Lion and Magic Boy

Have I told you yet about my new car? I have? I did mention that I have now joined the ranks of the reviled*, haven’t I? And yet, have I described this new beauty vehicle used solely for transportation DON’T GET ANY IDEAS HERE LADY, YOU ARE NOT TO GET ATTACHED TO ME! I AM ONLY A CAR! JUST A CAR! BACK AWAY SLOWLY! ?

No?

Well, let me fill you in. It’s a 1998 Honda CR-V. I have no idea what CR-V stands for. Anyone? Can’t Remember Violin? Car Roars Vroom? Crushed Rusty Vehicle?

It’s black. The last, and only, black car I owned was a 1995 Jaguar, now conscripted to ferrying my children around on their alternate 50%, and used most likely to determine Net Worth Of The Estate when it comes time to divide the marital property.

I hated that Jaguar. I was afraid to drive it, afraid I’d scratch it or something, and then what happens? Only a month after dropping four trillion dollars on it (ARE YOU CRAZY! YOU CAN BUY A HOUSE FOR THAT!) someone backed into it in a parking lot and then drove off. My first New Car and it was forever tainted. I was so happy to release it amd all that it stood for (can you say OSTENTATIOUS? WASTEFUL?) and buy the Volvo, but was incredibly surprised that it never got sold despite my many Auto Trader ads and its obvious appeal. Or aren’t people swayed these days by black leather and burlwood interiors? Maybe it’s the 12 miles per gallon thing. I don’t know. At any rate, I’m glad I’m not driving and maintaining that albatross anymore.

So. The SUV. Actually, it’s not an SUV. It’s a sport-utility vehicle. What? That’s the same thing? Really? Let’s see….. S…..U…..V….. Oh. Right. Well, I hardly think this one is much good for either sports or utility, but we haven’t taken it to IKEA yet. It does have its own table, though. That’s right, a freaking TABLE, built right into the back hatchy area. What for, camping in the Ozarks? An impromptu picnic perhaps? (Say, honey, let’s pull over at the side of the road with this handy baguette and pate fois gras I just happen to have here, and use that 2×2′ table in the back while we stand around near it because THEY FORGOT THE CHAIRS, okay?) Fun, hey?

So, interior-wise, it’s, um, ugly. The pattern on the faux-velour reminds me of Aztec wallpaper meets the 80′s. It’s in shades of teal and fuschia. I think I’ve gotten used to it already though, either that or it’s already covered with dog hair.

And sparse. But apparently Honda is known for that, since this one reminds me of the 1974 Civic I used to drive. Same amenities.

But the worst part? It smells like a rental car.

I still love it though.
*SUV owners

I’ve put this off waaay too long, and it doesn’t really have the meaning anymore that it did when we made the trip late in August from Colorado to Pennsylvania, but dammit I made notes! And took pictures! While driving! So you’re just going to have to bear with me on this one. Besides, I can’t think of anything else just now to blog about. So there.

Colorado.

It was immensely sad leaving and heading what seemed surely to be the Wrong Direction, east, away from the mountains which had been our guides, our watchers-over, and our confidantes, but there it was. Not far out of Denver things look lonely and sad and bleak, which is exactly how I felt.

Kansas.

I was determined to get into Kansas our first day, but couldn’t for the life of me understand why except that we had a late start, had over 1800 miles to drive, and had 4 days in which to do it. So that was a reason.

I was enormously surprised and pleased by Kansas. Despite its bleakness, especially in the west (and the windiness! this must have been well-known, because I noticed that the convenience stores had chained the trash cans to the building, and not I suppose because someone might march off with them, but from the wind, which even in August was amazing, my hair whipping around my face and the temperature suddenly dropping), Kansas felt surprisingly homelike.

And you know what? Kansas isn’t flat. Doesn’t everyone always say how flat it is? Nope, it’s gorgeous, with rocky outcroppings here and there, each plateau rising into another. Beautiful!

But the best part was the sky: shockingly blue, studded with enormous fluffy white clouds that I just know had I reached my hand out the window, and I so wanted to, I could have touched. THIS is what a sky should look like!

