sueeeus

It’s so hot here in Suburbia. The sun blazes through the windows and the house feels like an oven. Mr. Squished wanted to cover the big half moon window and suggested a fitted accordion blind. Mrs. Squished thinks fitted blinds are cheesy dust catchers. She does not approve. Mrs. Squished thinks decorative films are often cheesy as well, but the lesser of two evils. The Squished couple agree to use a light blocking film. Mrs. Squished finds a film that, as luck would have it, blends nicely with the wall color and doesn’t compete too intensely with the light fixtures.

Yesterday’s project: add light blocking film to living room window. Small project. Simple project. Terse words spoken in unfriendly tones are exchanged between Mr. and Mrs. Squished. Dare they attempt to build an entire house (It’s part of the grand plan, the great American Dream.)

The light is still bright, but nicely diffused. The house is less of an oven. Family Squished is at peace.

I watched a movie entitled In America last night. Before I became a mother, I would have enjoyed this movie, but I don’t think I would have had such strong emotional reactions. I had to keep asking Mr. Squished Piggy to check the DVD jacket and reassure me that it was rated PG-13, when it looked like something bad might be going to happen to children. I can’t handle seeing anything bad happen to children.

The movie is set in New York, and the young family live in a very creepy building that I fear, sadly, is extremely realistic. There’s a scene where the mother sends her two little girls out for ice cream, ALONE! OMG, nobody sends children anywhere alone any more! I was squirming in my seat, certain that something horrible would happen. There are too many unpredictables and crazies in society these days, and especially in the film, in their own building. They knew their neighbors were drug addicts and crazies so how on earth could that mother have sent her kids out I was so appalled! In another scene, the baby came early and was sent to the ICU. I lost it there. I just sobbed and sobbed, looking at that little baby that might not make it.

The film was very well done. It stirred emotions and captured human desperation, love, beauty, and triumph on many levels. I was still sobbing when the credits rolled.

Meme Pea Soup:
Fred, a teacher, has taken George Ella Lyons’ poem ‘Where I’m From’ and asked his students to write their own story, using Lyons’ poem as a base. He also opened this project up to the world, inviting people to participate via the internet.

It’s a beautiful project. If you try it, please link back to Fred’s site.

Pea Soup posted mine on her blog before I mustered the courage to become more than just a blog stalker myself. Now that I am a bonafide blogger, here is my poem.

I am from the old copper tea kettle, dinged, battered and sticky, from Coats and Clarks All Purpose White (the economy roll) and the rummage sale blue pants, three sizes too big, but triumphantly made of denim like the other kids wore.

I am from the house on Nora Creek Road, chipped red shutters and tired white paint, a red metal roof that sings in the rain, dark orange water from a well nearly dry, sour and unforgiving.

I am from the honeysuckle that grew wild on the hill, from pinecones scattered everywhere, and poppies with papery orange petals, out back by the old church pew.

I am from choosing birthday dinners and megalomania, from Nelsons, Outhouses and Applegates, from HCK and all the Cerethes there ever were.

I am from the over indulgers and bewildering intellects.

From be careful or your face will freeze that way, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself, from dumb Kopf, idgeyut, spiteful wench and don’t be schtewpid.

I am from Thanks be to God, the Lord be with you and also with you, from Be Not Afraid and Beatitudes, from In the Stars and On Eagle’s Wings, from Glory Hallelujah.

I am from a land that’s evergreen, and amber waves of grain, from teachers of kings in a faraway place and Yankee ingenuity, from rice with everything (but NEVER milk and sugar), and a block of ice cream cut three by three for all to get their fair share.

From an ancient tiny woman squatted with a bread board across her knees making wontons the way they’re supposed to be made — the only time I ever saw her. I am from red suspenders and the yellow straw hat with a hole worn through, from you’re a good kid and I believed it.

I am from a stack of boxes tucked in a closet that survived hundreds of miles and dozens of addresses, from fervent poems scrawled on scraps of paper, and every letter I’ve ever been written. I am from walls adorned with nearly a decade of Fourth of July masterpieces wrought from the hands and imaginations of the people I love.

