Why I'm not Brilliant

Too many details clutter my brain. If I'm out getting Subway sandwiches for everyone, I know that hubby wants a six inch Philly Cheese Steak on white bread, with American cheese, lettuce and mayonnaise. CW (#3 son) wants his Philly Cheese Steak on twelve inches of Italian herbs and cheese bread, toasted, with American cheese, lettuce, onions, and yellow and green peppers. Then slathered with mayo. And J-dub (#2 son) will eat whatever I get for him...if he is even around to eat. And no one but me and J-dub will eat tomatoes.

Then we have everyone's social security numbers, account numbers, cell phone numbers, Army Brigade designation, and clothing sizes. With the exception of J-dub, the men in my family rarely buy clothing for themselves. Soldier buys the occasional t-shirt, but each time I see him, you can bet he's going to be wearing something I bought for him 4 or 5 Christmases ago. I don't know what he's going to do when he comes home for mid-tour leave in May, since all of his civilian clothes are in storage somewhere in Colorado Springs. Shoe sizes? From hubby to youngest son - 10 1/2, 10, 11, and 13. (Each time I grew a baby in my tummy, I figured out how to make it larger.)

On top of all that, I have to know that a #2 Engine Boroscope goes in the 2-4 hour block of an MD-10 B-check, and about a thousand other things.

So is it any wonder that I don't have room for Shakespeare, or Nietzche, or HTML?

Please acknowledge me.

I think it's human nature to want to be noticed. Acknowledged. To matter, somehow.

So today, on my birthday, please notice me. Please acknowledge that I survived not only birth, but another 47 years on top of that horrible experience, which I barely remember. In fact, I don't remember a lot of the 47 years that followed the horrid birth experience, but I remember that today is my birthday.

I had big plans for today! I took a vacation day so I could accomplish a huge list of things. Like, I don't know...really, I didn't write any of it down...but I was going to do, you know, stuff. A painting, maybe. Some photography. A little writing. Shopping. But then, precisely at sometime in the afternoon yesterday, a virus entered my bowels, and the virus has left me feeling weak, empty, and unaccomplished.

I did get to chat with my son in Iraq for quite a while, though, and that's a pretty good birthday gift.

When's YOUR birthday, so I can acknowledge your survival too?

Another Etsy Discovery: D. Prizzi

I've been downhearted baby
Ever since the day we met
Our love is nothin' but the blues
Baby how blue can you get...

My new favorite artist at etsy is D. Prizzi. While it may have been her blues that first attracted me, it was her skill as an artist that made me fall in love.


Do you not want to gobble up this delectable tart? Is your mouth watering? Look at the light reflected in the berries, that hint of gold around the rim of the plate. Just beautiful.


This painting makes me want to be British and drink more tea.


I love the juxtaposition of colors here. The Granny Smith green with the turquoise of the plate. And that warmth of red beneath. There's a great deal to be said about the composition, too, if I really knew anything about composition. I only know that it looks exactly right.

The artist appears to be quite beautiful, herself. You may see more of her work on her lovely blog.

On My Toes

I just hopped over to etsy to see what people are selling these days, and one of the featured items comes from genepierson's shop.



I've always had a secret thing for ballet dancers, probably since the time I was five years old and tried to discover a way to dance on my toes.

Anyway, there's something I love about this photo, and the others that can be found at the link above.

Movies That Almost Slipped Through the Cracks

In between all the stuff I didn't do this weekend, I managed to squeeze in one book and two movies.

The thing about being a Netflix subscriber is that you feel compelled to return movies as quickly as possible so you feel you're getting your money's worth, which means more movies coming back to you, which means you really have to stay on top of your queue and not let it get empty like I did once, leaving me drumming my fingers wondering what the hell was wrong with Netflix that they weren't getting my movies out to me. Until I pulled up their website and saw that, oops, my queue was empty.

However, when you're watching as many movies in a month as I am, while trying to choose what will please the men in the household, it can start to be a bit of a crap shoot. Sometimes I don't have the knack for picking good films, and sometimes I let good ones get away entirely.

