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Life's too short to be: [comment]

On Tallulah Bankhead

Twice this year, I have been told I sound like Tallulah Bankhead. I don't know whether to have another Mimosa, or have another Mimosa.

If I could Tell you

Wanting attention is one thing; getting it another.

Stories about My Husband

Chapter one: Why My Husband's Work Clothes will always have Bloodstains

One night, I posted this on Twitter: "My husband bought a chainsaw and is cutting down a healthy tree. I don't know why."

The overwhelming male response was: "Because he bought a chainsaw."

Tonight, while sorting laundry, I came across one of my husband's t-shirts, non unlike many t-shirts I have seen before it, and rather than shout-a-stain-out, I thought to leave it.

I thought then to ask my husband if he wanted to keep the stain, because after all, it is his shirt. He smiled and said "Yes, leave it."

I was reminded in that moment of his father. The first day I met his father my thought was "good Lord I have never seen that much paint on a person."

My husband's father worked and he worked hard. He was a tile man. He cut tile by hand and grouted on his knees. Later, he cut with a water saw. The spots and splatters on his pants were not only paint, but floor glue and plaster and grout and so on.

He taught his son to cut tile and his son taught me, and I have to say, it's very messy.

To that, my husband's father taught me "Dirt is the badge of the workingman."

Well, if dirt is the Badge, blood is the Medal.

I think when my husband is out; getting gas, banking, going to the parts store to get another part that won't fit and if it does it'll break the 4th time he uses it, he passes other workingmen, and they nod at each other.

They wait in line together or throw back a cold one after a good day, sit next to each other in Hospital Emergency Rooms and say to one another, "Looks like ya' cut yourself."

"Yup. Damn [insert the name of any tool or process]."

"Man, I hate when that happens."

It's a moment.

Recently, there was a woman who was in a Bi-Lo parking-lot. She quickened her pace, stole glances behind her to gauge the distance between her car and a wild-looking, dirt and bloodstained man, calling to her waving his hands.

If she could have heard him, she would know that she dropped something out of her cart. (Your "personal" grocery item is at the service counter by the way.)

If she could hear me, I'd say “Ma'am, if I didn't know that man was my husband, I’d run too,” "but he's a workingman, and that blood is code."

So that's why I won't get the bloodstains out of my husband's work clothes.

That, and because it's a royal pain in the ass to do.


Next: Chapter Two: Another Way of Looking at it Altogether

Author's Note: Husband states: "We do not go to the emergency room; we go to Lowe's & get duct tape & rags. "

Please correct your copies. Thank you.

Carmela Continues to Enthrall her Audience

See, Carmela was a little uppity, you know, she thought she was better than everyone else.

From my Drama-Dame Stuff

My glass, sorrowfully short of both champagne & of orange juice - empty in fact - speaks ill of the help & ferociously of the hostess.

Daily Prayer

I will learn to use the tools I have.

When I find them.

It's not like they're lost, it's like
they're very, very secure.

Spring 2009

For three days now, the rain rinses fine
yellow dust from yawning jasmine and oleander.

It bends early irises, creates a nervous first
dance between the freesia and arugula, draws

a syncopated song from roof and chimney.
Soon, we will open the house windows and doors,

read books on lazy swings, sip the scent of gardenia,
fill the house with magnolia and white sage.

But for now, we stand at the window,
and watch the wash of winter.

Poem for My Husband 12

He mumbles. In his sleep, in waking, pacing

to the kitchen and back, he looks for

eyeglasses, the newspaper, a blue-handled

hammer his father gave him, a shoe.

He calculates always, the curse of genius.

He does the math, and while it adds up,

it never works out for humanity

in the end.

Still, he gets in his truck and leaves, to mow this one's

lawn, trim that one's trees. Cries with a man

whose wife is gone, listens to a long-tale teller

ramble on. And at home, and at night, he mumbles

these love songs to me.

Micommunication Chronicles Part 3

Dearest Husband, it was not the washing of golf balls I found curious. It was the use of the dishwasher to do it.

Why is PiMPY3WASH so Darn Pimpy?

I’m fascinated by a washing machine named PiMPY3WASH. As you may have read, the washing machine belongs to Ryan J. Rose, has its own Twitter account, and is programmed to send Ryan a message when it completes a load of wash.

That was fascinating to start with, but what draws my attention now, as of 02/12/09 at 4:30 PM EST, is that PiMPY3WASH has exactly 499 followers, 415 more followers than its creator.

Granted, some of these followers may be Bots, but I’ve looked, and I think the vast majority are us non-bot types.

From casual observation of Mr. Rose, I can see that he’s brainy, funny, and quite clean. He certainly does laundry more than I do.

Why then, does an inanimate object that sends out no message other than “A load of laundry finished washing at: Sat Feb 7 00:48:51 2009” garner more attention than the man behind the machine?


I asked Ryan what he thought about the why of it; his response?

“That’s a difficult question many people have pondered. If you figure out something good, let me know ;-)”

I think it possibly has something to do with being “in” on something, but it’s the what “it” is that I can’t figure out.

Or maybe, folks are waiting to see if one day, PiMPY3WASH suddenly (and possibly of its own volition), will follow them back. Asimovians everywhere wait with bated breath.

Or maybe, just maybe, they’re hoping that PiMPY3WASH will teach them how to make millions through never before tried Internet Marketing “programs".

