I’ll prolly miss Hubby a lot when he is out of the country next week.
Prolly if I were a good Buddhist, I wouldn’t anticipate this state of affairs because I’d be living in the now.
I’ll prolly never use prolly in speech, that is orally.
Prolly, you think orally is a funny word. I sure do. Aurally? not as funny.
It makes me feel young, as in like a child young, when I think about the word prolly.
I lay awake with excitement the other night when I was thinking about writing about the word prolly and how many ways I could use it.
This whole post makes me feel giddy.
Have you noticed that many of the words I’m using have double consonants? Just look at that first sentence up top. Prolly you noticed because you are smart and observant. I expect nothing less from my stalwart readers.
Prolly I’m about done and don’t have as much for singing the praises of prolly as I first thought.
I know you’ve all seen this if you’ve been anywhere near Facebook in the last couple of years, but this post made me think of it. Prolly you thought of it, too.
my trusty Kent black squirrel sticker, one of the best charms a girl pushing 50 can have on her mini-van’s backside
Long ago, after giving a friend of mine a massage, I asked how she felt and she said “Are you kidding? I feel like a million bucks!” This was the way she talked.
Feeling like a million bucks is not a phrase in my vernacular, but today I took my 2000 Toyota mini-van, all 163,000 miles of it, to get its state inspection. You know it failed inspection 2 years in-a-row, right?
the “ass” of my car
My daughter fastened all the seat belts before I dropped her off at school, a good omen.
At 8:15 this morning, the second-to-the-last day of the month, I pulled into the Sunoco station on Route 9, handed over my registration and 29 dollars to the grizzled but friendly mechanic, and parked my ass in the dingy, fume-y, dusty “waiting room,” chatting up a plumber and the woman behind the cash register. With baited breath (at least mentally baited breath), I bided my time. The car passed inspection.
I usually don’t have to leave the house for whole days at a time. I don’t drive my kids to school but once or twice a season. But today, I actually got dressed. I pulled on my skinniest jeans, by which I mean, they are not skinny jeans, but they are the only pair that may make my ass appear with some semblance of youth and dignity, by which I mean, they are snug and tight with just the right amount of stretch to make sure all loose flesh is tautened into a neat package. It’s not like I’m going to turn heads, but I felt like I was turning heads as I slid on the icy lot walking away from the Sunoco waiting room back to my car. I am sure heads were turning because of my faux-skating and not my ass.
These days, the car is missing portions of its hubcaps. It has no handle on the rear passenger side door. One of the sliding doors no longer latches, making it slide closed when parked on a hill. The windows make a slow grinding sound on raising and lowering, in protest of having to work so hard. The inside backseat air vents are missing their louvered covers. Only half of the dashboard lights up. The heating makes a whistling sound when it’s on full blast. But Fucking A. My husband presented me with this car in July, 2000, just weeks before we relocated our entire life to Western Massachusetts.
It’s falling apart, it doesn’t get the best mileage. It’s beaten and banged and bruised. But it’s mine. I drove away from the Sunoco feeling like a million bucks.
my min-van, not a metaphor for my bodily state or anything
The sounds and songs of my childhood weren’t always on CKLW. Sometimes it was what the grown-ups listened to. Cocktails. James Bond. The 4 o’clock Movie on Channel 7 (Detroit).
Side burns, wide lapels, the dry look, Herb Alpert.
Bouffant hair-dos, platinum blond. Mini skirts, fringe, go go boots. String bikinis. Long breezy unkempt hair, parted down the middle. Playboy centerfolds, green, red, and yellow hues, a hazy patina on the pages. Penthouse, much dirtier.
I had no idea Dusty Springfield was English because, you know, people named “Dusty” come out of the Old West and “Springfield” is also decidedly American.
Guys, you want to get lucky tonight? Put on your cotton flannel pajamas, dim the lights, fire up a smoke (Lucky Strike? Winston?), and spin this on the turntable.
Okay, so smoking is no longer sexy. Do you think these are made of flame retardant fabric?
The words bang around in the gray matter, the sulci, rattling, patterned into something if we are lucky.
I had to change a word in today’s poem. What was I thinking? Didn’t I reread the poem and glean any meaning from the combinations of slashes and dashes that make up the symbols that make up the words?
CRAP I feel like a boob (not I feel a boob which would be preferable).
I know a lot of families who have only daughters, my household included.
Was a time we had two female cats, one female dog.
We got a a fish, one of those Siamese fighting fish, a betta. I would joke with Hubby that that was the only male companion in the house for him. Not much personality or ability to interact, that betta. Still, one needs allies.
