Meezer Monday: I'm OK, You're Sort of OK

Every day last week I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I'm beginning to think that maybe it's just easier to sleep that way with the apparently ginormous stick that's up my @ss. It hasn't been an easy summer and there are several contributing factors, but it's as if the switch has been flipped from "Angry? Cry and hate yourself!" to "Angry? Take the more mature route and make faces at people on the street." Srsly. It's like there's this ugly, small-hearted crone inside me that shouts out, "What the eff are you looking at?" 

I'm ashamed to say that's no lie. I was running past the garage in my apartment complex the other day when some random attendant inside called out, "Good morning!" He got rewarded with an expletive that burbled out like I was on an audition for the head-spinning scene in whatever that movie is. (Maybe that's a bad example--I didn't know the guy, I wasn't looking in his direction, and I was about 50 feet away from him. Call me a grinch, but I feel that he should MHOB. You think he says "good morning" to the guys running by?)

You see what I mean about that ginormous stick?! Why should I care if some Howdy Doody says "good morning?" I wish people were nicer to each other! He may have been a lug-headed busy body, but at least he didn't slam the door in my face or look past me as if I were invisible, like half the people in New York.

But the worst part of leaking and saying rotten stuff to random strangers?! It makes you feel really bad. And I really believe there's no excuse for being rude to anyone--in any situation. You always have the option of walking away and saying nothing (unless, of course, you have swallowed a small-hearted crone who shouts out "F*ck" like I have). So here I have been feeling like such an amateur human being, and guess who doesn't seem to mind? Who loves me even when I'm a jerk, when I don't wanna love myself?

Lorenzo.

The behaviorists would say it's not love, of course. But I'm not sure they've done much research in this one particular stinky arena, so heck, I'm gonna anthropomorphize. And overshare a little bit, too.

This summer I've been training for a marathon, so my weekends have been taken up with what is known as the long, slow run. But don't let that Robert Frost-y name fool you--on occasion they've been miserable, sweat-filled 4-hour affairs that  revolve around public bathrooms and easy access to Gatorade.

But it never fails. He always does it. When I come staggering in to the apartment, red-faced and dripping with sweat, there's Lorenzo, waking up from his nap and ready to join me for stretching on the rug. I remember the day he started doing it. He was watching me very intently as I used the foam roller, and then HE started rolling, tentatively at first, on his back. It was like, OMG, this cat's a freakin' genius.

As we stretch out, at some point he wanders over and sticks his nose in my underarm, nips me and then hits the floor, rolling on his back like he's been sniffing catnip. He doesn't care I had to take a 5-minute break at Mile 10. He doesn't care that half the city passed me (those freaking dads in running strollers, for gawd's sake!). Not only does he accept me for smelling bad, he revels in it. It's equal parts embarrassing and endearing, but honestly, I can't think of a better example of someone accepting you for who you are, even when you can't accept who you are. And trust me, its not nearly as gross as the story an ad rep once told me about the dog who was obsessed with her underwear drawer.

P.S. The next time you encounter a nasty human being who asks you "What the eff are you looking at?," know it's nothing personal. He or she is probably stressed out and feeling vulnerable.


Not my favorite by these guys, but it sho nuff gets the point across:




The last and only time I listened to this song was during my senior year in college, fall semester. I was in Greece, and they played this every week at a club called Rebound. Pretty sure the patrons thought we were stupid Americans.

I Feel Like Chicken Tonight

Readers of this blog will understand my surprise when, on a recent visit to my parents' house, I went to check on the Multiple Marys tableau in what was once my childhood bedroom and found neither hide nor, uh, habit of them. Nothing. In their place were a few additional Jesus figures I hadn't seen before, flanked by a proportionately Godzilla-sized ceramic dachshund.

"What did you do with the Marys?" I immediately questioned my sister, brother, mom and dad, who were seated line-up style in the livingroom. Silence. They shook their heads like they had no idea what I was talking about.

"And they weren't Marys anyway--they were Saint Theresas," I told them. The only reason I knew that was because I was gently corrected by a friend when I posted the photo on Facebook. She, clearly having paid way better attention in Catholic school than I had, knew that Saint Theresa was often depicted with flowers, which were (I think) miraculously transformed from a loaf of bread she kept under her cloak (I think the word is scapular, but no--that sounds like something you put in your mouth when they take dental X-rays). I did a search but couldn't find a reference to the loaf of bread anywhere, but that's a handy party trick indeed, especially if you forgot to pick up something on the way.

