A Greate Losse

I begin today with a simple question, dear readers: who among us does not enjoy putting great grief aside so that we may focus instead on ridiculously minor heartbreaks?? As most of you probably know, this has perhaps not been the cheeriest year for folks of my surname, and here in the twilight months of the year my sweet grandpa has gone to his Long Home.* I am heading home this week for the good-bye time, and in lieu of discussing how I feel about THAT I am going to talk about THIS: missing the Renaissance Fair.

*I'm not being sarcastic with this term. I mean it, a lot.

At this moment, I am sitting sans pants (I seem to be sans pants a lot when I write, huh?) in a dear friend's apartment watching Pet Sematary and drinking Fanta Orange/Diet Coke. My exciting plans for tonight include maybe taking a shower and then picking bus or train as transport to work. Choices, choices!!! Now get ready for the bitching: these are my choices. Do you know what choices Jackie will be making this evening?

Jousting or a trip for fetching mead and meat on sticks? Trying to chat with elusive fairies, or admiring wenches in their low-cut bodices? Buying leather bracelets or a garland of flowers for her beautiful head?

When she announced her intention to attend this morning, I manfully un-trembled my trembling lip and instead launched joyfully into options for fun I could have that would simulate Renaissance Fair activities: here I present you the Anderson-Savage duo list of

Simul-Renaissance Fair Activities 2010

1. I am going to try and give credit where credit is due, because Jackie did come up with seriously funny stuff. For example, it was her idea to "stick the Subway sandwich on a stick". Almost as much fun as a turkey drumstick the size of my head, right?

2. It was my idea to warm up some Miller Lite in an oversized coffee mug and pay an imaginary tavern wench twelve dollars for the pleasure.

3. I could also make paper knight dolls and have my own jousting tournament on Al's table while I watch old episodes of the Tudors. I would have to make my own mouth-noises for this, but it's also something I could play with the four-year-old tonight, and they might have ACTUAL action figures!

4. I might, for the sheer fun of it, turn off all the lights in the apartment and huddle fetally under a blanket whilst warm helpless tears track their way down my cheeks. I could think my darkest, loneliest thoughts and suckle at the bitter teat of despair for a few hours before succumbing to liquor and Love Actually! I could watch Steel Magnolias and Terms of Endearment and drink warm vodka and turkey gravy while whimpering at the cruel injustice of an unfeeling world!!!!

5. Holocaust museum! Pictures of concentration camps! Displaced victims of tropical storms! Poverty levels in this, one of the richest countries in the world! Homeless people! Death, destruction, AIDS, herpes, Hitler, Mussolini, rotten eggs, child molestation and PETA!!!!

Yeah, that's sort of where that list went and Jackie got a little nervous when my laughter hit a fever pitch and I turned red and began sweating. When she politely suggested that I "let it all out", I cackled darkly and told her that were I to do that I'd have to take more than a couple of days off. She gave me a sweet hug and ignored me when I dramatically and solemnly announced my desire to drink all of our cough syrup and sleep the dreamless sleep of the eternal. At this point, I was of course being plain silly and she recognized that I had passed from my genuine grief at missing the fair into amusement at the situation.

Because seriously, folks - I may be done saying "Hit me with your best shot, universe!"*, but if I can't goddamn chuckle at the utter hilarity of this shit I might as well sleep the dreamless sleep of the eternal (LOVE this phrase, by the way!). If eventually my slightly maniacal giggles trickle into less maniacal weeps, well, at some point the emotional pendulum will swing back to giggles. I'm not very wise yet, but I know this much is true.

*Yeah, no, actually I am definitely done saying that.

Now, I am off to roll back and forth pantsless on the dirty carpet while I moan out useless Tudor trivia and mourn the loss of that perfect mug of Renaissance mead.

