking surly and aimless in the streets of DC, wondering why anyone would care about trees.
4. Kits for growing cherry blossom trees can be obtained from the Smithsonian Institution gift shops for around $10.  They are marketed toward children.  Newsflash: most kids would not have an easy time growing their own cherry tree because the first direction involves BOILING WATER.
5. We are all in love with tree genitals.  This is perhaps the most glorious bit of irony: while we as a nation are transfixed in horror that Janet Jackson's nipple and tacky nipple shield would be visible for 3 seconds on national television during half-time/potty break, we track obsessively flower vaginas and flower penises for the entire month of March and half of April.  
6. And then there is tree jizz of all kinds in the air, and you're sneezing it out if you're allergic, but that's a topic that may have been covered (har, har, "covered") before.

So there you are.  Enjoy the blossoms, avoid the tourists, and cherish the little forgotten trees doing their thing on the streets.  And please, when you see teenagers, point and laugh: it's the polite thing to do.

Tempting Lightning

(Also known as, "My god, she's posting twice in a week!")

A friend sent me a few pictures in the mail.  In them, we're ten years younger, several pounds lighter, and far more smooth-skinned. 

On the surface, it's easy to start lamenting the fact that not too long ago we were in our early twenties.  But deeper, where the waters turn murky and turbid, I was struck by something weird: I don't know who that stranger in the pictures is anymore.

Sure, she has most of my same features.  I even recognize an item or two of clothing and jewelry-- I still own the sweater she's wearing.

But who was that person staring at me with something that looks like my smile?  I don't remember who I was or what my motivations were. I have a dim recollection of sitting for the picture; but for all I know, someone could have slipped me roofies and posed me like a bendable doll, taken the picture and just walked away; because if I start thinking too hard about it the memory feels made up-- like I'm trying to remember something that never happened in the first place.

Sometimes I think about the things I was eager to do ten years or fifteen years ago and I can't imagine for the life of me what would make a person do that.  I don't even mean the momentous stuff: I'm thinking more along the lines of why anyone would wear those shoes or pose in that way for a picture-- the trivial stuff.

But yes-- that strange meta moment of seeing oneself as a stranger: am I alone in feeling this way?

If you feel like speaking up, please do.  I am wondering if I am alone in this weird, circular feeling.

A Rare Picture of the Picture-Taker

A Rare Picture of the Picture-Taker, originally uploaded by Madame Meow.

I'm there, somewhere.

A realization from late nights up-- even if only for a few minutes: I am a Type B living in a Type A town.

Sometimes I feel awkward.

________

Washington is a fascinating city that way. It attracts so many people who are passionate about their endeavors and their causes and their work that sometimes those of us who ended up here by happy accident feel as though we're a little lost-- even if joyfully lost.

There is much to lose yourself in and around here: the city may be strangely small and/or short-ceilinged and quaint. It may not be as glamorous or as well put-together. It may wear a faceful of make-up and still look like the also-ran in some way; but make no mistake that this city knows how to get to check mate in fewer moves than you think possible.

We Type Bs know it. We know it better than the As, with their planners and lists and endless need to get more things done than we can think up in a day.

It may take us much (much, much) longer to get our feet shuffling and out the door-- because a relatively goal-less mind is a diversion, but so is the intriguing outline of the Edwardian porch. And so are the unbelievably amazing pastries that the little store overlooking Lincoln Park sells until they run out, every single morning except for Tuesdays.

And someday, when we've finally caught up to you Type As, we might tell you all about it.

6 ~ The Lovers

Following the theme of yesterday's (ha-ha) post, it sometimes hits me with the force of what I would imagine a speeding train would feel that I have two actual, live, cute little boys.

And that these boys once took over the precious real estate south of my ribs.  And that they made me pee a lot and robbed me of valuable food-storing space.

And it strikes me as amazing that they love each other.  I hope you will not think it's creepy that I've chosen to write about them for this particular card: love and lovers aren't just strictly about romantic love.  Love and feeling take many different shapes, and to me this relationship illustrates the simple power of the card.

_________

Herr Meow, being the older and wiser one, sometimes grapples with moral issues related to the fact that this other being who seems to look a lot like him --though this is possibly not something that's ever crossed his mind except for when we're looking at pictures-- wants attention or cries or tries to drool all over his Favorite Toy at the time (the "Favorite Toy" in question being anything that Don Meow has happened to take and might possibly belong to Herr Meow).  He sometimes hesitates or shoves unkindly --almost instinctively, beyond thought-- and sometimes he acts like a baby and starts to make noise at the same time his brother does.