Not much today, my usual mental musings. Is this a poem? It’s a bit silly, I know. I now see all of my repetitions, the words and images I love to use over and over. Not gonna censor myself right now. Not yet.
Just as I strongly dislike blogs and websites with white words on a black background (only forgivable on erotic content sites or sites run by folks under 21), I also HATE censorship. If I apply this to my writing, it backfires a bit because changing habits requires saying no to them. It’s not censorship, but discipline I need. Like I said before not yet. Let me be as free as a betta.
All We Have; What We Are To You
The estrogen pulses through us,
through the house
We ring with progesterone
the house rings with us
Later,
oxytocin
softens the ligaments
loosens the ishia, ilia, pubis
My dad used to have a sign taped on the front of one of his tall, metal filing cabinets that said
Due to lack of interest, tomorrow has been cancelled
I guess he thought it was funny. The other sign was this and when I asked my mom about it once she said this is how he truly felt about his life. I don’t quite believe it, but he probably felt this way somewhat and he must have thought it was funny, too.
When my life is over And my time has come to pass, I hope they bury me upside-down, So the world may kiss my ass
My dad was an atheist, but I can tell you that when he was dying of cancer, he told me that God got the aging and dying thing wrong—too much pain. God was something he referred to as a matter of course. It was a concept that we all grew up with, maybe him especially, having been a kid in a kosher household and all. When I’d talk to him about his childhood and religion and whether or not he believed in God, he would say he was an atheist, but he would tear up. I thought that meant he really did believe in God. It was a bit confusing, but also I was in awe. It was like God was right there with us when he talked about Hungary and his bar mitzvah and his mother and father, all his friends running around being bad young boys, his younger brother, his older sisters, the lumber business his father and uncle ran. When he ate pork at the age of 13 because he was curious and he didn’t believe the stuff he was taught anyway. He talked about the dishes and the milk and the meat and why. Having been brought up without religion, I listened with intent. Like if it made enough sense, I would understand something. He had his stories and I had the pictures from them. I loved my dad so much.
♥
Remember, you keepers of the truth, I want a banjo played at my funeral. I know there will be Shape Note singing, so that’s not a thing anyone needs to remember.
I like this song my kid turned me on to last year. The video is goofy and makes no sense. What’s the narrative here exactly? Nonetheless, 13 million hits don’t lie.
the fiddle and the banjo. Like the song Roseville Fair which I used to sing to my kids as a lullaby.
My children know what this means. It’s a good way to put a stop to whining and complaining. I mean this for myself, not as a means of controlling the entitled little folks (okay, not so little) with whom I live. Believe me, I’m plenty entitled.
I know that even in the US, many are living in very poor circumstances and conditions. Especially now with income disparity and the corporatocracy being what it is.
I want to show you something about me. This is the tube from which I squeezed (or, as we like to say around here: squoazed)my toothpaste the other morning after waking:
I have a compulsion to squeeze the toothpaste tube until I think it can yield nothing more; Lo and Behold though, every morning there is more. I am sure this toothpaste tube has thought of committing itself to the garbage can for weeks, but I won’t let it go. It’s like a toothpaste fairy keeps refilling a quarter-teaspoon of paste back into the tube every night.
I am sometimes overwhelmed by the crap that comes to me by way of Facebook. The pro-gun camp and the anti-gun camp. Never the twain shall meet and this makes me first angry and then exceedingly sad.
From now on, I will attempt to refer to what is known as a “gun control” issue as an “anti gun-violence” issue, both to flip the rhetoric on its head and present a more accurate phrase.
I enjoy many aspects of Facebook. I love it even with its flaws and deceptions at my [willful] expense. I have thought of un-friending certain people, but have decided simply to hide their posts.
I save plastic bread bags for reuse, as my mother did (and still does) before me and I rewash plastic bags, especially the sturdy ones with zip-tops that are filled with carrots or (DELICIOUS) greens that I purchase at the farmer’s market.
I like immaculately clean dishes. I am quite wasteful when it comes to how much dish soap I dispense from the bottle.
I don’t grow any vegetables or raise any animals. I do buy eggs from my neighbor.
Sometimes, when it comes to the aftermath of emotional interactions I’ve had with people I love, sorry is the best I have.
Oh, Emily. She was so [what we would call today] positive. Maybe she was even cheerful. I am happy to guess and suppose and surmise and read nothing at all about it but her own words.
