It's only been eight months, but I think that I am finally getting a handle on being a grandparent.
As I have mentioned over and over again to any ears that will listen, I've been having difficulty grasping what my role as a grandparent is. In my own life a grandparent was a parent, swooping in and doing parent things: cooking, cleaning, playing, changing, feeding, losing sleep, etc. But my kids are really wonderful people and they take very good care of Memphis, so my expertise is rarely needed.
Although I do find that I have a knack for getting the baby to sleep. I think it is because I have been through babyhood already with my own kids, and know for a fact that a baby will eventually sleep. That knowledge is very powerful, once you believe it, and so I know that a few minutes walking around the house rocking him in my arms and whispering the occasional song in his ear will ultimately put him to sleep. Whether or not he stays that way is hardly my problem. That is one of the advantages of being a grandparent. I can put the baby to sleep, but I won't be there in the night when he wakes up.
When Memphis first came home I tried to give my kids some space. I wanted to see the baby, sure, and hold him and coo to him, but I didn't want to intrude on the cocooning that their new family needed to do. Then my son mentioned to me about six weeks later that they felt that I was giving them too much space, that I wasn't coming by enough. That of course kick started the old parent guilt (that apparently never goes away; I suppose it goes hand-in-hand with the ability to get a crying baby to sleep). But I am working more now than when my kids were growing up, and let's face it, there are reasons why I stopped working full-time as a young mother. I simply didn't/don't have the capacity to balance small children and a career. Back in the day I had to make a choice. Today it is not my choice to make. Today I work because my focus is different. And I have to remind myself that I am Memphis' grandparent. Not his parent. If I only see him once a week, I am damned lucky that I live close enough to see him that often. Although I do feel guilty that I am letting my kids down; that I am not helping them as much as they need. So I go back to square one, wondering what my role is.
Then this last week it occurred to me that being a grandparent has very little to do with my kids. They are adults after all, and have the verbal and mental capacity to ask for help. And they do ask. We babysit fairly often. I go to doctor's visits when invited. I feed them or give them money or rides. I have not disappeared; I'm just no longer available to be on-call for everything 24/7. And there are many other wonderful family members around that love and help take care of Memphis and his parents.
I think that my role as Nana has everything to do with my relationship with my grandbaby. My relationship with my kids has not changed, and I supposed that it shouldn't. I think what is important is that I let go of my guilt and embrace my special relationship with my very special grandson.
That I can do.
So I'm thinking that Memphis and I need to go on some adventures together. I think we should run errands and go to the park, and go to my work and show each other off. I think we should go shopping, and enjoy long walks together in the sunshine. I think that we will find special toys and books that we like to play with together, just the two of us.
Yeah, I am finally beginning to ease into being Nana to Memphis. And it is a wonderful feeling.
Lake Mendocino
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Burning in the New Year
(originally posted on my blog at Redroom.com)
I don’t make New Years Resolutions. It’s not that I don’t believe in them; I think that making a list of goals for change is a great tool and a healthy way to plan a new beginning that coincides with a new calendar. I simply don’t list all the things I want to do differently once January 1 comes around and post it on my refrigerator as a daily reminder. To me, this seems like a great way to fail as the meaning of the list can too easily change from hope to guilt. Like rules, resolutions seem to be made to be broken.
I do appreciate goal setting. I am a goal oriented person and so can see the value of knowing there is a deadline on its way. Yet, it is not a tradition I have bought into easily over the years, although I have tried. Like most people I knew in my twenties, I swore I would start a new diet or exercise regime after that last glass of champagne had finally worn off. Also like most people I knew in my twenties, I didn’t really need to lose weight. A bit more exercise would have helped, but I never did join a gym back then and so didn’t learn the value of that form of exercise until later in life.
The problem between myself and resolutions is that once I decide I want to change something, it needs to begin immediately. I am not one for delayed gratification when it comes to feeling better. I want it now; I want to begin whatever new routine will get me to my goal as soon as possible instead of waiting weeks or months. About five years ago I finally decided it was time to try a gym membership; I signed up almost immediately instead of waiting the two months for the calendar change. When it was time to find a more challenging atmosphere seven months later, I cancelled my membership the same week I completed the tour of the new gym. When that gym’s closed doors nearly two years later, the hubby and I had chosen one and signed up before I lost more than a few days of exercise.