The only disappointment? No wheat. The sign greeting us at the Colorado border promised acres of wheat, referring to Kansas as the Wheat State, but I saw no wheat at all (unless I have no idea what exactly wheat looks like when still on the hoof, which is entirely possible), just that testament to Monsanto, corn.

Missouri.

Immediately upon entering Missouri, there was a noticeable change. For one thing, apparently there is a law there that requires the installation of one or more billboards every 40 feet, or 2 billboards per person, whichever is the higher number. Most of them advertised fireworks and casinos, which together probably bring in more revenue than lottery tickets. And the state bird is actually a locust, because they were audibly buzzing in the trees, protesting the marked increase in humidity compared to Kansas and Colorado.

Illinois.

The billboards here have sadly been abandoned, most of them completely empty and covered with peeling white paint, except for a hand-painted telephone number in case you had any casinos or fireworks to advertise.

It was here that I saw these things:

1. a white-trash-looking trailer home alongside the interstate, with a rickety rusting swing set.

2. a sign advertising the National Outhouse Festival, near Mulberry Grove.

3. an enormous cross, at least 4 stories tall.

Indiana.

This was a mind-numbing panorama of trees alongside two lanes of black expanse stretching toward infinity under an overcast sky.

For amusement, however, there was an apparent clown-car convention somewhere up ahead, as passing me were a fleet of 7 Mini Coopers, each with an Elmo stuck in the back hatch door, halfway in and halfway out, legs evidently paralyzed as they flailed about in the wake of the speeding clowns.

Not to be outdone, near Indianapolis there is a gigantic bowling pin, tilted crazily at an angle, in suspended animation and forever threatening to fall on unsuspecting passersby.

Ohio.

Ohio was about rain, which clearly was an admonishment. I could not help thinking constantly of the helpful warning inside the rented U-Haul truck: “Vehicle is water resistant, not water proof.” Oh. Now you mention it. We’re doomed.

Pennsylvania.

The was a familiar stretch of territory mostly. It’s here that I first saw a plywood cutout painted to look like the backside of a fat farmer’s wife bending over. It’s here that people hang plastic eggs from trees at Easter. And it’s here that people display inflatable seasonal decorations, from 20-foot tall Santas and snowmen to Elmo humping a stack of pumpkins (I kid you not — this one is prominently displayed at the local feed store).

Oh, and the Creepy Dead Forest, off the PA Turnpike near Somerset. Ew.

The Drive.

For me, mind-numbing, but my amusement was attempting to keep Michael, in the U-Haul, in sight in my rear-view mirror, even though he had maps, even though we basically took ONE ROAD the whole way, and even though we were both equipped with cell phones in case of emergency.

Aside from that, I ran down the battery of my iPod daily, made phone calls, scribbled notes about the ridiculous things I saw, and took pictures. Fun!

For Michael, these were Four Days of Chiropractic Torture. We found out afterward that there may have been something wrong with the U-Haul, an alignment problem or something, which caused the truck-trailer combination to shimmy uncontrollably at times and threaten to go off the road. Fun, eh? So we each had our own kind of fun then.

technorati tags: colorado, kansas, missouri, illinois, indiana, ohio, pennsylvania, clouds, ugliness, billboards, gambling, U-Haul, driving, torture, insanity

Just now I glanced out our bedroom window while cutting off the rest of my thumbnail that broke while trying to get this damn thing apart, and I saw the Two Archery Guys walking back to their house? houses? and thought it might be a good idea to post about who lives in our neighborhood while it’s still our neighborhood.

1. Mr. Santa Claus — fat guy with white beard, partial to Hawaiian shirts, who hangs out in his garage and waves glumly to our passing car. He never smiles, just waves. Been doing it for months now. At first I resisted (he must think we look like someone we know?), but after the third time I simply began to wave back.

2. The Two Archery Guys — these two carry huge suitcase-looking-things and big compound bows to the prairie behind our house and shoot arrows at things. Hopefully not the prairie dogs. They walk to and from the same cul-de-sac. Are they a couple? Or are they just two neighbor-dads who happen to share a passion for medieval bowmanship?

