See Dick Talk

“Kiss me once and kiss me twice, then kiss me once again. It’s been a long, long time. Haven’t felt like this, my dear, since I can’t remember when. It’s been a long, long time…”

Hey, I’m back!  And as distracted & distractible as ever.  “Distraction?” you ask?  Why, yes, my dear.  Finally, after (mumbles) years & months, I return to my neglected blog. I type in my first line “It’s been a long time.”  Then, I think what I always think whenever I say that line.  I sing that line from that song (in my mind)  even though I wasn’t around in 1945 when it was all the rage.

While we’re on the subject, did I ever tell you about my 1940s phase?  When I was 16 to 19 I was fascinated with the 1940s.  I wore clothes from that era (shopped at a great place called Bazaar Bizarre, on College Ave), I tap danced on a daily basis, I even wanted to make a career of tap dancing.  Until I realized there  wasn’t much of a market for it. (broadcast news was my “safety” career, my fall-back choice.  go figure.)  Anyway, I knew and loved all the old songs.

But I digress.  (Yes.  I know, it’s kind of stale now to say “But I digress” seeing how it was cute, once or twice, three years ago. But seriously.  I mean it.  I digress.)  And digress and digress.  I’m not sure if it’s the ravages of an aging ADHD brain, or the intersection of an attention deficit and menopause.  I like to think of it as one of my charms.  Example.  My niece (Ana, the 24 year old daughter of my sister who now lives with us as she prepares for a life and a job in the big city) asks me “Did you see that movie?”  And I ask my daughter (Laura, the 20 year old who transferred to a university closer to home and moved back in. C’mon people, keep up!) “Did I see that movie?  Did I like it?”  How cute is that?  Asking your kid if you saw a movie because you can’t really remember!  Yeah, okay so it’s not cute.  It’s a little pathetic.  I blame the movie.  If it had been good, I surely would have remembered seeing it.  It’s the non memorable, mediocre ones, that don’t stick with me.  So I rely on the daughter’s memory.

Sweet Jesus, I can’t even remember what I was going to write about for this Grand Reopening Blog.  Okay, stop. Pause for a moment.  I REMEMBERED!  Dick Clark’s Rockin’ New Year’s Eve!!  (and what kind of irony is THAT?!?!?)

Okay, now-hundreds of words into this blog, I finally get to the point!

At first I thought…PLEASE, SIR, HAVE SOME DIGNITY AND HANG IT UP!!! Then I thought…well…his mind must be there if he’s insisting on doing this in spite of his post-stroke, physical failings.  Then I thought (actually, then I probably got distracted by something. But for copy purposes, I’m gonna stay with the matter at hand) well, wait a darned (nope, i don’t really talk like that. and yes i realize my grammar and punctuation has gone to hell here. don’t bother me while i’m thinking, please) minute…more power to this guy for getting back up on that horse, stroke be damned!

It’s interesting, how uncomfortable we are in the face of physical failings.  We’d rather not be confronted by it.  Cripples. Disfigured people.  Fat people.  People who limp.  Hell, we’d rather not  have to see or hear it. All disabled people should be banished to private rooms, right?  I mean…who wants to hear/see an old guy struggling to talk through his stroke-induced, neuromuscular  disability?  It’s kind of…uh…icky. Hey, don’t get upset with me for saying that.  Be honest.  That’s our reaction.  Ick.  Which, like many things we’d rather not see, is rooted in fear.  But nevermind that.  Just get him out of here.

I’m not entirely sure how I feel about this.  Should he or shouldn’t he?  Maybe yes.  Yeah.  I’m gonna go with yes, he should.  Am I saying the guy should still be doing that show on network television?  Sure, why not?  It’s not as if some of those other “hosts” were much better.  I mean… could you even understand Jennifer Lopez through the giggles?  Who is Ryan Seacrest, anyway?  What did he ever do to deserve to be host of the NYE show?  But more to the point, what’s the big deal?  1-We all know the countdown numbers, so we weren’t being robbed of needed clarity, by Dick’s mumblings. 2-It’s New Year’s Eve, and Dick Clark is tradition.  3-Worse things have happened on television, did you happen to stop by CNN and see that poor Anderson Cooper forced to play straight-man to that awful redhead?  Worse yet, 4-Did you happen to see CNN at all in 2009 and witness human behavior at its cruel worst?

Okay, I’m gonna stop talking now.  Other topics to look forward to in the new year (assuming I write again in 2010) my new puppy Pip, life with two daughters (one real, one faux),  my son, all growed up, my job-now that I’m all growed up, my renewed effort to lose some weight, the cooking talents of my children, being 51, my dinner with Andre…oops, sorry. Got carried away listing.