Sue: (f) English diminutive of Susan, from Hebrew shoshan: “lily.”

I bought this groovy eyeshadow years ago — “Big Bang” by Urban Decay. I seldom wear it, however, as it is hot fuchscia and hard to pull off without looking like a sleep deprived and hungover woman, however, since I am a sleep deprived woman, it works quite well these days.

This is the kind of collage that would frighten the Baudelaire orphans and bring glee to the wicked Count Olaf.

Known to some as ‘The Colonel’. To others, he is ‘Jack’, or ‘Happy Jack’. Me, I usually call him Clayton, which is his given name. I think he was born in 1916. I’ve gathered clues for years to learn his age, and finally, I think I’ve got it. Today is his birthday. He usually tells me he’s 39, or maybe it’s 29. What stories he has to tell! If only somebody had captured them. I have only fragments. He was an Air Force pilot back in the day. A fighter pilot, a regular top gun. He flew so many missions and lived to tell. By the grace of God, he would say. He’s the only person I know who can recite the Sermon on the Mount. He used to hang out at the stock exchange on his off time when he had nothing better to do, and he got the hang of things, invested, and made his million. That was back when a million was alot. (It’s still alot to me, actually.)

Once he asked me to marry him. I said no. I’m no Anna Nicole. He used to try and sneak a feel anytime he could get within arm’s reach. Dirty old man. That is, until I got married. I think it hurt his pride a little that I married someone else (who really was 35 –and broke). The moment I became a wife, he ceased his flirting game, so he’s a dirty old man with some principles. I love him all the same, my friend Happy Jack. I hope he’s still with us. He was fading fast the last time I saw him. But he still had a keen wit. A woman asked him if he’d lost a wife. He replied, I lost five. Ha! She stopped making small talk after that. (She was at the nursing home proselytizing her dad, getting him ready for heaven, I guess.)

He told me that each wife cleaned him out so he’d have to rebuild his million. He’d do it again, marry again, divorce again. I don’t remember why he didn’t stay married. Something about incessant nagging, perhaps. I guess it’s worth a million bucks to some people to get an old bag off your back. Maybe I should have married him. I might have a million bucks to my name by now.

I’ve enjoyed his friendship. He’s got such a twinkle in his eye. I wanted him to teach me what he knew about the stock market, but it’s a different beast these days, since the dot com explosion.

Funny thing, I’ve noticed with depression era millionaires. (Okay, I only know two, so it’s not of statistical significance.) They are very frugal. Frugal might be an understatement. Clayton wore the same faded grey Members Only jacket every time I saw him in the past fifteen years. He didn’t have it the last time I saw him, although I think I recall seeing it in his closet at the nursing home. This time he was wearing a warmer grey zip front sweater, however, it was pinned closed with five giant safety pins (almost the size one would use for diaper pins). I asked about it and he said the sweater was still good, but the zipper was broken. It’s wasteful to get a whole new sweater just because of a silly little zipper, you know. Millionaires.

Where is Clayton Where’s Happy Jack I want to wish him a happy birthday. I hope he’s still with us.

I added a section to my blog called Blog Stalking. Love the title!! Thanks to Lady Linoleum for turning me on to the clever term.

I still haven’t found Jack, and today is his birthday. I must try harder.

Packed up Boo bright and early this morning and set off to visit my friend Jack. It’s his birthday on Monday. 89th, I think. I wanted to wish him well. Drove Northbound on one freeway, merged onto another for a Northeasterly jaunt, then looped back Westbound on yet another. Finally, Exit 7. Straight a few miles, left on 78th, right on 28th, up the hill, left into the parking lot. Through the front door, down the hallway, up to the second floor, past the nurse’s station, down another hallway, to Room 209. Empty. Room 209 was empty and my heart sank. Had he left us I found a nurse and told her I was looking for my friend Jack. Oh, they moved him closer to home. Two days ago. I guess I should have called first. It would have ruined the surprise though. At least I have his stepson’s number. I left a message with him. Hopefully he’ll let me know where to find him.

…and Blackbird says… Show us your front porch.

