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.

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.

December 14, Really.

A new low has been hit:

I just now woke up and flew out of bed, freaking out that today (thankfully, it is still TODAY, and not 30some minutes later) it's been two weeks since I've posted.

And that means, another missive from BlogHer.  Another two-week period in which I have let anyone who checks this (and who's interested in whatever happened to the rest of the tarot sequence) down.  Thank you, specifically, to Ghosty, for actually leaving a curmodgenly message that got this panic sequence started.

AAAACK.

Ok. That felt a little better.

How did December ever get away from me this way? It can't almost be MID-December!?  I don't even have a Christmas tree!  There are no lights outside my house!  And I've already had a household sick AGAIN!? 

This is so very lame it doesn't pass muster, but it will have to do.  By way of apology (*snort*) I shall publish the next tarot sequence number sometime tomorrow.

Oh, I know you're all riveted. 

But for those of you who check this, I truly appreciate the support, and the stick-to-it-iveness. 

Try saying that thing out loud sometime.  It's... an experience to appreciate.

Back to your regularly-scheduled, oh-so-not-daily-anymore, zen sarcasm.

4 ~ The Emperor

All I can think of is this:

Monsieur Meow told me about this guy who would walk into the men's bathroom and instead of showing the proper male decorum that --I imagine-- orders men to pick stalls away from other guys; to carefully go about the removal and reinsertion of the pertinent equipment; to avoid eye contact at all costs; and, possibly, to wash hands once the deed is done; would instead unbuckle noisily, drop his pants unceremoniously and let them droop down to his ankles and, without taking precautions to man his artillery or guide his cannon to its due course, would simply let 'er rip and start urinating while he placed his hands, balled into fists, on his waist with what I can only imagine to be a satisfied, smug grunt.

I mean-- ew, right?

But oh, to have the equipment to pee in such a disgusting fashion.

Like, Dear Abby?

I grew up in California, a child of the 80s and 90s.

This has had an irritating side effect in my speech patterns: I "like" quite a bit.

Like, on occasion I have started my sentences with "like."  And, like, stuff.

But, I've been, like, schooled.

________

Let's get a ground rule in first, shall we?

If we're all sitting at a restaurant, not only are we going to try to show a modicum of good manners (no chomping open-mouthedly, no burping, no farting), but we're also going to try to be aware of our surroundings.  This means that if the baby starts to wail loudly, I'm going to be removing myself and the child with the golden lungs so you can enjoy your steak tartare or whatnot.  I will not run away if he's just fussing or if he's whimpering; but if he's about to let 'er rip, I'm gone and that is a promise.

This also means that if you've convoked some sort of emergency meeting at the booth next to where I'm sitting and you're shout-talking to the people with you all about your your sort-of boyfriend, who,

Apparently reads all the text messages you send him during the day --and yes, you know this because you asked him if he, in fact, read them all, and lo! He does!  But he just, like, reads them?  And, he doesn't, like, answer them?

And you, like, asked him?  "Like, do you read them?" and he, like, mumbled something about, yes, like, "yeah, I read them."

But, like, that was it, right?  Like, he said he read them, but, like, that's, like, all he said.  And, like, he never really writes back, you know?  Like, not even something to tell me he, like, got them?

And so?  You don't, like, know what to do?  Because you're, like, going to weddings together?  And, like, you're not sure? Like, because, he's really nice and, like, sweet?  But he's not, like, texting you, you know, back?

And, like, he's not sure he wants to date, date?  But, like, he reads the texts!  He totally knows, like, what you wrote!  And he, like, remembers what you wrote!  Like, all of it!  But, like, he's just not sure about needing space, or not, like, needing space?  You know?

And so on,

you should look into some sort of speech therapy.  Or perhaps you should just be fitted with a muzzle when out in public.  I've seen Gallaudet students communicate via SideKick with people who do not understand sign language, actually; I think that's a good and silent solution.

Because, like, that was ridiculous.  Between your over-liking every single sentence to death and your unfortunate tone of voice, you raised the dining room's noise level by at least ten decibels.

