Kratzen vom Rathaus

Tony The Ent

That will never be
Who can impress the forest, bid the tree
Unfix his earth-bound root? Sweet bodements! good!"
                                        Macbeth. Act 4, Scene 1

And it was murder and mayhem in the Delaney-Myles household this Christmas as Tony proved once again he was indeed had as much patience as I have, err, creativity. Unfortunately for him, I had been obsessing for a week that the Christmas tree would be better in the living room than in the front room where I had originally set it up.  But it takes hours to set up and decorate the stupid tree- particularly because we have a plastic tree. Rather than undercorate, deconstruct, move, construct and re-decorate the stupid thing, I spent that time idealizing just moving the sucker en masse. Yeah. And of course, today being Christmas Eve, WELL, it had to be done today.
And it was too heavy for me to move. Even an inch.
"TO-NY!"
The poor guy. He just looked at me for a second and decided it was better to get it over with than to try reason and reality. Particularly after I explained that Santa did it every year. (It's true, I've seen the postcards with him hauling a fully decorated tree on one shoulder.)
I think the best part of this unfortunate plan was when Tony accidentally unhooked the middlepiece of  the trunk and I exclaimed "Oh, there it is. I THOUGHT the stupid trunk split into two..." He gently stumbled clear of the rest of the carnage and placed the top of the tree against a wall. When he turned back around an ornament was hanging from his right shoulder, hooked into the fabric of his new robe. I started laughing and pointing. Tony looked but couldn't find what I was pointing at and I nearly suffocated with laughter. I couldn't breathe, much less talk, so I pointed again. Finally, he looked down and then calmly removed the ornament. I could almost hear him saying "I love her" in that tone of voice that lets me know that he is actually reminding himself.
But now, the tree is in the room I want it in, and life is good. Well, maybe...

Maudlin

Last night, I wanted to do some late night shopping as I am spiffing up the front room for our New Year's party. And it was one of those moments in time. I had just read a comment on Andrea's blog written by her her mate and was struck by Liz's comment revealing just how much the assholes of the world hurt her.  I've only met Liz in person once, and she struck me as a strong person, someone who I could respect. Plus, she and Andrea seem to have a great relationship given what Andrea writes about her and their life in general.
While it irritates me that people lash out at any minority, knowing that some of those blows are landing-  particularly on someone who has my respect- well, then I'm pissed. Full on rightious indignation time. I was taken right back to my late teen years and all the hatred that defined Cincinnati and the gay community. Images of my old circle of friends and the louisville slugger near the door at the Metro and the night breeder John the bartender had to use it on some fratboyz who came downtown for a little gaybashing fun.  (Yes, I'm aware I just connected my late teens and hanging out in a bar. I started going there in high school. Mea frickin' culpa.)
And I've got this running in the back of my brain on rodent wheel and then in the car the song Nightswimming by REM comes on the radio. This is a weird one because it reminds me of Eppie, who died several years before the song was released. (He was in hospice in Cincinnati in the late 80's and his father refused to put any of his friends' names on the list to see him because it was our fault his son was gay and therefore dying of 'that gay disease.' It gets worse, let's not go there.)
Anyway, Eppie had gone away to college because dad had put up the money just to get him out of the local scene. So no one had heard from him in quite some time. And I was down on Fountain Square (like Union Square) alone, as this was when Lila was serious with Wilson and I had recently removed myself from an unfortunate relationship. And there was Eppie, home on spring break. He was always easy to pick out because he was so damn preppie- there was a time when he fell completely in love with one of the punk pack that hung out down there. It was so cute, because punks being punks they didn't care but he tried his best to fit in with them. So he raggedly cut off his chino's- just above the knee. AND he still wore an oxford...
I saw him when he was making his way over to me, as I stuck out from the normal midnight crowd too. (One of the guys at Rocky dubbed me Lady Benneton for my odd sort of English skirt and boot style.) We just started walking and talking and catching up. Life had been going pretty good for him. He was getting along better with his father since he'd been away at school and he was seeing a guy at college which seemed to be pretty serious. I approved because he was practically glowing when he talked about the 'relationhip'; a word he must have learned at college because I'd never heard him use it before. I was getting myself back together after a bad year, and had finally managed to dump the idiot I was seeing. I remember talking animatedly about how my 'harem' (which had been a goal at the time) wasn't as much fun as I expected and that I would throw everyone I was seeing over for this friend of Lila's fiance. Eppie approved of this plan because he liked Lila's fiance. It was as if we were getting each other's permission to go after what we wanted, and it seemed pretty funny at the time. We spent hours just ambling around downtown that night, talking about everything and how life had changed so much in such little time. It had seemed wonderfully optimistic and  bright for the first time in forever.
And that's the last time I saw Eppie.
Anyway, for some reason that stupid REM song captures that night to a tee. Quiet and somber but somehow happy. Hearing it, I can hear his voice particularly that lightly sarcastic tone he would use when being catty and his two note laugh. I can smell the nasty sour tang that emanated from certain blocks.  I can feel the balmy spring nght clinging to my arms and the weight of my dress against my shoulders. We seemed more suited for a Sunday outing than a midnight prowl and I remember giggling about how funny it was strolling together like some married couple in the park, instead of two pretenders to the mainstream creeping around the dirty downtown steets in the middle of the nght. It always comes back with a rush of warmth and detail and and underscore of regret. Then of course there's the brutal reality that this was his swansong- I just didn't know it.
So the next thing I know, I'm wiping my face with one hand while driving and thinking how stupid I'm going to look in public with salt tracks on my cheeks. Then this huge rush of anger hits against Eppie's father and then the good people of Cincinnati in general, not to mention the faceless and hateful bastards which made Liz want to cry. [I tend to give those people the face of this priest I almost assaulted. It's a great story for another time. My MOM, all hundred pounds of her, kept me from a rap sheet by pulling me back mid-lunge. I do thank her for it, but every so often I think it might have been satisfying enough to be worth arrest. This is one of those times.]
Anyway. I'm not a terribly moody person. And weeping like an old woman watchnig a hallmark commercial doesn't sit terribly well with me. But there you have it. Every time I hear that song. I'm not even a fan of REM.
That song, though. Man.
I have many, many memories tied to songs. But this one is just amazingly strong, and so odd because of the timing. Does anybody else have one like this, where the song couldn't possibly have been playing at the time?