(insert photo of wench with mead here which I have downloaded but can't goddamn figure out how to put down HERE rather than up at the top so CHRIST, whatever, good-bye)

Priest/Beagle (or) Roofman With Ladder

Here I sit at Dad's desk, blogging and trying - trying REALLY hard - not to spill my Abita Purple Haze on anything. There are shirtless roof or gutter (whatever) men outside, so I cannot continue to watch tv because a) they can see me and b) the goddamn dog will not shut her Hole. I tried, I tried, but she is useless and I could not make her silent. Here is what I tried:

"Lily, godDAMMIT!!!"
"Shut the fuck up!"
"I'm going to kill you!"
"SHUT THE FUCKING SHIT UP OR I WILL MURDER YOU IN YOUR SLEEP!"

So she wins this round. I hope she barks her floppy-eared goddamn beagle head off.

I am so far having a very nice time at home. Except for just now, when the roof-gutter-man came to get me to show me something I will have to describe to Dad. "Kin yew clam the layder?" he asked. "Shore can!" I said. What I really meant by "Shore can!" was oh-shit-heights-oh-shit-oh-shit-can't-be-a-pussy. I clammed the damn layder and stood there and baked in the sun and dribbled urine for the eternity he spoke. "Kin Ah git day-own?" I finally asked, and was released back into the wild with my beer and fear-dampened shorts.

Now I am going to write a little about my family but don't drool yourself, you ain't gettin' no scandalous goddamn details. I went this morning to chat with the priest of our church, mostly for some free therapy and coffee. I enjoyed my spiritual check-up immensely: the priest laughed heartily at my jokes, showed me his Buddy Jesus figurines, and demonstrated a tiny Barbie vacuum that really ran! I walked back to the house feeling buoyed and bolstered and just generally the kind of "feeling good" you get right before you fall down, vomit, and pass out. Dad took me on a Truck Ride - I enjoy this as much or more than the beagle - and showed me the cool new place he's working. I got some more free coffee, saw a dear friend, and we came home.

Dad left for work and I took the opportunity to read all the cards and letters and emails he's gotten since The Incident Of The Herald-Citizen Being Oh-So-Scandalous. And wow, buddies. Wow. If there's a silver lining on this shit-cloud, it's the piles and heaps of steaming friendship and support that have been dumped lovingly onto us all. So thanks for that - I know a lot of you who read this are out there (cue swelling of "Somewhere Out There" from An American Tale) supporting and loving (lovveeeeeeeeng USSSSS toniiiIIIIIIIGHT) my family and that's just peaches. Bless you. Love you.

I'm supposing that this little burst of goodwill towards mankind has exhausted my resources, so I am off for another rousing round of Chase The Beagle. I'll be flapping back at you very soon, dear reader(s).

Airport (or) Beagles/Chex Mix

This was supposed to be a blog about being at an airport bar, but it turned into a blog about beagles and the annoying way my father eats Chex Mix. I mean, it's still a blog about being at an airport bar because I'm writing at one, but you get it. Oh well. Stay tuned for more updates during my week of being home!

Contrary to plan, I find myself at yet another airport bar drinking a beer - the cost of which I am too frightened to find out! As most of you no doubt know, I am heading home to Tennessee for a long week of relaxing, freaking out, and Chasing The Beagle. CTB is always the height of any visit home, and since my brother will not be there I might be able to lull her into a sense of trust. I fear that sweet Lily the beagle is ever-trusting , at least when it comes to me, and has forgotten completely

1. The time I got her drunk on red wine and she barfed purple
2. The time I socked her because she ate my Chex Mix
3. Locking her in the bathroom with the cats
4. Stepping on her in heels when I was drunk two Christmas Eves ago
5. Calling her fat*

* This is really Mom's fault because just as I got fat 'n fluffy, Lily lost weight and Mom began calling her both "Oprah" and an inspiration. Look, if Alma fed me hard, dry pellets twice a day and walked me, I would be an inspiration too. Endpoint: weight-losing beagles are not inspiring.