On the other hand, Don Meow is always ready: one look at that beloved face, and he is off and gurgling and laughing and squealing whenever his brother does anything remotely funny, or even human.  A smile or a gitchie-goo or a fart noise will send the little baby into paroxysms of squealing laughter.

For his part, Big Brother does try to control and sabotage a little, but he mostly just wants to hold and hug and carry and make laugh and tickle and hold and hug.  He breathes his brother in; he lifts him; he puts him down.  He shows him infinite patience even as the baby drools on him or screeches or pulls his hair-- he likes it!  Do it some more!  Until it becomes, "no no nonononooooo," before starting all over again.

They seek each other; they laugh; one cries; one pouts; they seek each other again.  It's this pure emotion, this whole having a brother bit, that makes me overwhelmed with conflicting feelings of happiness and wariness and exhaustion and the teeniest bit of envy for that pureness of feeling, that having-a-siblingness that I, much like being able to pee standing up, will never quite know for myself.

You Can Come Again Anytime

I have a confession to make:

I simply love this wretched, icky weather.

__________

I know that rain is supposed to be dreary and depressing and that people want nothing better than to crawl under the covers and sip cocoa until it passes and boohoo or whatnot.  I mean, really, rainy weather is bad: the rain sticks to you and makes you wet in seconds-- not like snow, even, which you can just brush off.  And combined with the windchill effect, you are bound to be chilled to the bone in minutes and be just horribly uncomfortable, wet and miserable; and you probably won't be as prepared for it were you to be in colder weather, since when it rains during this time of year it's usually in the upper 40s or 50s or even 60s.

But rain is just beautiful, even if it's dreary.  It's quiet and it smells good, and the world is just a little quieter under a blanket of rain.

Also, if you put on rubber boots and a raincoat and a sweater (oooh...... sweaters!  and socks!), you can jump around in and out of puddles everywhere and be giddy and laugh as loudly as you want and no one will mind.  When people are in a bad mood, they actually seem to like to see happy people, I have discovered.

And the best part of it all is --and brace yourself for the cheesiness-- that now I have a little partner in crime for my rain-soaked adventures.  Herr Meow and I are puddle kings, and nothing quite beats hearing all his bubbly chatter and cute preschooler delusions coming out of his smiling little mouth.

It reminds me of being cold in the rain when I was little, which, amazingly enough, is a wonderful thing.

All Hail, The MissTache

There have been some very turmoil-y days in the Meowhold.

For one, we are finally the owners of some sweet solar panels upon our roof. We will be living a little more off the grid and this is immensely exciting, especially to Monsieur Meow.  For me, to be perfectly honest, the most exciting part is not to have the incredibly nice guys who installed the solar panels going up and down the stairs a million times a day. 

Priorities, I suppose.

Herr Meow has finished his first year of slightly more serious school, and this was exciting too.  He celebrated by deciding he needed to walk home to a local restaurant... on his own.  We found him almost three blocks away from home, with his pail and shovel, determined to make it to the Argonaut.  I don't think I've ever been more scared of the unknown in my life.

Don Meow is now working on sprouting teeth --he is a consummate drooler-- and he's mastered rolling from back to tummy over the past two weeks.  He is a chuckler, too-- just tickle him a little bit and watch as he does that little stuck-clutch laugh that is so endearing in babies.  He's also managed to almost roll off the bed a couple of times: I give him a month.

Mademoiselle Gracie is a fit feline.  She is exceptionally tartar-free and she could stand to lose a few ounces-- but I think most females always feel that way.  I wish I could lose some more of that post-baby chunk myself.

I find it hard to write these days.

I sometimes fire up Ye Olde Typepad and stare at the blank screen for ages, not even feeling the faintest stirring to commit anything to paper.  I have been reading more, and my life feels like it's lived so intensely that I can hardly remember it; and yet, the blog remains sadly mute.

And it's not for a lack of things to write, either. 

For instance, the other day I saw a woman with an it-would-make-Burt-Reynolds-envious mustache.  It took me a few seconds to realize what the fuzzy worm that decorated her upper lip like a festive Christmas garland would a mantelpiece really was, since she was otherwise well-dressed and made-up, you see.  She even had panty hose on in the sticky southern heat of a few days ago.

Maybe that is a nasty statement: why should a well-dressed woman --or any woman, for that matter-- forego the pleasures of having an accessory that for some reason (androgens, perhaps?) has been viewed as exclusively male?

