I'd like to feel soulful tonight. But I keep giggling. Maybe some wine would put me in a more soulful mood. Maybe some James Brown. Maybe...now I'm picturing James Brown in a tutu and I'm giggling again.
Really, I am soulful. Here, let me try. Now he's dancing the Nutcracker.
Okay, so I have my soulful moments. This just isn't one of them.
I feel good, though!
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Friday, November 21, 2008
Dinner at Cunningham's
You should have been there. And maybe you were. But only if your name was Pat, Kit or Alex. Or Chris. But he arrived later.
Chris was an Irish waiter. He wasn't our waiter, though, in the sense that he brought us food. No, someone else did that. Chris showed up somewhere between the story about the bus full of 5-6-year-olds that rolled over and one of the kids said, "Holy crackers!" and the story about the Romanian general and three miles barefoot through the gardens. I couldn't keep track of it all, but he just pulled up a chair when he learned we were children's writers talking about the ways we kill off characters in our stories.
We started telling stories because I threatened to never write another word. Kit kindly reminded me of the parrot I used to own that memorized the moan sequence in my ex's favorite adult tape. So now we have an unholy pact that one of us will write that story in its entirety before ten years are up, or possibly we will put together an anthology with each of our versions of this story.
Now I am not allowed to stop writing.
I threatened to go to law school, you see, and become an attorney and fade away into nothing. 200 of my coworkers might take offense if they read this, but they won't. And if they do, I'll write them a story to make them happy. Because I'm not going to law school.
Some random things I learned over a glass of wine tonight (was it really only one glass? I'm not telling):
1. No one would ever drink tartar sauce.
2. You don't need to take your socks off. But the mosquitos might bite you if you do.
3. It is impolite to compare your waiter's story of how he survived a bomb blast in Belfast to Harry Potter.
4. If you do commit number 3, even if it is on the street on the way back to the dorm, you might offend the cow.
5. There is a man in Colorado who believes Baby Jesus lives in the clouds and if his cow likes you, you have luck for the rest of your life.
6. The cow doesn't like me.
7. The Hot Brown really is quite good and will stay on my hips for a millenium.
8. Alex writes everything down in her litle green book.
9. I took some video so I would remember what was so funny, but it's not uploading correctly. The cow must not be amused.
10. We really do kill our characters in some crazy ways. Oh, but it's so fulfilling.
And oh oh oh!!! I DO have heat in the dorm! Thank the cow!
Chris was an Irish waiter. He wasn't our waiter, though, in the sense that he brought us food. No, someone else did that. Chris showed up somewhere between the story about the bus full of 5-6-year-olds that rolled over and one of the kids said, "Holy crackers!" and the story about the Romanian general and three miles barefoot through the gardens. I couldn't keep track of it all, but he just pulled up a chair when he learned we were children's writers talking about the ways we kill off characters in our stories.
We started telling stories because I threatened to never write another word. Kit kindly reminded me of the parrot I used to own that memorized the moan sequence in my ex's favorite adult tape. So now we have an unholy pact that one of us will write that story in its entirety before ten years are up, or possibly we will put together an anthology with each of our versions of this story.
Now I am not allowed to stop writing.
I threatened to go to law school, you see, and become an attorney and fade away into nothing. 200 of my coworkers might take offense if they read this, but they won't. And if they do, I'll write them a story to make them happy. Because I'm not going to law school.
Some random things I learned over a glass of wine tonight (was it really only one glass? I'm not telling):
1. No one would ever drink tartar sauce.
2. You don't need to take your socks off. But the mosquitos might bite you if you do.
3. It is impolite to compare your waiter's story of how he survived a bomb blast in Belfast to Harry Potter.
4. If you do commit number 3, even if it is on the street on the way back to the dorm, you might offend the cow.
5. There is a man in Colorado who believes Baby Jesus lives in the clouds and if his cow likes you, you have luck for the rest of your life.
6. The cow doesn't like me.
7. The Hot Brown really is quite good and will stay on my hips for a millenium.
8. Alex writes everything down in her litle green book.
9. I took some video so I would remember what was so funny, but it's not uploading correctly. The cow must not be amused.