For me, I follow Mr. Rose @ryanjrose. I can’t wait to see what he does in the future. Other than another load of wash I mean.

If you're one of the followers, leave a comment and let me know why. I'm genuinely interested, and so too it would seem, is Ryan.

Reference articles:

The L.A. Times: http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/technology/2009/01/twitter-washing.html and also numerous other blogs and websites.

See it in action: http://www.youtube.com/ryanjrose

Thinking of Old Lovers

"He was cheap, but not too cheap. He was a pair of Ferragamos on sale."

Five Days in Arkansas, For Nick Masullo, 1952 - 2008

1.

The pilot urges us to look out
of the right-side windows of the plane,
asking with a smile in his voice if we have ever seen
a bald eagle in flight.
There it is, winging next to the Airjet as we ascend.

2.

When I was five-years old and my brother eleven, he taught me to play chess. This as a distraction after his failed attempt to enter me in the Little Miss America Pageant.

The family joked that his eyesight was always poor.
I liked that he believed I could pull off a crown.

“Each piece, from Pawn to King, has its place and its own characteristics of movement. Remember that: in this and in life there is order, and the Queen rules the board.”

He is a fastidious man, he always has been,
it serves him well now.
His shower strictly scheduled and timed,
each body part cleansed in its specific order.
His skin smells of amber when he is done.

I have inherited some of this compulsion for order,
but not all – I save private chaos for manic paint
on sleepless nights.
He can afford no chaos.
Or privacy.

I say I will make mashed potatoes this evening. He smiles.
I make enough for five days. Not enough for him.

He is more mother to me than the mother I had, and certainly more father, but just as they are to me strangers, he is in many ways an unknown.
Each day now, he is a stranger to himself
taking inventory each morning
to determine what has left him, what he has left.

I stand beside him and hold his head between my hands
to stop the now constant movement.
I kiss his forehead.
His eyes meet mine and still I see joy and wonder there.
How can that be I ask?
That’s what happens when you live in the moment he replies.

I argue with God as my form of prayer of late,
cry and drink mimosas too early in the morning,
listen to Abbey Road over and over and try to learn to play the tambourine and bongos
with an urgency that causes me
to lose the beat and rhythm.

I know timing is everything.
I know there is no time.

I cover his clean shirt with a beautician’s cape,
joke that his back-length hair needs a perm. Then feed him,
soft food to keep him from choking.

I search my mind for new humor,
some witty thing to make his eyes laugh.
My sister is the funny one.

People say surrender – to God, to the Universe, to “it”.
Okay, I’ll surrender, but not without a fight.

His friends come each and every day.
Tonight the musicians are here.
They play his own songs for him
with a tenderness I envy and admire.
They are his arms and legs and hands.
Too rapidly they are becoming his ears and eyes.

Charm and talent will only get you so far on life’s road I tease.
That seems to be the road I’m on he replies.

In all this, he has never lost his voice.

3.

When I first arrived, my sister-in-law mused
at my newly cropped hair. An emotion-fueled night
with blunt instruments, and a bottle of wine
called Running with Scissors I explain.
I pull out a book from my bag of the same name. It is a theme.

Back in my hotel room, I open her gift to me,
carefully wrapped with cobalt tissue paper, tied with gold string
and glass beads. I saw her select these beads with concentration
the day before. I thought she would make earrings for herself.

In my hand I hold her Grandmother’s silver shears,
smaller than my palm. In her note she warns
that they are sharp. She warns not to run.

4.

Bob Dylan is singing Forever Young through my earphones
and I am sobbing and cannot stop.
I think one day I will write this all down, that I will understand
the complexities of my emotions
and my brother’s emotions
and my nephews’ emotions
and my sister-in-law’s emotions
and my sister’s emotions
and my husband’s emotions
and everyone involved’s emotions
and that job is too big to think about
so I think about what it is I can think about,
and tell the flight attendant No
although I wonder if I should have taken the cookies after all.

I write for three minutes at a time, and while this seat on this plane
leaving the Ozark Mountains is a really lousy place,
there is in this moment
flight with a bald eagle, and mashed potatoes waiting.

5.

There are no revelations today.
No secrets uncovered.
No cures.
No no-fair calls.

There is melody, the Spring maybe.
There is a prism in the window raining cool
color on wood and stone, and in this white light moment it seems,
is the road we're on.

For Nick Masullo, 09/1952 - 09/2008

The Miscommunication Chronicles, Part I

02/05/09 Dear Husband, I DO love cranberry juice & thank you, even if it in no way resembles the chicken stock I requested.

02/03/09 Dear Husband, thank you for changing the sheets for the 1st time in a year even though I did it an hour earlier.

02/01/09 Dear Husband, if, when you remove your socks in the future, you shake them right side out, you will save us both an enormous amount of time.

01/30/09 Dear Husband, either rinse the dishes first, or buy a new a dishwasher.

01/24/09 Husband, throwing the screen door in the trash after beating it with a hammer is not fixing it.

Can't Help Lovin'

Birds gotta' swim, fish gotta' fly.
I'm gonna' love one man till he dies.

That's how I heard it.

My Daily Prayer

No arguing with God

On South Carolina

Here, the moon at midnight masquerades as dawn.
Georgia visits on the wind, and the mockingbird strings its song until sun bids good-day to ocean.

Stop Thinking

How can too much happiness be a bad thing?

Pre-dinner Zen

I'm too busy remembering my own mistakes to remember yours.