Maternal Wind

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In honor of Mother’s Day, a favorite story involving my Ma. It was from her that i learned to take things in good humor …

For a short while, i dated a guy in the British navy. His fellow sailors called him “Taff”- some kind of geographical nicknaming convention based on a river where he grew up. He was tall and lanky and funny as hell. Even better, he thought I was funny as hell. A sweet, boyish face with a mess of dirty blonde hair that would have gotten him written up in my Navy. On my pier watch, he would come stand with me, and we would talk about a million things. When watch was over, we’d hit the break area of his vessel, his chief would issue me a beer chit, and we’d talk and sing and drink with his mates til morning.

To this day, when “The Lady in Red” plays on the radio, i remember him singing it to me one night, wax nostalgic, and wonder where life has taken him.

It was bliss, being with him. He felt (or at least made me believe he felt) that i was the most beautiful, smartest, wittiest woman in all the world. And he never hid that fact from others.  Not even his friends. Until that point, i’d never had a man show affection for me in public. Vulgarity, yes. Unseemly sexual overture, yes. But not affection. It was a wondrous thing to me, to have someone so outwardly pleased to be with me. Real magic.

Once in a while, we’d get a chance to run off. In my p.o.s. Datsun, i’d drive us to the beach in hopes of finding a secluded dune, behind which we could tumble and make trouble. Well, it could have been trouble… If we’d ever gotten caught.

It was one of those beach trips that i was thinking about today.

Taff and i had spent most of an evening rolling naked on the beach. Long enough that we had lost track of the tide. While we were running amok like a couple of playful rabbits, waves slopped our pile of clothes with seaweed and saltwater. By the time we were ready to pack up and head back to the pier, everything was soaked.

It was an hour back to the ship, but only a few minutes from home. So we wrung out what we could and then headed to my house, where i could put on some dry duds and loan him some sweats so we wouldn’t freeze in the night air. It was the wee hours, so we tried hard not to make much noise.

Leaving Taff at the kitchen table, i quietly stole up the staircase and grabbed the clothes. A few moments later, i was supplied, and we dried off and changed. At some point, we started giggling, which must have woken Ma.

The tall, narrow staircase led to a landing. While we were shushing ourselves and trying to stop the giggles, the landing light switched on. We looked up, and through the slight opening at the top, there stood the whitest, skinniest calves ever produced by God, at the bottom of which were what had to be the rattiest, shaggiest, pink slippers in all of New England. That was all you could see… My Ma’s signature stick legs and those awful, but favored, slippers.

She yelled down, “Is that you, Hol?”

“Yes,” I replied, “Just grabbing some dry clothes.”

Bbbbrrrrrppppppppppppppp!

My Ma cuts a loud, mean piece of gas that should have lifted her right off the floor. For real. It was at least a 4 on the Richter scale. The National Weather Service could have given it a name.  It was gloriously horrific. I was mortified.

“Ma!!!!!!! Taff is here!!!!!!” (His eyes are bugged out in shock.)

Silence for a couple seconds, then, as she shuts the light and heads back to bed….

“Oh, like they don’t fart in England!”

 

Lipgloss and Hollandaise

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My oldest weedling said something really cool to me today. She said, “I like you without makeup.” The context of the statement was that i was sitting in the front seat of her car, poking at a scratch on my nose in her vanity mirror. I looked at myself and realized with a start that i look younger with less makeup. (Note that i said “younger” and not “young”.)

Fast forward a couple of hours. I’m on my patio, gently full with a large artichoke and some  fruit salad, sipping a small glass of vinho verde, and wondering how much of life is just like makeup… The harder you try to change reality, the more it backfires. The more serious you take it, the less joy you get from it. The more stake you put in it, the less pans out.

For example, i could have taken that same artichoke, steamed it, baked it with sauces and accoutrements, and elevated it to some amazing gastronomic feat, but that doesn’t mean it would taste better than the way i steamed it with garlic, lemon and butter. The chunked up fresh fruit could have been mixed with sugar and dressings, but honestly, it was really good just by itself. Enjoying things for what they are, or with only the slightest alteration, seems to be the way to go for a lot of things. Tho i suppose it depends what result you are hoping for.