And even though you didn't ask me, although it completely felt like I should have said this to your face, you should just leave that guy alone. 

DUMP HIM.

(Duh)

Adding Extra Sugar to This Lemonade

I got a rejection today.

It was a short and very sweet note, but it still had within it that one stinging, final word. 

"No."

I didn't really mind it.  That much.

________

Many years ago, I started writing poems.  I would write silly things and perhaps deep things and meaningful (to me) things the same way some choose to put hook and yarn together and crochet an evening away.  I would do it while watching TV sometimes.  And I thought that, you know, perhaps an attempt here or there was starting to sound pretty good.

So I let my rubber meet the road and I started submitting a few.  Not too many, but enough to say I did it.

Some people replied and said a polite, "thank you, but no thank you," no reason given, although some included a word of encouragement; but most letters were curt. 

Some let the silence be the beacon to guide their answer.

But then there is the third kind of rejection, which I find to be the most cutting and the one that feels like a bucket of ice-cold knives-- the kind that, the more you try to shake it off, the deeper it seems to drive the ice cold shame that makes you feel like a fool for trying: the "helpful" rejection.

The one that doesn't stop at telling you that you were found lacking, but either attempts to couch it in passive aggressive politeness (... "the tone is just not quite our fit at the present time...") or merely hints at the fact that the person at the other end wants you to know that he or she deems you're trying hard but it's really just not going to cut it.

Ouch.

I never could figure out how to get over that one.  I think I just balled them all up and amused myself with a self-on-self pickup "loserball" game. I'm tempted to say that I just blocked those painful memories altogether.

I have not tried to do that again.

________

More than once in this space, I have wondered how people deal with rejection; specifically, I remember wondering what it might be like to deal with rejection as an intrinsic part of your job description.  And yet, it seems that it's nearly impossible to get anywhere or to get anyone to notice you unless you develop thick skin and toughen up to the rejections, big and small, that you will likely encounter on your way to letting people know your wares.  It's the risk you take that eventually brings you a payoff, whatever that may be (admittedly, a nice payoff for me would be more appreciative readers).

As I write this, I also realize the irony of how many of you may be put off by my sudden up-tick in writing, and how this may cause you to stop coming here or unsubscribing from my feed.  And how some of you may have already unsubscribed because one of my return posts happened to reference Aunt Flo broadly, and not much else.  Sorry about that.

And now I am actually laughing and feeling just a little bit better, knowing that for every person who votes away from this place that is a piece of me with their clicks, there are many of you (over one hundred such souls, according to Feedburner) who think this is worthy of your time and of your readership.  

Thank you. 

What do you say, we play some pickup paperball  sometime?

(Incidentally, I owe someone chocolate.  I am off to find a randomizer so I can get a winner by the end of the week!)

Giddy-Uh

Many an idle hour is spent dreaming up possible blog posts in my mind.  I had a good Michael Jackson post up there, but then this one guy from the Wall Street Journal wrote this excellent, amazing piece about how Michael Jackson was a victim of  his own demons and his own ... uh... well, I recommend you read the piece.

So, you know, once you read a way-more-eloquent version of something you were thinking about doing, it's like moot becomes the word of the day.

___________

I also thought about doing this one angry entry about something angry.  The problem with dreaming up angry entries is that I am a total pussy and I can only be really angry and confrontational within the confines of my own mind or with people who will just look at me with a chilling, "Down, chihuahua" look and won't mind my pitiable bursts of anger (hi mom!).  So I end up getting all this pent up anger inside about trivialities, and then I end up feeling even worse about thinking such negative thoughts about, say, acrylic nails, or Nissan cars, or people who update their Facebook status too often, or people who put Redskins pyjamas on the neck bolsters of their cars.

And then I feel bad for feeling bad (because acrylic nails are horribly tacky! and they foster fungal infections! and they make your existing nails weaker and thinner, creating a cycle of dependence! and they are unnaturally thick! and they make an awful sound when they rattle against one another!), and so the cycle continues.

_____________

In the end, however, I seem to be favoring writing about "uh" versus "er".