I hit the jackpot this weekend, though. Two films I would give five out of five stars:



The Brave One, 2007

Jodie Foster brilliantly portrays a New York radio personality who loses her fiance when they are both beaten in a brutal attack. The film explores the astonishing (and almost gratifying) way her character deals with the feelings of fear and victimization that are left behind, culminating in revenge on the thugs responsible for the attack. It's vigilante justice at its finest. Last line: There is no going back, to that other person, that other place. This thing, this stranger, she is all you are now.



Eagle Eye, 2008

Shia LaBeouf (Transformers and Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull) is Jerry Shaw, the unmotivated and underachieving twin of an Air Force officer who dies suddenly in a car accident. Jerry's life shifts suddenly into high gear when, shortly after burying his brother, he discovers a checking account balance of $571,000, and subsequently goes to his apartment to discover an arsenal has been shipped to him box by box. A phone call from a mysterious woman unleashes a series of events that will keep YOU away from the bathroom and glued to the screen, because "you have been activated. Your compliance is vital."

A Novel Idea

This morning on the way home from buying my Saturday morning cup of coffee, two characters found their way into my head as if they had just arrived by train and I was meeting them at the station. This happened to me about ten years ago (before The Internet took over my life), and the story of those two characters burned inside of me until I had to write it halfway down. Then, like ignored guests, they hopped back on the train and went somewhere else.

I've never really discussed story ideas with anyone, ever since I read that it interrupts the flow of creative energy to do so. But I will say that this will be a love story, set in Oklahoma during the Dust Bowl Era.



And guess what? Just as a survivor of the Great Depression was distrustful of banks, I'll be writing my story on paper. I have no faith in electronics.

Kate Winslet: A Photographic Tribute

Kate Winslet. Is it weird that I love her so much? Is it odd that I have watched Sense and Sensibility 500 times? She was 19 when she played the role of Marianne Dashwood in that film. Nineteen. I can't even recall what I was doing when I was nineteen, and, thankfully, it wasn't filmed.



I like that she doesn't consider herself a movie star. "Please don't call me [a movie star]. I don’t feel like a movie star in my life at all, and I don’t particularly think I behave like one."



With her son, Joe. I never look that good when going to Wal-Mart. Or, well, anywhere, for that matter.



Ah, the fair skin. If I had known how beautiful fair skin is, I never would have tanned like everyone else I knew.



One for the guys.



I don't know. From the set of Revolutionary Road, maybe? I love the dress. And the gloves. It would be worth it to be an actress, just to play dress-up.

By the way, I used to HATE Leonardo DiCaprio. Hate, hate, hate. Like, Tom Cruise hate. But I find I like him quite a lot now that he's a man. It's like someone took sandpaper and roughed up his edges.

What the Doctor said.

After work, I went to my "primary care physician" for the second time in two years. I'd forgotten what a great guy he is, easy to talk to, relaxed (I want to be on whatever he's on). My reason for going was that my prescription for blood pressure medicine had run out, and even though my BP isn't horrible without it, it's high enough to do some long-term damage to those little red hoses running through my body.

I've always loved going to doctors, which is ironic, since I hardly ever go, and it was especially fun to be going to a professional who wasn't going to stick horrible things in my mouth. Back when I was a young mother - high-strung, under-pampered, and most likely depressed - I would cry the moment a doctor asked me how I was. I think it was because no one else ever asked and really cared what the answer was. It's a miracle I wasn't subsequently doped up with anti-depressants.

But today, I got to connect with someone who likes to talk about all the same things I like to talk about, including me. (ha!) He (a licensed medical doctor!) agreed with me about high fructose corn syrup, and was very interested when I told him the significant effect that giving up soda had on my blood pressure. He was impressed that I'm eating more fresh, natural foods, that I'm trying to avoid manmade processed crap, that I know I need to exercise more and that I'm aware of the effects of sodium on my body. After writing my scripts, he told me to come back in 6 months, or sooner if I wanted to. I said that it was probably time for me to have a physician other than my self. When he asked if I "go online," I wanted to say, "Of course! Where do you think I got my medical degree?" But I didn't, and he passed along a couple of websites about natural health that he thought would interest me.

