Something pretty

The days fly. At first there was only one, then two, which made a week, then two, and on until it's been more than a month. Where have I been? What has kept my attention? I could say, "life," and that would seem to explain it all. And yet, it hasn't seemed like enough. Especially today. When, after another mind-numbing day at work, another hurried dinner and more homework and laundry, I decide to go somewhere I haven't been in ages.

Poets.org

And I find out that one of my favorites is celebrating his hundredth birthday. Or at least he would, if he were still alive.

W.H. Auden.

I can't find the words to explain why I love his work so much. Especially since his words are so much better than my own.

The More Loving One
by W. H. Auden

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.

Somehow, there should always be time for the pretty things: poetry, friendship, love. And yet those are the first things to go when you're just trying to get through a chain of days.

But today, there was time for something pretty. And I feel much more like myself again.

Decisions, decisions

I can't decide whether I'm still blogging or not. My posting certainly can't get more infrequent than this.

I could say that work's been in the way. And that's true. It's been terrifically busy here, but I used to be able to blog around it.

Honestly, I feel as if I've said too much about my family here. And the crappier this world gets, the more inclined I am to just take the ones dear to me and hide. There's a line there, somewhere, and I haven't found it. It's going to be a strange process, figuring out what I want this blog to be. I'm not stopping. But until I can post regularly, and be comfortable with what I'm saying out here, it's going to be pretty spotty.

For those that check in, thank you. I'm glad you've been here to offer your support and comments and humor. I'll still be at your places. Pints' Friday Fuck Off is an especially lovely spot.

Until then.

Shan

Tag, I'm it

From the marvelous Mr. Summers, a Merry Christmas meme:

1. Egg nog or hot chocolate?

Hot chocolate, made the real way with Hershey's Cocoa, milk, vanilla extract and a large Kraft Jet-Puffed marshmallow. If there's a way to get a shot of bourbon into that, even better.

2. Does Santa wrap presents or just sit them under the tree?

Santa wraps them, but does so in paper that doesn't prompt your five-year-old to say, "Hey, Mom. Santa uses the same paper you do."

3. Colored lights on tree/house or white?

White lights on the tree, and large retro colored C9 lights on the house. On the treehouse, I prefer blue. For Hanukkah.

4. Do you hang mistletoe?

On Miles' belt buckle.

5. When do you put your decorations up?

Since I'm always off work the day after Thanksgiving and I can't wait any longer, I do most of it then. I have an awesome, single-girl, pre-lit plug-n-play tree. I could leave it up all year if I wanted, but I've been told that's a little much.

6. What is your favorite holiday dish (excluding dessert)?

I'm a fan of the glazed, spiral-sliced ham accompanied by a chilled vodka martini with bleu-cheese-stuffed olives.

7. Favorite holiday memory as a child:

It's more of a feeling than anything. I remember how those Christmas Eve nights felt, where I'd try and try and try to stay awake, even though I knew Santa wouldn't come as long as I wasn't sleeping, but I was always straining my ears for reindeer sounds and jingle bells. I always wanted PROOF of Santa. And then I'd fall asleep anyway, and wake up to presents.

8. When and how did you learn the truth about Santa?

My "best friend," who was a year older, told me. Bitch.

9. Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve?

The kids do. Once I was past 12, the "night before" present stopped. But I let the boy open one on Christmas Eve, same as I did.

10. How do you decorate your Christmas tree?

Since I have a cheater tree, the lights are already on it. But once it's plugged in, we hang the normal ball ornaments first, then the special ones, and the angel topping goes on last.

11. Snow! Love it or dread it?

What is this snow of which you speak? I live in Las Vegas. Always have. It's snowed here three times in my whole life, and none of those have been on Christmas.

12. Can you ice skate?

What is this ice of which you speak?

Kidding. It's weird, because I can ice skate. I can skate really well, forward and backward. Stopping, though, is a problem. That's what walls and rails are for.

13. Do you remember your favorite gift?

When I was eight, I got a bike. It was the most rockin' bike ever made, too. It was pink, with a white banana seat, tassels on the handlebars and a white faux-wicker basket with plastic flowers on it. That bike was freedom to me. I tried to take it out front and ride it even before I'd unwrapped my other gifts. When I finally could take it for a spin, it wasn't long before I was jumping it off the curb.

Yeah. I was a tomboy.

14. What's the most important thing about the holidays for you?

Love. Just the celebration of love, whether it's with my family or my friends. It's a time, for me, to realize the gifts we have. To me, the love of those closest to me is the best gift of all. And I love to give more than I receive.