When i do my face in the morning, i am very rarely setting the stage or tone for my day by adorning myself with a colorful mask. Most days i am trying to remove all traces of age, bad habits, and telltale signs of hormonal imbalance. Like most women, i fool myself into thinking that spackling the cracks in my forehead will render the canvas flawless. Then i can paint black lines over my eyelids, saturate my lips with crimson, and transform myself into a Renoir or Degas.

Truthfully, the makeup settles into the cracks making them seem more like canyons, the eyeliner is never symmetrical, i overdo the red, and best case scenario, i’m a reject from Picasso’s cubist period.

Cindy Joseph, one of the first silver-haired supermodels and creator of the BOOM makeup line makes no bones about the fact that women should fight our instincts and wear less makeup as we get older. Well, yes, as i noticed this morning, that is generally true… but…

The fact of the matter is, it’s less about the makeup itself than it is about what we hope to gain from it. Packing it on to essentially make a lie, well, that’s not going to work. We all know the feeling of making up a story to cover a truth we can’t face. We evade and embellish and add and it blows up in our face. No amount of words make a lie the truth, and no amount of lipstick will make me Natalie Portman.

But sometimes we can make up a story just for fancy’s sake. Just because it’s fun to spin a yarn. If i decide to do a spectacular green-eye makeup for Earth Day… Well, that’s just plain happy. It’s not a lie – i’m not trying to convince anyone i’m a tree – so it doesn’t backfire. And maybe that’s the whole point. Sincerity of purpose makes or breaks the effort. Candor with oneself. Acceptance of oneself. Authenticity.

Some things in life take a whole lot of effort: Vocational mastery, raising children, picking a spouse. But those are supposed to take effort because the consequences of a bad result have tremendous impact. Most of life isn’t like that. Everything in life shouldn’t be that taxing. If it is, perhaps we should ask ourselves if we are being true to our purpose.  It shouldn’t take an entire bottle of catsup to make a meal taste good. And it shouldn’t take an hour of cosmetic painting to make us feel beautiful.

The effort should just be gilding the lily.

Of course, some of us are more ragweed than lily, but even ragweed has that beautiful color….

My Name Is Edmund Fitzgerald

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I took my son to the Georgia Renaissance Festival yesterday. As soon as the sky was bright we headed out with the intention of being there at opening and staying til close. We’d sleep in the city overnight and head back this morning. This was a birthday adventure for my son. (If you think that sounds like a cheesy gift, you have never counted how much money leaves your wallet at such events). In any case, it was a nice drive, not too much traffic, and Siri was content in her doggie seatbelt in the back with the open window draft against her face. In less than 3 hours, we were parked and ready to enter.

Before you ask, no, we didn’t dress up. I have nearly finished an awesome Queen Mab costume, but a) the thought of driving 3 hours in a restrictive corset sounded about as comfortable as running into an ex in the condom aisle; and b) my son didn’t want to dress up.

Shows, artisan demonstrations and wares, all manner of medieval and modern food fare, music, dancing, and a whole lotta corsets and kilts.

If i have never mentioned it, i have a weak spot for a man in a kilt. I don’t care if he has the heft of Louie Anderson, the face of Willie Nelson and the legs of a junkyard dog… If he’s wearing a kilt, i will melt. I’m not sure if it’s the vibe of the highland legends that i love so much, or the knowledge that it takes a special kind of man to wear it with confidence and a comfortable smile, but the sight renders me besotted. Never is a man more handsome than sporting his family tartan, the loose muslin shirt, blade tied to his side… Oh my…

And the corseted women… One of the often overlooked, but delightful things about a renaissance faire is that supermodels don’t look good in the costumes. The truly spectacular maidens and wenches are the ones with the mounded, pilowy breasts and the bustle-y bums. Slap some satin on her, throw a corset around her waist, and she looks like Hamlet’s wet dream. Seriously. The younger ones with head garlands of flowers. The older ones with French hoods or crowns… They are lust personified.

The food… I started off going the expected route, mead and a turkey leg. Mead… I know it has a serious cult following, but it isn’t for me. I mean, i’m glad i tried it, just to say i have, but to me it seriously tasted like something whipped up on a dare at a one-star alehouse.  The turkey leg… Now THAT was delish! I made it about 2/3 of the way through before i started thinking about what kind of farming practice produced a turkey with legs like that and had to toss the rest in the garbage. There were other kinds of meat on a stick and a variety of ales. We stuck with sarsaparilla and Cornish pasties – which, while acceptable, were nowhere near the yum-factor of my Auntie Muriel’s. There were fried pickles, kettle corn, jerky, and spiced almonds. Slightly out of place were the jalapeno poppers and ice cream shakes. But suffice it to say, we didn’t leave hungry.

