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Archive for the ‘Once in a While Wednesday’ Category

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My Ohio friends say snow snow snow, but I don’t think it will come our way. I’ve been telling you this for a while now. I can believe in the Solstice and the return of the light, but I can’t believe in snow.

I looked up a recent post and an image had disappeared from it. Was it my own photo or a photo from the web? I don’t know, but I’ll add something back.

I started watching Downton Abbey and I like it a lot. I am in love with all of the good characters; and though I see my humanity in each, I hate all the bad ones.

When I was growing up and we spent Christmas in Canada with our very best family friends, we did celebrate Boxing Day. No one in the US had heard of Boxing Day yet.

We would walk and walk on their 50 acres, we would drink and eat and play games and laze about the house. This was my Christmas for many years after the age of 7.

I am going to submit some more poems starting this week including at least one manuscript. I’ve been on hiatus but the rejections still trickle in. The one online poetry journal that accepted a poem seems to be out-of-commission, but I can’t know for sure until I hear something further. It’s been a couple of months since my submission was accepted and now, POOF!, even their website lies fallow….

After this post, I will post a poem in a separate post. Until then (in a few minutes!), please enjoy this musical interlude:

This is from Saturday night’s concert in Montague.

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The naked skier, he gets me a lot of hits. Other photos of other naked skiers are out there, he was just the cheesiest one. Not like the airborne happy man with his happy penis and happy balls flying happily in the happy bright sunshine and happy abundant snow.

I can’t ski, or at least I only tried once and didn’t like it. Even just on the Bunny Hill. Funny me.

As I mentioned in my last post, it never snows any more anyway. The last big snow was in October 2011, the one that broke all sorts of records and broke all of the oaks and maples to bits.

I can’t listen to the news too much. It’s too awful. My life is as challenging as it needs to be without it. Yet one lives in the world and enjoys the car radio. One likes to read a few headlines or cannot avoid them at all.

I was involved in a Facebook thread about guns last week. In the 6 days since, each day, there has been a tragic shooting in our country. These were apparently not RESPONSIBLE GUN OWNERS who needed to kill a rabid raccoon running around their chicken house or who needed to euthanize a sick farm animal (as was explained to me in the comment thread). Not people intelligently and legitimately defending themselves against an aggressor (how often do we read of the gun owner who had to defend himself against an intruder?). How about the guy who killed his own kid, “accidentally?” Are hubris and stupidity accidents?

Here is what one of the people, on the aforementioned FB thread, had to say at one point:

Kids, when taught about guns and how to use them and respect them, never have accidents.
(DIRECT QUOTE, COPIED AND PASTED)

Like the EIGHT-YEAR OLD BOY at the gun show in Massachusetts in 2008. Or this 12-year old boy, one of the gun “events” I came across in the delightful headlines on my computer this week.

Idiocy, ignorance, and hubris are not accidents; they simply come along with being human.

In the meantime, here is the Happy Skier.

He makes a big X with his body which I sort of love. I think if I were a man, I might not mind this too much. If this were me skiing, I’d have my black skirt on, the only article of clothing into which I comfortably fit in my current zaftig (overweight, anemic) state. I wouldn’t wear anything underneath and the skirt could just fly up in the air like a penis and a pair of balls. My boobs would probably hit me in the face, not like the skinny naked female skiers one finds photos of on google images.

A girl can dream.

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A recent photo of me on our trip to San Diego. As adorable, sexy, beautiful, and fascinating as I am, I hope you can still tell I’m saying don’t fuck with me.

I will tell you the sordid detail now, why I am bleeding and won’t stop, why I bled last year for 67 days out of 90, why why why and why I didn’t know the full story of my own blood loss.

2 days after my ER visit in January, I had an in-office vaginal ultrasound (hey, buck up readers, did you think I wasn’t gonna mention my vagina?) by none other than the OB/GYN who had me in the stirrups in the ER.