15. What is your favorite holiday dessert?

My mother's candy cane cookies. They're cookies shaped like candy canes, made out of stripes of red and white dough and topped with crushed peppermint candy. My second favorite holiday dessert is Hickory Farms Beef Stick, hung from Miles' belt buckle.

16. What is your favorite holiday tradition?

Isn't it funny -- there are things we do every Christmas, but I don't really consider any of them to be traditions. Maybe I should start one. I wonder what I should do with Miles' belt buckle?

17. What tops your tree?

A golden-robed Victorian angel. Unlike Ken, I have no trouble stuffing shrubbery up an angel's ass.

18. Which do you prefer, giving or receiving?

Definitely giving.

19. What is your favorite Christmas song?

Tonight, I was already talking about this! The Bing Crosby/David Bowie version of "Little Drummer Boy."

Peace on earth. Ba-rum-bumbum-bum.

20. Candy canes:

Totally lovely, especially when placed on Miles' belt buckle.

21. Favorite Christmas movie?

"A Charlie Brown Christmas." I love Linus' voice telling the Nativity story. It breaks my heart every time.

22. What do you leave for Santa?

Milk and candy cane cookies. It's the only time all year I'll actually drink a glass of milk.

Happy Birthday

To Miles.

My friend. My blessing. My Love.

Thank you for your laughter, your wit, your courage and your heart.

Thank you for the road trips and the Sunday barbecues and bottles of wine and quiet after-work nights on the couch. For pool and golf and Boulder City and Sinatra. For debate. For five-star dinners and chicken wings. For encouraging me to sing, to write, to be myself. For listening. For talking. For everything.

Thank you for you.

Snort

I am a virulent ball of goo.

Not three weeks after I had a flu shot, I have come down with what appears to be the fucking flu.

Flu. Goo.

Ew.

Salute

December 7. The day will forever live in infamy.

Today, my paper had a story that makes me both proud and amazed.

TIME TO REMEMBER

USS Nevada's Pearl Harbor ordeal recalled

Sixty-five years ago today, Woody Derby was sitting on his bunk aboard the USS Nevada finishing breakfast and reading a newspaper when a call blared from loudspeakers to man the battle stations.

"I said, 'What the hell do they want to do that on Sunday for?'" the 88-year-old former sailor recalled Wednesday about the historic Dec. 7, 1941, Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor and the Nevada.

In minutes, "the hell" would happen when the first torpedo and bombs slammed the ship, the first of many more that the 27,500-ton battleship would endure. The ship later survived a pair of nuclear tests in 1946.

Derby, one of about 20 remaining survivors from the attack on the Nevada at Pearl Harbor, spent seven years and two months aboard the ship.

In a telephone interview from Honolulu, he said he will place a wreathe [oh, for heaven's sake, can't you people spellcheck? - s.] today to commemorate the day. He is proud to note that the Nevada is the only ship in the Navy that was present for both the Pearl Harbor attack and D-Day, June 6, 1944, off Utah Beach, for the Normandy invasion.

But it was Pearl Harbor, the ship's home port, that became Derby's yardstick for measuring death and destruction.

"There was tremendous damage," he said about a torpedo that struck near his turret. "We had water up to our waists, and it was still rising."

His battle station was below deck of a magazine that shot 5-inch shells, not ones designed for knocking out Japanese warplanes. Nevertheless, "they said send up ammunition. They wanted live ammunition, and we started gunning it up."

"We were hit by seven bombs and many near-misses from all the planes coming in," he said. "It was a desperate time."

In a heroic effort to avoid sinking in the harbor and becoming an obstacle, the Nevada steamed to beach itself in shallow water.

Derby, who at the time was a 23-year-old from Wapello, Iowa, spent much of the day on the third deck helping fight fires. That was not what he had expected he'd be doing when he joined the Navy on Dec. 7, 1938.

"Three years later was a bad day," he said.

"We moved right past the Arizona, which had blown up," he said. "The fire was so hot that when we went by, guys had to put their bodies on the ammunition and the shells that we were getting ready to fire to keep them from exploding." [emphasis mine]

Derby, who has stayed in shape over the years by running marathons -- 21 after age 58 -- said during much of the attack he was below deck and couldn't see what was happening.

Despite all the explosions, he said, "I wasn't scared because I didn't have time to be. The fire in the forward part of the ship was a very bad thing."

The Nevada, with the help of tugs, managed to make it to shallow water off Waipio Point.

"We beached it right next to the USS Shaw, which was hit by two bombs. .... (The Nevada) settled to the bottom," Derby said.

