We just got back from our holiday sojourn to North Carolina and Florida, so I’ve been busy the last couple days just trying to get the domestic space in order and whatnot. Anyway, today was a fine, relatively warm day, so I decided to take Brandine to the dog park to work off the winter jelly roll she’s been putting on lately.
When we got there, we saw the dog trainer that put Brandine through her paces in puppy class. I asked him how his holidays were, and he said, “Interesting.” Then he asked if I knew K, a well-known dog walker in the neighborhood. Of course I knew her, since we boarded Brandine with her for Kitty’s wedding in July.
He said that he and another dog walker found her dead, sitting on her living room floor, with 3 dogs milling around her. I won’t go into any more detail because it seems disrespectful. I will say that I’m feeling pretty strange right now. K was a nice, if crusty woman. Like a lady pirate. I’m sad that she was alone and it took several days to discover her. I imagine it’s a common occurrence in city apartments, but it just seems so bleak.
Anyway, here’s a moment for you, K. Thanks for taking care of Brandine, delivering her safely back to us, smelling like weed and incense.
Yesterday I sifted through some boxes in order to make more space in our woefully undercloseted apartment. I found a book of Mad Libs from our college days and thought I’d spread some Christmas cheer by transcribing one herein:
From Goofy Mad Libs, Copyright 1988 by Price Stern Sloan, inc.
IRELAND
Ireland is a beautiful, green island lying directly west of (a place) my vagina.
In 250 B. C., Ireland was inhabited by short, dark (plural noun) baked gonads who were later called “Picts.”
They intermarried with (adjective) scrumdilly-umptious and sequined Vikings and with Celts who were (plural noun) mealy-mouthed virgins from Northern Europe.
In 1846, a blight ruined the (noun) succulent rotten dog crop in Ireland and over a million Irishmen migrated to the United States.
Many of their descendants have become very important American (plural noun) sarcastic possum placentas.
The Irish are noted for their poetry and songs. Some of these Irish songs are: “When Irish (plural noun) Sad Cro-Magnon Pandas are Smiling,” “Did Your (noun) Hopelessly Transvestite Ska Band Come from Ireland?” and “McNamara’s (noun) armpits of Ricky Schroeder that glow in the dark.”
Thousands of American tourists go to Ireland every year to visit its capital, (a place) Sherman Helmsley’s Bidet, and buy Irish linen (plural noun) naked, disgruntled street mimes and see the beautiful (plural noun) pulsating acne scabs and lakes.
————————————————————-
Memories.
And here’s an interview with Leonard Stern, a co-creator of Mad Libs from Just My Show, in which he reveals that they were intended to be a party game for grown ups and took up a lot of space in Stern’s apartment.
The one good thing about insomnia (apart from the legitimate medical need for Ambien) is the late night movie. Tonight I was physically tired but couldn’t sleep. I decided to watch whatever was on, which allows me to go into movies without any prepwork or biases. I just finished watching Bernardo Bertolucci’s “La Luna” and feel … aesthetically full? If you set aside the melodrama, aerobicizing, convenient twists, heroin-as-metaphorical-plot-device, and an infamous maternal handjob scene, what you have is a truly gorgeous film to watch. It’s beautiful like “Days of Heaven” is beautiful, with exquisite moody tableaux. And I loved the performances, especially the one by a very young, precocious Matthew Barry.
You know the old saw about the 1970s as a “turning point” in moviemaking – the dominant narrative is that mavericks like Scorsese, Lumet, Coppola, etc. turned filmmaking around with their unvarnished, realist styles. It seems like those flashy fellows have taken the spotlight away from the other wonderful films of the decade that went for quiet instead of loudness. “La Luna” (1979) is one of them, as is “Days of Heaven” (1978) and “A Little Romance” (1979).
Anyway. Good flick. The story arc is a little sloppy and the dialogue sometimes far-fetched, but it’s still so lovely to look at, and rather poignant. And a wonderful surprise at 4 in the morning. Unfortunately, it’s 5 and I still can’t sleep.
Oh Buns. Family quarantine is seriously snot funny. But the fanciful concept of a full-time mucus factory kind of is funny. I’m really happy for your bro. I remember when I first met him – he came to the dorms and gave you a bottle of Goldschlager for your 18th birthday. Just the type of thing older brothers should do!