This will be a whirlwind of a discussion because I am not an expert linguist, but it seems to me that Americans should not use "er" in written language when they mean that they took a significantly long pause that indicated doubt or hesitation.  Or rather, only Americans who speak in non-rhotic accents should ever write in "er"-- I'm thinking a nasal Bostonian wondering, deep in his memoirs, whether he should reveal his penchant for not tossing the peanut shells on the floor at a Red Sox game, for instance.  He can go ahead and spell his hesitation as "er" and it will not make a whit of a difference.

Everyone else gets to write "uh".

I understand that there may be bias against "um" because it makes people sound kind of simple.  And so of course "er" being all Britishy-sophisticated --and doesn't everything sound (and apparently spell) better with a British accent?-- makes people feel dignified when they pause.  It wasn't an I'm-dumb pause; it was, rather, an All-the-choices-I-have! pause.  Everyone wants their pauses to be classy and not Valley-girl-ish, I understand.

But hey, you're doubtful and you're not sure or you're pausing long enough for a reason, and let's face it: you're not going to be pronouncing that letter R in there so you shouldn't put it in there when you're writing. Do you really have time to think about your image at that crucial uncertain time?  Are you trying to rewrite history to make yourself a more genteel, less brutish and less "uh..." kind of person?

Uh... I don't think so.

Possibly Setting Back The Feminist Movement Forty Years As Well

The word "penis" is funny.  However, there is absolutely nothing funny about just how cool penises are.

This may be the entry that leaves some of you out there in blogland a little squirmy and a little uncomfortable, but I must share this bit of tautological weirdness with the world: penises are awesome.

In all my years as a vulva-and-vagina-having woman, I thought my genitalia were just fine.  I mean, no second thoughts or frustrated/angry/fed up thoughts apart from those related to the euphemistic auntie Flo or some such --or for the unfortunate few who get them, urinary-tract-infection-related.  Really, it never seemed to feel like a chore to have to sit down or squat or anything like that; as long as you're protected by a stall or some bushes, things are fine.

But then you get to see the other, ahem, perspective-- when life gives you a male child, for instance, and you become intimately acquainted with the routine of using your higher-power-given genitalia for their intended urination purpose on a VERY regular basis, and all you can think is,

"Wow.  Why didn't life see it fit to give me one of those?"

Damn.  Penises are not only comically cute; because truly, they are not titillating as female genitalia are known to be, but they kind of hang there looking like little elephant trunks, patiently waiting but with something akin to a deformed smirk just waiting for their turn at that elusive "something" that makes them filled with intrigue and possibility and potential energy, like the roller coaster car at the top of the steep hill; but, after that incredibly long thought, they are user-friendly as well.

You can use them quickly, and without getting much of your anatomy exposed, such as is the case with women in the stuck-in-the-woods scenario.  Certainly if you're wearing a dress, said dress will end up hiked over your head just so you can make sure you don't get it dirty in any way.  And if you're wearing hosiery, you're asking for some sort of mess-- plus you cannot squat widely enough, even over a restroom toilet. 

Brief aside-- if you're a toilet-squatter, would it KILL YOU to "clean your workspace" so to speak after you're done using the restroom?  No one wants to see your splatter patterns, and there are people who actually sit on the toilet seat who are less than amused to have to clean up after you, you know.

But back to our topic.... at hand (heh heh):  no toilet paper?  No problem!  Just give a couple of hearty shakes and you're done!

You can pee into a bottle!  You can pee while driving! You can tuck yourself into a dark, small little corner or a Metro elevator and pee!!  You can pee WHILE LYING DOWN!!!

And of course (there must always be an "of course"), you can aim with sharpshooter accuracy, put out fires, write your name on any surface you so desire --from sand to snow-- and you can pee standing up without ending up in some creepy fetish site!!!

The penis is the most elegant, envy-worthy design ever and maybe Freud was onto something after all.

And now you wish you hadn't read this, huh?

I'm Forty-Four Seconds of Badass

Ooh... I realize I've had more than one place-holder post this NaBloPoMo season, but I'm pretty confident I'll write more later.