I have been tweaking my eating habits since the birth of my second child and have had some real success. In fact when I decided to give up gluten products six months ago, it wasn’t difficult at all. I had become so dependent on other forms of nutrition, like fruits and vegetables, that giving up the bread was easy to do.
I realize that making dietary changes is really the cliché resolution, and that the important things that have to do with work habits and career changes and relationship issues are more often the focus for many folks.
So while I don’t really believe in making New Years Resolutions, I do believe in an end of year cleansing. My friend Celia told me that each year she writes on a piece of paper the things she wants to do differently on one side, and the things that she wants to continue to do on the other. She then burns the paper. My hubby and I have taken that concept a few steps further. We gather round a fire pit in our backyard and write the things to let go of and the things to hold onto on blocks of wood before throwing them into the fire. The fire grows as it consumes the good and the bad, releasing all into the open air of possibility.
We began this ritual the year everyone died. We lost four family members in the span of four months and so were delighted that the year of death was ending. We said goodbye to loved ones on that wood. We planned for a happier future. We attempted to let go of negatives and make promises for positive. We wrote our hopes and dreams and desires on piece after piece of wood. We invited friends and family over to do the same. It was a lovely ritual complete with tears and laughter and silence. And the warmth of the fire growing stronger symbolized our survival of a difficult year and the need to look forward to a brighter one.
Some of what we wrote looked far beyond one calendar year. Some was meant for the short term yet took more than a year to begin to manifest. Some of the pain loosened its grip a bit and allowed us to take in a few cleansing breaths. Some of the pain actually dissipated and flew away with the smoke.
I believe that New Years Resolutions are meant to be a kind of cleansing, of planning for the future. I do these things each year, but not with promises to myself made in the form of a list stuck to the refrigerator that has the great capacity to make me feel guilty. Instead the attempt is to reach beyond today and allow the new to grow into something more permanent and the old to fade away.
I don’t resolve; I burn.
I don’t make New Years Resolutions. It’s not that I don’t believe in them; I think that making a list of goals for change is a great tool and a healthy way to plan a new beginning that coincides with a new calendar. I simply don’t list all the things I want to do differently once January 1 comes around and post it on my refrigerator as a daily reminder. To me, this seems like a great way to fail as the meaning of the list can too easily change from hope to guilt. Like rules, resolutions seem to be made to be broken.
I do appreciate goal setting. I am a goal oriented person and so can see the value of knowing there is a deadline on its way. Yet, it is not a tradition I have bought into easily over the years, although I have tried. Like most people I knew in my twenties, I swore I would start a new diet or exercise regime after that last glass of champagne had finally worn off. Also like most people I knew in my twenties, I didn’t really need to lose weight. A bit more exercise would have helped, but I never did join a gym back then and so didn’t learn the value of that form of exercise until later in life.
The problem between myself and resolutions is that once I decide I want to change something, it needs to begin immediately. I am not one for delayed gratification when it comes to feeling better. I want it now; I want to begin whatever new routine will get me to my goal as soon as possible instead of waiting weeks or months. About five years ago I finally decided it was time to try a gym membership; I signed up almost immediately instead of waiting the two months for the calendar change. When it was time to find a more challenging atmosphere seven months later, I cancelled my membership the same week I completed the tour of the new gym. When that gym’s closed doors nearly two years later, the hubby and I had chosen one and signed up before I lost more than a few days of exercise.
I have been tweaking my eating habits since the birth of my second child and have had some real success. In fact when I decided to give up gluten products six months ago, it wasn’t difficult at all. I had become so dependent on other forms of nutrition, like fruits and vegetables, that giving up the bread was easy to do.
I realize that making dietary changes is really the cliché resolution, and that the important things that have to do with work habits and career changes and relationship issues are more often the focus for many folks.
So while I don’t really believe in making New Years Resolutions, I do believe in an end of year cleansing. My friend Celia told me that each year she writes on a piece of paper the things she wants to do differently on one side, and the things that she wants to continue to do on the other. She then burns the paper. My hubby and I have taken that concept a few steps further. We gather round a fire pit in our backyard and write the things to let go of and the things to hold onto on blocks of wood before throwing them into the fire. The fire grows as it consumes the good and the bad, releasing all into the open air of possibility.