There were some great shows, including washer women who were rangy and bawdy as hell and made us laugh til we cried. Jugglers, characters on stilts, and a bunch of staff who walked about in character selling everything from fresh flowers to dried meat. I’m not sure how they were told to do it… Many of the pretty young girls went around singing their inventory. The men usually rambled on about taking pity on them because the boss wouldn’t allow them to drink until they sold it all.  A few older broads, with squeakers buried in their corsets, took their barking rather literally and demanded you hand over your realm coins now or they’d pummel you. When you complied, they squeaked their tits for you sweetly and then barked at the next mark.

The jousting area was filled to capacity. It wasn’t til the third and final act near closing that we were able to get seats near the arena. The equestrianship was excellent. The sword fighting, well choreographed. (When the two princesses took swords to each other, a couple of the men behind me nearly heated themselves.) I learned something about my dog, tho. She flipping hates horses. Every time one came near the fence, she went ballistic and let loose with a rabid bark that i’ve never heard come out of her before. It got so bad, i ended up leaving the seat i claimed 30 minutes before the show just to calm her down. She was still a puppy when she was rescued, so i can’t be sure if some traumatic event precipitated this. Was she born in a neglected barn full of hateful horses? Was she belted by a horse-faced and cruel woman? I don’t know, but i can promise that i won’t be taking her to the Kentucky Derby.

Is there anything more repulsive than a Port-o-Potty? Especially at the end of a day full of use by the masses? Seriously, why isn’t there a traction bar on the door to keep you stable while you squat so you don’t have to touch the nasty thing? I am never more jealous of a man than when i have to pee at an outdoor festival. I’d have given my mortal soul to have been able to wing it behind a tent yesterday afternoon. But alas, i was stuck. It wasn’t until i had disinfected every exposed part of myself with sanitizer and rejoined my son and SiriDog that i realized i hadn’t seen him approach Prince John all day.

I asked, but was waived off.

Nearly an hour later, we are stuck in a traffic jam on the bypass. So stuck, in fact, that the temporary speed limit signs of 35mph were a cruel joke. In the midst of this, my son says, “You need to stop someplace. Like, now!” To my left is a Jersey barrier. To my front, right, and rear are enough cars to fill an Ikea, and none of them are moving. I turn to him. He looks like that kid in Rat Race when he begs his father with the line, “But, Dad, i’m prairie doggin’ it!” He isn’t kidding. He needs to go. Now. And there is no way it’s gonna happen. I gesture out the window and all around me and promise i’l do the best i can.

This was not the time for me to be nagging momma, but i had to ask why he didn’t go back at the fairgrounds. I was stunned at his response… He doesn’t use public restrooms. Ever. Not even at school.

What??? “You’re at school for nearly 8 hours every day! How can you not go to the bathroom?!?!” He explains he has trained himself not to. And that means that today he has gone nearly 12 hours. Holy crap. Literally.  I expected my weedlings to be nuts. I mean, they’re my kids, after all… But i am not familiar with this kind of nuts. And not only that, i’ve got to find him a bathroom, and i’m nowhere near an exit, and we’re not moving anyway, and Siri must sense his panic because now she’s doing the quick shuffle too.

I’ll spare the details and say that he made it. Barely. So he was already in bad humor when, later that evening, we had checked into the hotel and immediately zonked out on our respective beds…

He wakes me with a “Ma, listen to this!” He plays something on his phone. At first, i think it’s part of his Canuck love affair… “The song of the Canadian Goose” or something. I listen closer… No, that’s a tugboat, i think. Or a lighthouse. I looked up at him… And then i knew. It was me. I’d been sneezing all day, and my allergies had me snoring at such a volume and tone that i, myself, couldn’t distinguish between me and a shipping barge. Poor kid. As if he needed more shit in his day (See what i did there?)

