D Day

Today marks the 64th anniversary of the Normandy landing. I don't have too much to say about it or WW II or anything - I just saw this picture and thought, "Poor, sweet boys."

Look how young they are...

Worthy of Samuel L.

You know that scene in Pulp Fiction where Samuel L. Jackson's character kind of ruins Brad's life? I'm feeling that way lately, a bit. I want to point a (water) gun at my Portfolio Manager colleagues' heads and scream, "Say subprime again, MotherFUCKER!!"

It's the crap economy getting to me. I'm in the front seat of the roller coaster working here.

Glósóli

The following video pretty much sums up all that I believe in and all that I care about. I wish I could tell you what I mean by that, but man, is it true. Sorry for the woo-woo...I'm going through an angsty, begging-the-Universe-to-Show-Me few days.



Thanks to Sigur Ros for blowing my mind and truly blessing the world. Thanks to Ben for hipping me to this video and for fixing things in such a way that I weep every time I watch it.

Cerise

Our Version of a Sweet Moment

So, it was a housework-y night Monday night. I came straight home in a hailstorm that felt like Seattle wasn't really trying (I was right. The hail had stopped by the time I had locked the door behind me, peed*, divested myself of outer garment and wet umbrella, hugged Ramon hello and stepped to the window to look out) and straight away went to sort the laundry. Monday's a big night for laundry, somehow, in this apartment building, and it's a race to the downstairs room with great acoustics and 8 machines. I also made dinner, a real one, and did some dishes, which were still legion from Friday night's dinner party. We are a relaxed sort of people.

Anyway, I spent most of my evening in the kitchen pottering around. And it was good - wine makes pottering both challenging and a complete delight. Ramon was camped out in front of the Mac making sweet Gmail love to Harley and fiddling with mixes on Pandora. His first station was seeded by Steve Reich and I was subjected to a great deal of Phillip Glass as a result. Which was OK, since I amused myself at the sink by having a daydream about him. Glass, I mean: I'm in a stuffy concert hall during one of his works, and when one of his crashing, pulsing symphonic climaxes comes on, standing up with my friends and screaming like it's crazy-ass-guitar-solo time at a Queen concert. And an unfortunate old codger, when he asks an usher to quieten us, gets told in respectful tones that it's the composer's wish that rock-concert-type cheering during his symphonies is to be considered part of the composition and sanctioned at all costs. If he hasn't thought of that already, by the way, don't you think he should? He's build-to-a-climax boy. There should be cheering.

So Ramon got tired of the Reich/Glass-fest and seeded a new station with Curtis Mayfield, with whom I'm sadly unfamiliar. All of a sudden our home and extremely mellow brains were filled with the strains of psychedelic-funk-soul what-have-you (I'll write a blog sometime about how athletically I suck at classifying music. Ramon can co-write it and spend 3 paragraphs on how I still can't tell the diff between rap and hip-hop, however much I listen to both. It'll be GREAT.) and I can't remember when I've felt better.

Then Cruisin' by Smokey Robinson came on. Let me just say that this will NEVER be our song. Immediate disqualification due to the song's involvement with the movie Duets. Just like I'd never karaoke Bette Davis Eyes. Watching Gwyneth sway and clap her hands above her head and then, AND THEN, watching some blonde do THE SAME RENDITION at the Red Lion Inn Karaoke Night (back when we lived in Eugene, OR) several weeks later was quite enough for me, thank you. Still and all - Cruisin' is a romantic and very cool-sounding song. So I wiped dishwater off my hands, strode into the living room and announced that we HAD to dance to the song - there was some kind of law and the whole thing was out of my hands. I had even waited until the second chorus, because I knew by then that Ramon had had one verse and chorus to really get to FEELING it, you know? And he consented. Tore himself away from Harley's loving embrace and enfolded me instead.

Our slow-dancing history got off to a not-great start, by the way. Our first slow dance was at our wedding reception. I had, in a fit of complete assery, chosen "Night and Day" by Bette Midler. Ramon had never heard it, it meant nothing to either of us, but I HAD to choose a 'first song' and it was about how dissimilar the lovers are, so I thought it would be great. Well, I actually don't know what I was thinking. Oh, heaven and earth. Turn back time for me, for I never tried dancing to the effing song before putting it on the mix CD. It is impossible. Let me break it down for you: I collared Ramon and dragged him to the dance floor (which was and remained nearly deserted for the duration of the reception), all but put his hands on my body (he is a reluctant dancer) and began steering him around the floor. If you ever hear that song - and it's not setting foot on my blog, so just you put that from your mind - you'll understand our struggle. It's got a completely un-danceable beat. Too slow even for slow-dancing. We tried double-time. Too fast and jouncy. We tried dancing to the actual beat. Too slow. TOO SLOW! I was leading (out of huffy necessity, so I thought, since my new husband was not putting out much of an effort), he was also trying to lead, but we'd been raised to believe that dancing was a sin, so the whole thing devolved into us completely out of sync and guiltily trotting around the floor grieving The Lord and wishing fervently that we hadn't banned alcohol at our wedding. Yes, ours was a dry wedding. An ill-omened marriage if I ever saw one. But our family thinks even less of drinking than dancing, so...fortunately, when one serves no alcohol at the reception (not that many of the guests would have imbibed) it only lasts maybe 1 1/2 hours. Then you can get to the important part: for us, scooting to Burger King, settling into our hotel room by the airport, sipping the sparkling apple cider (our wedding night was also free of any inhibition-reducing substances. But then, we were young) Mom provided for us in a lovely basket, and trying to make a whirlpool in our little private swimming pool by racing around the perimeter. Naked, mais oui.