(I know--that's probably totally sacrilegious and I'll have to, like, buy a 10-pack of indulgences to make up for it.)

In any case, I soon teased out that another of my sisters had likely removed the St.Theresas when she was preparing the room for visitors the weekend before. I looked around, but couldn't find where she stashed them, or what inspired the new installation shown in the photo above--Christ on the cross sandwiched in between 2 large chickens made out of tiny shells. I took some artistic license actually, and left out the outermost figures (Hummel figurines, one the "Chimney Sweep") on either side of the chickens and--though I'm not sure there this was intentionally part of the grouping, but they were symmetrically placed at far left and far right--two white Thermos bottles.

WTF. Just….WTF?!

I'm pretty sure my sister didn't mean it this way because she makes a lot of fried chicken, but I immediately interpreted this particular grouping as a statement about the suffering of birds in factory farms. When I was about 5 or 6, we'd often pass by a duck farm in Southampton and I was thrilled whenever we drove that way--I GOT TO SEE DUCKS!!!--until the day I figured out why they were there. They were going to die because people were going to eat them. I can still remember sitting in the back of the car (a burgundy Cutlass Supreme) and my heart expanding and breaking and then closing as the scene I'd always looked forward to turned into something… undoubtedly, all-the-way, no-going-back bad.

It took me years to fully make the connection between my ducks and my, or anyone's, decision of what to eat. I'm not sure exactly when I learned that people could be vegetarian or not eat Spaghetti-Os or whatever. I'm pretty sure I thought everyone everywhere (mostly) ate the same things (except at Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory, where THEY FREAKIN' SAILED DOWN A DRINKABLE CHOCOLATE RIVER!). When I finally figured out it was indeed possible to be a person who doesn't eat ducks, it wasn't really any earth-shattering discovery--more like I'd already decided long ago in the Cutlass Supreme, only I hadn't really known what I was deciding.

And what about my old room and the Two Chickens for Jesus? The only thing that remains of me in the room is the Woody Allen switchplate, which is hidden behind a desk. It looks like someone tried to remove it, but those screws aren't going anywhere unless they rip the whole thing out of the wall. And incidentally, one of my favorite articles I ever wrote was about a therapy chicken named Ruby who worked with traumatized kids. She did get a special award and flew to New York (on a plane, of course) to receive it, but I wanted to honor her here.

For you, girl, and for my ducks too: a musical composition that sometimes takes a short flight and then settles in, and this art installation of great tho inadvertent import. And the chicken equivalent of a river of drinkable chocolate, though I'm not sure what that would be.

Sunday Sidewalk Surfin': I Can't Control My Fingers, I Can't Control My Toes

 While getting my ticket for the bus this morning, I noticed a random fingernail on the ground that appears to be painted the exact shade as my toes--"Hey DJ Play That Song."

I thought it was whimsical at first, but actually it's kinda creepy and familial, like this fingernail is a long lost stepbrother from a bad Lifetime movie. You go through something life-changing or win the lottery or something, and a few days later he mysteriously shows up at your door, bringing cookies he made with peanut oil, when everyone knows you have a nut allergy. Even though you couldn't possibly be able to give him what he needs, because he's a lone fingernail and you, well, you're 5 toenails.

Update, June 23: I wasn't sure how unusual it was to find a random fingernail on the ground painted the exact same color as one's most recent pedicure--but when I shared this story with a friend, she assured me it was  unusual indeed. At that point I tried to describe how I felt about the rogue nail. I couldn't quite put my finger (yuk yuk) on what made me so upset by its appearance, but it's almost like Sartre's Being and Nothingness, the main gist of which I am about to completely butcher. (Fair warning, this is gonna be like the freakin' Hello Kitty version of Existentialism.)

True free conciousness--which is what we all, or at least I, sometimes want--is no-thing-ness--being free of the subjectivity of others. In this case, the nail, by virtue of its being the color of Hey DJ Play That Song, aligned itself with me (or, uh, my feet), unbidden, taking away my "center of the universeness." Like, crap man, I'm not the only DJ Play That Song out there and I thought I was. And hey, by the way it feels so good and perfect to be the only one because then you don't have to think about all your own crap and what a mess you are because...there's no. one. to. compare. yourself.to! You're the only one in the race so you gotta win. But the rogue pinky ruins all that. So all of a sudden you're like, what must I prove to, or what do I owe, this nail, whose existence I hadn't planned on? Get it away from me and my toes!