10. We really do kill our characters in some crazy ways. Oh, but it's so fulfilling.
And oh oh oh!!! I DO have heat in the dorm! Thank the cow!
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
2:00 a.m.
I would not normally find myself awake at this hour. But then again, I would not normally find myself asleep at 7:30 p.m. I crashed and burned. Hopefully, this signals the end of the brain malfunctions for the remainder of residency. I really do need to know what my name is at all times. Oh, wait, I have a nametag, so that is no longer an issue. I can just look down at my chest and voila, instant identity!
Today is my lecture (TSB 507 at...um...well, it's in the afternoon, right after Kit). Tomorrow is my reading, again in the afternoon, Broadway C at the Brown, but I'm first for that and then Kit reads. So we're tag team graduates. Don't mess with us--we'll throw a chair at you! Just kidding. I would never hurt a fly. I might yell at it a bit if it doesn't do its homework, but would never hurt it. Now, spiders, that's a different story. That's what the dictionary's for, smashing them, kapow!
So now that I'm on an insect tangent, the memory of my son sitting at my friend's table, completing his homework before I left for Kentucky arises.
"Mom, I don't have my reading book and I need to finish these vocabulary words," AJ said.
Anna 2 plopped a huge Webster's Dictionary on the table in front of him within seconds. "Here, use this," she said.
"But that's just for killing spiders," my darling adorable son said.
We taught him the other use.
This brings me to the other tangent. I miss my son.
But I won't elaborate. Except to say that he called and woke me up and told me of his 83% on the English test. That is so much better than what he's been doing lately. Maybe I should leave more often.
Today is my lecture (TSB 507 at...um...well, it's in the afternoon, right after Kit). Tomorrow is my reading, again in the afternoon, Broadway C at the Brown, but I'm first for that and then Kit reads. So we're tag team graduates. Don't mess with us--we'll throw a chair at you! Just kidding. I would never hurt a fly. I might yell at it a bit if it doesn't do its homework, but would never hurt it. Now, spiders, that's a different story. That's what the dictionary's for, smashing them, kapow!
So now that I'm on an insect tangent, the memory of my son sitting at my friend's table, completing his homework before I left for Kentucky arises.
"Mom, I don't have my reading book and I need to finish these vocabulary words," AJ said.
Anna 2 plopped a huge Webster's Dictionary on the table in front of him within seconds. "Here, use this," she said.
"But that's just for killing spiders," my darling adorable son said.
We taught him the other use.
This brings me to the other tangent. I miss my son.
But I won't elaborate. Except to say that he called and woke me up and told me of his 83% on the English test. That is so much better than what he's been doing lately. Maybe I should leave more often.
Monday, November 17, 2008
What Day is it, Anyway?
Tomorrow, no, make that today, is my thesis discussion. That sounds just...entirely too official. I'm graduating. Fast. And I know my mentor will ask me what's next at the end of the discussion. I know this because she asked my fellow student today, wait, yesterday. Some day. I know I was there, but it's all a haze. I haven't even had more than ONE glass of wine yet! SOMETHING MUST BE DONE ABOUT THAT. I can't go to the Brown lobby and drink because...well, I'm broke until Wednesday. And also the dorm is far, far away and it's dark and scary and stuff. So those are obstacles. How will I overcome them? Will Anna complete a thought in the next five days? Tune in to the same website, at various times, to find out...oh, just click the rss feed and get me all excited.
Thx
Thx
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Little Boy Tears
Little Boy Tears
They shake from his shoulders like leaves off a stubborn tree. He gives in to them only when my arms encircle his stiff spine. He does not relax. He is embarrassed to cry. But real boys feel, and are not made of stone. It is then I realize that he is not a little boy any longer. Little boys wail over broken fire engines, their sirens forever silent. Neither is he a young man, not yet, I will not see that. So what is he? Simply human, and about to lose a best friend, watching him drive down the street, his house empty, his car full. These tears, they stain our hearts. I cry, too, but only where he can't see me, hidden here.
With you.