Just wanted to make sure and get something in and say hello.  More tomorrow.  In the meantime, do you want to find out how many seconds you'd live whilst you and a velociraptor are both chained to a bunk bed?

Yeah, I thought so: How Long Could You Survive Chained to a Bed With a Velociraptor?

Enjoy your Friday!

I'm Just Glad it Didn't Live up to its Name

I was having a moment in the bathroom --and by" moment" I mean the brief moment of happy release that follows all the rigmarole of "going to the bathroom" that happens when you're getting more and more pregnant-- when suddenly I saw IT.

IT was this spider, no larger than half an inch, but FURRY and very spidery looking and very much alive and moving around and FURRY.

Normally I don't mind spiders: I know that they are beneficial and that they eat all manner of undesirable bugs (read: the mosquitoes that are STILL flying all over the place in NOVEMBER) and that they are cute and charming little individuals and whatnot, but there is some sort of mechanism that goes off in a human's mind --especially a defenseless and self-unpantsed human who is enclosed with said FURRY spider in a little alcove no larger than three feet by three feet-- that just blocks everything else in her mind and makes her do two things:

1. Panic, and

2. Awkwardly waddle toward the computer and look up spiders on the internet, of course.

_________

Apparently, the spider in question was a jumping spider.  I must say, they are rather cute once one gets past the FURRY appearance --some of them even appear to be smiling, really.  And they are deeply beneficial and fierce little things, and they attack brown recluses which I must say is an added bonus.

Spiders are good little creatures.  They can even be cute.  And they fear us more than we fear them.

I'm glad I didn't reach for a shoe.

_________

I also wish that, when we're caught unawares and self-unpantsed in the great chaotic whirlwind of life and we encounter a creature or a person or a belief that makes us scream and freak out and fear for our safety right off that bat, that we can count on a place such as bugguide.net or Wikipedia to allay our fears and explain to us what it is we truly fear.

Is it the hair, or is it ourselves we fear the most?

Beware the Overachieving Monster

Although I'm not one for shout-outs --and, truth be told, no shout-outs are generally bad for the popularity business around these here Internet parts-- I would like to point out that Mary and Heather of MomsTown have been sending something very cool to their email subscribers.  It's a mini pep talk a day, for 21 days, which is reportedly how long it takes to break a habit or start a new one.

I've been loving the newsletters-- short and to the point and not much else.  Today's was especially poignant to me and so I'm sharing it with you faithful few whose eyeballs and synapses I hold in high esteem:

Let go of the idea that you have to be a great
multi-tasker. Multitasking is, in our opinion, a
big fat lie that we all tell each other.

It is true that as mothers we must often do
more than one thing at a time... but that doesn't
mean we are that great at it. Truth is, mom or
not, we all do something better when we do one
thing at a time. Don't let anyone pressure you
into trying to be fabulous at everything at once.

I find this advice true and conciliatory-- it speaks of being kind to yourself and to realizing that with our limited time and resources, sometimes it's best to do one thing at a time and do it well.

Which brings me to November.

___________

You may have heard of the collective insanities that are NaNoWriMo and NaBloPoMo.  And you may even have heard of NoBloShoeMo on Flickr as well.

And you stop to think about how November is a crazy month of Thanksgiving.

And then you remember you had your first-born in November and that means a birthday celebration of some sort.

And you start to factor in the whole "getting ready for Christmas" bit, and the whole pregnancy thing --which yes, apparently does not affect one's ability to write at one's little computer but still is kind of a distraction-- and the whole "living with people" thing and the whole "and also a toddler" bit and things start to get funny.

Funny-looking in just a general kind of way, if you should ask.

But you cannot help yourself: you saw a weird couple the other day at a local place and started thinking about them and their convoluted backstory and you heard that one annoying song from Caddyshack this morning and it stuck in your head and then you started involving yourself in your own story because doesn't every story need a character who's woefully aware of her own neuroses and is addicted to tea?