"That afternoon, about 4:30, they removed 57 bodies -- 50 sailors and seven Marines -- and 100 seriously wounded," he said.

Derby stayed with the ship while it endured salvage work and temporary repairs and steamed to the West Coast in April 1942. After a year in dry dock, the vintage-1916 Nevada, equipped with a new anti-aircraft gun battery, was off to combat again during the Attu landings in May 1943, according to the Naval Historical Center.

Derby said the ship's crew size grew from 1,350 sailors to 2,500. After the Attu landings the Nevada sailed to the mid-Atlantic where her guns pounded Normandy during the invasion in June 1944 and southern France two months later.

The ship returned to the Pacific to help with the Iwo Jima and Okinawa invasions in 1945. It endured a kamikaze attack on March 27, 1945 and an artillery shell on April 5, 1945.

After World War II, the Nevada was painted red, Derby said, and put at center stage among other dilapidated ships used in a pair of nuclear bomb tests at Bikini Atoll in the Marshall Islands. Though damaged and heavily tainted with fallout, it survived both the airdrop Able detonation on June 30, 1946 and the underwater Baker blast on July 24, 1946. A month later it was decommissioned.

"It sat radioactive hot for two years at Kwajalein," he said.

The USS Nevada was later towed to the deep waters southwest of Oahu and purposely sunk by gunfire and torpedoes on July 31, 1948.

All those boys. All that chaos. No matter how many accounts of the day I read, no matter how many times I read them, my amazement and respect are never diminished. What on earth compels a human being to throw his own fragile body over live ammunition to keep it from exploding in the heat? How would you even know to do such a thing?

Every day of that war saw acts of heroism. Some days inspired more than others. To salute every last one would take the rest of my life.

So today, I simply thank Woody Derby. And I thank all those who served with the Nevada. You helped make this world, imperfect as it may be, one that I am grateful for.

If it bleeds, and all that.

I may have mentioned this before, but I believe my local daily newspaper is absolute crap. Miles has a fabulous saying (it was actually something he said at his first agency job to his Creative Director, just before he was fired): "I wouldn't wipe my ass with that."

Maybe that's not something you say about a TV ad script that your boss wrote, but it's something I feel totally comfortable saying about my paper. Because I rarely get any news or insight. The "Nevada" section usually reads like a police blotter.

Except for today. Yesterday must have been pretty slow, death-wise. Going down the list on today's local page, the focus is on a nurse walkout, homeless issues, public health and updates on existing court cases. The editors must have been upset. Twitchy. Desperate, almost. They must have began to collectively sweat without the promise of a good police shooting or grisly murder-suicide. They were grasping - begging for something, anything to keep their readership up. Because really, they're the only daily paper in town - but given the choice between reading them and not reading at all, people seem to be opting for the second choice.

Then something caught the editors' beady eyes. It was Nevada-related. There was a tidy amount of death (either by vehicle or shooting) - 32 in just the last year. So they went with it:

Bears' death rate on rise around lake

Whew. Crisis averted. And hopefully, today will bring a fiery, multi-car, alcohol-related fatal crash that shuts down a major highway AND a bumfight that ends in a scuffle with police and a taser-related heart attack. If the news gods are good.

Boy, Britney's getting around.

Billboard Awards a spectacle of music, livestock

I'd encourage you to read the article, but my hometown newspaper is such a blazing piece of crap that they succeeded in making the night sound boring.

Fun with tutus

It's been tough to post lately, just because I've been at turns too busy and then uninspired. But this, THIS, is worth taking the time:

“Paris took Britney upstairs where she fitted her in a blue tutu, and then Paris put on a matching tutu,” a source told the London Star. “They then went downstairs and danced at Paris’ in-house stripper pole. Britney loves her new moves and can’t wait to get a fella and test them out.”

It's like one of those "Find Eight Things Wrong With This Picture" games. Only this time, you get to count the things wrong with the sentence. It's almost family-friendly . . . much more so than the old, passé "Find the Cooter In This Picture" game.

I'm so glad we can move on and do something new.

Gobble gobble

My family's Thanksgiving was Saturday. So I cooked for two days straight and at 5:30 on Saturday evening, finally sat down in front of my plate.

And went "ick." Since I'd spent so much time working the turkey and whipping the potatoes and buttering everything that didn't move, I was suddenly so OVER it.

I'm thankful for many things: my loving family, my friends, my Miles and my home. But more than anything, I'm DAMN thankful I don't have to do that again for another year.

Happy Thanksgiving

Now go get stuffed.

Just to let you know, I was planning some posts but in case I don't get to them, I'll leave with you with my wishes for a great holiday weekend.

Good.