That was the bulk of our adventure this weekend. Kilts, corsets, turkey legs, horses, Port-o-Potties, prairie dogs, and tugboats. Life is a mixed lot. But hey, i got a Milady deWinter knife for my Queen Mab costume, watched my son show off his archery form, enjoyed Siri getting petted and loved by a dozen or so pre-school knights and pages. My youngest weedling will remember this quality time. I learned a lot about him this weekend. And i learned i need to disable the “record” button on his phone. But it’s all good. Life is good. And i am so thankful.

Minstrel Memory

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Speeding down the hill on my

Aluminum steed.

Wind in my face and

Petting my legs.

I won’t brake.

The thrill!

I won’t break.

The curb. It burns

Like a flaming front step

A caustic corridor to the

Land of Make Believe.

The gate,

A mountain of a rock where i

Mine pyrite.

Fool’s Gold.

And beyond… Sherwood Forest.

Its dark in there,

Supernatural,

Unearthly.

Neblous wood

Where the Merry Men gather

And make gay with the maidens.

At once, delight and delirium.

Blackened and blanched.

Incandescent and indecent.

This is my place.

These are my people.

Magic and misogyny.

Marian and Magdalene.

Meal and mirror.

At seven years.

Bad luck.

 

 

 

 

From Atlantic to Pacific

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I admit, i am someone who pushes the boundaries of propriety on a regular basis. I can be in the midst of the most austere occasion, in full lady regalia, when some unfiltered comment will slip from my lips like a gravy fart at Thanksgiving dinner. I can’t help it. When God/Goddess/Universe made me, she replaced the usual filter with a trap door that opens and closes at random. And it doesn’t help that my brain functions like a neurological whack-a-mole, where my better judgement is always one step behind. Obviously, over the years, i have built up an immunity to embarrassment. How could i cope otherwise? Even when caught with my pants down (whether this is figurative or literal is left up to the reader’s imagination), it is instinctual for me to dive into the joke and own it. So when i tell you i was rendered speechless at her comment for a full five or ten seconds, understand that those were the longest seconds in all of Christendom.

I have mentioned before that, especially in winter, i have a tendency to dress a bit like a Manhattan banker. This, combined with my short hairstyle and direct manner, apparently gives some people a certain impression of my sexuality bent. I guess i can understand it. In spite of all we see in movies, tv, magazines, etc, we still have a picture in our minds of the type of woman who dons menswear. Basically, we are inclined to believe she longs for other women who don menswear. (If you are one who truly believes this, we need to talk about book covers. For real. )  This is partly why The Great Kate caused a fury in Hollywood in her day. No one was gonna believe she lusted after Spencer Tracy if she wore pants. Anyway, the point being that her confusion didn’t surprise me…

…  After all, i often joke about my multiple marriages, and the fact that Liam Neeson makes me swoon. I make offhand comments regarding the fact that most of the men in the cubby farm are too young for me. And a few have seen me salivate at a well-dressed man. I’m sure this seems contrary to my visual persona.

In reality, it’s not as simple as that. I’m not as simple as that.

So when she complimented my vest, and i didn’t get the hammer out in time to stop the mole, i slipped my arm around her waist and said something along the lines of, “Thank you so much! And what are you doing later?” *wink * She laughed, then pulled me aside to talk.

“I have a friend i want you to meet, ” she says in a not-quite-whisper. “But i’m not sure if you, you know…..”

“Are single?” I ask. “Yes, i am.”

“No, i mean. Ummm. Well, this friend… I mean… She’s a girl. And i know you were married before, but i thought, i mean, maybe i’m wrong. You know, the way you dress and all, i just assumed. I mean, do you? I didn’t mean anything bad. I mean, not that it’s bad. I just….”

“It’s ok,” I say, trying to alleviate her awkwardness. “I generally date men. But tell me about her.”

“Oh!” she says, sighing a breath of relief. “That makes much more sense! You’re bi-coastal!”

This is where i am rendered temporarily mute for a handful of seconds. Then…

I’m laughing. A good-natured laugh that makes her start to laugh too.

“I’ve never been called that before, but yeah, you could say i’m bi-coastal.”

Apparently, she doesn’t win at Whack-a-Mole either.

 

 

You Can Even Eat the Dishes

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I am happy today. Yup. Just happy.