So I started to think that perhaps discriminating on the basis of mustache should be the next crusade for women.  Why should we be denied, if The Powers that Be gave us the wherewithal, to grow and properly maintain thick, luxuriant mustaches?  It wouldn't have to be something that produces a visceral, knee-jerk disgust reaction, you know.  It could be something beautiful and elaborate; something to coat with glittery mascara and to weave beads into.

Something to behold: a woman's beautiful lip fur.

Certainly, it's something to be grateful for: it seems to have been a remedy of sorts for this dull, low-hanging writer's block.

Why, Yes, "Changes" Is On Loop Right Now

Can I share something silly with you?

Scratch that: I know I can share something silly with you.  You are here and you're still reading.  The question, therefore, offends.

Anyway.  As for the silly thing, it's the fact that sometimes I think David Bowie is talking to me when I listen to "Changes".

I am going to have to be a different (wo)man. 

I like that.

_______

I have been wondering much about blogging lately.  I haven't been visiting my friends' blogs and my favorites, and it's easy to blame things on the children.  The truth lies somewhere in the middle: the kids are overwhelming and time-consuming.  But they do allow for time to be stolen to do other things.

See, if you're asking yourself whether you are truly passionate about something, then you probably are not very passionate about that.  In other words, if you have to actively wonder if you like something enough, chances are that you're not doing that whatever-it-is to please yourself.

I can always find time to take showers and to eat french fries and to at least attempt a sudoku puzzle at least once a week; and  I can find time to take pictures.  These are things that are regularly not chores.  They are among my favorite things ever.

And then there is the gray area, which is where blogging is finding itself lately.

_______

I realize I am a bad networker.

I don't answer comments on here very often.  I try, but then I find that I don't have much else to say, as the comments left by others tend to be kind, witty and funny beyond what I could say.  And sometimes if I do feel like continuing the conversation, I tend to do it offline.  Incidentally, if you've ever commented on this blog, I love you dearly and consider you a precious shimmering pearl in a delicate bed of seafoam-- just so we're clear here.

But sometimes I feel like I am losing myself and losing the joy --the french-fry-eating joy, if you will-- of blogging.  The joy of writing a good, funny entry that makes people stop and laugh or think or both and then send it to their friends via email, say.  The kind of joy that comes from feeling like this is a calling; that I may not have come around to writing through a traditional pathway, but that I am good at it and, perhaps more importantly, those elusive others think it is good.

And sometimes I think I would want to write something more provocative or egregious or downright insulting, and I stop myself.  I give up that joy of writing for fear of being hated or despised.

For fear of finding a nasty comment or email, I don't go ahead and say something shocking --like the shocking, shocking fact that I find most mommy blogging to be so self-centered that if I see a potential new blog I'm about to read mentions children in any shape or form I am tempted to start screaming for a good ten minutes before purging my mind and never visiting that URL again.

Because, you know, I totally do not use the words "I" and "me" and "mine" every other sentence.

I arrived at a blog post by Megan Jordan on her blog, and I had to say that it spoke to me.  Alas, since I don't have the amount of traffic she does --which, in my opinion, renders her point a bit moot-- and I have been jinxed for going to BlogHer for four years and counting, I think I'm going to have to do my self-assessing and reinvention by simply realizing that this, this writing is my french-fry-eating joy.

No one can take my happiness away from me, unless I let that someone or that something do it.

And certainly, no one can force me to edit the contents of my mind.  I can think whatever I want, and I can write whatever I want.

And I can enjoy every last damn minute of it, readers or no readers.

Now if I could only have the same attitude when I go buy a swimsuit, I imagine I'd be floating away to nirvana very soon.

A Loaded Snack

Olive Boat, originally uploaded by Madame Meow.

One of my more ridiculous inner struggles is the one I have with the person I am and the person I wish I were.

__________

Everyone has an inner view of him or herself as either a debonnair, charming, swashbuckling or eloquent individual-- a persona they wish they were, but probably are not. Perhaps your inner view of yourself happens to be that of a ninja, channeling inner strength, invisibility and stealth from where there is none.

Maybe your inner vision involves thinking of your life as an endless sequence of cool in a bank heist movie. Or you imagine inaudible applause following you wherever you go, as a silly ruse to get your butt out of bed in the morning.

Perhaps you automatically narrate your day-to-day as if it were an exciting race, dreaming of leading a fast and perilous life.

Or maybe you dream of being the belle of the ball, even as your 6'2", 280 lb frame proves to be a bit of a deterrent to finding the perfect gown.