It kinda made that whole dentist ordeal go away for a while.

I'm so cool today.

I got a pingback and a trackback on a post I did at Journalspace: my attempt at debunking the myth about crop circles after my youngest son was awake all night worrying about them, and the year 2012.

It doesn't matter that I'm probably about to get slammed by a bunch of weirdos who actually believe in extraterrestrials. I'm up for the challenge, because I'm so uber cool.

I'm also not concerned that no one has followed the links yet.

I'm Teething.

I figured out why my mouth is still hurting. There appears to be a sliver of bone of unknown size making a magical journey through my gums. This little alien has a name - a sequestrum - something that happens as a result of a difficult or traumatic tooth extraction. Not sure if I mentioned it before, but the tooth extraction was pretty difficult and traumatic. I had enough adrenaline rushing through my body to take out the entire offensive line of a professional football team. Or at least to jump up and punch my dentist in the face.

But that's all over with now, and my memories of the pain are receding. Now all I'm left with is a constant cutting sensation which has suddenly made me sympathetic toward babies. So if you have a baby who is teething and slightly cranky, just remember that your baby doesn't have a cache of Vicodin in its purse.

all alone

I'm alone in the house for the second night in a row.

Solitude used to be one of my favorite things, but tonight I find myself feeling pretty unsettled. Last night I simply slept through two movies. Tonight, with plenty of things to do, no Sandman in sight, and a glass of wine in my hand, I'm just...well...lonely.

Maybe I'll drive 10 miles to McDonald's for some coffee, then 10 miles back.

That should kill enough time to enable me to fall asleep with another movie.

In the Valley of Elah

Since re-subscribing to Netflix with the “three at a time” option, we’ve been watching a lot of movies. And because I have to severely limit the chick flicks, I find myself leaning toward two genres: war movies, and thrillers. The interesting thing is that films about war now make my husband very uncomfortable; in fact, he refused to watch one film centered around the war in Iraq. I have to admit that I find myself viewing these films from a more emotional or empathic place. Even World War II films have the power to evoke some kind of cinematic bond between me and the mothers of celluloid soldiers.

So it was with some uncertainty that I popped in a DVD last night of the film In the Valley of Elah, which stars Tommy Lee Jones as the father of a modern day soldier just back from Iraq, and Charlize Theron as a policewoman who helps investigate the son’s disappearance and death.

One of the critical reviews of the movie at Netflix stated that the movie “centers around Tommy Lee Jones’ persona, and that’s why it works.” I found that to be very true, because Tommy Lee Jones appears to me to be someone who has suffered greatly. His face looks like it should belong to a farmer from Nebraska instead of an actor…or even to a man who sacrificed himself and the lives of his two sons in service to his Country.

It’s easy to see the anti-Iraq war sentiment. But what is really remarkable about the film is the very true portrayal of the effect of the war on young men. The attitudes, the words, the laughter over things I would consider sickeningly morbid are things I’ve witnessed myself when visiting with my son and his Army buddies. It’s their way of coping with the reality of the things they have seen and the friends they have lost.

Anyway, great film, and if you’re a Tommy Lee Jones fan, a must-see. It made getting this new photo from my son tonight, very poignant.

the tooth fairy and me

In early Europe, there was a tradition to bury baby teeth that fell out. Some believe that the Tooth Fairy evolved from the tooth mouse depicted in an 18th century French language fairy tale. In "La Bonne Petite Souris," a mouse changes into a fairy to help a good queen defeat an evil king by hiding under his pillow to torture him and knocking out all his teeth. (Source: Wikipedia.)

So in the interest of continuing the tooth fairy tradition, I asked my dentist on Wednesday if I could have the tooth he decided it was necessary to extract. He assured me I didn't want it. But what if I had put it under my pillow, and the tooth fairy (i.e. my husband) decided to leave a twenty there? We will never know.

After the dentist's toilsome job of pulling my tooth, I decided to tell my favorite tooth fairy story. When my middle son was 5 or 6, I happened to remember my role as fairy (which sometimes wasn't the case, and I would have to "find" money under the bed or behind the headboard to cover for the lapse), and tiptoed into his room to perform my duties. The next morning he came to me and said, "Mom, I saw the tooth fairy last night."