So there's a beginning for NaNoWriMo.  And NaBloPoMo is just sentimental stuff-- November IS Blog Posting Month too, because suddenly posting once a day doesn't sound nerve-wracking and annoying.

And then there's the shoes.  I may pass on the shoes (and yes, I switched persons during the course of this explanation), just because I don't own thirty pair anymore and it would just depress me a little to do it with fewer pairs. 

That last sentence was shameful.  Please pardon me for that hideous bit of excess.  I will not go to Zappos after I am done with this blog entry.

But so yes: point taken, Mary and Heather. I obviously need to work on this whole overachieving thing.

As soon as I start a document on character development, that is.

At Least My Head Is Still Attached

Just a brief note to say this:  if you think you've successfully run away from your neuroses --that you've effectively dusted them, left them for dead and will never come to realize any of those old crippling fears again-- then I strongly caution you against being a parent.

Parenthood: like therapy but free and way more painful on occasion.

Zen and the Art of Being Intensely Annoying

Today, he called again.

"Hello there! It's [nice sales guy from car dealership we visited a month and a half ago]!  I just wanted to check up on you and see if you are still considering your choices.  No pressure, just seeing where you are.  What your plans are."

He's so nice.  I mean, really nice-- he's a nice salesman, the kind you seldom meet anymore.  I don't have the heart to tell him we've already made our choice; a choice that didn't involve the kind of cars he sells.

A month ago, to be specific, we made our choice.  And still, he calls.  But I don't have the heart, guts, bravery to let him down.  So instead I muse something about having changed our minds and not wanting to buy for the time being.

He quickly mouths something about understanding and of course and definitely and no pressure and we say some courteous goodbyes.  I hang up, feeling very chickenish. 

Rev. Meow just raises her eyebrows and says, "You know he's going to call again, right?"

__________

I don't understand persistence very well.  In the same way I imagine others might have a hard time understanding my compulsive and sick need to look up every piece of doubt-raising information that crosses my path, I have a hard time understanding the unflagging and persevering personality.

I can't understand how people would want to endure a whole day having rejection slapping them in the face over and over -- call after call filled with evasions and negatives and "no thanks."  I don't understand the people who run the lotion and nailcare and haircare pagodas at the shopping mall and their desperate eye contact as they attempt to spritz anyone within a ten mile radius with a product that if it truly were so great it wouldn't need such aggressive promoting.

But somehow, I wish I could understand that raw drive and harness it and use it for my own gain.  I wish I didn't really care about all the gentle and not-so-gentle letdowns in my way and sally forth through life believing in my product and believing that the fifty-five nos do not matter as long as I can have one smile and one glorious and meaningful yes.

___________

Maybe we can all tap into our inner telemarketer, but only if we believe in ourselves.

The BlogHer Granfalloon (and the BlogHer Karass)

"My God," she said, "are you a hoosier?"
I admitted I was.
"I'm a Hoosier, too," she crowed. "Nobody has to be ashamed of being a Hoosier."
"I'm not," I said. "I never knew anybody who was." – Kurt Vonnegut, Cat's Cradle

__________

Let's get one thing straight: I am fine with my business relationship vis à vis BlogHer.  I mostly like their ads, and I definitely like the traffic I receive as a result of being listed in the Life section of BlogHer's directory.  Do I wish I made more money than the truly laughable amount I receive every three-months-ish?  Well yes, but maybe you guys can click on that handsome ad over on the right and that way I can share the bounty with you.

But you know, I don't really relish even leaving tiny tooth impressions on the hand that feeds me, even if meagerly.  So I won't.  I will instead focus on something that could be categorized as BlogHer-related, but is actually people-related: the fact that because people belong to a group in some capabilities, they think they automatically MUST belong to a group in all capabilities.

It's a peeve of mine.

__________

In case you don't keep up with what could be known as the Blogs of Repute around the webosphere, apparently there were --apart from the drunken revelry, hugs and merriment that usually come with the BlogHer conference-- several skirmishes and misunderstandings where some people felt skirmished and misunderstood and most of all alone in a cliqueish universe of people.