Fast-forward to about 6 weeks ago when I went to the OB/GYN’s office, yet again, due to menstrual flooding (refusing to see the Offending Doctor, of course). When I was in the office talking to yet another doctor, thankfully not in stirrups, what did I find out? That back in January, on that very ultrasound, a 3+ cm fibroid tumor was found at the back of my uterus, embedded in the lining in such a way that I WILL ALWAYS END UP FLOODING WITHOUT CESSATION until I am on the other side of menopause and it goes away or until some hormonal or surgical intervention takes place.

Why my body was able to not bleed for almost 6 months (completely off of progesterone but under the loving care of my acupuncturist), I do not know. But once I started, I haven’t stopped. I’ve been able to cut back the progesterone to a more reasonable and less interfering dose, but I can’t go off of it until I undergo one of 4 options, each of which is fairly traumatic in scope to me.

It took me a while of reeling from the information (appx 3 weeks) that the OB/GYN, the office staff, the nursing staff, the radiology department (does that about cover it?) NEVER told me I have a tumor (fibroids are benign btw) before I could conceive of a plan. I have been under my acupuncturist’s care, but I was not in a place where I trusted the gynecologic practice I was with. The impending week away to California also meant that I had to wait until our return to deal with the fibroid.

I spoke with an MD in the same practice at 5:30 am a few Sundays ago and was very pleased with his attention, information, ability to listen and answer questions, and apparent intelligence. I will be seeing this MD on Monday and I will be discussing a few different options so I can make a decision and get off the progesterone and see what my body does in response to whatever choice I make.

I am scared and tired and sad and I got really sad news about my mother yesterday as well. Her health problems are myriad and long-standing, but she has been in a dramatic memory decline for several months. So, I am dealing with that as well, her only daughter and her primary caretaker.

It’s hard. Harder than I could ever have imagined. And I thought having babies was tough stuff. I don’t remember this part being explained to me. The sandwich years of my generation. Can I get a witness?

someone would like you to believe this is what women look like when they need to use the toilet

this is not what I look like

ever

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two steps forward, don’t say I didn’t warn you….

Is this a modern murder ballad? Not exactly, but I do think of it sometimes on this day.

I’ve been listening to a lot of Tim Eriksen lately, having heard him play last week and having bought his latest CD in the latest manifestation of who he’s been playing with this time around.

Back in July, when I was on the Cape doing a poetry workshop with Dorianne Laux and Joe Millar (so Beat, that Joe! You gotta check out his stuff), I left them with a parting gift of Tim’s CD Soul of the January Hills.* Finally, last Friday night, I re-bought it and have been playing it in my car. It’s got at least 2 (off the top of my head) murder ballads and I’ve been thinking about Lady Margaret, aka, Sweet William, too, lately. I’ve used a link to the wiki page for Sweet William, a little lame, I know, but there must be hundreds of places to look up more thorough information on that particular Child Ballad. You’ll have to do your own research and discover your own personal favorite version. There are lots. I love The Knitters doing it, but it’s no where to be found so I can share it here. I just love that John Doe and Exene singing that old timey stuff together.

Here’s the modern murder ballad for today, courtesy of The Dream Syndicate and youtube:

* if you can buy only one of Tim’s CDs, this is the one I recommend. But maybe that’s just me, lover of a capella and haunting ballads about love and death. When you read the liner notes, you also realize what an amazing tour de force it is. One take, not rehearsed. Damn.

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I SWEAR I’m still here. All of me. Okay, the old me and some added fat which means parts of me are new.

I have no idea what I’ve been doing with my time.

dishes, yes. hours and hours of dishes.

cleaning and laundry. a little bit of time, but it adds up. hanging up and folding and putting away clothes, even with a tiny bit of help from the kids. it all adds up. you know this.

trying to sleep for as many hours as possible after 11 pm (until 6:30 am), some tossing and turning, some restless, but about 7 a night. sometimes a few catching up in the a.m. (bliss bliss bliss if this can happen)

prepping and cooking food, yes. hours and hours.

buying food. not so much time.

farm share. yes, picking up farm share, but that doesn’t take too much time.

health, yes, managing my health. this takes a bit of time.

hiking, yes. yoga, yes. biking, a bit. These 3 add up. Hours and hours.

eating. yes. eating.

planning a trip to California, yes. This takes oodles of time.