Needless to say. We have always sucked at dancing, and doing it slowly and together especially. However, over the years Ramon has relaxed a bit (mostly due to many more parties and the presence of drinks and people who drink at them) and found his goofy side on the dance floor. Which has increased his confidence and sense of style. He no longer resembles Eugene Levy's character in American Pie when dancing. I have also relaxed, which generally looks like letting Ramon do his thing without any sort of assistance and never making him witness me doing anything TOO embarrassing. And in this and many ways, I've learned to trust him.

So when we came together, leaning, as we have so many times before, on each other both for love's sake and for increased balance (did I mention that we were mellow?), I finally figured out what it meant to follow him. He drifted around our little space, turning this way and that, holding me like the girl I was, and I loosened way the hell up and...followed. If I tried to anticipate where he'd go I'd screw up. If I tried to stick to doing the two-step in place and in rhythm, likewise. But when I leaned more surely on him and turned my brain off and shut my mouth and let myself drift with him, following was effortless. Not perfect. But so fucking good.

A life lesson? Nah. We suck at those too.

* In that order. I pee first when I arrive from anywhere, no matter the condition of my personal hydration levels or how soon ago I went #1. I get home and pee, or there's big trouble of the pulling-an-inner-thigh-muscle-and/or-wetting-myself variety.

On Fi-yah

Do you ever do that thing where you're eating something requiring hot sauce (read: nearly everything) and you're dribbling a bit on with every bite? Yeah? With me? Then, THEN, you dribble WAY TOO MUCH on the next bite? And you look at it in horror - you can't throw that bit away because this is The Best Chicken Taco Salad Wrap You've Ever Eaten. So you take a deep breath, whisper, "God, but this is gonna hurt so good" and just shove that mofo in and chew for your life. And, deep inside your twisted little mind, brothers and sisters, you wonder to yourself if this is what people who have never achieved orgasm do to get through their day.

You HAVE? OMG, that just happened to me!! We're, like, connected.

Disclaimer: OK, I was only using Cholula, yes. It's not THAT hot. But I have done this exact thing with WAY hotter sauces, so yes, I am nearly as badass as I wish I sounded just now.

Mama Cerise

Here's your slightly squicky moment of the day. I heard this song by Annie Lennox, Mama, from The Avengers soundtrack. What, you may ask, was I doing listening to such a totally random album such as this? Blame Pandora, my dears.

I think this song is becoming my own song. You know those nerdy people who have 'a song'? Or, even worse, couples that have 'their song'? Well, Ramon and I can't claim the latter yet, thank god, but I think Mama's going to be my song for a while. The good? It speaks to a lot of things I think are true of me, and what I wish to be to my friends. The squicky? There's a lot in it, most of it, actually, that deals with how sexual and abundant the subject is, and how much the singer longs to lose themselves in her. So. Uh...I guess that's something that I want people to feel with me - that I'm sexual, very, abundant (there's not a diet in the world, my dears...) and joyful. Different. Unafraid, or at least unafraid enough to not cower away from being wholly and truly me.

This is more personal than I generally care to get, and I am sorry if this is seriously gross for you, but here's the song:

Mama - Annie Lennox

I was watching the woman that was walking down my street
Walking with grace, so beautifully, carefully
She's a big and pretty mother, big and pretty mother
Swinging her hand-bag back and forth so joyfully
She's drawing circles with her breasts in her jumper

Give me a big mother
Huge and loving one
I can crawl upon
And cling to

She's a large woman...
Warm and cuddly...
Wet lady...
Strong mother...