Oh dear, my airport beer is almost gone. And here I just promised Jackie I was drinking it slowly. Here's my excuse:

PSYCH. You thought I was going to talk about my dad, didn't you! Well, forget about it. I'm not going to write about it so don't hold your breath. It sucks, and it sucks. End story.

Back to the beagle. Usually she is my only companionship, but this time my stay-at-home dad will be, well, at home. I might try and see if I can get him drunk enough to puke purple, but I know I can't hit him for eating my Chex Mix and he knows how to get out of a locked bathroom. I wish I could keep him off the Chex Mix, because he does not eat it Right. I cannot hit him even though he doesn't even CARE what pieces he gets. He puts his hand in the bag, closes it around whatever pieces the Lord grants him, and puts whatever he's grasped straight into his mouth. I mean COME ON. Everybody knows that you rank Chex Mix thusly:

1. Corn chex
2. Wheat chex
3. Cheese crackers
83. Pretzels - yes, that's the 83rd place. Pretzels are soulless sinful crappy bag-filler.

And everybody (me) also knows that you eat these things either one at a time or two-by-two. Go ahead, loving readers, weigh in, but know ye this: I shall not be moved. Ready for an awkward transition? PSYCH. You just experienced it. Good-bye!

Screaming In Petworth

I am sitting on our still-new couch on a Saturday minus Jackie, pants, and the better part of my supposedly 70% bodily liquid. I am happily weeping over Steel Magnolias and re-reading my Henry VIII book when I hear this exchange outside:

Voice 1: Fuck you!
Voice 2: Go to Hell!
Voice 1: FUCK you!
Voice 2: GO TO Hell!
Voice 1: FUCK YOU!!!
(this continues, same phrases, intonations changing a bit)

Well. I have lived here now for several years, and no matter what I have heard screamed outside my windows (on the fifth goddamn floor, mind you, I can hear these voices!) I have not reacted. This day, something in your friend here went a bit haywire. I put my book down, began to cackle creepily, and slid off the couch. I went into an awkward forward crab-walk across the room to our open window and slid my-self over the radiator, mouth positioned at the window. I cupped my hands around my mouth and screamed

"HEY JACKASSES!!!! SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!!"

Long moments passed and suddenly Voice 1 said - "Who say dat??" I collapsed helplessly upon our ancient hardwood floor, laughing with great tears leaking down my cheeks, and within some time was able to drag myself back to the couch. We can all safely assume that, having been so rewarded for the bad behavior, I will engage in it again. I spent the rest of the afternoon waiting eagerly at the window and being deeply, deeply grateful for my fifth-floor apartment and apparently carrying voice.

Girl Zines: Worth It

When I received this book in the mail and began to flip through it, my first impression was an overwhelming “oh, shit” feeling. I had agreed to review this serious, probably incredibly dry book on “doing feminism”? Me, one of the most lackluster feminists I know, whose knowledge about the women’s rights movements shamefully begins and ends with Susan B. Anthony? Yes, oh yes, that me had somewhat drunkenly begged to be allowed to write a review of “Girl Zines: Making Media, Doing Feminism.” Well, as a wise man once said, “Always do sober what you said you’d do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut.” With that fixed doggedly in mind, I sat my completely unqualified self down and began to read the book.

To my great and delighted surprise, “Girl Zines” was ridiculously intriguing from the beginning. For those of you unfamiliar with zines, wiki or google them straight-away! The zines featured in this book reminded me most of journals, notes, and letters to and from friends. They’re not mainstream, they’re not “neat”, and the content is not edited by some white dude with a tie. The author managed to make clear even to this laywoman the import of zines to feminist work – these are young women just like me who are scribbling, Sharpie-ing, and glittering themselves onto a piece of paper, Xeroxing it, and distributing it. Really? I thought, is it that easy? In the foreword, Andi Zeisler says she’s never felt cool enough for girl zines: sister, I’ve never felt cool enough for feminism. About halfway through the book, Piepmeier offers this quote from Courtney Martin – “ We are not apathetic. What we are…is totally and completely overwhelmed.”