I started the day doing laundry. That probably doesn’t sound happy to most people, but i actually enjoy doing laundry. In fact, i have often mused that it would be awesome if there were a washing machine for life. Something we could throw all our nasty and dirty laundry in and have it come out nice and clean and smelling like Downy. Wouldn’t that be great? We could all toss in our 20s, and voilà, no more bad decision one night stands! Toss in our 30s and tada!, no more letting your kids have snack cakes and kool-aid while watching teletubbies because you’re tired, it’s been a long week, and you just need half an hour of quiet. I could go on, but that would get too close to recent memory for comfort.

Anyway, obviously there is no such thing, or we’d all be as beloved as Mother Theresa.

I also spent a couple of hours this morning sorting thru my clothes closet. Again, doesn’t seem like a happy thing at first glance, but i promise, it can be. I found a pretty summer skirt that i forgot i had. I culled a bunch of things that needed to go (I made myself a promise last year that i would only keep things that made me happy. Including my clothes. So anything that i didn’t like enough to wear over the winter got cut out instead of going in winter storage.) I like paring down. It makes me feel free to let go of things. And free equals happy in my book.

I made a new batch of my organic body butter. Because this batch is for me, i have it scented with the blend that i customized just for myself. With the mixing and melting and blending, my kitchen now smells all warm and decadent.  And my hands are smooth and soft. My efforts get poured into one of those covered crystal candy dishes that are the mainstay of yard sales. It’s a little thing, but making my own lotions and perfumes makes me happy. A gesture of love to myself (or to others, if the batch is for them.) A gift from the heart. How can that not delight?

My oldest weedling and i went on a little jaunt after that. She brought me to her favorite thrift store. Racks and boxes and shelves of all manner of things. I went there with the intention of finding a small table to use as a meditation station / altar. I didn’t find one. But i got to do some interesting people watching. Single digit girls swooning over the prom gowns. A young couple arguing about the value of a lamp shaped like a fish. And i watched a middle aged man sort thru a pile of lace curtains, a look of scrutiny on his face, as if he were looking for the perfect panel for some special heart-felt project. A small peek into the lives of others. Much better than Jersey Shore.

In return for the entertainment, i treated my daughter to a Peruvian lunch. A small store front served us an assortment of vegetarian nibbles, capped off with our obligatory flan. The food was yummy and reminded me of the local food when i lived in Panama. The flan… She and i are both serious flan aficionados, so when i say that we were both tempted to lick the plate, you can imagine how good it was.  Close your eyes and envision heaven good. Steal it from your granny good. Liam Neeson’s in my bed good.

Well, maybe not THAT good. But good.

Home again, home again, jiggity jig. More laundry, a cup of tea, and the score from The Hobbit. Sliding doors open to the breeze. The scent of the geranium i bought last week gently wafting thru. Siridog at my side. The knowledge that i will sleep enveloped in fresh sheets tonight. And a news story about a West Point graduate and decorated war veteran who won the right to wear his religiously significant beard and turban while in uniform. As a veteran myself, it makes me proud and happy for my Sikh brother.

Life is grand.

Of course, i’m not this easily pleased every day. I try to be, but sometimes life has other plans. Those days when everything you touch falls, spills, or breaks. When you realize all the bills are due 3 days before payday. When none of your pants will zip and your hair refuses to behave. When your weedling comes home and tells you they are quitting school to become a professional mime. Those days, it’s harder to  stay sunny. So you force yourself to tap dance while singing Candy Man. Sometimes, that is enough to change your luck. Sometimes you have to find an emergency sundae – The kind with full fat ice cream and homemade hot fudge and fresh whipped cream. And some days, you give up, chase a Benadryl with a shot of Jamesons, go to bed, and hope that tomorrow is better.

But today… Today is a good day. No need for the “groovy lemon pie”. Or the sugar fix. Or the booze. I am content. I am satisfied. I am happy.

Tho, now that i think about it, a scoop or two of coconut-almond chunk does sound good…

Travelogue~ Wisconsin Edition

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The new job means some traveling for work. And tho the travel isn’t to anyplace exotic, i love the chance to explore anyplace new. Each trip brings new insights and knowledge. I relish getting to suck it all in. I had never been to Wisconsin before this, so seeing a little bit around the Madison area, or just eating my way around the Madison area, has been fun.

What i found in Wisconsin:

~ The sunrise. Like a juicy blood orange rising like a phoenix over the snow covered fields. Powerful. Bursting with fire and life. It exudes energy like nothing i’ve ever seen before.