They shake from his shoulders like leaves off a stubborn tree. He gives in to them only when my arms encircle his stiff spine. He does not relax. He is embarrassed to cry. But real boys feel, and are not made of stone. It is then I realize that he is not a little boy any longer. Little boys wail over broken fire engines, their sirens forever silent. Neither is he a young man, not yet, I will not see that. So what is he? Simply human, and about to lose a best friend, watching him drive down the street, his house empty, his car full. These tears, they stain our hearts. I cry, too, but only where he can't see me, hidden here.
With you.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Provisional Ballot = In!
I found a polling place that was not a fire station near my son's school without the Registrar employee's assistance. Ironically, as I pulled up, a fire engine whizzed past, sirens at full volume. I knew I was in the correct place then.
The blank stares I received as I explained that I was a lost mail-in ballot person and didn't know where my original polling place might be were priceless. When I was offered a change of address form, I continued on to say that I use the p.o. box for everything and yes, the house I own resides where it physically sits, but that is no guarantee that I will be inside it. The persistent doe-eyed blonde actually asked, "But don't you want people to know where you live?"
Uh...no. No, I don't. But you have a nice day. A really really nice day. May I have a ballot now, PLEASE?
Okay, so I filled it out all out and did everything right, including yes on 2, which I forgot about earlier (it's worth all the hassle just to help the animals!), and then I was told that in two to three weeks, I can see if my provisional ballot was accepted.
Don't they count them right away? There's a bar code on the envelope. Isn't it all electronic?
My ballot was handwritten, with connect the arrow instructions and a pen that twenty thousand other people touched today. Ick. Again, though, it's worth it if it helps the animals. I have to keep telling myself that.
After this ordeal, I really hope my vote counts.
The blank stares I received as I explained that I was a lost mail-in ballot person and didn't know where my original polling place might be were priceless. When I was offered a change of address form, I continued on to say that I use the p.o. box for everything and yes, the house I own resides where it physically sits, but that is no guarantee that I will be inside it. The persistent doe-eyed blonde actually asked, "But don't you want people to know where you live?"
Uh...no. No, I don't. But you have a nice day. A really really nice day. May I have a ballot now, PLEASE?
Okay, so I filled it out all out and did everything right, including yes on 2, which I forgot about earlier (it's worth all the hassle just to help the animals!), and then I was told that in two to three weeks, I can see if my provisional ballot was accepted.
Don't they count them right away? There's a bar code on the envelope. Isn't it all electronic?
My ballot was handwritten, with connect the arrow instructions and a pen that twenty thousand other people touched today. Ick. Again, though, it's worth it if it helps the animals. I have to keep telling myself that.
After this ordeal, I really hope my vote counts.
Phone Call to Registrar of Voters
Phone Call to Registrar of Voters (city names changed to protect the innocent)
Me: (Embarrassed) Hello, I lost my mail-in ballot, but I would still like to vote, please. How do I do that?
Snippy Snotty Snookie: Just go to your voting place.
Me: I have no idea where that would be, sorry.
SSS: (Sighs heavily) Fine. What is your name?
Me: Anna Morrison.
SSS: And your date of birth?
Me: (numbers)
SSS: It’s at St. Philip’s Church.
Me: Where is that, please?
SSS: On 3rd Street. 12345 3rd Street. St. Philip’s Church.
Me: (Scribbling furiously) What city, please?
SSS: (Irritated) Monsterland. It’s in Monsterland. Don’t you live in Monsterland?
Me: No, I do not live in Monsterland.
SSS: You don’t?
Me: No, I do not. I live in Zombitopia. Well, that’s where the house is. I’m there sometimes. More often lately than I would like, but it’s still not Monsterland.
SSS: Still, you should know Monsterland. It’s right next to Zombitopia. Don’t you know your own area?
Me: It is NOT my area! The house is there, but I am not. I am in Victimville right now. Can I just go to a polling place in Victimville, please? By the courthouse?
SSS: Fine. Give me an address.
Me: For the courthouse? Okay, here it is.
SSS: That doesn’t exist.
Me: Yes, it does.