"Did you?" I asked.

"Yes," he said, his bright blue eyes sparkling up at me. "She looked like an angel."

Today on the JS Homepage

Recent Comments
(because I couldn't accept not having them anymore.)

You know how I know you're gay?
You dress your kids in matching jackets.
That's punishable by swirlies and wedgies here in the US, you know.
- TOBP-Steve in dickbar's journal


I can only imagine when you say WORK you are messing around. Well maybe you are "messing around" but that kind of messing around is actually hard work in my mind. HAve fun!!! Love, Bobby
- Fijufic in dirtyshadeofgray's journal


Dinner, drinks, and bed - no fair that a 5-year-old gets that and I don't.
- SamanthaBaker in StupidWorkGirl's journal


And I was wrong, you're not Lermontov....he would've met up with the guy, nailed him in the alley, and then went out drinking with friends.
- TOBP-Steve in Lizardo's journal


Yep – the Welshman was the right advice to give. If you want her to be sexually dissatisfied and to turn to you for solace that is. You have sheep in Australia I believe? That’s all that’s necessary.
- Simon in lermontov-lives's journal

Falling Again for Snow

I used to love it, the quiet fall of crystals, the muted crunch and a squeek underfoot, back in the days when I didn't wear a coat until Old Man Winter demanded it in January. Snow fell deeper then, and warmer, in huge downy blankets that insulated us from the world.

I also wasn't a driver then.

But I had a sled, and I wasn't afraid to use it. I knew how to make igloos and snowmen and snow angels. My feet flew on ice skates along the creek in the woods, and, later, glided over the top of snow drifts on snowshoes like a web-footed bird.

It wasn't difficult to love snow, because I lived in it. I even babysat for a family who would transport me to and from their home on a snowmobile. Now there's a ride, especially after dark.

Somewhere amid 20 years of long drives to and from work, however, I've learned to despise snow. Until a random program on television brought back to me all of its beauty, in microscopic detail.



Snowflakes were first photographed by Wilson A. Bentley in 1885, using an adapted microscope and mutated bellows camera.

If these were diamonds, only Kings could afford them. To us, they are free.

In the 1993 film Groundhog Day, Bill Murray's character, finally getting it right on his umpteenth repeat of February 2nd, reports Punxsutawney Phil's shadow sighting this way:

"When Chekov saw the long winter, he saw a winter bleak and dark and bereft of hope. Yet, we know that winter is just another step in the cycle of life. But standing here amongst the people of Punxsutawney and basking in the warmth of their hearths and hearts, I couldn’t imagine a better fate than a long and lustrous winter."

Everyone's a Comedian

I don't mind telling you that an abscessed tooth makes for a crappy week.

On Thursday and Friday, I went to work with a swollen cheek. The first thing I said to my co-worker, Russ, when I arrived at work on Thursday was "I brought extra acorns for lunch if you want any," then pointed at my cheek.

My friend John said it looked like something alien was growing on the side of my face. "It's a fetus," I replied. Then on Friday, he said it seemed to be growing legs. "But not fast enough," I said. He suggested I sprinkle fertilizer on it.

I kept asking my co-workers if they had an ice skate I could use to extract my own tooth. Would you believe no one at FedEx has one?

And finally, Russ is one of the kindest and most gentle men I've ever known, which made the following comments even funnier to me. He suggested that I go home and ask my husband to punch the other side of my face to even things out. He said (in an aside to someone else), "They're just like a bad screen door. You have to slam 'em a few times to straighten 'em out."

I laughed, of course. Then hurt even more.

Vicodin Dreams

I stayed home from work all day yesterday, because my face felt like a used punching bag. I've never experienced anything like this, and wonder how my tooth got so bad. It's not like there is a visible cavity or anything; in fact, I think it's a tooth that my dentist worked on a couple of months ago, trying to save me from a root canal.

I tried to use the Vicodin sparingly. But pain can be a compelling reason to use it. And while I slept in the afternoon, I had a couple of very strange dreams.