~ Hospitality. The people are truly friendly. Like Frances McDormand in Fargo but with only a hint of the accent. Every out-of-towner is treated like a cousin you haven’t seen in ages. They make you feel like you’re coming home, even if you’ve never been here before.

~ Space. The “city” areas are rather tightly knitted together. Town squares and business areas, mostly old-timey and adorable, are compacted into as few city blocks as possible. And once you escape them…. Aaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh. The vastness of the fields and prairies, well, i started to type that they take your breath away, but in reality, they do the opposite. They give you breath. They fill your lungs fully with the scents of hay and cow and the crisp minerality of lake water. I don’t think my body has ever been so pleasantly full of Oxygen.

~ And speaking of breathing, i have had absolutely NO allergies since i’ve been here. Anyone from Chattanooga will tell you that waking without a snot-filled schnoz is unheard of. I honestly don’t remember the last time i could breathe immediately upon waking. It’s a nice feeling.

~ Cheese curds and beer. I can’t say that i am at risk of becoming addicted, but it is part of the Wisconsin mythos (Or kitsch, depending on who you ask), so i gave it a shot. I wouldn’t feel like i had truly been here if i hadn’t done so.

 

Why i am glad to be heading home to Chattanooga

~ I miss my weedlings. Of course. They are my “home”.

~ I miss my Siridog. I have gotten used to sleeping with her at the small of my back. She gives me a reason and motivation to get off my duff and walk. And she is the best anti-depressant i have ever tried.

~ I miss the culture. Chattanooga has a green, foodie, happy vibe that is a near perfect blend of city and country. It is easy to get caught up in it, which is a good thing. Its unique energy keeps me moving.

~ I miss my zip. For me, travel always includes decadent eating. While i enjoy the food experiences, after more than a couple days of it, i feel bloated and sluggish. My vanity bristles at the way my clothes start to stain at the seams. And my vigor  goes down the drain.

~ I miss my own space. As always note in my travelogues, the one good thing about the end of a trip is the reunion with your own bed, shower, relaxing spots, and rituals of home. Being away helps me appreciate them more.

 

Soon i will be back home and soaking in its comfort. If i am lucky, by the time my appreciation wears thin, it will be time for another trip. That is the goal: To keep a balance between hither and yon. Too much home, and i get complacent. Too much Wisconsin, and you might as well tape a bushel of cheese curds to my backside. So here’s hoping that i can walk the line between, and enjoy the stroll

42

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You probably guessed from last week’s post that i am a Science Fiction geek. I am rather proud of that fact. Not because i think it imbues me with false intelligence or makes me somehow even more on the fringe, but rather because i think science fiction often shows the best of humanity, even if it isn’t always via humans.

Star Trek is a good example. Unique cultures are respected and protected. Poverty and hunger are a thing of the past. The single-minded pursuit of “things” is no longer the norm. Efforts are made to accept others in brotherhood and defend them in sisterhood. Pretty damned cool, if you ask me.

Heinlein is another favorite of mine. His vision of the future, without the handicaps of social stigmas or custom barriers, is one that made me hopeful as a weedling. The first time i read Friday, i fell to tears. To discover that uniqueness could be valued, and that the feeling of not fitting in was a creation of our own mind…. How liberating! His discussions of polyamory were, if nothing else, food for thought. And the concept of alternate timelines, à la Richard Bach, was fodder for more than a few sleepless nights of contemplation.

For a while, i was an avid Jack Chalker fan. The idea of complete transformation, when you are 15 and feel like a square peg in a round hole, was something that spoke volumes to me. His books’ strange sexual bent didn’t hurt, either.

The spiritual under- and over-tones to series like Star Wars and The Matrix are not lost on sci-fi geekdom. The concept of good vs. evil and the fluidity and diaphanousness of reality… These are things we can spend days discussing, continually expanding and sharing our viewpoints.

And perhaps that is the best part of the sci-fi community. Yes, we will fight to the death over which was the best Enterprise captain, but when it comes to serious topics, in general, the geek community is forever learning and growing. Continually seeking the answer to life, the universe and everything. And willing to read any author’s, or Joss Whedon’s, latest take on what all this means. This whole “life” thing. Coffee and sunsets and doggie kisses and lilacs. War and famine and cancer and hatred. Stonehenge and Daylight Savings and Andy Warhol and Platypuses. What does it all mean?