But really, the real culprit is Facebook Scrabble. Which just crashed, right as I was posting a 30-point word. This is how I find myself blogging.

Oh, and I’m reading Anna Karenina, but I’m only on page 60-something after about a week-and-a-half, so that’s not it. All those patronyms do take extra getting used to.

learning my lines. for this show. this takes a lot of time. learning lines is hard. for me. no one else but me.

my mother. enough said.

two teenage daughters. (see last item)

the cat. a little bit of time a week.

marriage. this takes time. good time, but yes time or else one finds oneself not feeling so married as one would most like.

not writing poetry. not reading poetry. not submitting poetry. so, no time.

waiting. waiting takes FOREVER.

This all makes me think of Bruegel. I am not sure why. Because I am thinking of all the photos I’ve taken of the leaves. And how busy everyone seems to be in these paintings. Busy Busy Busy. My god. All of the sinners and workers. Work is all we used to have until now. Now we have online Scrabble.

These people are at a fest-i-val of some kind or other methinks. Maybe a change of seasons is being observed. Not like today when it was almost pitch dark when we finished our hike in the woods at 6:25 p.m. and now I am in my kitchen, full of lights when I should be sleeping.

Have fun, you folks, you. And PLEASE don’t vote for the bad guys. They are SUPER bad and SUPER stinky. You know of whom I speak. You need to vote for the people who will protect the peasants the most. The peasants are you and me. And who do your think will do that? Think about it because it is not Romney.

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(On Facebook)

YOU GUESSED IT:

SCRABBLE

These people are brutal, brutal I tell you!

I KNEW a particular random player was out for blood. Do you know how long she waited? She waited and waited and waited and she plotted and plotted. She held out for the triple word at the lower left of the board. She waited until she could take the spot for 81 points. 81 POINTS! That’s 9 squared, people (even I know that).

But guess what? She plotted and planned for so dang long that by that time, I’d beat her. I was so many points ahead that even her 81-point turn couldn’t get her ahead of me. Yeah. So let that be a lesson. I may not be the best. I may not even be a great player. But I don’t sit on my esses or my ass.

Ever since they cancelled my addiction-central game, SCRAMBLE (it was a Boggle-style word game that you could play on Facebook), I’ve been quite lost, you know. Until now.

I’m back in the addict’s corner. Bleary-eyed at midnight. My head swimming with letters. Filled with uncontrollable, sleep-depriving excitement and joy because I beat the pants of an unnamed repeat-opponent (you know who you are!) once again!

Okay, so this is not what I look like exactly. I don’t have a red shirt like this and I gave up smoking a long time ago. But if I keep up the Scrabble habit at this fever-pitch, I might have to switch to something healthier, LIKE SMOKING!

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After what I’ve been through today? OY!

It’s hard to pick a favorite, but this one cheers me up pretty good.

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(This Is Not My Fridge)

(this fridge costs 2700 smackaroos)

Something smells funny in my new fridge.

All of these not-made-to-last appliances are overpriced. Every one of them. Already, the handle to the freezer door won’t stay on and the freezer-light mechanism does not always properly activate.

But that smell. I have not yet put a box of baking soda in the fridge. Maybe that will help.

My friend back in Kent, Ohio said they had a bad smell in the house.

She was playing the Ouija (©) and it said something about kitchen sink or sponge and kitchen cabinet or sponge under sink (I’ve never played, so I don’t know how much it can spell out). Or maybe she asked a psychic what the smell was and the psychic told her remove the sponge that is under the kitchen sink.

Anyway, she removed a sponge (which she says was new and odorless) and the smell left the house.

Maybe my refrigerator is cursed or haunted. I had a weird haunted goat-walking-man dream last night. Maybe that is why my fridge smells.

This goat-man is scary, but also a bit debonair. My goat man was very evil and was trying to walk upright and not doing a very good job of it. He was wearing blue jeans. He really couldn’t pull off the human walk. He didn’t fool me, but the little goat he was abusing who followed obsequiously behind was under his evil power.