Mother Marys, Come to Me

Full disclosure: It feels kind of wrong for me to be writing this. But kind of right, too. Just know that I'm not dissing Mary, okay?

The other night I slept in the room I had as a child--my personal space from when I was about 5 to the time I left for New York City after college. I actually can't remember much about it, which is sort of sad knowing I have such a good memory, but there are little bits that stick out.

When I was 7-8ish, I had a blue and green striped blanket that doubled as the ocean and pasture for my Breyer horses (well, actually I think I only had one), and when I was about 10, I hung my  baseball cap collection from the windows. My favorite was the snazzy black and yellow Pittsburgh Pirates one, with the green and gold Oakland As a close second. I also had a knick-knack shelf where I displayed my little porcelain figurines, a sizable number of which were raccoons. I can't remember how anything looked toward the end of my reign, but I know I had the bed positioned catty-cornered, gulping up the small space, but in a positive feng-shui sort of way. I was never much for hanging stuff up, preferring four blank walls--a greater surface area to absorb my teenage histrionics (i was a big sobber), I figure.

So, after I left, my parents turned my room into an office and, uh, redecorated, as you can see in the above photo. "What is that??!" I asked my sister the other night, pointing to the myriad Marys.

If you haven't guessed, my family is super Catholic. And to be fair, my sister totally knew this was a little over the top--it turns out the mother of a friend of my brother's had the plastic Marys and didn't want to throw them out so found a good home for them…ours. Like they'd ever turn away Mary, you know? Even multiple ones in wee plastic form.

Anyway, a couple things tripped me up as I surveyed the scene. For one, it's sort of implied here that 7 plastic Marys are better than 1, even though, as far as I know, there was only one Mary in real life. And then it seemed that the giant Jesus was like the queen bee, and the little Marys were the drones. And there sure are a bunch of other religions w/males at the head--what's up with that?! And then I thought--could they all be from a backgammon set?

And you can't see them in this photo, but to the right of the Marys are several dog figurines, each one the equivalent in size of about 3 Marys. It's almost like they're two teams matched up against each other, but that doesn't seem a fair fight. 'Cause you know the Marys would totally kick some canine a$$, you know?



Kind of perfect that I used to play this:

Abs of Still

Me and Lorenzo, we've been working on our cores lately. Here he is after his daily mutilating of the rug--his tummy a whorling dervish all zebra'd and cowlicked and chocolate-chipped, sweetly Seussian despite the fact I had to throw the rug out soon after this photo was taken. (Upon removal of the rug, he immediately started using the cat scratcher. Like, immediately, as in "Where ya been all my life?")

Anyway, my point is… his belly. He's not one of those trickster cats who baits-and-switches, displaying the stomach in an attempt to get you to pet it, only to grab your unsuspecting hand and filet it with his front claws… No, he really just likes to hang out like this, spread out like a flounder, and I get the sense when he's doing it he's content and at ease and maybe even…recharging his powerhouse (that's what they call your core in Pilates).

Not that far-fetched, given the theory behind the Crane exercise, which I've been doing for the past week, as prescribed by my kick-ass Pilates teacher. As outlined by Dr. Stephen Chang in The Book of Internal Exercises, it's pretty easy--lie on your back and rub your stomach clockwise from the center, spiraling out "until the upper and lower limits of the stomach and abdomen are being rubbed." Oh, and then counterclockwise, but the most important component is the "visualization of heat and energy filling the lower part of the body." The effects supposedly vary, says Dr. Chang, from reduction of fat and relief from constipation to curing insomnia.

So, y'all know I eat this stuff up--give me something, anything, you can't see to believe in, and I'll believe in it. I mean, wouldn't YOU rather imagine waves of energy shooting off you fingers and lighting a fire in your abdomen to remove extra fecal matter ("Go on, shove off!") than, say, have a bunch of enemas?

Yup, I thought so! In any case, so far I've been enjoying the Crane. (I know, I know, it's like cranes don't even have stomachs, but when they bend their legs and tuck their limbs under themselves they're constantly stimulating their abdomens, hence the name). At first I felt all squirmy about it (do not do this after eating a bag of popcorn), but I'm finding it calming and centering.  It's the kind of thing that's so soothing, in fact, you could  find yourself absentmindedly doing it in public.