Happy New Year!

xoxox, Rebecca

Single-tasking is the new multi-tasking

I used to think I was all that, multi-tasking like a fiend.  Yesiree, I could accomplish  more in a sitting than the average bear could in three.  Watch me go, wheeeeeee.

Now… I think all I was doing was a bunch of things haphazardly.  Oh, sure.  I was fully capable of running a board, reading a newscast, and giving myself a manicure, all at the same time.  This, while making a pediatric appointment for my daughter during stolen moments.  But really…were the nails worth the risk?  If all hell broke loose, was I at the top of my game?

Truth is, like a lot of parents, I had to do six things at once.  The alternative was to admit that I can’t have it all.  Perish the thought.  Along with that, comes admitting that someone is being shortchanged…namely my progeny.  Double perish.

All of which is my “you buried the lead” way of saying I find it difficult to earn a living and do anything else.  Like laundry.  Or meal-making.  Or emailing dear friends.  Or, obviously, blogging.  Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I admit I am powerless over my daily life.

Further complicating matters, I had a daughter to pack off to school.  A son to fete as he turned 27.  A couple of recalcitrant bones to slow me down.  That Damned Leg.  Sounds sort of like a late 70s/early 80s sitcom, does it not?  No one told me my leg wasn’t going to work correctly 3.5 months after the break.  Okay, I lied.  My orthopedic surgeon told me it would take a year and a half to heal and “it may never be totally normal again.”  I just like the rhythm and sound of “No one told me…”

Oh, hell.  Gotta go.  The dog just barfed on the rug.  AND HE ISN’T EVEN EATING IT!!  Which means I’ll have to clean it.

xoxox, Rebecca

ps: How ’bout that Sarah Palin, huh?  Life just gets more amusing by the minute…

pps: Please forgive any typos or glitches.  Proof reading means no post today, and we don’t want that now, do we?

A good old time

All the rhetoric about President Bush not wanting to politicize the Olympics? If you’ve seen him hanging with Misty May and Kerry, or watching men’s basketball… you’ll know his decision had nothing to do with the pros or cons of politics. He’s having a great time. In fact, he’s so aw-shucks happy I expect his dad to reach over, smack him in the back of the head and say “Act right, son!” any minute now. I know Laura has had to tell him at least twice during Sunday’s China-US game to quit chewing gum with his mouth open, “It looks ignorant, honey.”

PS: I just felt SO sports knowledgable.  I just answered “four” with no hesitation when my daughter asked how many quarters are in a basketball game. SO sporty of me.

I have a secret…

The title should give you some idea of my treatment of secrets. No, scratch that. I have a reputation as a bad keeper of secrets. What do they know anyway?? I am so much more discreet (discrete? help me out, Dictionary Terry. i still can’t keep it straight. in fact…remember when i could not remember which of two ways to pronounce certain names and you helped me with little memory tricks, pneumatics? pneumonics? does this ring a bell: “rotting with corruption” and… well, the other one is obscene. i’ll save it. maybe i won’t. KY for al quada. you figure out the trick)

Where was I?? Parenthesis have the same effect on me as spinning a little kid in three circles before letting him try to pin the tail on the donkey.

Here’s the kind of secret keeper I am: once asked to keep the secret, and reminded… maybe a second time, it’s as good as locked. But when the secret is announced and someone says “Oh…isn’t it exciting that Suzie is pregnant?” I have to bite my tongue to keep from blurting out “Yes it is, and I knew it five months ago!!” (the first trimester and the few months that they were trying). But I don’t. Seriously. I don’t say that. I just want to.

All of which leads to this: (singsong voice goes here) I have a secret, I have a secret, I have a secret. (at which point, several of my friends begin to get nervous) No, don’t worry, . Your secrets are not about to be blurted out in blog form. (Would that be “blurgted?”) It’s my own secret. I have The Best Story Idea Ever. But I’m not saying, because I want to save it for myself!!!

It’s not in the public domaine yet. But all it would take is an observant newspaper person (cuz they’re the most enterprising, i’m sorry to say) and there it would be. So…I’m crossing my fingers and sitting on it. Why not just hand it over to my colleagues? Because I want to do it myself when I get back to work, silly.

Okay. Truth be told, it’s not like this is “gonna knock this town’s socks off!” But I like it. It’s got all the perfect elements: timely, sign of the times, juicy…the kind people will talk about AND it’s tied to world events. HA!