Thru the best of science fiction, we can ponder these things. We may not get concrete answers, but we will listen to others and sort thru the information and emotional truths. It helps that often the issue is taken out of human context. After all, humans are illogical and usually not prone to accepting or doing things that would be in their best interest. Without that hominid identity, we are able to flow like cosmic water around the big questions of life. Maybe even come up with some answers. Tho, admittedly, we might change our minds after the next GRRM novel. After all, scientifically speaking, it is singularly unhelpful to close your mind to other possible theories.

There are only two things that none of us has ever been able to understand….

Why do sci-fi aliens always seem to have sex the same way humans do?  And why the hell did anyone approve the creation of Jar-Jar Binks?

 

Get Your Geek On, Boy!

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I long ago stopped buying big traditional gifts for my weedlings. In general, i like to give experiences instead. So this weekend, my son and i are away together at a big comicon. And we’re having a blast!

It was a five hour drive here, about half of it through beautiful mountain towns that we couldn’t see because it was terribly late (But i look forward to seeing them on the ride home!) We drove along listening to comedian Jim Gaffigan and laughing out loud, until the booger fell asleep and i found myself struggling to stay awake. But when i looked sidelong at him, seat laid back, mouth open like a fly trap, hair in his eyes, gently snoring away… I was glad we were making the trip.

We were up bright and early this morning and headed into the city. We lucked out and found convenient and reasonably priced parking – a sure sign of a good day ahead. We gingerly make our way into the acid-dream melee that only a comicon can bring.

Spiderman, Storm Troopers, Xena and Kiki. Maleficient, Pikachu and every single Dr Who. In the main hall, while waiting to enter, Jesus is taking selfies with a Dalek and HarleyQuinn. A nine-foot wookie is holding the hand of a toddler Donatello. A goblin just autographed a book he wrote, and i got to shake Fonzie’s hand. There was an entire family dressed as Borg. And down in the basement is speed-dating for geeks of all persuasions. Only at a comicon.

Watching all the cosplayers, i have decided that next time, if i am not with my son, i WILL dress up. I am destined to play Queen Mab at some large comicon. Skimpy war-fairy dress over platinum corseted ducks, soft silver lace-up thigh boots, stunning metallic wings, some funky pastel contact lenses… I didn’t see any cosplayers that were over college age, so i look at it as a necessary public service. I don’t want the weedlings to think they have to outgrow their outrageousness! But i won’t do it now. My son would be horrified. And i should probably go to the gym first.

We were exhausted by late lunch time, so we headed out to the square looking for good food. Again, we were in luck’s good graces: We happened upon three cops who were on crowd control duty. They directed us to a fantastic hole-in-the-wall pizza joint, where we had a yummy New York style pie (Unexpected in Lexington, KY). Then we found a killer ice cream parlour. We got some scoops and sold the tourist benefits of Chattanooga to the proprietors. Then we did a quick check of our phones.

My oldest is minding SiriDog this weekend. She sent me a video of them out on a walk. As i am watching it and smiling, i say out loud, “Hey, i think she is wearing my bedroom slippers!” Nolan looks up with a quizzical face and asks, “Siri?” “Yes, Goober, the chihuahua is wearing my size 8 slippers.” The proprietors start giggling. Poor kid. I swear, he was so tired that it actually took him a few seconds to realize i was referring to his sister.

We walk around town a bit more, and then head to the car. On the way back to the hotel, we make a pit stop at a public park that the parking attendant recommended. It’s a beautiful day. Sunny, clear-skied, and breezywarm. There are a couple young men fishing, and a few older folk watching out open windows from their cars. We get out and sit on the bank of the lake. I lay back, close my eyes, and enjoy the sun. My main man eats the last of his leftover pizza and then discovers that he is covered in gnats. He screeches like a caricature of a prissy girl and runs back to the car. I don’t bother to tell him i locked the doors. Instead, i watch him do the icky-dance while he waits for me to return. I know it’s wrong, but watching my son do the icky-dance makes me laugh.

Next stop is a local coffee shop near the hotel. I desperately need a proper cup of tea, but accept a London Fog. He gets a frozen mocha concoction. For some reason, we started speaking as Irishmen in the car on the way, and we continue it in the shop. I’m hoping we don’t run  into any true Paddy’s, since i’m sure we only sound authentic to untrained American ears. But it was so much fun. And to be truthful, once you get going, it’s hard to stop. We were in that cafe for over an hour, using aliases and brogues the entire time, and it lingered on for long past. If anyone knew we were faking, they let it slide. And we felt like we were starring in a BBC documentary on horse country, USA. Or a silly prank video on Facebook.