SSS: (Sighs) Can you give me another address, please? How about some street names?
Me: Listen, I’m sorry, but I only know how to get from that house where I am sometimes which is not in Monsterland and go to the courthouse and my son’s school. Hey, how about the school’s address? Maybe it’s a polling place?
SSS: What was that street name again? Are you sure that’s in California?
Me: (grits teeth) Yes.
SSS: Okay, okay, fine, just go to the fire station.
Me: Which one? What city? Where?
SSS: #314. On Frankenstein Drive.
Me: Where is that?
SSS: Here’s the address.
Me: Is that in Victimville, at least?
SSS: Yes.
Me: So I can go there even though it’s not my polling place?
SSS: Yes. Just show them your driver’s license.
Me: But my driver’s license shows an entirely other city.
SSS: Just go to the fire station, please. Thank you, have a nice day.
Why does it have to be so difficult to vote? At least Google maps knew where the fire station was. And the street name was different. I hope it’s the right place. They’re open until 8:00 p.m. so I guess I can circle the area for an hour until I see something come barreling at me with lights flashing and sirens wailing. Either that, or I’ll see a line around the block somewhere on the way there and just assume that’s a polling place and go there.
I just want to vote Obama and No on 8 and get it over with. They can fill in the rest, I don’t care.
Me: (Embarrassed) Hello, I lost my mail-in ballot, but I would still like to vote, please. How do I do that?
Snippy Snotty Snookie: Just go to your voting place.
Me: I have no idea where that would be, sorry.
SSS: (Sighs heavily) Fine. What is your name?
Me: Anna Morrison.
SSS: And your date of birth?
Me: (numbers)
SSS: It’s at St. Philip’s Church.
Me: Where is that, please?
SSS: On 3rd Street. 12345 3rd Street. St. Philip’s Church.
Me: (Scribbling furiously) What city, please?
SSS: (Irritated) Monsterland. It’s in Monsterland. Don’t you live in Monsterland?
Me: No, I do not live in Monsterland.
SSS: You don’t?
Me: No, I do not. I live in Zombitopia. Well, that’s where the house is. I’m there sometimes. More often lately than I would like, but it’s still not Monsterland.
SSS: Still, you should know Monsterland. It’s right next to Zombitopia. Don’t you know your own area?
Me: It is NOT my area! The house is there, but I am not. I am in Victimville right now. Can I just go to a polling place in Victimville, please? By the courthouse?
SSS: Fine. Give me an address.
Me: For the courthouse? Okay, here it is.
SSS: That doesn’t exist.
Me: Yes, it does.
SSS: (Sighs) Can you give me another address, please? How about some street names?
Me: Listen, I’m sorry, but I only know how to get from that house where I am sometimes which is not in Monsterland and go to the courthouse and my son’s school. Hey, how about the school’s address? Maybe it’s a polling place?
SSS: What was that street name again? Are you sure that’s in California?
Me: (grits teeth) Yes.
SSS: Okay, okay, fine, just go to the fire station.
Me: Which one? What city? Where?
SSS: #314. On Frankenstein Drive.
Me: Where is that?
SSS: Here’s the address.
Me: Is that in Victimville, at least?
SSS: Yes.
Me: So I can go there even though it’s not my polling place?
SSS: Yes. Just show them your driver’s license.
Me: But my driver’s license shows an entirely other city.
SSS: Just go to the fire station, please. Thank you, have a nice day.
Why does it have to be so difficult to vote? At least Google maps knew where the fire station was. And the street name was different. I hope it’s the right place. They’re open until 8:00 p.m. so I guess I can circle the area for an hour until I see something come barreling at me with lights flashing and sirens wailing. Either that, or I’ll see a line around the block somewhere on the way there and just assume that’s a polling place and go there.
I just want to vote Obama and No on 8 and get it over with. They can fill in the rest, I don’t care.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Better than Flowers!
A luminous Angel appeared on my doorstep early Sunday morning, with a gift from above: the ability to transform chaos into beauty and organization.
Below, I welcome you to witness for yourself the miraculous metamorphosis of my office.
Thank you, Angel!
