copy cattin'

http://sosaidi.blogspot.com/


Found that on Recently Updated Blogs today – very nice, kind of reminds me of me (but in a younger, better dressed version) – and, since I can’t think of anything to blog about and there’s a long afternoon stretching out in front of me, I thought I’d steal her idea. I haven’t brought the A game in weeks, but my standards are high and my talent is low. Anyway, thanks to middlegirl!

My weekend – the quick version.

Friday night: ate leftovers, washed a load of clothes, fell asleep in a chair watching some Sci-Fi program.
Saturday: Slept until 9!!!!! Made the grocery list and planned menus for the week. Went Walmarting. Drove to Knoxville with husband. Ate obscenely expensive seafood, saw Ron White. Wondered what a “rim job” was briefly, decided it was better not to know. Stayed up past midnight! Fell asleep with tv on and book in lap in a very cozy hotel.
Sunday: Slept til 10!!! Made tea, watched a stupid Sly Stallone movie (which is of course an oxymoron - what was I thinking?). Had a Coke and a shower. Saw friend in nursing home. Ate a few Krystals, drove home. Did more laundry, washed muddy dog.


My Weekend – the fantasy version

Friday night: Kids and husband went to the Grand Canyon (or somewhere far far away). Ordered pizza (with black AND green olives, mushrooms and pepperoni), which I ate in front of the tv with some Southpaw because Gone With The Wind was on, followed by Parenthood and A League of Their Own.

Saturday: Slept til noon and awoke to find my house meticulously cleaned by magic elves, laundry done right down to the ironing, shelves stocked and a lovely French onion soup for lunch. Kids and husband returned from Grand Canyon and without the ability to argue. Drove to Knoxville, ate seafood in a quiet restaurant with fantastically flattering lighting, saw Ron White. Had champagne on terrace of cozy hotel and watched the demolition of the Summitt Hill Bridge.

Sunday: Slept until eleven. Ate croissants and chocolate covered strawberries while sipping champagne in an enormous bubble bath. Watched back to back episodes of Biography, read an entire book, took a nap and turned back into Mom at the last possible second.



And really, is that too much to ask?

There Oughta Be a Law

Maybe you can’t legislate morality, or common courtesy, or even reasonable concern for the rest of the world, but if I could, these would be capital crimes…

1. Spitting in public. And it becomes especially heinous when it involves that godawful sinus-clearing schnurping noise and therefore subject to special punishment. Someone did this to me in Walmart. In the cereal aisle! Well, to be truthful, he didn’t spit, but he did schnurp right in my ear. Which is an egregious invasion of my personal space. His dog must die with him.
   
2. People who take up more than one parking space deliberately. You in the massive assault vehicle! If you can't park it, keep it at home. In fact, just owning a massive assault vehicle ought to be a felony. Criminal conspicuous consumption. Embezzlement of eco-resources. Driving Under the Influence of Middle Class Suburbanism.
   
3. People who toss their cigarettes out their vehicle windows. I'd like to go all Skink on them, but I don't have the cajones. Watch out. One day I will.
   
4. People who whisper in public. I’m not talking about those with itty bitty voices incapable of projection. I’m talking about the people who will, when in a group, lean in to whisper to a particular ear. Unless you are someone privy to state secrets and you are at the UN, this is rude. And rudeness will get you killed. At least, it would if I were Queen of the World.

You Got a Reason to Cry...

Last night, I wrote the best opening line for a poem. It came to me in a dream, and I woke up savoring the words, feeling the electric rightness of every syllable. It was the beginning of the poem that would succor the hungry, clothe the naked, heal the sick and just generally make the world a better place. I don’t think Jesus could’ve written it better. Like Bode Miller, I was about to Live Up to My Potential! I was inches away from publication, from having my Emily Dickinson moment in the sun.

And I rolled over and went back to sleep.


Poems are hard to write. Every word has to perform. And it has to sound good performing. Straight pipes, not fart mufflers. And I write them so badly that I haven’t tried any ‘serious’ poems since this abortion:


Incantation for Lost Souls

At night I sleep cocooned and healing.
Each morning I tear the wound open, conjuring memories.
Tasting the exquisite sweetness of it
Piercing dream flesh with invented emotion
Until fresh blood seeps beneath the bandage.
A self-inflicted injury—I created this, made this
For you.

Darkness brings the cure. A potent oblivion caresses the scab.
In the black warmth of nothingness, something grows that wants this hurt.


Which, I think, was about my craving for drama. There are some nice phrases in it, I think. ‘Potent oblivion’ is good. Too much sibilance overall. Too Poetry I. Actually, I think I did better in Poetry I. So, that’s sad. I’ve lived 23 more years, graduated, got married, had 4 kids and got a real job and I still have nothing to say!

And it was given to me in a dream.

And I went back to sleep.


Damn. Damn. Damn.

The Hangover This Morning Had A Personality*

Last night, CBS brought us the 48th (??) Annual Grammy Awards, my yearly exercise in drinking games (think of God and Mama), almost witty yet strangely irrelevant commentary, and prognostication. With my Rolling Stone Guide to the Grammys in one hand and a nice cold Southpaw in the other, I observed the ant farm. This year was a little bit of a disappointment – even Mariah dressed decently! But I have a few leftover observations:


Madonna! Honey, you’re at an age where support hose will soon be more than some kind of freaky fashion statement. Don’t try to make capris out of them. And give Farrah Fawcett back her hairstyle.

Coldplay. Chris Martin didn’t drool this year, but he skipped through the audience, around the stage, and did some interpretative dancing while wearing assorted bandaids and Gwyneth’s maternity jeans. Study those Stones tapes harder Chris! Mick combs his hair and his pants fit.

Kelly Clarkson, thank you! Until you came on to sing that annoying song, everyone was dressed reasonably. But you, you punk rebel you! You took a page from the Scarlett O’Hara Book of Dress Design. Getting your grandma’s housecoat and shredding it to ribbons! Inspired! And when you won, not one mention of that blight on the American entertainment landscape. Edgy!


Paul McCartney. Yawn. I think we use the same hair color. His performance was frustrating for me. I can’t think of anything bad to say about it, but I think he’s an abysmal human being. Don’t buy his record.

And speaking of hair color, should Gwen still be hitting the peroxide? She looks fabulous anyway. And way more pregnant than I thought she was. I’m glad she wasn’t wearing the Harajuku shoes.

Note to Keef: not only is Johnny Depp stealing your look, Steven Tyler is too. Get your beads and baubles down to the Patent Office, stat!

U2. Why don’t Larry and Adam ever speak? Will this album EVER go away?

Michael Buble. Michael Buble. Michael Buble. That’s just fun to say, isn’t it?




John Legend is, to borrow my nemesis’ favorite adjective, HOT. .

*thanks, Elvis.