3. The Couple Who Never Speaks To Each Other — they’re right across the street from us, on the corner of a cul-de-sac, so we see the side of their backyard. This summer they started building what we think will eventually be a deck. At this rate it looks like they might be enjoying a margarita or two on their new deck by the end of next summer. The slowness might be due to the fact they they apparently never speak directly to one another, but we think their dog acts as interpreter.

4. Nate — every neighborhood has one obligatory kid who runs wild through the streets, right? Parents are never around? That would be Nate. One day he let himself in to our yard and claimed he had followed a frog into our yard from his and it was now sunning itself in one of our window wells. Right.

5. The Loud Family — next door to Nate, as luck would have it, is a family with four children under the age of 5. We can hear them 3 houses down at our house. Clearly they have a relaxed parenting style, because when Michael was talking snakes with the dad (we had snakes in and around our yard, scaring the bejeesus out of Nathaniel and Serena when they almost rode their bikes over it), informing him that there were snakes in the neighborhood, potentially poisonous, the dad turned to his oldest and said “You hear that? There’s snakes around here, so be careful honey” and turned back to Michael. If it were me hearing about snakes? I would have immediately ushered all children inside until said snakes were caught by an experienced snake handler and brought to justice.

6. Everyone Else — We see families hypnotized by large-screen TVs while oblivious to the panoramic nightly sunset display. Others come and go from the park, or walk their dogs regularly. One guy races his two dogs, gleefully chasing each other and prairie dogs, through the prairie behind our house. Moms cluster under the park gazebo while their children brave the summer sun and heat of the playground. New dads proudly push strollers alongside their wives, conscious of their post-baby bodies, yet determined to give their babies an airing.

Just so you know? I rather think we’re the odd ones here, what with Michael’s chanting and our Waldorf weirdness and the moonlight energy rituals we’ve done outside, and our nakedness behind open blinds, and, well, isn’t it nice to be different?

It’s our neighborhood, and we’ll miss it.

technorati tags: neighbors,eccentric

I always wanted a nickname. Something cool, different, something that showed people thought enough of me to create something new about me, a new persona almost.

My friend-from-high-school Cathy was nicknamed Snuggy, from the nickname of a character she played in a play we were in.

Something like that. Something irreverent, yet….elegant. Not that “Snuggy” was elegant.

My mom called me by a nickname that I always found incredibly embarrassing: Casey. I never knew the derivation, suspected with bitter disappointment that it had something to do with trains, and refused to answer to it from anyone but my mother. And when I was old enough, I subtly let her know that it had to be left behind with my childhood.

So when I had children of my own, it was clear that I had to provide them with an identity not only from their given name, but also from a well-chosen nickname. Jessica, a perfectly good name that I thought in 1984 was extremely unusual (could I not have READ any baby name books? to let me know I was among millions of mothers about to award their child the name of at least seven other classmates in each and every class throughout her childhood? a name that sounds really silly when you apply it to someone who’s like 80 years old, but when we’re all that age won’t sound quite so strange?), is now known as Jess. Her nicknames in childhood ranged from Jessalah (my favorite) to Julio (adopted when we wanted to talk about her in front of her, and I don’t think she ever really caught on to this one and must have wondered for years about that mysterious Julio-person that she knew everything and yet also nothing about), to Jessie, who no one but her grandmother ever calls her anymore.

Nathaniel had several: Pumplin, the one that stuck; Boo, for all the booing (crying) he once did; and assorted other ones that were of a more transient variety. Nathaniel, never Nate and oh my god NEVER Nathan although many seem to want to call him this, under pain of his ten-year-old’s disdainful glare, seems to have grown out of all his names and is now just…Nathaniel.

Serena’s name lent itself quite well to Serena-Bobena, but the best was Sweetcake, which split off into Cakelet, which evolved eventually into Serenacake, which, at six, she still is.