We began this ritual the year everyone died. We lost four family members in the span of four months and so were delighted that the year of death was ending. We said goodbye to loved ones on that wood. We planned for a happier future. We attempted to let go of negatives and make promises for positive. We wrote our hopes and dreams and desires on piece after piece of wood. We invited friends and family over to do the same. It was a lovely ritual complete with tears and laughter and silence. And the warmth of the fire growing stronger symbolized our survival of a difficult year and the need to look forward to a brighter one.
Some of what we wrote looked far beyond one calendar year. Some was meant for the short term yet took more than a year to begin to manifest. Some of the pain loosened its grip a bit and allowed us to take in a few cleansing breaths. Some of the pain actually dissipated and flew away with the smoke.
I believe that New Years Resolutions are meant to be a kind of cleansing, of planning for the future. I do these things each year, but not with promises to myself made in the form of a list stuck to the refrigerator that has the great capacity to make me feel guilty. Instead the attempt is to reach beyond today and allow the new to grow into something more permanent and the old to fade away.
I don’t resolve; I burn.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Ghosts of Christmas Past (or passed)
On one hand I believe in ghosts. On the other hand, I don't believe that most people see them. I suppose part of the contradiction in my beliefs is the uncertainty as to origins, lore, and explanations of any ghostly presence.
There are numerous movies about ghosts or spirits or somehow corrupted beings that have either come back to earth from another place (that is generally unpleasant) or never left and are really pissed off, or suffused with evil, or some such thing.
I think that the reality of lingering or visiting spirits is simpler, and lighter.
A week before Christmas my daughter-in-law heard and saw some things in her house that frightened her. She heard footsteps in a room where there were no people, and saw a shadow cross the front door. When I lived in the house she is in, I never sensed any presence of any kind, and I consider myself pretty open to that kind of thing. People had died in that house long before I lived there. And since.
The interesting thing here is the date of my girl's experience. It was one day shy of the eighteenth anniversary of my grandmother's death. And Gram died IN that house. I do believe that if my girl really heard and saw something, then it was Gram.
This morning my dogs were looking out the sliding glass door and whining and growling at the fence top. When I got up and looked I saw a black cat sitting on the fence in one corner. A cat on the fence is not a common sight in our yard, but not unheard of. The slightly freaky thing is that the cat was the spitting image of our Sammy who died a year and six days ago, and who is buried in the back yard below the spot where the cat was sitting. When I brought my husband over to the door to see the cat, it was gone. Now, I'm not saying that I crossed the room to fetch him and when we both came back the cat was gone. I was standing looking at the cat, I motioned him over while I could see the cat. I moved out of the way so he could stand where I was, and when he looked the cat was gone.
Yes, the cat could very well have simply jumped off the fence in the moment it took for us to change places. And that may very well be exactly what happened. The dogs saw the cat before I did. And then it was gone. And it looked just like Sammy who we still miss.
The idea of loved ones coming back to visit is comforting. The concept that they loved us so strongly in life that they still feel connected to us in death makes the abandoned little girl in me feel special in a way my own parents never could.
Or this could all be a reaction to the brandy I put into my coffee this morning.
There are numerous movies about ghosts or spirits or somehow corrupted beings that have either come back to earth from another place (that is generally unpleasant) or never left and are really pissed off, or suffused with evil, or some such thing.
I think that the reality of lingering or visiting spirits is simpler, and lighter.
A week before Christmas my daughter-in-law heard and saw some things in her house that frightened her. She heard footsteps in a room where there were no people, and saw a shadow cross the front door. When I lived in the house she is in, I never sensed any presence of any kind, and I consider myself pretty open to that kind of thing. People had died in that house long before I lived there. And since.
The interesting thing here is the date of my girl's experience. It was one day shy of the eighteenth anniversary of my grandmother's death. And Gram died IN that house. I do believe that if my girl really heard and saw something, then it was Gram.