She's walking down the street in front of my window
Whistling funky tunes in the ears of my neighbours

Give me a big mother
One that will always want me
Hot, embracing mother
I can crawl upon
And cling to

Can't be safer, can't be more secure
Than with a breast in each palm
Than with a breast in each palm
That is the way that I was born
And that is the way that I want to die

Give me a big mother
Yes, a soft and wet one
That would caress me
In all those special places
Where's a strong mother
One that squeezes me
One that I can crawl upon

Yeah, so...a very weird image to paste onto a friend's familiar aura. But there it is. I've read somewhere that women spend their 20s getting taken care of, and in their 30s begin wishing to care for others. I was very pessimistic about my ability to ever get over myself enough to ever care for anyone besides my Ramon and my family (and that painfully imperfectly), but I'm watching myself get all Mama Bear lately, especially at parties where everyone's that combination of mellow and slightly crazed, where emotions are high and good-natured interventions are sometimes called for. I seem to find myself intervening. And I'm glad - obviously I'm still a good Gemini/performer personality: very ME oriented. I mean I'm never going to actually get OVER myself, but I'm so happy to have found friends that I'd put myself on the line for. And I hope that they feel magnificently loved. Even if it's loved by a slightly crazy, sexual, twisted, large-ish lady who never means to, but sometimes does, embarrass herself and/or anyone in her general vicinity.

It's nothing but love, darlings, and I feel it for you.

Cerise

P.S. I don't, nor have I ever, thought that people with 'songs' are nerds. Or, at least, they are, but I do too and I've always been a proud dork, so...get offended, 'song' people, or not, but I'm with you 100%.

P.P.S. I am not unaware of the bitter irony, while we're on the subject of me becoming more of a mother the older I get, that although I sometimes embrace a Mama Bear role and love and yearn to be around many children as well, I have never wanted to bear children of my own.

P.P.P.S. If you think you'll ever catch me in a jumper (the American or UK version), think again.

Hate the Day for Lovers, Love the Lover

God, I hate V-Day. I just...the Love Industry seems to make single people feel like shit for having 'failed' so far in finding their partner for life (and I as their happily married friend feel bad that they're made to feel that way) and not-single people scurry around trying to "do something" for their loves whilst dealing with cloudy skies and post-Holidays exhaustion. And wondering if the "something" they've done is enough. If the money they've spent on flowers and whatnot is proof enough of their regard. I mean, serious potential spousal fray right there, right? What if the guy thinks he's being wonderful and buys carnations or something and the lady wigs because they're not roses?

[Aside: think it's time to be over the holidays? I don't disagree, but people around here still seem to still be recovering financially and psychologically from the whole thing, Yours Truly included. And I didn't even trouble myself to bake or send out cards.]

Anyway. The frantic marketing behind this day for lovers grates on my nerves like the industry behind Hallowe'en, Christmas and Easter combined can't, for some reason. I think that the biggest difference for me is that for the three big holidays, we're buying things for different reasons. Let's break it down:

[Disclaimer: I know there's Ramadan and Hanukkah and Kwanzaa and such and herald the day when they get as much or more attention, but I'm focusing on what are, for now, the three biggies in the Great American Holiday Marketing Machine. In my mind.]

Hallowe'en

Things bought: costumes, liquor, decorations
Purpose of purchases: partying, reveling in our dark side, love of the orange and black - all things I can get into.

Christmas

Things bought: decorations, gifts for others, baking/cooking supplies, greeting cards
Purpose of purchases (agnostic's viewpoint): bringing families (of one kind or another) together to eat and drink good things, give gifts, revel in the Spirit of the Holiday (generosity, love, forgiveness), love of red and green, sending love to loved ones far away. Fantastic.

Easter

Things bought: little frilly dresses/suits, lilies for our Mamas, chocolate, ham, eggs, egg dye, fakey green grass that you have to keep your household pets out of, etc.
Purpose of purchases (again, not going with the church thing so much here): celebrate Spring, fertility, the sight of well-dressed little ones scurrying through the garden with chocolate-stained mouths. Also awesome.

V-Day

Things bought: chocolate, diamonds, flowers, cards, lingerie, cuff links, dinner reservations
Purpose of purchases: romantic obligation, not being alone on such a day, the frail and desperate prospect of getting laid (yes, I know that the right answer here is: To Show Our Loved Ones Love, but I'm being bitter and jaded here. Work with me).

You see? V-Day is empirically and inherently evil and not-constructive for all concerned. It has been decided. Doff your red clothes and slink home in shame.

Fine. OK. I'll give myself ONE PARAGRAPH to not be horrid about this day. The truth is, I get a little icky in spite of myself on V-Day, missing Ramon while I'm at work, snuggling relentlessly with him when we get home, etc. But I also don't buy him a gift, generally, and I don't flip the dining room table over if he doesn't buy me something, either. And sex is entirely optional on this night (TMI? Just you wait...).