Eric became Beric, for Bad Eric which of course I couldn’t say but at times wanted to, especially after sleepless nursing nights and marathons of crying. When he was almost one his sister dubbed him Pecorn, and even though I resisted mightily for weeks, there’s no turning back the strength of Serena when she exerts her will, and soon we were all calling him Pecorn without remembering where he got the name. He was simply…Pecorn. But lately, I noticed we hardly ever call him that and instead he is just Eric, now a Big Boy who doesn’t need his baby nickname.

I still want one though.

Although often lately I’ve suspected that my own life is simply the result of having somehow been trapped inside a very bad movie, in the interest of escapism we’ve been watching some movies of our own lately, and we’ve even joined Netflix.

Heartened by some initial successes (The Station Agent, Rabbit-Proof Fence, and The Dinner Game, I continued with my list.

Next up was Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Although I enjoyed it (I think), Michael couldn’t get past his inexplicable loathing of Jim Carrey, so we didn’t make it past 20 minutes.

Then we tried some from the library: My Life As a Dog (too, uh, Swedish? Distressing, bleak, and we saw only 20 minutes), and The Seventh Seal (oh god, and we thought the other was bleak? Have a look at the photo in the link and you’ve got the idea).

And this one from my dad, billed as the “most interesting 13 minute film introduction scene” he’s ever seen: Once Upon a Time in the West. Uh, flies crawling on bad-guy’s face, anyone? Anyone? Yep, that creaky-windmill scene was riveting. Again: 20 minutes.

Got any ideas?

movies
escapism

I just got back from another 48 hours in Pennsylvania, and even though the reason for the trip was extremely nerve-wracking, I was able to make these observations:

An older couple got on the plane and sat next to me coming home.
He: Dockers, baseball cap (which looked odd and out of place on him; he’s probably used to suits in the boardroom).
She: Lots of makeup, huge diamond.
They: Never spoke more than three sentences to each other.
Me: I never want to be like this with my love.

Pennsylvania is intentionally impossible to navigate in. This keeps the natives there, as they are probably too confused to find their way out. For non-natives, this challenge can be life-threatening. How could you find, say, a hospital, if all the roads look alike, signs are spotty, and you’re forever driving inside a wall of menacing, choking green trees and undergrowth? I’m lucky I got out and got my children out before some sentient vine reached through a window and grabbed us, slowly sucking the life force from us while wrapped up in a cocoon of green leaves, eventually dropping our skeletons onto the forest floor below (Wait. Is that a movie? Should be.)

People make friends, or create alliances, quickly in the unnatural setting that is travel. I asked the woman using the hotel’s one computer (oh why don’t I have a laptop????) how long she’d be, thinking she’d bite my head off for asking. She was friendly and polite, and I said I’d check back in a few minutes. When I came back, there was a man camped out near her looking like he was next in line for the computer. Inexplicably, though, I glanced toward her and she stealthily moved a chair closer to hers and patted it, inviting someone (me?) to sit. Sure enough, when she got up from the desk, she motioned me toward her with an air of conspiracy, and I was able to slide in and print my boarding pass for my morning flight.

Mother-daughter team sitting next to me in the gate waiting area, waiting to board our flight, comparing notes from various celebrity gossip magazines. As if it’s important that no one has seen Tom and Katie’s baby since the birth.

Couple wolfing down breakfast from Chick-fil-a in same waiting area. Ew.

Note to hotel desk woman at Comfort Inn in Philadelphia: I hope your sinus headache is better.

Why do rental cars smell like that?

And hotel rooms, for that matter?

Regarding hotel rooms, how do you handle using the remote, knowing it’s published over and over that the remote is the most germ-laden surface in a hotel room (after dealing with and trying to ignore your knowledge of all the dead skin in the mattress/pillows, bodily fluids or whatever on the never-washed bedspread, not to mention BREATHING THE SAME AIR AS OVER A HUNDRED OTHER PEOPLE in the airplane, etc.)? Or letting your two-year old mouth it? Do you just ignore it, pretend it’s not happening, attempt to clean it, what? Good thing I don’t watch TV.

I hate traveling.

travel
hotels
airplanes
rants

Before we left Colorado last week for our 48 hours in humid-hell Pennsylvania, I instructed my dad to please water my flowers. These flowers have been a point of pride for us, as they rather are the most colorful container display in the neighborhood, consisting of five various containers of mixed flowers, mainly petunias and geraniums.