I read that and thought, you bet your ass I am! When it comes to women of different colors? COLOR?? God forbid I come right out and say talking about race makes this cracker crumble! The only thing I think when I open my mouth to talk about feminism in third-world countries is I’M A WHITE GIRL I’M A WHITE GIRL I’M A WHITE GIRL. I gave up on nurturing any riot grrl part of myself the first time I thought I’d offend somebody, and I honestly never felt like I had anything worthy to say. I read this book, and in reading it I found myself feeling pretty fucking empowered.

Making zines doesn’t take training. Making zines, at least the zines I’d make, would be barfing out inner chunks of myself onto the page. The zines featured in the book start conversations, they offend, they open up huge paths of possibility, and what the hell – turns out feminism isn’t scary. Turns out I could offend somebody in MY zine, then maybe she turns around and horrifies somebody in HER zine, and the next thing you know there is a smart, snarky, important conversation happening. Piepmeier says whenever she talks about zines in class, her students inevitably go forth and make their own. If that isn’t testament enough to the power of the media, I don’t know what is.

I loved this book, and I am grateful to the author, and I also really soon need to get internet back at the apartment so I can look up “hegemony” and “pedagogy.” If you’re like me in all of my ignorance, have you a nice search engine nearby while reading this book. I’m still itching to dig further into Girl Zines, with notebook in hand, but I did sign up to review it today so that will have to wait.

At any rate, this newly-empowered fat dyke bitch says buy the book and thank me later. Or thank Alison Piepmeier. Trust us, it’s more than worth it.

Martin Needs To Leave The City

This is not New York City. This is DC. I should not be acting the way I have been acting, but the longer I am here, the more it sinks in that no one is going to tell Alma that they saw me misbehaving. For an evil little shit like myself, this realization is positively intoxicating. Add to this potent sense of freedom some actual physical intoxicants and my friends, you have a problem. That being said, the stories that follow happened on the job, my veins humming with nothing stronger than home-brewed coffee.

I am driving my two precious angels home from school, singing gently with them and enjoying the delightfully crisp fall day. We have just gotten out of Dupont Circle when before us weaves an un-helmeted bicyclist*. I am forced to brake rather violently, and, startled, I give my horn a gentle tap to let him know that he is not alone in the world. He turns his head around and gives me a MOST incredulous and unpleasant look, which bothers me mightily, and before I know it I return his look complete with my tiny middle finger thrust up into the air. He makes a full, lazy circle in front of us, pauses in front of the car, and spits ferociously onto my windshield. With impeccable Southern aplomb, I smile graciously, flip on the wipers, and wave gaily to him as I wash away his inconsequential spittle.

*I do NOT have a problem with cyclists or pedestrians. I have a problem with HELMET-LESS people who expect everything else with wheels to be in complete control of their safety.

This past week, I took Buddy to school in a taxi. I should have known from the first that I had gotten a "dud" cabbie; he wanted to chat.

Me: Please take a right on P St.

Him: I like to take Mass Ave, you see, it is much faster this way and...

Me: Turn right here.

Him: (bitches allllll the way the Georgetown about his "faster" route)

Him: 6.75, please, oh, you have a twenty? Oh, see, I don't have change for that, can I give you this ridiculous amount that will ensure me at least a five-dollar tip for this awful, annoying ride?

Me: No. Hold on.

Here's where it gets fuzzy. I am sure I gave him a twenty. When he finds me fifteen minutes later, after I've dropped Buddy off, he is sure I gave him a five. This has happened to me before (generally IN the cab, though) and I do not care to be bamboozled this time. The following occurs right outside of Buddy's school in full view of the parents waiting there.