In the first one, my husband brought to my attention what he believed was a dead chicken. The chicken was small and brown, and limp when I picked it up to carry it toward the house. As I stepped inside, it made a noise. I stuck my head out the door and said, "Would a chicken go "eep, eep, eep" if it was dead?

My husband answered, "It's just a reaction." I assumed he meant a reaction of the nervous system that can occur after death, like a muscle twitching. I didn't believe him, of course.

So I put the chicken in a cardboard box. It stood up and began to walk around.

I stuck my head out the door again and said (in a tone laced with a little disgust), "Would a chicken WALK if it was dead?"

Then the dream switched to twin tornadoes. Tornadoes in dreams are a recurring event for me, and I'm never frightened of them. Just fascinated. This time, the tornadoes ran nearly parallel to each other, offset enough that I could see them both. The detail was amazing.

I was just ready to jump in the truck to go survey the damage when I woke up.

Then I remembered the chicken dream, and went to give hubby hell about it. I'm still not sure I've forgiven him.

Of Toothaches and True Love

I have an infected tooth, even though my dentist didn't exactly say so. He didn't say so even though the right side of my face feels as if it's on fire, and my upper and lower jaws ache, and my throat hurts when I swallow, and it feels like someone is shoving a fist through my head when I bite down on a french fry. Taking into consideration all of these facts, I decided to ask my dentist for an antibiotic this afternoon since he didn't offer me one. And, well, Vicodin for the pain. That he offered. And that I accepted willingly and with so much grace it would embarrass you.

Something very odd happens to me when I suffer from excruciating pain. I become really pleasant. It doesn't matter that I can't really focus my eyes on anything. Or that I can't do my job very well. What matters is that I'll be extremely pleasant while not functioning as a human being. And I think that counts for something.

Being in pain also makes me love my husband very much. Here's a photo and some words to prove it.



I took this photo of My Mater the day I took the fog photos in an earlier post. Just look at how strong and tough he looks. Don't you wish you had a man who could wrangle all that firewood with only his bare hands and a hydraulic wood splitter? Okay, maybe you do have a man like that. If you're a woman, I mean.

But maybe you don't have a man like this. Last night I was in bed, and he said, "You look so beautiful lying there." He said I was glowing. I resisted the urge to ask if I was running a fever, and instead I smiled and my soul opened up like a flower.

One Wild Oat

When I started this blog back in 2006, I gave it some random title I can't remember. After a long absence (during which I entirely forgot about its existence), I came back to begin writing again. But I wanted a different title. And as usual, like trying to name a pet, it became a huge, agonizing issue.

I wanted something unique, of course. Something mysterious. Maybe even glamorous. A title that fit me somehow, even if I couldn't even figure out how it fit.

I asked myself, who is glamorous and mysterious? and the first woman I thought of was Audrey Hepburn. I don't know why I thought of her, because I've never really been a fan of anything but portraits of her.



So I IMDb'd Audrey. And discovered that before she was famous, she was an extra in a 1951 film titled One Wild Oat. For whatever reason, I liked it. I identified with "one." I identified with "wild." And I certainly identified with Oat, being a farmer's wife and a horse lover.

As for the more common definition of "wild oat," well...

Okay, I admit it. I sowed a wild oat before I was married, and that's why my oldest son is here. But there was just the one. I mean it. And it sprouted nicely in the field of marriage and became a soldier and a gentleman, which makes it all okay I suppose.

Lassitude

I twice posted this elsewhere, in journals long ago and far away.

I.

The angels gathered me with silver wingtips. Their breath was white as winter, drifting across my collarbone then far away into my heart. It was dark, but their light illuminated me, slanting across my wounds and making shadows of them. The shadows were shaped like dark demons laughing at me ha ha ha, making light of my pain, running to and fro outside the circle of luminaries, trying to penetrate the holy, wanting to defeat it. I bowed backwards, pulling strength from my soul and from the purified breath of angels, and after one long defiant scream the demons ate my silence and were destroyed.

II.

The story was written long ago in a giant book, broken-spined and bound in kidskin. It does not end the way we think.

III.

Once there was a room full of silent gestures. The gestures could not be seen or felt or understood in any way. There was no way out.