Before we left, I noticed that the blooms on the petunias were getting sparse, even though I deadhead them religiously. I was a little worried leaving them in my dad’s hands, even though I knew he’d more than likely water them in the 90-plus heat.

When we came home, sure enough, the flowers looked worse. Where were those beautiful blooms we received compliments on all summer?

I watered them thoroughly but secretly gave up on them looking good again for the rest of the season. It was a little sad.

Overnight, masses of blooms appeared, in pinks, whites, reds, and purples.

Again, it’s a Sign.

flowers
prophetic signs

When I bought these and placed them artistically in a bowl, awaiting dismemberment for use in yummy things like hummus and all general cooking, actually, I noticed how very much these bulbs of garlic resemble two plucked headless geese.

Don’t they? Or is it just me?

Anyway, after awhile, it felt like the geese became familiar. I would greet them in the morning when toasting bagels or making tea or oatmeal, and all throughout the day when preparing practically anything to eat for the five people (and dog) in the family.

The geese were my friends.

Tonight, though, I committed murder.

It doesn’t matter that the geese were already dead, already missing their heads. The fact was, they were my friends.

I chose one, slit through the papery outer skin, and broke off a fat clove. I silently gave thanks to my friend the headless plucked goose, and chopped that clove of garlic into spaghetti sauce.

Thank you, friend goose.

garlic

We live in Erie, Colorado, unfortunately named in honor of The Flagship City of Pennsylvania, (home of, among others, Marc Brown, author of the Arthur books for children, as well as Billy Blanks, inventor of TaeBo, and of course Ann B. Davis of The Brady Bunch). Erie, our Erie, is an old mining town recently discovered by huge home builders and developers and other rapists of the earth. So, yes, we live in an almost-new house in a subdivision, BUT….

1. We’re renting and can’t be blamed.
2. There’s a park across the street which allows unobstructed (almost, since you can see through the monkey bars) views of the mountains on the other side of Boulder.
3. We live close enough to Boulder for me to be able to say “we live in Boulder”, at least to anyone who lives somewhere else.
4. Behind us is prairie. Nothing. Nada. Okay, some snakes, and dry grass, and prairie dogs of course. And a couple of old tires. Oh, and a dirt road leading to the firing range (??). But really, it’s prairie.

Our protector animal is Rabbit. It’s my totem, shamanically speaking, not my first choice really but hey, they are fierce in a pinch, aren’t they? Over the months we’ve been here, we’ve seen several. Constantly. They appear in unlikely places, under the street light in front of the house, for example, and somehow we know they’re a Sign.

Day before yesterday, Michael happens to glimpse something out the side window. He tells me to come here, quickly. I see, under the ugly split-rail fence (we’re renting, remember), a little bunny, eyes closed, obviously dead. He tells me to keep the children upstairs. He’s going outside to bury it quickly out on the prairie. He pours a stiff shot and downs it quickly in preparation, and all I can think is that I am so very glad it’s not me who has to deal with this dead animal.

I go upstairs and notice that the children’s window blinds are wide open, open to the prairie. Michael is visible wandering around back there with Mickey, shovel in hand. I quickly call them over to another room and suggest that I read them a story. “What, now?” they blink, uncomprehendingly. “We were playing.” “Yes, now!” I hiss.

So we read. Meanwhile, I know Michael is out there dealing with maggots and yucky stuff. Ew.

A few minutes later, Michael pokes his head up at the top of the stairs. In French, he says something about the rabbit. I thought we were keeping this a secret from the children, I think wildly. They know French! He repeats the phrase, and finally I understand: The rabbit lives.

Huh?

Apparently, when Michael got out there with shovel and plastic bag, the rabbit awoke, shook himself, gave Michael a look that said “Whatja wake me for? Can’t I get any sleep around here?” and bounded off.

It’s a Sign.

rabbits
prairie

Evidently cows are being abducted by aliens, mainly (this makes sense) in California. For what purposes, I don’t know, but someone was concerned enough about it to create a website to spread the news.