This morning my dogs were looking out the sliding glass door and whining and growling at the fence top. When I got up and looked I saw a black cat sitting on the fence in one corner. A cat on the fence is not a common sight in our yard, but not unheard of. The slightly freaky thing is that the cat was the spitting image of our Sammy who died a year and six days ago, and who is buried in the back yard below the spot where the cat was sitting. When I brought my husband over to the door to see the cat, it was gone. Now, I'm not saying that I crossed the room to fetch him and when we both came back the cat was gone. I was standing looking at the cat, I motioned him over while I could see the cat. I moved out of the way so he could stand where I was, and when he looked the cat was gone.
Yes, the cat could very well have simply jumped off the fence in the moment it took for us to change places. And that may very well be exactly what happened. The dogs saw the cat before I did. And then it was gone. And it looked just like Sammy who we still miss.
The idea of loved ones coming back to visit is comforting. The concept that they loved us so strongly in life that they still feel connected to us in death makes the abandoned little girl in me feel special in a way my own parents never could.
Or this could all be a reaction to the brandy I put into my coffee this morning.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Who Am I, Really?
According to various pieces of misinformation floating around the Internet, my first name is Geraldine and I am 65-years-old. While I won't admit my correct age to cyber-space, I will say that if my mother was still alive, she would be 68 as of last week.
On another site my first name is James and I live in Somerville. Where exactly is Somerville?
Somewhere else my daughter is listed as 44-years-old. (If you are confused about the math, see the age of her deceased grandmother above.)
We live in the age of information. A tremendous amount of our personal lives is written in one large electronic open book. It only takes a couple of clicks to track down just about anyone. But do they really live there? Or of all the locations listed, which is the current one? I can find "proof" online that my grandfather, who died in 2004, is still alive and living in his house. I can also order a copy of his death certificate, also online.
I once paid the bucks to run an online check on my father, only to get all the information together in one place that I had already found by myself for free. And it still amounted to very little. There simply was not enough accurate information to find where he lived. He died less than a month after I paid for this report. I didn't see him before he died.
So what does it mean that so much of what we can find is wrong? If my students are reading this (and they managed to make it to class the day we talked about evaluating internet sources) they remember that some sources are more trustworthy than others, and that there are several ways to determine what websites should or should not be trusted. But even with that knowledge it takes a good deal of digging to unearth the false and toss it out of the knowledge equation.
A very nice (local) bank salesperson showed up at my door several months ago. (Yes, they do exist.) She asked if I was Mrs. Buccelli. The poor thing looked so confused. She was looking for me, but she was under the impression I was born in the late 1940s and planned to try and sell me bank products for seniors.
Clearly she hadn't simply done an Internet search; she had been given information from a credible financial source. The explanation if logical: when my grandfather died I was required by law to take distribution from the remainder of his retirement account. The calculations for splitting it up into equal payments was rather complicated, and somewhere in the system an age was attached to my file that does not reflect reality, only what the computer system needed to know in order to cut some checks.
I explained this and she was very gracious. She then attempted to tell me about products the bank offered for parents of young children. Oops. My kids are grown. She had a difficult time believing that I was old enough to have grown kids. This woman made my day, even with erroneous information.
The invitations to AARP, the urgent messages to choose my medicare prescription health plan immediately, the long-term health care insurance policies, and the funeral home surveys don't have the same effect. I'm not against any of these item, but I don't qualify for a one.
I suppose that to an extent misinformation shields my privacy. I do have an online presence that I maintain, and so have some control over what is out there. If you don't really know if I am Geraldine or James or Ginny, then I am just that much safer. But for those folks who really want to know me, they aren't going to do it solely online. It takes time and care, like any good relationship. I'm not inviting stalkers, cyber or otherwise. Consider it more of a warning. Do you know who I am? Really? And are you sure you want to?
On another site my first name is James and I live in Somerville. Where exactly is Somerville?
Somewhere else my daughter is listed as 44-years-old. (If you are confused about the math, see the age of her deceased grandmother above.)
We live in the age of information. A tremendous amount of our personal lives is written in one large electronic open book. It only takes a couple of clicks to track down just about anyone. But do they really live there? Or of all the locations listed, which is the current one? I can find "proof" online that my grandfather, who died in 2004, is still alive and living in his house. I can also order a copy of his death certificate, also online.
I once paid the bucks to run an online check on my father, only to get all the information together in one place that I had already found by myself for free. And it still amounted to very little. There simply was not enough accurate information to find where he lived. He died less than a month after I paid for this report. I didn't see him before he died.