We all have those little bits of fancy, and they don't always fit with who we are. And sometimes we personally wish we were more the life of the party or the busy, organized planner, rushing through the day being saved by the smartphone and the personal assistant.  And by "we", I mean me, of course.

And sometimes we realize that we also inhabit the body of others' inner visions of themselves.

That while we sit there, moping and changing diapers and eating and taking pictures of olives because there is no way in hell most parties are a good enough excuse to get out of the house and find a sitter and etc., there is someone who would trade their busy, fabulous life for an opportunity to sit back and read and eat and live a very, very indoorsy kind of life.

So here I freely admit that yes, I am rather a bore.

I snack a lot. I would rather stay at home. And when I go out, I like it to be a quiet affair. And most of the time I'm okay with this life and these activities (because to me, few things are as enjoyable, deep deep inside).

But then there is the hankering to think I'd have a better time if I were eating these olives at a great party with loads of friends and acquaintances and if I were staying out late and taking advantage of the babysitting opportunities that come my way.

I waver.

Resolution: Live Like You're the Ace of Trumps

Yesterday Rev. Mom and I went to the Colombian store in Arlington to get a few New Year's supplies-- phone cards to call a few relatives (I know-- how very third world of me); empanadas to send off 2008 in style (or at least good for a midafternoon snack); a Spanish deck of cards to learn how to play tute; and a few other miscellanea.

As we waited for the empanadas, my mother talked to the shop owners and everyone unilaterally agreed that leap years are supposed to be years of bad luck.

I think that looking around friends' blogs in the interwebs and looking at the economy and everything, one could not help but agree: 2008, a leap year, was a year of hardship and penance.

But.

I was born during a leap year --1976-- and I don't consider my life any worse for the wear.  I'm sure it was a challenging year, but along with the deep downs come soaring highs.  After all, I personally have nothing but gratitude for that year, even if it was a chaotic and hard year for many.  It was random chance I was born then, as much as I could have been born any other day in any other year.  The catch, of course, is that had I been born in any other day of any other year I wouldn't be the person I am.

So it is with this just-gone year, which honestly was very good and kind to me even as it beat up many of those in my acquaintance near and far.  Maybe it's not so much the year or the number or the superstition as much as a matter of things happening on any day of the year.

Only that a year can only logically have one beginning of the year and so today is that day in which we pin our hopes and alternately sit in dread of the outcome.

_______

In Spanish we have a saying about something having "more rules than a game of tute."

I have to tell you: at first learning how to play this game was rather confusing-- it does seem to have a lot of little rules and oddities that don't want to stick in your brain.  However, after playing one trick you start realizing that tute, just like any other game or activity --life platitudinally included-- is mostly a series of choices generated by random chance that is beyond our control.  There are tiny glimmers of moments where you can elucidate the choices presented before you and feel as if you have some semblance of control.

But mostly, life is random beyond your wildest imaginings, and it's up to you to try to ride those waves of chaos as best as you can.

May your next 364 days and change be like a good game of tute to you and all those you know.

Next in my randomness queue: Eggs Benedict and a Mimosa or perhaps a Kir Royal-- but only if life is willing to let me play this trick.
_______

About the title: a trump card is a card that, for the duration of a trick, cannot be beaten.  Donald Trump, thence, has an awesome and randomly fitting name. 
I don't think I need to explain the bit about the ace.

Also, Blogging is Easier Than Cave-Painting

I've had a series of fun, interesting days.  I would like to think that all these days have given me something to write about besides my monosyllabic Grace entries.  Maybe if I were a more eloquent writer, that would be the truth.

But I am a lazy, self-serving writer and this is the closest I'm getting to writing much at all. 

I admit, I miss it: real entries, regardless of pith, are the ones that get people commenting and talking and drive the traffic up a little if they are good or even fair.  The short entries, not so much.  But there is a certain zen in writing even little bits.

But now I shush because you're probably not interested in my creative process.  Instead I will tell you this: there is something interesting about watching other people's children, no matter what their age.  There is psychology involved, of course, but there is also and element of perception.  There is the perception that you are, in fact, becoming an elder of the tribe (regardless of your own existing number of children, though if you've let children into your own life the perception is magnified); and the feeling that somehow you are the village raising that child.

Corny?  Probably.  But truly there are few events as seemingly unrelated yet as intrinsically connected as watching a bunch of six-year olds playing hockey, going to a housewarming party, hanging out with a friend and her suddenly very big-boy-looking baby, and going to see a friend's son's hilarious, crazy drag queen act. 