My November was nasally unclogged and uneventful. Only two things of note happened:
1. Monty and I hosted Thanksgiving. Allegra and her boyfriend Ike stayed with us for a few days and our friends Andre and Stefi (from this post) spent the afternoon and evening with us. We gorged ourselves on wine, turkey, spiced nuts, cheese, starches, and two fantastic pies that Allegra brought down from this bakery in Manhattan. We also spent five days straight drinking whiskey and playing Guitar Hero, which Ike thoughtfully brought with him. It was beautiful down here too, since the leaves were still on the trees and decked out in reds and yellows. So that was the sweet, fun, nearly-Norman Rockwell thing that happened last month.
2. Also, one bizarro thing happened. One night, Monty and I met a couple friends at our favorite dive-y (meaning beers are less than $4) bar in Arlington. I’m still not sure how Jay can afford to sell beers for so little; maybe he owns the building? Anyway, it was really smoky and crowded and there was only one table available. It was a table for 8, at which only one man and one woman were sitting. So Monty asked the man, “Are those seats taken?” The man, who was about 50, s-l-o-w-l-y turned his head, looked cockeyed at Monty, and said all slurrily, “YOU can have whatEVER you WANT.” We kind of knew that the table was deserted for a reason, but since we are oldsters out of our twenties, the idea of standing around on our tender arches was a worse option.
Except for Monty, who got the “privilege” of sitting right next to the couple, we all sat directly across the table from them. Our group tried to make small talk, but it was very difficult since we were really just watching those two. Our conversation was basically just a string of non sequiturs: someone would say something, someone else would give a blank look for a second, then reply with “Ooookay, but how about this….” and say something completely unrelated.
We were just pretending to talk to each other because that wasted couple was impossible not to notice. They hardly moved, their mouths were slack and bubbly with saliva, and they didn’t talk to each other – just stared into the middle distance. After a few minutes, the waitress set two cheeseburgers in front of them. They slowly raised their heads at her, then slowly reached for the burgers, and then (again, slowly) smashed the food into their mouths and dragged their fingertips down their chins. I swear it was like the sloth exhibit at the zoo. And like zoo animals, they took no notice of us watching them.
Finally, they finished their revolting meal and decided to leave, which was a lengthy process of its own and took another 15 minutes. The check was right in front of them but they didn’t see it. The woman looked straight at me all intensely and strung a sentence together:
“Is ……. there ……. something …………………………………………. there?”
Assuming she meant the bill, I pointed and said, “Is that what you mean?” She elbowed her husband, who opened up the folder, picked up the change in both hands and goggled it. They jointly decided that “money,” “change,” and “tipping” were too complex to fathom so they just left their change strewn over the table with a couple lit cigarettes, crumpled ketchuppy napkins, and a full bottle of Rolling Rock. Then they shambled out. All of us were pretty nauseated. I haven’t seen anyone that disgustingly far gone since college, when Glossy Eric aimed little pearls of Wonder Bread into Crack Chris’s open mouth while Crack Chris slept in a puddle of vomit. Only this time, the general consensus was heroin, not crack. The only thing I could make of it was that it was a cautionary lesson about getting your shit together before you turn 50. Also, if you end up serving a very very wasted couple, you might get a $38 tip on a $12 tab.
Yolanda and I go to Florida for my brother’s wedding.
Brother and new wife announce that they are expecting a baby this summer (No shit, Chet, no shit!)
Yolanda gets sick and coughs for the remainder of our vacation. Green snot oozes from her nose.
I get sick. My parents get sick. My new sister-in-law gets sick.
Come home to Jimbo who has eaten fast food the entire time we’ve been away.
Yolanda and I recover from our colds.
Yolanda walks!
Yolanda promptly gets another cold. More coughing and more snot.
Yolanda is having separation anxiety issues and doesn’t want daddy. Doesn’t want to be physically not touching me at any time during the day or night.
Jimbo woos Yolanda back by taking her to eat fast food and shop at Target.
Jimbo and I both get sick. Tissues are flying. Everybody is crabby.
We rally for Thanksgiving and have a great meal, just the three of us. I pretend I’m not a vegetarian and eat turkey, lots of turkey.