So what does it mean that so much of what we can find is wrong? If my students are reading this (and they managed to make it to class the day we talked about evaluating internet sources) they remember that some sources are more trustworthy than others, and that there are several ways to determine what websites should or should not be trusted. But even with that knowledge it takes a good deal of digging to unearth the false and toss it out of the knowledge equation.
A very nice (local) bank salesperson showed up at my door several months ago. (Yes, they do exist.) She asked if I was Mrs. Buccelli. The poor thing looked so confused. She was looking for me, but she was under the impression I was born in the late 1940s and planned to try and sell me bank products for seniors.
Clearly she hadn't simply done an Internet search; she had been given information from a credible financial source. The explanation if logical: when my grandfather died I was required by law to take distribution from the remainder of his retirement account. The calculations for splitting it up into equal payments was rather complicated, and somewhere in the system an age was attached to my file that does not reflect reality, only what the computer system needed to know in order to cut some checks.
I explained this and she was very gracious. She then attempted to tell me about products the bank offered for parents of young children. Oops. My kids are grown. She had a difficult time believing that I was old enough to have grown kids. This woman made my day, even with erroneous information.
The invitations to AARP, the urgent messages to choose my medicare prescription health plan immediately, the long-term health care insurance policies, and the funeral home surveys don't have the same effect. I'm not against any of these item, but I don't qualify for a one.
I suppose that to an extent misinformation shields my privacy. I do have an online presence that I maintain, and so have some control over what is out there. If you don't really know if I am Geraldine or James or Ginny, then I am just that much safer. But for those folks who really want to know me, they aren't going to do it solely online. It takes time and care, like any good relationship. I'm not inviting stalkers, cyber or otherwise. Consider it more of a warning. Do you know who I am? Really? And are you sure you want to?
Sunday, August 29, 2010
And They Call Themselves Watch Dogs
I have two wonderful dogs who fancy themselves defenders of the home. Often in the middle of the night one or both will wake me with a growl or a few barks as they respond to noises outside the house they believe could be menacing to us. All too often they respond to a door knock that isn't, storming the front door and windows like they are intent on ripping apart anyone they don't know who dares step foot onto the front porch. There is rarely anyone at the door when this occurs. Sometimes when a visitor walks through the door without a knock they don't even react.
Early this morning, well early every morning, the neighbors' rooster started crowing. It usually starts about 5:00 am. I believe that the chicken pen is located in the apartment"complex" two yards south of me. Yes, we are well within city limits. We are located in the center of town, between the West & East sides.
The rooster is a bit of a controversy on my block. I have heard one or two neighbors complain about the early morning crowing. The all-day-long Tourette's-like crowing is not terribly pleasant either. One day I came home to a "letter" in my mailbox asking that if I had a rooster I get rid of it or the anonymous neighbors would call the police and animal control. That was weeks ago and until this morning the rooster was still living nearby.
I am likely the only neighbor it does not really bother. Our windows are situated so that most of the noise from that side of the house is of low-key annoyance (except the really loud polka music). I also have very fond memories of a pet rooster when I was a kid.
His name was Maestro and he was very smart. He only crowed later in the morning and not often at all during the day. He would take his hens (of which there were two) for daily walks and would come home when called. All three would eat grain from our hands. I loved hearing him crow. Yes, we also lived in town, it is Petaluma after all: The Egg Basket of the World, the Chicken Capital of the World. It was generally tolerated. We did have to get rid of Maestro because our next door neighbor had a rooster that crowed far more and was mistaken for being ours. Shortly after Maestro left and the rogue rooster continued his daily ruckus, the neighbors and cops realized their mistake and then there were no more roosters. Sadly, Maestro was not allowed to return home.
All this to say that when I hear a crowing rooster is makes me smile. And my dogs ignore it.
But it doesn't have the same effect on everyone and this morning someone snapped.
I was awakened by yelling at about 6:40 am. It wasn't loud enough to wake Joe, nor my dogs apparently. There wasn't even a throaty growl to acknowledge that there slumber was being disturbed. Out the bathroom window I could see a man I didn't know yelling and throwing things at the building near the unseen chicken pen. He was screaming "Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!" punctuated by several obscenities. I heard him yell at the rooster, "Hey rooster. Why don't you crow?! Huh, COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO!" And so on.