OK, The Holiday Season Has Officially Hit Bizarre Levels

I think I'm going to stop shopping now. Things are just getting a little too weird for me. My latest shopping incident was at the Trader Joe's in San Mateo, mecca of suburbia. Nothing ever happens there.
So, imagine my suprise when I came around the back of the jeep laden with grocery bags only to find the the nicely dressed guy in the luxury SUV next to me huddled into the corner of the open driver's door, pouring liquid onto the ground. You know, like from a commuter mug.
Then my senses rerouted the message my brain had mercifully cut off in transit,  and I realized that wasn't coffee.
Eeeeeeeeew.
Dude, Trader Joe's has a bathroom.

Ok Maybe Ghetto's Not So Bad

So, today I am in Expo, your standard high end Home Depot. And in the rug department I overhear a clerk yelling at another one: "You should  always get them! You should get their home phone, their work phone, and their cell phone. You should always be able to get ahold of them."  He went on about how there should never be an excuse that a customer was unavailable. They should be able to be reached at all times.
Yeesh. And just as I'm thinking 'Psi-Ko', he whirls around and says: "What  can do to help you?"
I start seeing visions of Vivian Leigh in the shower scene.
Eeeeek! Nothing! Stay the f*** AWAY from me before I get a restraining order!

I wound up buying the rug at a different Expo.

Breaking 2 Bucks

A couple of days ago Valero 87 octane dipped below the 2 dollar mark out here in Lala land.
Woo hoo! Road trip.
What a shame my little British bike tolerates neither Valero nor 87 octane...

The Mall By My House is SO Ghetto

Conversation with the cashier at the store (keep in mind I have a rather large piece of FURNITURE perched on top of my cart):

Cashier:  Umm, you don't want to take that cart out to your car, do you?
Me:  Well, actually that's exactly what I was intending to do with it.
Cashier:  Oh. (pauses) Well, we're're going to need a picture ID left at the counter.
Me: Why?
Cashier:  To make sure you bring the cart back.

(The cart in question was actually swiped from a different store, but I grabbed it in the lot as I needed one and you take what you can get at this time of year.)

Me:  But it's not even YOUR cart!
Cashier:  Oh. (Longer pause) Well, you probably don't need to leave ID then...

PV=nRT

Pressure does funny things.
Today I was engaged in an animated discussion of issues surrounding our chapter of Women on Wheels, after having arrived late to the meeting  due to an amazingly long list of things I wanted to get done today. As I was talking and idly rubbing my right thumb on the handle of my coffee mug, I  accidentally snapped the sucker right off the side of the mug.
<sigh>
So, I've now added 'replace a mug for Barb' to the bottom of that list...