As for Lorenzo, well, he clearly has Tummy Pride, and major Butt Pride, too. Just last week he showed up right before the beginning of the big remote monthly meeting with my department, Skyping his entire ass (plus some extras) in front of the video camera on my Mac for all to see. Not that any Pilates teacher would recommend that, even if you're a cat.

Hugh & Eye

The day after Easter, and chocolate bunnies and Cadbury eggs and jelly beans are all 50% off. I passed this dirty old Peep, ears chewed off & marshmallow-graying, stuck to the pavement outside of the CVS on 88th Street, and I had to take a picture. It was sad in that way you feel bad for unwanted things, but looked a little whacked-out, too, like a psycho-bunny high on its own sugary, spongy supply.

So all that got me thinking about …Hugh Hefner. Like, what is that man’s deal? Clearly, he’s some kind of genius, but it's so deceptively simple, isn't it? He’s lead a honky revolution out of the most primal desire for "big, bulbous bags of fat." No different, really, than Frank Perdue pushing his oven stuffer roasters, or Tom Carvel and Fudgy the Whale.

(Wow. They are a potent triumvirate, aren't they?)

I sound really cranky. Sorry. I think I'm pissed off because writing this called to mind that awful article on breast evolution--did they have to say "drooping bags of fat" for cripes' sake? Something about it was sort of insulting to anyone with boobs.

You know what I say? It's time for everything, not just breasts, to evolve. Frank Perdue, no one in the United States, dear lost land of overconsumption, needs to be stuffing their entire oven with *anything*-- especially not factory-farmed chickens. Hugh, you are way too smart and, yes, progressive, to be even seven-degrees-of-Kevin-Bacon linked to Kendra Wilkinson and her narcissistic behavior in--OK, yes I admit i watch this stuff--the new celebrity diving competition "Splash" (how could ANYONE be bitchy to Greg Louganis?!).

And who here wants a slice of Tofudgy the Whale?!

Wait, Loss

    

I'm still thinking about Manuela, the pet red-footed tortoise who was found after 30 years. Seems her family was cleaning out their upstairs storage room this past January and took a bag of trash to the curb when a neighbor noticed Manuela, crawling around in an old box with a turntable to keep her company.

Never mind that all the online articles that reported this story referred to the reptile as both "he" and "she," or that this weird family had piled stuff in bags in 1982 and never touched them again, until now--what really matters is…what was Manuela thinking all that time? They surmised she survived on termites, but… did time go slow and floaty all lava lamplike? Or am I just thinking that because turtles seem to move and think in a way that one chelonian minute = one human hour? And OMG, not that she could exactly operate the turntable, but what 1 side of 1 album could YOU listen to for 30 years? (I love you, George, but what if you got stuck with, say, side 5 or 6 of "All Things Must Pass"? You'd have to listen to a crazy party over and over where you love all the guests but ultimately had to be there… But all you are is here…and "here" is in a box for 30 years…)

Anyway, it got me thinking about the turtles in the reservoir in Central Park, those red-eared sliders whom people buy as pets and then wind up dumping… They've been there, way down deep, all winter. Maybe they problem-solve and do a group turtle think, planning for the spring to come. Maybe they don't do much, softly jostled to awareness only if something juicy's happening on the roof…Like, did they hear the loafy, oafy echo echo echo of that buffoon who tried to walk across the not-frozen-all-the-way ice in early February? He fell through and a bunch of firemen had to come rescue him, as the rest of us who happened to be in the park that day watched… I wish all of them down there a safe journey back…or maybe it's the other way around--that being above the surface is the dreamier dreamworld.

Then, of course, there is the ain't-got-no-reservations, I'm-100%-happy-to-be Waiting, a la Elmer:

                                                      


Does the 4 seconds he has to wait to have the ball thrown feel like 30 years? And if you felt such gloriously excellent in-the-moment expectation, would you mind waiting that long anyway?

Slow or fast, slow or fast. Oh yeah, oh yeah.



Then there's the waiting you hear wax-and-waning off Bryan Ferry's voice in this next one.. you know, the delicious histrionic kind from which tiny poems slip and drip and gasp…



Random P.S. Those reading who are looking for love, take note--don't discount the power of that song. This sucker lured me into a crappy relationship a long time ago that ended in 11 forgotten boa constrictors and being banned from using the bathroom and having to pee on the beach instead, made even more enjoyable with a UTI. Yup, that powerful. Good luck, and don't leave your snake at home. And for that matter, make sure you know where your turtle is.