Still my dogs were silent.
The next time I looked out the window, the angry man was chasing the rooster, chair menacingly in hand, into the yard next to us. By now Joe was awake and getting dressed; Molly was still curled up on the bed and Max Bear (nicknamed Jethro for moments like this) was sitting up but leaning against my side of the bed.
We went downstairs and the rooster was standing atop our pergola, and then the angry man was walking away from our house in our driveway. Joe dialed the police department and while listening to the menu looked outside again to find that the rooster had disappeared. He had been ready to report the angry man who had not only awakened us in a manner FAR worse than a couple of ignorable crows, but was trespassing and moving fowl into our yard.
During all this the dogs were still upstairs in our bedroom on or next to the bed. Neither has barked nor growled once.
The rooster and the angry man disappeared before the Petaluma Police answered the phone, so Joe hung up. We waited for more ruckus. Nothing. The neighbors next door slowly came out of their apartments to survey the damage. We rehashed the incident a bit, theorizing that if we had been able to nab the rooster we could have called the police and animal control to take it away, solving several problems at once.
But when Joe said that we could have let the dogs out back to deal with the rooster I laughed. The dogs had waited until the coast was clear before slowly making their way downstairs hoping to follow their normal morning routine of potty and breakfast.
And they call themselves watchdogs!
Early this morning, well early every morning, the neighbors' rooster started crowing. It usually starts about 5:00 am. I believe that the chicken pen is located in the apartment"complex" two yards south of me. Yes, we are well within city limits. We are located in the center of town, between the West & East sides.
The rooster is a bit of a controversy on my block. I have heard one or two neighbors complain about the early morning crowing. The all-day-long Tourette's-like crowing is not terribly pleasant either. One day I came home to a "letter" in my mailbox asking that if I had a rooster I get rid of it or the anonymous neighbors would call the police and animal control. That was weeks ago and until this morning the rooster was still living nearby.
I am likely the only neighbor it does not really bother. Our windows are situated so that most of the noise from that side of the house is of low-key annoyance (except the really loud polka music). I also have very fond memories of a pet rooster when I was a kid.
His name was Maestro and he was very smart. He only crowed later in the morning and not often at all during the day. He would take his hens (of which there were two) for daily walks and would come home when called. All three would eat grain from our hands. I loved hearing him crow. Yes, we also lived in town, it is Petaluma after all: The Egg Basket of the World, the Chicken Capital of the World. It was generally tolerated. We did have to get rid of Maestro because our next door neighbor had a rooster that crowed far more and was mistaken for being ours. Shortly after Maestro left and the rogue rooster continued his daily ruckus, the neighbors and cops realized their mistake and then there were no more roosters. Sadly, Maestro was not allowed to return home.
All this to say that when I hear a crowing rooster is makes me smile. And my dogs ignore it.
But it doesn't have the same effect on everyone and this morning someone snapped.
I was awakened by yelling at about 6:40 am. It wasn't loud enough to wake Joe, nor my dogs apparently. There wasn't even a throaty growl to acknowledge that there slumber was being disturbed. Out the bathroom window I could see a man I didn't know yelling and throwing things at the building near the unseen chicken pen. He was screaming "Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!" punctuated by several obscenities. I heard him yell at the rooster, "Hey rooster. Why don't you crow?! Huh, COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO!" And so on.
Still my dogs were silent.
The next time I looked out the window, the angry man was chasing the rooster, chair menacingly in hand, into the yard next to us. By now Joe was awake and getting dressed; Molly was still curled up on the bed and Max Bear (nicknamed Jethro for moments like this) was sitting up but leaning against my side of the bed.
We went downstairs and the rooster was standing atop our pergola, and then the angry man was walking away from our house in our driveway. Joe dialed the police department and while listening to the menu looked outside again to find that the rooster had disappeared. He had been ready to report the angry man who had not only awakened us in a manner FAR worse than a couple of ignorable crows, but was trespassing and moving fowl into our yard.
During all this the dogs were still upstairs in our bedroom on or next to the bed. Neither has barked nor growled once.