Him: OH I am so glad I found you, I have been looking and looking and see, (does the obnoxious I'm-going-to-talk-fast-and-bamboozle-you thing)

Me: Wait, what? (I know that I am fallible and want to make things right)

Him: (Does not shut up, not for one second, not even to take a breath)

I realize I do in fact have a twenty in my pocket, and offer it to him, whereupon he starts into the no-change thing again. He will. not. Shut. UP. I think that's what did me in, was the constant and unrelenting noise. I burst horribly into tears on Wisconsin Avenue and said in a most deranged way, "Would you PLEASE shut the FUCK UP for one FUCKING MINUTE???" Well, dear readers, he did! For a moment. He began to open his mouth again, and I, bamboozled and frustrated, grabbed his arm, grabbed the eleven dollars he was proffering, and said, "Let's let it fucking go, shall we? I don't have the fucking time for this. Have a nice fucking day." This said in a shrill, odd voice, as tears streamed down my reddened face to fog up my glasses. I then snurfled and sniffed my way away from him, shoulders hitching pathetically occasionally. The fancy folk of Georgetown looked away from the sad little sight of me in my Walmart shoes, brown cords with said cord rubbed away, and saggy little zip-up sweatshirt splotched violently with tearstains. And folks? For the first time, I wasn't surprised that my obvious distress made me invisible.

I'm not sure if this is a surface coating of rage and insanity or the more pervasive crumbling and blackening of my soul, but all the same it merits at least a casual self-study. Just nobody tell my mom, okay?

Roof Work, Teeth, Pain & Spanish

My employers are having roofwork done on their condo this week. So far - so good. Buddy is in big boy school now and Squirk is the perfect age to throw in car or stroller and go a'venturing. I don't want ya'll to have to do math so I'll just tell you that Buddy is now three and Squirk is now one plus change. As I had hoped, Squirk is a complete bitch. She is feisty, stubborn, has a great sense of humor, and will pinch the fuck out of you if you tell her no. She is also, finally, at fourteen months, cutting some goddamn teeth (seriously, she was looking weird). We are still waiting on the hair, but I find that a little lesbi-spit and claspy barrettes work fine when sticking a bow to her almost-bald baby scalp. I don't want to leave Buddy out, of course; he is a fine young man, active, interesting, thoughtful, and thoroughly gay. Also may I say you have not lived until you have heard him sing "Blame It (On The Alcohol)". They are a frustrating delight, a terrible pleasure, and dearly loved by me. That being said...

Things generally go all to furious hell when Mom and Dad return for their progeny, but today was truly a sensorial treat. There's no air conditioning because of the roof work, and there's no peace because of the erratic BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG roof work, the echo of which is truly stunning. I hadn't let Buddy nap in the car today as I usually do, and Squirk is birthing - count 'em - THREE teeth right now, at the same time. It hurts to even think about it. Mom comes home and these things happen in the next eighteen minutes:

She comes in and finds that there are several holes in her ceiling that didn't USED to be there. Her son runs at her excitedly, head-butting her in the thigh. SHE bursts into tears, upon which Buddy pees himself and then bursts into tears himself. Not to be out-done, baby Squirk smacks herself in the teething mouth with Thomas the Tank Engine and begins quite dramatically to bleed all down her chin.

I want very badly to leave. Instead I walk over and pick Squirk up, checking the injury and then letting her bleed all over my clean shirt (I can't brag. The shirt was black.) Dad comes in, having gone to talk to the workmen about the various holes in his home. I hand his baby to him and think I'm good to go until they remember I speak Spanish. "You could talk to them, right, Martin?" he says. I point out that his baby is bleeding profusely from her mouth, take one of his beers, and head down the stairs. I walk outside, locate the workmen's generator, find every extension cord plugged into it, and pull them out. Seconds later two, four, seven little heads popped up from the roof. I send the foreman in to deal with the weeping bleeding hysterical family, apologizing profusely for the unplugging and making quite clear that I'm just an employee here too.

Thank God it's almost Thursday.