I really need to go back to work. It’s time.

I have organized all the thread in my sewing room according to color. I spent a long time debating whether one spool belonged on the green row or the blue. Now I’m organizing my fabrics by color. What does it mean, that I have a disproportionately large amount of purple fabric? Followed by green. Then black. Then red. Lots of yellow, too. Hardly any white. Even less blue. A “normal” amount of brown and beige. Then there are the multi-print pieces that defy color categorizing. What would Melvil Dewey have done?

xoxox, Rebecca

ps: i looked it up. it’s “mnemonics” oops.

Crutches suck, chapter two

Stupid crutches just threw themselves against a window and almost broke it. That’s how stupid they are. They were supposed to be leaning against the sofa. Stupid crutches.

I should probably stop writing about them, I don’t want them to think they’re all that.

Stupid crutches

No matter where I sit, there’s no place to put my crutches. They need to lean on something, but they are very bad leaners. I swear, if they fall over one more time and hit me, I’m gonna throw them in the street and run over them with my car.  Over and over and over.

xoxox, Rebecca

The tomatoes are red!

One of my favorite movies ever is “The Jerk” with Steve Martin.  I know.  Such a sophisticate.  Besides loving every moment of happy dopiness in the movie, I think it’s the ideal fact-finding medium.  Say you’re talking with someone you just met… or-what the heck-someone you’ve known for years.   Try this:  ask him if he’s ever seen “The Jerk.”   Chances are, instead of answering, he (or she) will simply shout out his (or her) favorite line.  “He hates those cans.  Stay away from the cans!”  If you’re in a room full of people, chances are someone else will chime in with another line:  “Dear family, guess what?  Today I found out what my special purpose is for. Gosh what a good time I had.  I wish the whole family could have been here with me.”  Pretty soon someone from across the room will throw in:  “I don’t need this stuff.  I don’t need anything.  And I don’t need you!  I don’t need anything.  Except this.  This ashtray.  That’s the only thing I need is this.  I don’t need this or this.  Just this ashtray.  And this paddle game…” 

Eventually everyone is happily contributing a line.  You learn a little more about each and every one of them, from the line they choose to quote from the movie.  Plus, suddenly everyone is cheerful.  Really, they are.  Try it.  Sure there’ll be someone there who’s never seen “The Jerk” or, worse yet, someone who has, but pretends he hasn’t.   Careful, he’s gonna want to talk about the works of Ingmar Bergman or perhaps his favorite scene from “An Andalusion Dog” -which he’ll allude to in the French “Un Chien Anadalou.” (Which reminds me…should it not have been a tipoff when the first movie my first husband took me to see was “Children of Paradise?”   Okay, off topic.  I’m just saying…)

Jayzus.  Speaking of off-topic,  this post is not about “The Jerk” …it’s about my garden.  Little by ever-so-slowly little, the tomatoes are ripening.   True, some never got a chance to ripen, because, in their enthusiasm, Laura and my father would pluck an orange little beauty from its vine and present it to me with a suspiciously high level of joy.   I would complain they’re not ripe and should be left on the vine until ripe.   My father would insist a few days in a sunny windowsill is all it needs to ripen up.  Umm…that’s the point of growing your own, Daddy.  You can pluck it ripe, off the vine, and eat it at its peak.  That’s when my father walks away shaking his head, mumbling in half English, half Spanish.

Finally, this week, I got to eat ripe tomatoes.  Perfectly red, plump, sweet, tiny ripe tomatoes.  Tomatoes that I grew with my own little hands.  Okay, full disclosure:  my own little hands and my dad’s hands.  He’s been helping keep the garden watered since my leg broke.  Oh, and Suzie’s little hands.  She’s helped me too.  Let me say that again.  Perfectly red, plump, sweet, tiny, ripe tomatoes that Daddy and Sue and I grew with our own little hands.  And yesterday I made brown rice and ground turkey with red peppers, onions, and–from my garden–crookneck squash and fresh herbs:  thyme, basil and parsley.  From my garden.  That Sue and Daddy and I grew with our own six hands (two small, and four normal).  

I think I’m gonna start calling it The Farm.  Garden sounds so… amateur.

Right about now, I bet you’re telling yourself “I know we’ve only known each other for four weeks and three days.  But to me it seems like nine weeks and five days.  The first day seemed like a week.  And the second day seemed like five days.  And the third day seemed like a week again. And the fourth day seemed like eight days.  But the fifth day you went to see your mother, and that seemed like just a day.  But then you came back…”

xoxo, Rebecca