The rooster and the angry man disappeared before the Petaluma Police answered the phone, so Joe hung up. We waited for more ruckus. Nothing. The neighbors next door slowly came out of their apartments to survey the damage. We rehashed the incident a bit, theorizing that if we had been able to nab the rooster we could have called the police and animal control to take it away, solving several problems at once.
But when Joe said that we could have let the dogs out back to deal with the rooster I laughed. The dogs had waited until the coast was clear before slowly making their way downstairs hoping to follow their normal morning routine of potty and breakfast.
And they call themselves watchdogs!
Sunday, August 22, 2010
A Blast from the Past
As long as I have had home Internet access I have spent some portion of my time attempting to track down old friends. I have had some success, which is cool. I spent roughly 10 years looking one long lost friend and reconnecting was not a disappointment; in fact I can safely say it has enriched my life.
When my bio-dad died three years ago, my step-sister fed me names to track down so that she could let them know that Dad was gone. In fact I used the Internet to almost reconnect with said bio-dad just before he died. In attempting to track down his other daughter I discovered that she had passed away several years before. With the Internet I can keep track of my estranged father-in-law, keep an eye out for my other long-lost sister, and continue to track down people I would like to see or talk to again. The last year or so Facebook has made my hobby quite a bit easier.
Then someone tracked me down. Turn-about is fair play I suppose.
It was a good thing, though, and a pleasant surprise to see a name in my in-box that I had only seen on envelopes back when we wrote the occasional letter. Jessie used to live next to my grandparents. Their neighbor had a little apartment in the back of her property; Gram and Grandpa had a habit of befriending the inhabitants. Jessie is the sole reason why I passed Algebra in my sophomore year. She was a single mom with a young son. I have no clear recollection of his age at the time, except that he was younger than me and he was fun to hang out with.
Jessie's note was simple and sweet; in a few short lines she reminded me of some genuinely wonderful memories of my grandparents that had been buried far below the anger I still sometimes feel towards my grandfather six years after his death. It was flattering that someone would be interested enough in my life to do a Google search and contact me.
So Jessie, when you read this, thank you. And write soon.
When my bio-dad died three years ago, my step-sister fed me names to track down so that she could let them know that Dad was gone. In fact I used the Internet to almost reconnect with said bio-dad just before he died. In attempting to track down his other daughter I discovered that she had passed away several years before. With the Internet I can keep track of my estranged father-in-law, keep an eye out for my other long-lost sister, and continue to track down people I would like to see or talk to again. The last year or so Facebook has made my hobby quite a bit easier.
Then someone tracked me down. Turn-about is fair play I suppose.
It was a good thing, though, and a pleasant surprise to see a name in my in-box that I had only seen on envelopes back when we wrote the occasional letter. Jessie used to live next to my grandparents. Their neighbor had a little apartment in the back of her property; Gram and Grandpa had a habit of befriending the inhabitants. Jessie is the sole reason why I passed Algebra in my sophomore year. She was a single mom with a young son. I have no clear recollection of his age at the time, except that he was younger than me and he was fun to hang out with.
Jessie's note was simple and sweet; in a few short lines she reminded me of some genuinely wonderful memories of my grandparents that had been buried far below the anger I still sometimes feel towards my grandfather six years after his death. It was flattering that someone would be interested enough in my life to do a Google search and contact me.
So Jessie, when you read this, thank you. And write soon.
It's Just a Jump to the Left (or it should be)
A few weeks ago my hubby, daughter and I met a fairly large group of friends for a midnight showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show in Menlo Park, CA.
I must say I was mightily disappointed.
I was disappointed by the need of the cast to re-invent the envelope and then push on through: the need to add flesh where there previously was none; the need to badly pantomime the entire movie while the movie was playing. Well over a dozen years ago (which was the last time I saw Rocky in the theater) some cast felt that adding a stripper during the opening credits would make the movie sexier. I beg to differ.
Now before you label me a prude, there are a few things you should know: I have seen The Rocky Horror Picture Show on the big screen over 150 times. I cut my adolescent teeth on fishnet stockings, homemade and refurbished corsets and running up and down the aisles in my 4" come-fuck-me-pumps.
I know my Rocky Horror.