Alas, my front porch is not so pretty. Not so inviting (but it doesn’t seem to deter the friendly Mormon missionary boys and the nice Jehovah’s Witness ladies, who all keep returning, again and again…)

On my front porch is an assortment of withering plants and a few empty pots (whose contents have recently met their demise and been sent to the afterlife — compost heaven).

Note to self. Must water plants.

There is one thing of beauty, however. This glorious green! Such a lovely coleus. Something is nibbling away at it though.

I live in suburbia where nobody knows their neighbors and nobody uses their front porch. People enter and exit their homes via the garage door, so there is little chance of interaction and things on the front porch can easily be forgotten. A level 2 sex offender just moved in a few houses down anyway, so we’re even less inclined towards being sociable. Directly across the street from a grade school. How does this happen

All said, I am thankful that I have a front porch.

meme

/meem/ n. [coined by analogy with `gene’, by RichardDawkins] An idea considered as a replicator, esp. with the connotation that memes parasitize people into propagating them much as viruses do… …Use of the term connotes acceptance of the idea that in humans (and presumably other tool- and language-using sophonts) cultural evolution by selection of adaptive ideas has superseded biological evolution by selection of hereditary traits. Hackers find this idea congenial for tolerably obvious reasons.

Source: http://dictionary.reference.com/search q=meme

I’ve been tagged! (Meme, thanks to Pea Soup)

id•i•o•syn•cra•sy – a structural or behavioural characteristic peculiar to an individual or group. Write down 5 of your own idiosyncrasies, then if you wish, tag 5 people.

1. I can’t seem to find a watch that will keep time when I wear it. I’ve had quartz watches and they run slow, even with new batteries. I’ve recently upgraded to a watch with an automatic movement, which ran fine for a while, but is now running fast. Maybe it’s because I don’t buy expensive watches, but I’m afraid to invest in one, just in case.
2. Coffee and Tea OCD – The color is of utmost importance, as is the brew! It must be rich and strong. Coffee with non-dairy creamer and no sweetener; tea with dairy creamer, preferably evaporated milk, and two sugars (but I can drink it without, if necessary –I had to, when I had gestational diabetes, and I survived). Both must be whitened to that gorgeous caramel color. Of course, the level in the cup matters as well. No more than 1 cm from the rim!! And don’t forget the cup! Medium size with a thin lip – no big thick dribbly ceramics/porcelains!! (I could go on – this probably doesn’t count as one idiosyncrasy!!!)
3. I can’t stand to have hair in my face. Bangs are okay, as long as they’re not in my eyes.
4. Everything in its place, and a place for everything (more OCD). I like the dishes and pots/pans to have a stable home so that I know exactly where they are when I go to use them. When my mom visited for a few weeks, she helped out alot, and put things away, but not in the right place. When she left, I put everything back where it belonged. I like order in the dishwasher as well. Forks in one compartment, big spoons in one, small spoons in one, etc. (When it’s time to put them away, this minimizes the amount of handling, thus promoting a more sanitary environment.) I can justify all my OCD!
5. I like to eat things one color or item at a time, even if the dish is a mix, like a salad or a stir fry. I’ll eat just the green things, then start on the red things, etc. or if the meal isn’t a mix, I’ll still tend to eat things one at a time, usually starting with the veggies. Shrimp fettucine I’ll eat all the shrimp first, then the pasta. I generally finish my plate (and it shows).

Sadly, I don’t know 5 bloggers well enough to tag them. If I were more brave, I’d pick 5 randomly. If somebody visits my blog and reads this, and hasn’t already been tagged, consider yourself tagged! (That’s as brave as I am at the moment.)

Mr. Squished Piggy has his own funny beverage idiosyncrasies. He won’t drink Coke unless it’s with ice, but he will drink Pepsi from a can or a bottle. He prefers soda with ice, and when we’re home, he wants the ice to first be rinsed with cold water until it’s done cracking and popping and then he likes the soda added slowly to the freshly rinsed (and drained) ice. He claims that there’s less foam and that this prolongs the carbonation. We are so well suited to each other in some ways!!