So pretty much, it seems that versions of what happens every year, happened.  Some people love each other and forge great friendships; some people meet and pass each other like ships in the night from there on out; and some people hate it and want to let the world know that they hated it.  Meanwhile, the mommyblogosphere feels they have to defend themselves while still asserting that they love everyone and certainly ALL mommies; and the non-mommyblogosphere gets to roll their eyes while still trying to strengthen their own imaginary bonds-- some strong and some very, very weak.

In the meantime, bloggers who didn't go to BlogHer are still writing about things other than BlogHer-- both relevant and irrelevant to the world and themselves and the advancement of their blogging careers.

____________

I think that there is a labeling problem here.

Some people think that just by virtue of belonging in a large category --say, for instance, women who've acquired or produced offspring-- that the other members in that category have a responsibility to like them and to agree with every single thing they say, much in the way that some people are happy to find that they are both from Indiana or that they wear shoe size 8.5 medium (any half-eighties out there?  W00t!). 

And some people understand that, more than a category, being a part of community is not a passive act where you just qualify by having an arbitrary set of requirements.  Being part of a community, especially a community of writers, is an ongoing labor with its ups and downs.  being part of a community is not automatic, though it sometimes feels that way.

A true community, like parts of the mommy blogosphere, is a place where people do cooperate with one another and actually know each other and --more importantly and yet most tacitly implied, since it's rude to compare and point-- who have similar ethos and goals in mind (i.e. you only like mommies who think just like you).  The rest is nothing but a sad, bloated granfalloon, filled with resentful and anonymous individuals who would probably be better off giving up and yielding to Groucho Marx's immortal words:

I sent the club a wire stating, "PLEASE ACCEPT MY RESIGNATION. I DON'T WANT TO BELONG TO ANY CLUB THAT WILL ACCEPT PEOPLE LIKE ME AS A MEMBER".

__________

In the blogging world, you reap what you sow.  This means that if you want to get more readers sometimes you have to do really obnoxious things such as Twittering a million thoughts a day, each more banal than the next in hopes that people will click on one of your million posts so maybe you'll go away.  Or it can include emailing or Facebooking people about your posts being up; or commenting often and a lot in the blogs of the Bloggers of Repute; or it can include going to BlogHer and making friends and reading each other's blogs.

Or most infrequently, it can include you writing so brilliantly and so well that you make your readers laugh and weep, and they feel moved enough to pass your link along to friends.

Dear blogosphere: you do reap what you sow.  So if you sow discontent, desperation, and middle-school feelings, you will get those back in spades. 

Having said that, just because you sow discontent, desperation, and middle-school feelings, it doesn't mean that you have to create a group to voice that hatred.

Because a Closed Mouth Gathers no Foot

In the great good tradition of July, 2008, today's food is not so much food as, say, humble pie.

Sometimes you should have thought the thing you said over, and then still not have said it at all.  Sometimes we all suffer from a raging case of foot-in-mouth disease.

I won't say much more than that, but instead indulge in a little schadenfreude and share with you the Foot in Mouth Awards, which are dubious awards given in Britain to particularly baffling remarks by public figures.

Here are a few of the better ones, and happy a happy Sunday.  Oh, and may you keep your mouth foot-free.

Previous Winners:

2006-- Naomi Campbell for "I love England, especially the food. There's nothing I like more than a lovely bowl of pasta."

2003-- Former United States Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld for comments in a press briefing. "Reports that say that something hasn't happened are always interesting to me, because as we know, there are known knowns; there are things we know we know. We also know there are known unknowns; that is to say we know there are some things we do not know. But there are also unknown unknowns — the ones we don't know we don't know."

2000-- Hollywood star Alicia Silverstone for her comments quoted in the Sunday Telegraph.

"I think that [the film] 'Clueless' was very deep. I think it was deep in the way that it was very light. I think lightness has to come from a very deep place if it's true lightness."

Footballer-Gazing into Delicious Oblivion/NaComLeavMo!

Do you ever have days in which it seems you're filled with an unnatural sense of foreboding? 