It’s still early here. Barely dinnertime. But we are wiped out and even contemplating skipping supper for early bed. After all, tomorrow is another day of  Wonder Women and Indiana Joneses. Wizards and Zombies. WWF and TMNT. I will get to meet my favorite Star Trek character, buy a Hogwarts school ID,  maybe even get some tips on being a sexy, if older, cosplayer! But best of all, i will get to watch my son smile and laugh and enjoy himself among the other imaginative peoples of the comicon community. The one place in the world where being weird is the norm, and everyone is welcome. So grab a cape and a sidekick and join the party!

*** P.S., If you would, please check out my goblin friend. His blog is hysterical and well worth a visit. I promise!  The Goblin Guy

 

 

 

And starring *???* As The Mad Hatter!

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Man, people are angry! Presidential elections always bring out passion in people, but this is getting ridiculous. Otherwise reasonable people hurling insults at their friends because they have voiced a dissenting opinion. And the people who aren’t generally reasonable, well, they have totally gone ’round the pipe. Watching a group of people have a beer on a pub patio yesterday, i was surprised to find myself thinking if this is what gatherings were like at the onset of the Civil War.

The debates? I admit, i only watched one in its entirety. The rest i picked up from clips. They make me feel like a lunch room monitor at middle school. The insults, the finger pointing and name calling, the personal digs… Are they presidential candidates or contenders for the Beer Pong Cup? You know it’s a messed up election year when the Democrats seem more austere and focused than the Republicans. And they have certainly been more respectful of each other. Not that they are perfect. Far from it. Rhetoric is rhetoric, even if it comes dressed for dinner.

The third party candidates could really ascend the staircase this year if they televised a debate and acted like educated adults.

It is not my place to advocate for any particular candidate. I’m a firm believer that in any election, one should do their research and vote for who represents them best, regardless of whether i agree. I respect and support your right to vote your conscience. Your view doesn’t have to be the same as mine. After all, i’m not Mother Theresa or the Dalai Lama. Hell, i’m not even Donny Osmond. I’m probably more of the Danny Bonaduce type. And lord knows, we don’t want him deciding the election. We are a collective and diverse people. Our votes should reflect that. And, as that same collective, we will live with the results.

All these people who say they will move to Canada if so-and-so gets elected? You know they won’t. For all our flaws, we are an awesome nation. Jacked-up, controversial, contradictory, and flat out illogical sometimes… But still awesome in our own dysfunction. We are like a massive adaptation of the Mad Hatter’s tea party. And the position of the Mad Hatter himself is up for re-election every four years. The actors change, but the party goes on. Ain’t it grand?

Ok, not perfect. As a nation, we have a lot of work to do and problems to solve. But i’d still rather do it here than anywhere else. We have discrimination and poverty and addiction and disparity and climate change and a million other bad things, just like every place else. But we also have opportunity and variety and expanse and beauty and freedom. And, singularly, we have Broadway and New Orleans Jazz and Eleanor Roosevelt and Glacier National Park  and Toll House cookies and oh-so-many other things. Not perfect. But definitely grand.

In any case, as the momentum to the election builds, i beg of you to be kind to each other. Don’t throw things at your neighbor because he likes Trump. Don’t belittle your coworker because she likes Bernie. Dig deep into your memory and think of a time when you thought you had the right answer, went with it, and discovered you were wrong. You have one. I know you do. And you might have one again, this election. Or they might. And won’t it suck if you are no longer friends and can’t have a beer and say, “I told you so.”

In the end, it’s just politics. Regardless of who gets elected, our day to day will change very little. We will get up, suck down some coffee, go to work, come home, walk the dog, make supper, play with the weedlings, take out the trash, watch some tv, get lucky (if we’re lucky), then go to bed…. And wake up the next day to do it all again. On the weekends, hopefully, we’ll be grilling some burgers in the back yard with those same people who didn’t like our presidential candidate. So be nice. And allow for the possibility that other opinions aren’t stupid. In return, maybe they won’t laugh in your face when you lose.

I promise, i won’t.