NS March 1st, 2008

I found an old journal of mine the other day, filled with poems written during my senior year of high school. The cover of the journal, which is red and blue and brown in a Southwestern design, was put on backwards and upside down so that what looks like the front is actually the back, wrong side up. I thought that was so symbolic at the time.

My parents gave me a new journal for Christmas every year because they knew I filled them up quite quickly and was always looking to replenish my stock. Inside the front cover, I always printed my name and the date I began writing in it. This one says I started it on Christmas Day 1996. In the interests of comedy and nostalgia, I’m reprinting a few of the poems I found inside, ones I haven’t read for many years. Enjoy (or not)! Oh, and sorry for the double spacing throughout, it’s my template and I couldn’t be bothered to change it for this one post. I’m lazy like that.

Birthday Boy

My darling little boy

is dressed in birthday blues

Such a brave little solder

what am I to do

It’s killing me to see the pain

bleeding from his eyes

This blow was not expected

he’s bound to ask me why

Little Susan came

with pushing from her mother

She’s sitting solemnly

while he waits for all the others

The beautiful cake I made

sits next to Susie’s card

The candles melting down

near the door where he stands guard

He wants to check the invitation

maybe they were wrong

He’s pulling on my skirt

asking what’s taking them so long

I smile through my tears

and pat his innocent head

Oh god, give me his suffering

give it to me instead

The party games lay still

he knocks them to the floor

A mother’s realization

I can’t protect him anymore

Susan starts to cry

and asks if she can go back home

My little boy in blue

is now oh-so all alone

His once vibrant face

has aged in this one day

His birthday expectations

have all been thrown away

As he trudges up the stairs

his head hung like a fool

I torment in his grief –

kids can be so cruel

Little Town

In a little town

that is run by Mayor Brown

Where the roads are still not paved

and the Amish still don’t shave

Where they’re blowing manhole covers

and Pop and Sis are lovers

There’s a little laid-back place

that discriminates by race

In the back there’s yellow beet

and a stack of dirty sheets

Round the corner is a house

that’s as quiet as a mouse

All the white men beat their wives

sly as cats who have nine lives

The Chinese couple opened shop

Sis works there when not with Pop

The Hispanics in the slums

quote Macbeth and chew their gum

There’s an all-night Uzi store

where they’ve tired of keeping score

In the single county car

Sheriff Herschel rubs his scar

Sneaks in safely to his home

and idolizes Al Capone

In the forest late at night

by a fire draped in white

All the women of the town

take turns beating Mayor Brown

Floating On By

Just one moment

maybe in Tahiti

No x’s and o’s

at the end of the letter

Two sundeck chairs

and a life that is better

Two fortune cookies

that we throw to the sea

Sippin’ cider through a straw

and tanning our feet

Those precious little moments

when we fall from a laugh

Into each other’s arms

and a pink bubble bath

I could live in your eyes

and never have to explain

By a fire in Mexico

toasting love with champagne

Filling my soul

with the sweet smell of you

On warm autumn days

under a sky carved from blue

From cinnamon trees

we dangle and grin

Tickled by grass

on elbows and chins

As we run alongside

the rusty sunset

We’re fearless of waves

not afraid to get wet

Amen hallelujah

little angels float by

Washing up on our shore

where they learn how to fly

Cupping our hands

we blow them a kiss

And make up for time

we’ve desperately missed

• Life's Lyrics , Miscellaneous Missives
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NS December 21st, 2007

It’s coming on Christmas
They’re cutting down trees
They’re putting up reindeer
And singing songs of joy and peace
Oh I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
But it don’t snow here
It stays pretty green
I’m going to make a lot of money
Then I’m going to quit this crazy scene
I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
I wish I had a river so long
I would teach my feet to fly
Oh I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
I made my baby cry

He tried hard to help me
You know, he put me at ease
And he loved me so naughty
Made me weak in the knees
Oh I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
I’m so hard to handle
I’m selfish and I’m sad
Now I’ve gone and lost the best baby
That I ever had
Oh I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
I wish I had a river so long
I would teach my feet to fly
Oh I wish I had a river
I made my baby say goodbye

It’s coming on Christmas
They’re cutting down trees
They’re putting up reindeer
And singing songs of joy and peace
I wish I had a river
I could skate away on

I love that Joni Mitchell song.

That’s all I wanted to say.

Okay, not really. But I’ve been so busy that I haven’t had time to write anything. My sister and I have been spending all of our time together — hanging out, shopping, wrapping gifts, playing games, going out, cooking, eating, drinking, watching movies, doing our nails, reading, playing with TNC, going for walks, talking constantly…it’s been great. So I’m sure you’ll understand if posting is a bit light in the next week or two.

Now, I leave you with this amusing little column I read in Vanity Fair today, entitled “The Vanities Dare: The Department Store Santa.”