A Minor Addendum

Tony has pointed out that I sounded like I hate gift certificates. Holly called in the middle of her exam week, pointing out that I sounded miserable.
Neither are quite correct.
I do like gift certificates, provided there is a reason behind the choice. For instance, last night we received in the mail a lovely little suprise from mimi's cafe. This was from my brother and sister (in law). They sent it because when they were out a few summers ago, I took the family there and a most enjoyable time was had by all. I *know* this memory went through Michele's mind when she bought it. And that makes me very happy. Like hearing a favorite song on the radio, opening the envelope took me  back to that summer evening, right down to the sunset over 580, which was much prettier than the phrasing indicates.
Also, pertinant gift certificates are always a good idea for someone. It's no secret that I hold vague housewifey interests and haunt places like Tuesday Morning on scavanging trips. It's the retail version of beach combing. It's amazing how Tony's eyes will sparkle at seeing a little slip of plastic with  two very important words inscripted across the front. (Those two words are of course Best Buy) And what can I say about Borders or B&N? I almost always find at least one of those on the list of gifts I GIVE. Then there's special  interests. What motorcycle rider wouldn't use credit at Cyclegear? Eventually, you're going to need something from there. These kind of presents don't evoke memories, but still fit my criteria of a proper present because they indicate the giver knows you well enough to know how you spend your days. Or even how you fantasize about spending your days.
And that is much more than I intended to write about that.
Being miserable, however. Yeah, that's a tricky one. I was upset when I wrote the entry. I was mad at Tony for being the direct cause, mad at myself for acting like a child (and for blowing off the Physics exam, as long as I'm being honest) and mad at the rest of the world for allowing the whole Christmas stress situation to exist, probably for many families.
But I started keeping an online journal with the intention of staying real to it. If I am happy about a furbeastie or a sunny day, I'm going to say so. If I am unhappy about myself or that I got cut off in traffic, well, that's going in too. (If I'm in amanic mood, you won't hear about it though. I never feel like typing when I'm like that.  Bummer. I'm *sure* it would be entertaining.) This is non-fiction, the only difference is in what I choose to self censor, either due to sloth or good manners.
Upshot of original topic: yeah, I was upset.
Then I took my exam, talked to Tony and got on with things. Within hours I was totally immersed in one of my *other* spinning plates...
Speaking of which, have I mentioned what I'm planning for New Years??

Friday Rat Blogging

This is Muffin, our hyperactive little grey puffball that I have taken to occasionally calling Tweak (among other things. Rats get pet names out the wazoo around here.) for his abundand energy. He's soft as kitten fur though, and will actually sit still for a few minutes to enjoy a good skritch.

How The Hell Did That Happen?

No. Not another wreck. Well, maybe it is. But it's metaphysical.
I was just procrastinating my final exam tomorrow and started contemplating the past few days. Tuesday was a fine example. I had to go over to the college, then afterward I decided to meet my friend for coffee and therapy. (She is a very loving woman who's mother is gifted with the emotional maturity of a twelve year old. A twelve year old standing within ten feet of the pop idol of choice. So Starbuck's and sympathy it is.)  On the way back, I had to do the grocery shopping. This is a little more grueling for me than most people as I don't place much value on my time. I don't bring in much money, so I need to make it up somewhere. I shop regularly in a pattern of three stores on my way home. It's a bit of an effort, but I feed our little family for about half the price as if I shopped just the one. And so it's pretty late when I get home. Pulling into the driveway, I see Tony's bike is there and I say a silent prayer of thanksgiving to the grocerybag gods as I am now bone tired. To top it off, for some unknown reason, I wore pumps. I was going to go upstairs, remove my heels and sink so far into the couch it would take an archeologist to find me. Maybe in an hour or two I would  find the effort to scrounge a late lunch/late dinner out of the grocery plunder.
This is of course when our next door neighbor came walking out the door asked me if I wanted a ride to the  meeting. Then I remembered that I had to go to a meeting. Which was due to start in ten minutes. So much for couch. So much for lunch. So much for sensible  shoes.  At least I hoped I would be sitting down most of the meeting.
And this is the "how the hell did that happen" part. Because, you see, I'm on the board of our homeowner's association. Me. I didn't even want to have neighbors. And I wound up on the board representing about 600 of them.
As I was sitting in the front living room of one of my fellow boardmember's houses and we were discussing what to ask the city about the proposed roadwork in the meeting on Friday (4pm, city hall. I've been to Hayward's city hall in the last two years more than I have to Cincinnati's in my first twenty. AND MY BROTHER WORKED THERE!) Anyway, the streets are nothing new. In fact, that's the problem. So my mind wandered a bit, and I started trying to figure out how I would actually fit these people in my house  if I was forced to host a meeting.
I am from a completely different culture. And I find that astounding.The circles I run in are full of people who don't mind piling together on a couch or throwing a pillow on the floor and finding it comfortable. In my house, the front (formal) living room is where the RattieBoyz (tm) hang- their cages cover almost one full wall. The seating available there is a computer chair and a bean bag.
In fact, the only room of mine that would be at all proper in one of my neighbor's houses is my upstairs reading room. This is the one that my friend Ceej lovingly dubbed "the grandma room." And yet, I'm not that much younger than the average board member. In fact, I believe one member is younger than I am. At least chronologically.
It's not that I feel like a child. I think I could successfully raise an entire household in here. But I feel no need for the archaic trappings of being middle aged. For instance, I've never understood the TV cabinet. Why are people so obsessed with hiding their TV? They don't hide their oven and most people use the TV more often. (Oddly, I might be the exception. At least during the NHL lockout.)
Anyway, the upshot of all this is I somehow wound up in a local political representative position while being both anarchic and non-representative of the local constituency. And so I repeat; "How the hell did this happen?"