Why does fridge have a d but refrigerator doesn’t? Learning to spell in English is so trying!

I think I better get my facts straight on that smelly house story. It was told to me only once and at least 20 years ago. I’ve undoubtedly embellished.

If I had a pink 1950s fridge, I don’t think I’d have this problem. Then again, remember those ice cube trays that were such a pain-in-the-ass (these lasted up into the ’60s, maybe early ’70s even)? What a mess, all the ice shattered all over the counter and it tasted like metal. No wonder women wanted to stick their heads into their pink ovens with the gas on.

Still, one has nostalgia for these kinds of things.

It never occurred to me that Ouija is OUI and JA: YES YES. Not only that, but it seems to imply that the French and the Germans are very agreeable.

I thought the Ouija is always answering yes and no. A OUINON board would probably be too close to the French for onion (l’oignon). Or NEINJA would be too much like Ninja.

If anyone out there has any suggestions about my fridge smell, please leave a comment. I need all the help I can get. I don’t even have a job.

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I biked yesterday, a little further than I have since rib injuries Nos. 2 and 3. On my commuter bike and I think it was the most comfortable and strong I’ve felt on the damn thing yet.

On the ride, we passed 2 dead whole (as in not squashed-run over) squirrels overlapping berm and road. I almost ran over the first one, but Hubby, who was riding in front of me, gave me a heads up. Still, my reaction was quite slow and I almost, almost ran the soft fresh body of it over, right down its mammalian middle. I swerved slightly to the left and I think I clipped its little toenails.

This has been a banner year for road-kill squirrels. Every year it seems there are more than the last. When squirrels startle, you will note, they take to an erratic pattern because if another animal were giving chase, this would [theoretically] foil the predator into exhaustion from running in a zig-zag. Or did I just make that up? I don’t get it though. How does the prey not tire more quickly as well? I guess they run up trees faster than something large and large. And big and large.

Then there is the curve of pursuit, a diagram of which my kids had to draw into their Main Lesson books in 6th Grade when they were at their Waldorf school. I like the play on words pursuit of curves and I think about poeming that. Pursuit of curves, pursuit of curves….

Nancy Upton

I do not understand the curve of pursuit, as you might have guessed, considering my small brain capacity (probably like an Eastern gray squirrel’s) in spite of my appropriately curvy hip-to-waist ratio.

You can make all sorts of patterns out of pursuit curves. This is the humble triangle. When you are older, you might be ready for a pentagram. But not this day!

The very horrifying road kill of the day, to which I refer in the title of this post, had to do with gasp! several smashed red velvet cupcakes. So beautiful, so huge, so red, so smooshed flat inside of their frilly cupcake cups. They smelled good, too, a whiff of sugary love as I rode past, careful not to re-run them over as with the squirrel. I saw at least 4, a whole fancy-dinner-ful of them. What do you suppose the people did for dessert without their cupcakes? Now, my dear pets, you should look away if you are faint of heart, for here I post a photo of a smashed red velvet cupcake:

I myself have only tasted red velvet cupcakes twice. I am not a fan of cupcakes except for the ones Annie made for her 14th Birthday party last month. OH MY those were fine. Vanilla with vanilla buttercream. Out of this world!

We do take cupcakes quite seriously around here due to the aforementioned offspring’s passion for cupcake baking. Though that post featured some flower cupcakes, look at these:

They are meant to mimic lo mein or fried rice or something Chinese take-out-y. They did not taste too good, if I recall correctly. All of those toppings were made with candy, what kind I don’t remember, but gross stuff that no adults would ever normally eat. You can see the Rice Krispies, too. A clever design, I must admit.

When I was searching for an image of a gray squirrel, I found a stupid video of a squirrel and a penguin playing Dueling Banjos and it reminded me of a post a couple years back that Erin O’Brien did about that very song and the men in the movie Deliverance.

Without further ado (boy did this post end up in a different place than I had imagined it would!)

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First day of 9th Grade for my youngest, just past dawn tomorrow morning.

The older kid? 11th Grade.

we don’t notice any time pass 

but I do….I see the empty nest on the horizon.

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