O.J. Simpson’s Book and TV Special Are Canceled

If only we could 'cancel' O.J. himself.

Pig.

TomKat Kaption Kontest

Those krazy kids got married! And this is my favorite picture from the wedding album.



Go for it.

The littlest update

Everything's fine, except for one thing: I just watched the carafe from my coffeemaker shatter all over my kitchen floor.

Until now, I never realized how much I love my coffee.

The Night I Mocked God

One evening last spring, Miles and I wanted to play tennis. It’s not like we’re spectacular at tennis (Miles is and I’m not, which drops our collective spectacular level to below-average). We wanted to run around a bit and whack something, though, because it was a weeknight and working all day makes most people want to whack something.

So Miles picked me up at 6:30 and we took a short drive to the tennis courts by my son’s school. There’s a set of two, and one is usually free. Like normal, one court was open – the other had a load of people on it, though. Miles and I walked through the gate, set our stuff on the bench, got the rackets out of the covers, opened the balls and were in position when one of the people from the other court came over.

“You can’t play here tonight.”

I blinked at him. The other court was still full of people, but none of them had seemed interested in the free court.

“Why not, the court’s open.” Miles spoke up because I was still processing.

“No it isn’t. The City has these courts tonight to teach a class.”

I may have blinked again. Miles, sensing my uselessness, tried to reason with this guy on his own. “But you’re only using one.”

The guy acted as if we should have understood why this didn’t matter. “Sorry.”

“But . . .” I was catching up now, “but you’re not USING this one.” The guy swiveled his blond head to squint at me.

“I know,” he said, speaking slowly, “but the CITY has RESERVED them BOTH for a CLASS.”

“So you’re not using this one, but since the CITY has RESERVED it, we can’t play here?”

“Right.”

“Then WHY,” Miles replied, “didn’t you TELL us that BEFORE we UNPACKED our STUFF?”

Blondie stepped back a pace. Miles was much bigger than him and had lifted his racket to emphasize his point. In fact, I wondered for a moment if Miles wasn’t considering bipping Blondie’s golden head with a nice, snappy flick of the wrist. I wouldn’t have minded. The guy had a smarmy, officious sort of attitude. Because at that moment, Blondie had the weight of the whole City of Las Vegas behind him.

“Sorry, but that’s the RULES.”

The rules made no sense, but it would have made even less sense to point that out. So we grumbled and left.

It was still early, so we drove to the next closest set of tennis courts. They were empty. We pulled into a parking spot, got all our stuff together and went to the gates. They were chained shut and padlocked with a setup that would have restrained an elephant. Miles and I looked at each other.

“I know where we can go,” I said.

Two miles later, we checked out the new tennis complex. It was packed. Not an open square of green surface in sight. Miles and I looked at each other.

“Let’s go home,” he said.

I was too stubborn to give up. “No. There’s another one.”

By now, it didn’t matter that I sucked at tennis. I wanted to play and we were driving to frickin’ Reno as long as we found an open court. We got back in the car.

Five miles later, we pulled up to another park . . . and didn’t even bother parking. People were playing doubles on these courts. All ten of them. Miles and I looked at each other.

He shrugged. “Maybe God doesn’t want us to play tennis.”

I raised an eyebrow at him and scowled. Must have looked really pretty. “Like God doesn’t have bigger things to worry about than whether or not we get to play tennis tonight.”

Miles looked a little uncomfortable. “It’s getting late, besides.”

“God doesn’t care if we play tennis. We’ll check out the courts by the house on the way home. Maybe the CLASS is gone.”

The whole way there, I was inwardly scoffing. God doesn’t want us to play tennis. Ha ha ha. God’s taking time off from listening to the prayers of the poor and the sick. Right before God pulls Africa out of the shitter He’d better make sure we don’t play tennis tonight. God’s gonna do a little Divine Intervention in the Middle East but first, he’s gonna keep me off the tennis courts. Ha ha HA.

The class was gone. Two guys were on one court, but the other was free. Really, truly free. I grinned at Miles.

“See? God seems to be perfectly okay with us playing tennis.”

So we parked again. We unpacked again. We were in position – again – and ready to go. It may have taken an hour and a half, but we were ready to go.

Miles served. I hit it back. He hit it to me. I hit it back. Miles’ next shot went off to my right and I ran after it.

And then my feet suddenly stopped working. I tripped, stumbled and went down like a wet sack of raw chicken. I felt my racket bounce and slam into my ribcage, knocking me breathless as I hit the ground, knees first, where I skidded on both forearms and came to a stop easily fifteen feet from where I first lost my balance.