7 days ago marked our 10-year engagement anniversary, which means that we're six months away from our 10-year ANNIVERSARY anniversary. It also means that we've been one flesh for 10 years (I speak carnally, brothers and sisters. THERE'S your TMI - bathe in it). Those things are a big deal to me. Not chocolate (oh, I never thought those words would leave my lips) or roses or god-awful jewelry that's too shiny and makes you terrified to lose it.

Anyway, I don't know where I'm going with this, other than to say that although I HATE this day and what it does to people (I can't count how many fights R. and I have had on this day in the past because something Went Wrong), I love my Monchito more than my own life and want to say it here, again. And if you're reading this, chances are good that I love you too. And I wanted you to know.

Be well, my sweets, and eat all the chocolate you can stand today.

Cerise

32 Things I Love About Lisa

One of my oldest (as in, I've known her for a very long time - she's not even touching the hem of Old's garment as far as her age is concerned) friends is soon to have a birthday. She's had a rotten few days, and a rotten few months before that due to a Very Bad Person giving her the worst kind of hell. She's far away and I can't go to her, give her a hug (and then find the VBP and tear their throat out with my teeth) and say Happy Birthday with cake, so here's the only offering I can give her. There are more than 32 things going right about her, but I'm limiting myself to this particular number, for no particular reason:

1. She and I weren't friends to begin with. We didn't like each other much at all.

2. She has lovely pale eyes.

3. Lisa is a philanthropist. A real one.

4. She has lived in countries I can barely spell.

5. She taught me not to call Sudan 'THE Sudan'.

6. She is open minded to a particular cherished vice of mine.

7. She's my highest-educated close friend. She almost has an eff-dah.

8. We clearly have many inside jokes.

9. She has a beautiful lilting, throaty singing voice and uses it without fear.

10. She and I can actually ask each other for things. This sort of friend is so very rare.

11. She and I accept things from each other without too much fussing and 'I don't know'-ing. This is even more rare. Are you listening, Lis?

12. She has caused me to break my self-imposed blog blackout. For that I thank you, my dear.

13. She knows the proper Latin names of plants and birds (especially birds) from many and varied regions of the world.

14. She has a special smile for me when I'm being an ass.

15. She is a brilliant, emotionally piercing writer. Someday she'll be spoken of by kings and society ladies. I've kept every scrap - soft AND hard copies - of writing she's ever vouchsafed to me.

16. She'd be able to tell me without pausing if I just used the word 'vouchsafed' correctly.

17. She runs. She's a runner.

18. She's not afraid to go play indoor soccer with a bunch of men.

19. She's not afraid to gloat when she runs said men into the ground due to her superior fitness.

20. Lisa has extraordinarily graceful hands.

21. She's quirky. I like quirky even better than I like nice. She's really nice, too, though.

22. She loves traveling on motorcycles. She buys them sometimes and names them things like "Markham".

23. She's a cat person.

24. She's more compassionate than almost anyone I know. Her brand of compassion means action - going somewhere and actually doing something, sometimes unspeakably hard somethings, to help those she loves best.

25. She's not afraid to laugh at me when I'm being an idiot. And manages to avoid making me feel like shit in so doing. I treasure this in a friend (no, really). So rare, so rare.

26. She is going to be a professor soon.

27. She speaks Khmer.

28. She taught me that it's pronounced "Khmaye", not "Khmairrr". You should see the faces of people when I'm talking about Pol Pot and the "Khmaye" Rouge. [snicker]

29. She thinks I'm smart. I think. Reasonably intelligent. Since she's brainy enough to write up dialogues between disparate tribes of people whose village names I can't even, as I said before, pronounce, I feel honored. OK, well, I don't know if she thinks I'm smart, but she gets in a temper when I call myself stupid, so...

30. When certain shitbags are behaving really, really badly and trying to blame Lisa for their pain, she (instead of, say, tearing them to bits with her mighty brain and quick mouth) joins in and asks me what she should do to make things better. For them. It's infuriating, as her friend, but endearing as well. As long as she STOPS IT RIGHT NOW.

31. Her idea of fun is trotting around in the wilderness looking for birdies.

32. She loves incredibly generously. She conducts herself with honor. She leaves people better than they were.

33. (one more!) We were completely different people when we went to school together so long ago. So different that we kind of couldn't stand each other for a good while. We've been in and out of contact since then and changed - both on our own and in how we relate to each other. We are very different. But she still calls me 'friend' and writes me long, luscious emails (even when she's angry, broke, avoiding everyone and at the end of her rope) to tide me over until we see each other again.

34. BONUS! I nearly killed both of us driving in snow once. We survived, but her opportunity to stop and take breathtaking pictures of Snoqualmie Pass snowed under didn't thanks to my negligence. She forgave me.

[raises pint] Here's to you, good friend. May your loving friends circle around you this week and may everyone else be tipped into the rubbish bin by a grouchy maid.