I mean, foreboding of what?  I really don't know, but it's there and weighing heavily and doing weird things to your psyche and, well, yes, to your self-esteem too, because it's so very fragile it wilts like a humidity-loving plant in a room that dares drop its humidity below 50%.

But then the feeling passes --feeling this way, why?-- and then it's as if those hours feeling like a second-class citizen and feeling sorry for yourself never happened.  You remember to pick up groceries and that the kid needs active attention from his mother, or you engross yourself in the gorgeously chiseled form of Cristiano Ronaldo--he whose gorgeousness gets me so many hits from random strangers-- and you remember things like how you signed up for NaComLeavMo over at the Stirrup Queen's blog, and how you think that your readers and lurkers would find this little internet activity fascinating and fun and a good idea to find new blogs, be polite, and say howdy.  There is even a handy dandy graphic you can add to your sidebar or in a prominent post!  Isn't that thoughtful?



NaComLeavMo: More Conversation Than You Can Shake a Stick at

So, I strongly suggest you stop staring at those chiseled abs and that manly jaw and stop thinking about soccer-related euphemisms for sexual activity and go sign up for NaComLeavMo.  And maybe stop thinking that the sky's gonna fall, Chicken Little.

And by "you" I guess I mean me.  But I figure you already knew that. 

I did also mean you, though, because I already signed up for NaComLeavMo.  So there.

We Interrupt Your Regularly Scheduled Blogging...

... so you can admire my shiny new url!

http://www.MadameMeow.com

Please update accordingly!  Whee!!

Maybe Farmer Gray Is Very Sexy. Or Maybe The Horse Needs To Get A Move-On

On yesterday's entry,  I meant to say crash cymbals, not hi-hats.

If I knew my way around a drum kit, I would have known that, I imagine. 

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I feel a little ridiculous admitting this (maybe admitting it again, as I may have already mentioned this before) but I like drums.  I mean, I really really like drums.  And when I had to go take my piano lessons when I was six and seven, I really envied the kid who was learning how to play drums.

It was loud.

It was obnoxious.

It was big-- somehow it seemed bigger than the piano.

No, no melody.  No, no delicate hand-over-hand changes and no arpeggios and no way to hide your lack of dedication behind some really kick-ass-sounding scale exercises. 

But oh, to be allowed to play the drums.  I was envious.  I wanted it.

And then, just as promptly, I guess I forgot about it-- or I just never really thought that I could and that was it. 

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Why is it that the drummer's stereotype seems to be this loser guy who doesn't bathe and can't keep a roof over his own head?  Or maybe just the guy in the band who is not talented enough to do anything other than beating some primeval buckets taut with some animal skins and unleash his aggressions on them in the background--hopefully while the talented guitarist and the brooding bassist and the charismatic frontman drown him out.

After all, Animal was the drummer, wasn't he? 

It seems incongruous to me.  The beat is, after all, the backbone of an orchestrated song-- the glue that tells everyone when they should come in.

It's also primitive, yes, but in the best sense possible: percussion is our first form of communication.  Tapping hands and toes and clapping and banging things on things, it might be the realm of babies; but when it's refined and practiced and honed to its finest expression it can be Neil Peart.

Percussion is natural, seductive, brilliant, violent-- it's like sex and laughter and walking and like brushing your teeth.

Why didn't I realize that I needed more drums in my life sooner?  I finally get it: it really is all about MORE COWBELL!  COWBELL IS GOOD!

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Parting thoughts:

1. I'm thinking I need to learn how to play the drums.  Maybe that will be my Weird-Ass Resolution For 2008.

2. My favorite carol is "Sleigh Ride"-- even if most versions sound utterly cheesy.  I tried finding a good version and couldn't-- and when the better version is the one by Alvin and the Chipmunks, you know you've hit rock bottom.  But anyway: reason? 

That sweet yet vaguely PG-13 whip, people.  Find yourselves a good version and listen.  And feel a little naughty around 1:07 (and 1:11, 1:24, and 1:28.. and 2:11... ooh... 2:12... and 2:47!) in the Boston Pops version I'm listening to right now.

*smack*

Ooh.