It's weird to think that we are, in fact, part of a tribe that grows and evolves and supports itself through the rites of passage of a newer generation.  It's weird to think that we're not so different from our nomadic ancestors, who banded together for survival and for strength and because it was fun and necessary for the continuation of the species.

It's a relief to think that we no longer have to actively groom each other for vermin, however.

Bowled Over

Today I broke one of my favorite bowls.  Not completely-- I just happened to mar the lip enough to make it look wonky, but it didn't shatter completely.  It was a careless accident, really: I was overager to pull it out of the dishwasher as soon as it had stopped so I could fill my pretty red bowl with pretty red cranberry sauce for tomorrow's feast.  In my zeal, I was blinded by a dense plume of steam from the just-done dishwasher and I caught the side of the bowl with the counter's granite lip.

Stupid, silly, pointless.  My heart ached for the bowl that won't be the same --my pretty bowl that I got for my birthday last year and the vessel for countless side dishes and candy and fruit.

And yet, it's also stupid, silly and pointless to linger very long over my little bowl that was.  The sauce looks just as pretty in a small metal bowl I'd been snubbing earlier, deeming it too small or plain.  The sauce, delicious and just slightly acidic and tannic and laced with a happy drizzle of triple sec, is chilling safely in the fridge.  It waits to be eaten happily and eagerly tomorrow by our family and guests. 

Overall, I think we've more than broken the bowl: we've broken even.
May you and your loved ones take time to remember what is truly important today, tomorrow, and every day.

Delighting in Hesperidia

You know what I find fascinating?

Citrus fruits, actually.  Citrus fruits are hesperidia-- funny little berries with tough, leathery skin and a heavenly, poetic scent.

There is something thrilling about it being cold and somehow knowing that it's during the dark and cold time of year where these magnificent, aromatic, sun-filled wonders yield their fruit and keep people a little bit healthier and more packed with vitamin C-, just in time for cold and flu season.

Which is why at some point in time, the good little boys and girls of the Western world got an orange or a tangerine in their Christmas stocking, by the way.  To think that kids didn't feel totally gypped by that... ah, it does make one feel materialistic and old.

(Because as much as I do like tangerines and other citrus, I think I'd be pissed off to find someone left me a $5.99 crate of clementines as my sole present under the tree, you know?)

________

It all started with the Body Shop, really.

Every single time I go by, there is one scent that allures me like no other: it's the scent called "Satsuma".

I'd always assumed it was some sort of exotic whatchamacalit bit, along the lines of their Ananya oil; something that probably had some deep roots in another tradition but sounded rather made-up and whose top, middle and base notes were musks of all kinds.  Incidentally, Ananya is actually Sanskrit, and it means devoted or peerless, and sounds personally objectionable to use as a foofy perfume name.  But I digress.

Anyway, there I was walking the other day and I had to stop in because this pregnant nose of mine was yelling very loudly "SATSUMA!!! SATSUMA!!!! STOOOOOP!! I WANT IT!" because my nose has become like a three-year old.  And that's when I read closely and realized:

A Satsuma is a type of mandarin orange. 

No shit?  That simple?

No Sanskrit (possibly just poorly pronouced Japanese), and no musk, the Satsuma fragrance is actually pretty much all citrus, and its smell is so powerfully happy to my senses that I've been abusing the lotion I bought from them just so I can have that burst of happiness in these cold, cold days.

I wish I could find somewhere in this vast internets of ours a little poem that went along with the yearly Odwalla Tangerine Juice campaign, or a poem by García Lorca about a boy who's about to be killed but picks beautiful lemons off the trees and tosses them into a stream, until it looked like flowing gold.

But I think I'll satisfy my yearning for something far more beautiful than I can produce by eating a tangerine and slathering my hands once again with my happy Satsuma body butter, and imagining the sharp, tart beauty of a lovely wintry fruit making my mouth and my body happy.

Strange Fascination

This morning we stepped out and our little tree --formerly looking so lovely with all its lovely golden leaves-- was completely denuded.

It didn't have one single leaf left.  The space looked different: empty, but somehow not sad.  Just... different.

The other day, I walked down the same street I walk so often.  But I walked on the other side of the street, which somehow made everything look different and crisper somehow.  Things I'd not ever noticed suddenly took on a different focus.

Earlier this afternoon, I looked up in a place I must pass at least three times a week.  But somehow I must have been standing in  a slightly different position because suddenly these blue letters I'd never seen came into focus.  I never knew they were there, but they suddenly were. 

Suddenly.  Things change drastically with a little bit of perspective.

May you have a change of perspective soon-- if only to keep things interesting.