Which is why the current incarnation of casts drives me nuts. From what I have gathered there are several in the state that go from one theater to the other putting on their own show before and during the movie. They have their own pretty authentic make-up, costumes and props. Some of the actors are pretty amazing. The rest simply suck.
When I was a regular midnight madness inhabitant I didn't own copy of the movie. (Admittedly this was before it was available on either VHS or DVD.) We had to learn the movie BY WATCHING AND MEMORIZING IT. The casts I have seen thus far look over their shoulder at the screen far too often, and even more often blow lines, lyrics and movement. In my mind there is no excuse. Buy the damn movie, study the moves at home and be able to produce a completely replicated live show during the movie.
I can point out a redeeming quality or two: During the Time Warp/Sweet Transvestite, three live Transylvanians stood in front of the screen with flashlights and performed some original choreography for the audience. This was a wonderful little tidbit amongst a whole lot of crap. The idea that a cast could elevate their work beyond the screen in a creative and non-icky way is terrific. The fact that each of the players looked bored brought the production value down a bit. I have to say, though, that the young man playing Brad was absolutely awesome. He was in character from the time he was spotted outside the theater and all the way through.
I applaud the concept of a cast when showing the movie. I do. I just wish the cast acted like the professionals they profess to being. Website after website touts these wanna-be actors as hard-workers who are trying to make a living, or partial living, on the weekends. In my mind they have the power to elevate the entire genre to something more, but instead they get caught up in their own excitement and arrogance and lessen the experience. The "barker" for our showing had great promise. But by the end of the movie his insistence on shouting lines at the screen, sometime repeatedly because he was drowned out by the chaos of voices he had encouraged, nearly brought on an audience fed lynch mob and beating.
The last time I saw the movie on the big screen was about a dozen years ago. I'm not sure I'll be going back again quite as quickly.
I must say I was mightily disappointed.
I was disappointed by the need of the cast to re-invent the envelope and then push on through: the need to add flesh where there previously was none; the need to badly pantomime the entire movie while the movie was playing. Well over a dozen years ago (which was the last time I saw Rocky in the theater) some cast felt that adding a stripper during the opening credits would make the movie sexier. I beg to differ.
Now before you label me a prude, there are a few things you should know: I have seen The Rocky Horror Picture Show on the big screen over 150 times. I cut my adolescent teeth on fishnet stockings, homemade and refurbished corsets and running up and down the aisles in my 4" come-fuck-me-pumps.
I know my Rocky Horror.
Which is why the current incarnation of casts drives me nuts. From what I have gathered there are several in the state that go from one theater to the other putting on their own show before and during the movie. They have their own pretty authentic make-up, costumes and props. Some of the actors are pretty amazing. The rest simply suck.
When I was a regular midnight madness inhabitant I didn't own copy of the movie. (Admittedly this was before it was available on either VHS or DVD.) We had to learn the movie BY WATCHING AND MEMORIZING IT. The casts I have seen thus far look over their shoulder at the screen far too often, and even more often blow lines, lyrics and movement. In my mind there is no excuse. Buy the damn movie, study the moves at home and be able to produce a completely replicated live show during the movie.
I can point out a redeeming quality or two: During the Time Warp/Sweet Transvestite, three live Transylvanians stood in front of the screen with flashlights and performed some original choreography for the audience. This was a wonderful little tidbit amongst a whole lot of crap. The idea that a cast could elevate their work beyond the screen in a creative and non-icky way is terrific. The fact that each of the players looked bored brought the production value down a bit. I have to say, though, that the young man playing Brad was absolutely awesome. He was in character from the time he was spotted outside the theater and all the way through.
I applaud the concept of a cast when showing the movie. I do. I just wish the cast acted like the professionals they profess to being. Website after website touts these wanna-be actors as hard-workers who are trying to make a living, or partial living, on the weekends. In my mind they have the power to elevate the entire genre to something more, but instead they get caught up in their own excitement and arrogance and lessen the experience. The "barker" for our showing had great promise. But by the end of the movie his insistence on shouting lines at the screen, sometime repeatedly because he was drowned out by the chaos of voices he had encouraged, nearly brought on an audience fed lynch mob and beating.
The last time I saw the movie on the big screen was about a dozen years ago. I'm not sure I'll be going back again quite as quickly.
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