So pretty much, Yo has been sick for an entire month. She coughs at night, she sneezes columns of snot during the day. Poor baby! We’ve got the humidifier going in her room and both Jimbo and I have become pros at using the nasal aspirator– this thing. What’s funny is that unlike most babies I’ve known, Yolanda kinda likes having her snot suctioned. She doesn’t fight us and she gets really still when we put the aspirator in her nose. She does shudder sometimes when we get a big glob of mucus. I always make the same joke to her, “What’s the matter Punky… did I suck out a little piece of your brain?” Har har.
So there you have it, Pen. We’re sick. We’re tired. Wearing sweat pants. Swearing wet pants.
I try to do the right things, but they usually don’t stick unless I do them for frivolous reasons. For example, I quit smoking to prevent wrinkles, not cancer. I drank more water and started taking multivitamins for my hair and skin. I need my sense of vanity to prod me, because I know I wouldn’t do something good for me just for its own sake.
Lately I’ve started “green” cleaning. Basically, I’ve been cleaning the apartment like the old timers did before the Dow Scrubbing Bubbles cast their mustachioed spell over us all. And I could tell you that this newfound attachment to vinegar, baking soda, and lemon juice comes from an altruistic, environmental impulse to please Al Gore and protect Mother Earth. I could tell you that, but I’d be a filthy-foul liar if I did. Really, what’s in it for me? I switched to natural cleaning because it smells good.
Monty and I once stayed at a bed and breakfast that allowed pets and still smelled great. It smelled like lemon, lavender, and clean sheets. It smelled better than every other inn or hotel I’ve stayed in. When I found out that the proprietors basically used science fair volcano ingredients to clean the whole place, I was impressed.
Now add to this my general neurosis about living in a place that reeks of “beef vegetable soup whiff,” as Wayne Campbell (left) would have said in 1991.
This anxiety prompts me to ask Allegra to smell the apartment whenever she visits. I got it from my super clean mother, whose sense of smell rivals most dogs.
I guess it was inevitable that I’d spend a Saturday night whipping up various cleansers and rubbing all the woodwork with salad dressing. Now it smells lemony fresh in here. So up yours, Mr. Clean! I can do this without you!
And if somehow this might help prevent flipper babies, well that’s a bonus.
Monty and I were out and about the other night. We ended up at the same bar as Barnaby Flapster and some other folks. Towards the end of the night, I had a conversation with another acquaintance about plans for the weekend. He said that he was going home (that is, his childhood home) and that he would probably see a woman he went on one date with as a teenager. He said that his parents drove, so there wasn’t a lot of one-on-one time with her.
I said, “So you didn’t cop a feel?”
Barnaby, who wasn’t really in the conversation but sitting off to the side, muttered, “You always say the right thing, don’t you?”
My mind went in two directions here. On one hand, I wanted to turn to Barnaby and say, with icy, haughty indignation, “you take your doilies and go to bed, old man!”
On the other hand, I wanted to do a victory dance. Maybe the Ray Lewis dance, maybe the Ickey Shuffle. But since I couldn’t find a good enough video demonstration of either, it will have to be the Superbowl Shuffle.
Now I’m as smooth as a chocolate swirl; I dance a little funky so watch me girl…
On the third Tuesday of each month, Monty and I do a “bridge night” with two other couples: Stefi and Andre, and JK and Fun D. When the idea of a monthly game night was proposed, I have to admit I was a little skeptical. The thing is, it always seems like a good idea until you actually play games with other adults.
I went to one slumber party (yes, as a grownup) where charades turned into a hair-pulling cage match. Bunny and I played Trivial Pursuit with a fellow who spent at least 3 minutes agonizing over every question – we actually saw little bits of his self-esteem slough away each time he couldn’t guess the weight of an Oscar statuette or what “radar” stood for.
Then there are the standard issue terrible game players: the shrill ultra competitor who forgets that she’s at a social event in her bid for dominance; the short attention span guy who never remembers whose turn it is or even that he’s playing a game; the bitter misanthrope who thinks that the whole premise is stupid and sulks in a corner; the hippie space cadet who wants everyone to win.