I have posted this song before. It was deeply hidden in the post and so long ago, maybe you missed it. I don’t mean to make it a habit—reposting songs that I’ve put up before. It’s not like we’re gonna run out of good music. It’s just that some of the best music stays the best again and again, you dig?
I am working on all sorts of things, mostly just in my head while I sit around in pajamas; still, it takes my time. Things like the words pajamas and madras which come to us by way of India. Poems. Rejections. Kids. Lunches. Schlepping. Taxes. Being a travel agent. Shopping for food and accoutrements for my new phone. Make that simply learning to operate my new phone….
I’m trying to shake some bad shit I’ve been seeing on the internet—instruments of torture, abusive mothers, rape, idiocy, humanity.
You people are really obsessed with nudity. Just be naked. You won’t have to look around the internet for nude skiers and naked females so much. Quit it already. Get some mirrors in your house and take off your clothes. I mean it. All kinds of mirrors—wall mirrors, tall mirrors, hand mirrors, standing mirrors, beveled mirrors, antique mirrors. Have a party.
Also, you might want to try getting your own ass tattoo. You must be in an advanced state of boredom to keep popping over here to find such things. Ass tattoos? Seriously? Grow up and grow a pair.
Here you find yourself, at twinklysparkles’, where I might soon be removing my clothes the photos to which I don’t have the rights. INCLUDING the naked male skiers. There are 2 of them around here, you know. I am tempted to leave the pictures up, but I would first have to try to find who they belong to and get permission. See? This is my obsession. Copyrights. Yours? Nude male skiers.
Better yet, find yourself a nudist ski resort. Many likely exist in Sweden and Norway. They probably don’t even call them nudist ski resorts. It’s de rigeur over there, NORMAL. Those Nordic types walk around naked 24/7. This is what socialism begets after all.
If you do go, make sure you have some money because those places are a. cold, and you’ll need to invest in a lot of really high-quality winter clothing and b. expensive, due to those Norse types being Socialist and all. You’ll be helping them to pay for their high-quality health care and public playgrounds and public nudity, which I am sure is taxed at an exorbitantly high rate.
I’m not sure I have ever made a New Year’s resolution.
What I am NOT LIKELY to do in 2013:
Stop submitting my poetry for publication (though in 2012, this was my intention). I feel refreshed and excited right now and I look forward to sending out more poems. DANG it feels good to feel this way.
Change my blog to (the dreaded, overly-romantic-notion-of-oneself) white words on a black background. In order to spare other bloggers’ feelings, I don’t publicize this, but it is a HUGE pet peeve of mine. I really like to be able to read blogs I want to read, but funky fonts and funky colors preclude me from a. reading without getting massive after-image-y headaches and b. taking the blogger seriously.
Then again, what about that Neil Young lyric? Maybe that would be even harder to read! (Does anybody know what I’m talking about? This could be a real born-in-the-’60s test).
Give up swearing.
Give up putting funky colors in my hair.
Let me now try my hand at some real resolutions:
Give up the habit of slouching at my computer. In other words, stop forgetting myself as a psycho-physical whole when I am in front of a screen and bring my good thinking to bear on myself.
Use the same good thinking when I interact with or talk about my mother (ie, stop being so effing codependent!)
I think I have to go back to the beginning of my blog and remove all photos which do not belong to me. I do not want to get sued. I sort of look forward to asking permission for some of the images if I can find the sources, but I also dread this kind of tedious work. I did look over J, F, M of 2011 and I didn’t use ONE PHOTO at all! Then came April….
I miss my own photos, actually, as I have always loved to take photos. I stopped taking as many when I got so caught up in using google images. It’s so DAMN easy and so damn fun and some of the photos are so damn apropos. Oh fuck me.
I would like to give you a photo that belongs to me. I am not sure I have one.
Let me look.
Here. Here is some random crap.
Okay, it’s not crap. It’s really fun Lego sculptures from an exhibit we saw a few years ago at the Springfield Quadrangle. I cannot call it art, but I can call it fun. Sometimes art is not fun and especially artists are touchy grouches and their work sucks.
This could be a new regular feature on my blog. Random photos from my files. I don’t like it.
I do have more color in my face this week (HALLELUJAH!!!) so maybe I’ll take some quickie photos on my computer soon. Or record a song. I have a new phone, too. My first one with a keyboard and real photo capabilities. I am moving up in the world.
Not much today, my usual mental musings. Is this a poem? It’s a bit silly, I know. I now see all of my repetitions, the words and images I love to use over and over. Not gonna censor myself right now. Not yet.
twinklysparkles 