I lay there, nose-down on the green paint, my racket crushed beneath me, and gulped air. When I exhaled, I was very close to sobbing. I still don’t know if it was because I really hurt, I was scared, or if I was plainly humiliated. Probably a bit of all three.

As I rolled onto my back, Miles jogged over. When I saw the concern on his face, I sat up and let a sob go. Just one.

Okay. Two.

“Are you okay, Hon? What happened?” He crouched beside me.

“I fell on my racket,” I whined, holding out the offending sporting good. Somehow, my hand was still clutching the grip. He took it from me and put it aside.

“You’re bleeding,” he noted.

So I was, from a few places. Both knees had silver-dollar-sized scrapes, my right elbow had a five-inch-long wound and my left forearm had one that was shorter, but deeper. And somehow, I’d also scuffed the palm of my left hand. My arms and knees, in effect, had road rash. Once I assimilated all this, my knees began to seize up. I stretched out my legs.

“It’s not bad,” I said. “I can still play if you want.”

Miles looked, for a moment, as if he’d gladly bip ME upside the head. Then he stood and offered his hand. “Let’s go home.”

Finally, I agreed.

When we were in the car, I sagged. “I mocked God and look what happened.”

“What?”

“I mocked God. I said He couldn’t possibly care whether or not we played tennis.”

Miles paused. “Do you really think that’s why you fell?”

“Yeah.”

He sighed.

Road rash doesn’t REALLY hurt until the shower hits it. My knees and arms cramped again as the water ran over them. I had to buy very large band-aids and Neosporin. When my co-workers asked about the bandages, I told them what happened. And everyone I told had the same reaction: they laughed.

“That’s what you get” was a close second.

You don’t have to believe that my mocking had anything to do with falling on my face, embarrassing myself and scraping skin off every limb. But I do. Somehow, in some way, I asked for it.

I have faith that I was touched by the finger of God. Really hard, and right in the center of my back.

Don't stop 'til you get to Idaho

Gibbons 'hits the ground running'

Nice shot

Go here. Check out the test videos.

And don't do it at work. Everyone else will wonder why you're giggling.

Sunday. Funny Sunday.

On Sunday, I did my puppeteering/voiceover thingy for my friend's movie. His impressions are here.

Things I learned from the experience:
1) Puppets are REALLY creepy.
2) It's hard to act when you're stuffed under a desk.
3) When you're stuffed under said desk and you're holding your puppet above the edge of the desk, your hand falls asleep. A lot.
4) The insides of puppets smell really weird.
5) It's hard to get that smell off your hand.

After we wrapped, Francis (a local French photographer and the owner of the studio we shot at) said to me, "I know many of ze puppeteers. You are goot."

Then, he asked a question that struck me as very funny:

"You do ze puppet long?"

Maybe I think it's funny because my mind is always hovering around the gutter.

I approve this message

The timing may be a bit off, but I agree with the sentiment.

The Winding Way of the Meme

The Great Freakin' Music Meme, via Shannon via Cullen


IF YOUR LIFE WAS A MOVIE, WHAT WOULD THE SOUNDTRACK BE?
So, here's how it works:
1. Open your library (iTunes, Winamp, Media Player, iPod, etc)
2. Put it on shuffle
3. Press play
4. For every question, type the song that's playing
5. When you go to a new question, press the next button
6. Don't lie and try to pretend you're cool... and alot of the songs fit with the setting.

Opening Credits:
Waking Up: El Amor De Mi Vida • Warren Zevon
First Day At School: Red Light Fever • Liz Phair (giggle)
Falling In Love: Across The Universe • Rufus Wainright
Fight Song: She's Too Good for Me • Sting
Breaking Up: Anna's Sweater • Two Gallants
Prom: Don't Walk Away • ELO
Life: Love and Peace or Else • U2
Mental Breakdown: The Whole World Lost Its Head • The Go-Go's (I can't make this shit up)
Driving: Some Other Spring • Billie Holiday
Flashback: When the Music Stops • Eminem
Getting back together: Black Is the Color Of My True Love's Hair • Nina Simone
Wedding: Two Little Feet • Karen Savoca
Birth of Child: Rest Of The Day Off • Neil Finn
Final Battle: Entering Deadwood • Michael Brook
Death Scene: Murder, Tonight, In The Trailer Park • Cowboy Junkies (Wow. Now that's weird.)
Funeral Song: Bamboleo • Gipsy Kings
End Credits: High Highs • Viva Voce

I absolutely have to have "Bamboleo" played at my funeral. That would be funny.

"BAM-BO-LAAAAAAAAY-O!"