No flowers could ever be better than this gift of peace and comfort.
Below, I welcome you to witness for yourself the miraculous metamorphosis of my office.
 |
| From Office Before and After |
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| From Office Before and After |
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| From Office Before and After |
 |
| From Office Before and After |
Thank you, Angel!
No flowers could ever be better than this gift of peace and comfort.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
To the Moon, Alice
My friend thinks maybe I've had too much novacaine lately and that it has affected my ability to discern fantasy from reality. Granted, novacaine is nummy, numby stuff, but I do know the difference between gnomes and short people. The endodontist helped me out a bit yesterday and ground down the tooth with the impacted root canal, and the novacaine wore off, more's the pity, so I am proud to announce that I can now chew food and sleep through the night, hurray!
As for my friend...I happened to mention (I was in a pissy mood that quickly turned goofy, possibly due to the pain/novacaine combo that became my life this past week)...anyway, I mentioned that I could do anything and he may or may not know about it. When he's not talking to me on the phone, I could be doing anything anywhere, even the moon.
This led him to cast aspersions upon my ability to visit the moon. As if I (or the government, I am aghast at his disbelief in THAT arena!) would LIE about something so serious as moon travel!
He questioned my mode of lunar transportation. I explained that my son and I have a really long ladder that some nice man (him) brought to our house, and that if we set it up at juuuuuusssst the right angle, bammo, it's aligned with the moon.
He questioned the length of the ladder in question, being famliar with its height. I explained that there was a hidden extension in the aluminum frame and that when I found that bit, there was also an express elevator feature button to press that sends me and the boy up to the moon in the impressive time of 34 and a half seconds.
He questioned the speed at which we would have to then be traveling to make such good time. I did concede at that point that it was enough to mess up my hair, and that I do find it handy to conceal a hairbrush on my person for the trip, even though I assured him that the child and I do wear helmets.
He questioned me about something called "inertia" and mentioned that our guts would be popping out at that speed. I said no, that the helmets were specially made for inertia protection. And that we wear parkas to both keep our organs inside our bodies on the trip up and to keep us from shivering on the dark side of the moon. We also bring a fan for when we happen to visit the light side of the moon, where conditions are much warmer.
He then questioned how often a day I smoke crack. I wondered incredulously how he knew about that. I thought I had been ever so careful about hiding that unfortunate and expensive habit.
Good thing crack is half price on the moon. I'll pick some more up the next time I go there.
As for my friend...I happened to mention (I was in a pissy mood that quickly turned goofy, possibly due to the pain/novacaine combo that became my life this past week)...anyway, I mentioned that I could do anything and he may or may not know about it. When he's not talking to me on the phone, I could be doing anything anywhere, even the moon.
This led him to cast aspersions upon my ability to visit the moon. As if I (or the government, I am aghast at his disbelief in THAT arena!) would LIE about something so serious as moon travel!
He questioned my mode of lunar transportation. I explained that my son and I have a really long ladder that some nice man (him) brought to our house, and that if we set it up at juuuuuusssst the right angle, bammo, it's aligned with the moon.
He questioned the length of the ladder in question, being famliar with its height. I explained that there was a hidden extension in the aluminum frame and that when I found that bit, there was also an express elevator feature button to press that sends me and the boy up to the moon in the impressive time of 34 and a half seconds.
He questioned the speed at which we would have to then be traveling to make such good time. I did concede at that point that it was enough to mess up my hair, and that I do find it handy to conceal a hairbrush on my person for the trip, even though I assured him that the child and I do wear helmets.
He questioned me about something called "inertia" and mentioned that our guts would be popping out at that speed. I said no, that the helmets were specially made for inertia protection. And that we wear parkas to both keep our organs inside our bodies on the trip up and to keep us from shivering on the dark side of the moon. We also bring a fan for when we happen to visit the light side of the moon, where conditions are much warmer.
He then questioned how often a day I smoke crack. I wondered incredulously how he knew about that. I thought I had been ever so careful about hiding that unfortunate and expensive habit.
Good thing crack is half price on the moon. I'll pick some more up the next time I go there.
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