Imagine my relief (surprise, delight) when everyone involved in game night left their neuroses out of game play and just enjoyed themselves. I thought, well with six people, surely someone will take the games too seriously or something. But that hasn’t happened. Even with all the booze we drink. Especially with all the booze we drink. I mean, we’ve had a few “baby fish mouth” moments:
but it’s never ended with controversial decisions or bad blood – just a feeling of goodwill and tipsiness. Anyway, thanks to Monty, Stefi, Andre, JK and Fun D for renewing my faith in the parlor game. ‘Til next month!
What a sweet post about your fall baby and your calendar daydreams, Buns. My favorite part about autumn is that the mosquitoes die off.
Monty and I just got back from a trip to Asheville. It felt like summer when we left and fall when we returned. We took Brandine with us and met up with Ned and Monty’s mom in Raleigh, then drove to our hotel in Black Mountain. Ned, now in his senior year of college, has matured and mellowed, and Monty’s mom definitely enjoys the company of her adult kids. We tasted wine at a Nascar vineyard, played tennis before a lovely mountain panorama, and drank a lot of beer.
On Saturday, we were scheduled to take a day trip to the Biltmore estate. While we were getting ready, I tried to read the newspaper and then went “Mother Fuck.” I had gone blind. Well, not entirely blind – I could see fairly clearly in my peripheral vision but most of my range of vision was blurred out and I knew that I was going to get a migraine in an hour or so.
I experienced frequent migraines in high school. They all followed the same pattern: I would see stars, then go temporarily blind, and then feel like lots of tiny people were mercilessly stabbing my brain. For hours, without any let-up in severity. This would lead to nausea, vomiting, crying and my mother dabbing my forehead with a warm washcloth. So needless to say, I felt some dread when the blindness happened, and not , as you might assume, because I had suddenly gone blind.
Monty-on-the-spot procured some OTC migraine medication and I attempted to go to lunch with the family, but ended up leaving in tears and apologizing for melting down in public. I spent most of the day in our darkened hotel room, trying not to yell at Brandine for drinking water so loudly.
So in any other circumstance, I would call the day a total wash; however, when the migraine passed, Monty and co. had not yet returned from their trip and I got to watch a little Curb Your Enthusiasm on standard-issue hotel HBO. In this episode, John McEnroe was the guest star. While the expected final confrontation between McEnroe and Larry David was enjoyable and all, the best part was a party scene that had nothing to do with McEnroe — Larry and his best friend Jeff cracked up over a book of freaks that Larry gave Ted Danson as a birthday present. After Danson thanked him rather coolly, Larry immediately took the book back to show Jeff all the photos of elephantitis and goiter.
It was eerily like watching D. and Jimbo at one of the many vegetarian potlucks we went to in college. Surrounded by earnest people with half-contemptuous, half-jealous looks on their faces, they just made an obnoxious fucking scene. It was gorgeous.
Growing up in Florida, I missed out on this whole “autumn” thing. I saw pictures in books and stuff on television about leaves changing colors and falling off trees, hot apple cider, pumpkins, brisk winds, cornucopias and the like. I used to daydream about living “up north” and wearing scarves, mittens and cute little hats. I remember this calendar that hung on the wall of my second grade classroom. The October page showed a girl in a tweedy coat, holding a black cat, standing next to a pile of colorful leaves. In my daydreams, I was that tweedy-coated girl. Those were my leaves and my cat. The cat’s name was Sparkles. Some girls dreamed about horses; I dreamed about fall and Sparkles the cat. Which is funny, really, because I’ve never been much of a cat person.
S’wanyway, here I am, decidedly up north, and it’s fall. The autumn landscape is totally decent here in the Dakotas and I love it as much as I always knew I would. I’ve experienced the fall season in other places since leaving south Florida, but there is something about fall on the prairie, with all this farmland surrounding us, that makes it seem like the real thing.
And Yolanda is a fall baby! Her birthday was last weekend and to celebrate, the grandparents came to town. We had a little party with food and cake and presents. And on Sunday we made a trip out to the local Pumpkin Patch, easilty the highlight of the weekend. They had pumpkins, a corn maze, halloween “exhibits”, hot chocolate… the whole nine yards. A little cheesy? Yes. But you can’t deny the cuteness factor.
Here is Yolanda in a red wagon playing with two widdle baby punkins:
This is what classroom calendars are made of, Penelope! I feel so complete. Somebody get me a cat named Sparkles.