1. After your child has finished itemizing everything he or she wants for Christmas, press a dollar into Santa’s hand and say, “For your trouble.”

2. Tell a mother and child waiting behind you that Santa’s throne is made of Blitzen.

3. Rehearse your child so that when Santa asks what the tyke wants, he or she bursts into tears and says, “I just want Mommy and Daddy to be married again!”

4. Using both hands, foist a squirmy toddler upon Santa while saying in an Eastern European peasant accent, “I bake just for you … I bake just for you … ”

5. Wearing an airport-security badge and holding a Rubbermaid tub, stand at the head of the line and announce, “Nobody gets to see Santa unless they take off their shoes, take out their laptops, and dispose of all liquids that aren’t in three-ounce bottles!” Repeat every 30 seconds.

Three-Point Dares

1. Scrutinize Santa up and down, then ask witheringly, “Why do you have to dress like such a whore?”

2. Show up in a rented red suit and false beard and announce to Santa, “You’re out, fatso. Manager’s making a little change.”

3. Show up in a rented elf suit, pass Santa a résumé, and plead, “I really need this gig.”

4. Get on both knees and snort the fake snow.

5. Hold up a copy of Paula Deen’s memoir, It Ain’t All About the Cookin’, and say, “Don’t get me wrong, Santa, I admire you, but you did some bad shit to Mrs. Claus.”

Five-Point Dares

1. Tug down on Santa’s false beard, point at him in alarm, and scream, “Megan’s Law! Megan’s Law!”

2. Sidle up to Santa and say conspiratorially, “Hey, I got the stuff.” Then drop a dime bag in his lap.

3. Bow your head, perform a sign of the cross, address Santa as “Father Christmas,” and confess to having impure thoughts about someone within earshot.

4. Dressed as a character from Pasolini’s 120 Days of Sodom, step up to Santa and announce, “I’ve brought the children, Master Claus, just as you requested.”

5. Tell the gathered children that Rudolph is dead—his nose turned red because Putin poisoned him with polonium.

Apparently they’re taking submissions from readers to flesh out the list so if you have a witty one to add, submit away. Mine would be: Sit your child on Santa’s lap angrily, stick a bow on her head and thrust some paperwork into Santa’s hands. Say “The paternity test results are in, you bastard. Merry fucking Christmas. She’s all yours” and then walk away.

If I only had the balls.

• Banal Breakdown , Life's Lyrics
• Comments(4)

NS September 12th, 2007

It’s official — Led Zeppelin really are reuniting for a show at London’s O2 arena. Tickets will cost £125 each and be awarded by ballot.

What do you think my chances are, not only of winning a ballot but talking the Noble Husband into letting me dish out that kind of cash to see some dinosaur rockers play one gig? I’d say it’s somewhere between Slim and None, but by golly, I’m entering anyway.

• Banal Breakdown , Life's Lyrics
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NS March 12th, 2007

Over the course of my life, I’ve had many friendships. Some were short-lived and mainly insignificant, surviving only on sharing a fleeting interest in something, but some were (and are) truly special. Like water slowly dripping onto rock, good friendships don’t exert a palpable pressure in an attempt to plow through substance. Rather, the rock doesn’t even notice that the water has changed it until the steady reassurance of that constant drip changes rhythm and the minerals and particles that shape the rock find that they have been formed, irreversibly and wonderfully, into a beautiful canyon through which the water runs freely.

When someone’s presence in your life is immutable, when their friendship never ebbs even after the tide washes you far from their shore, you know you’ve found something extraordinary. Together, your friendship grows and changes, even under pressure, to flow together. Sometimes, you’ll be the unmoving, sturdy rock and they’ll be the fluid, emotive water — inspiring, changing, soothing, smoothing — and at others your roles will reverse, imperceptibly, when one of you is standing still and needs to feel that water rushing over you, lifting you up and propelling you forward when everything feels unmovable and permanent.

There’s one friend in particular who has always been my rock, since we met in a hot and stifling dorm in our freshman year at college. Her vapid blonde roommate and mine, a sheltered, shy artist with an amazing music collection and a raging case of eczema, had met and bonded in the first few days and soon after that I ventured down the hall to hang out with them, seeing as I hadn’t formed my own friendships yet. There sat Drea, tall, statuesque, a Marlboro Red dangling between her long, elegant fingers, her brow knitted in concentration as she leaned over a book and scraped her hair back from her face with her free hand, exhaling a cloud of smoke with a sultry sigh. The words that came out of her mouth were so adult, so smart, so sarcastic — I was in awe. I felt like a kid, a puppy, a star struck fan that runs into a celebrity at a party and doesn’t know what to do except try to keep their jaw off the floor.

She must’ve thought more highly of me than I did of myself because soon we were laughing (that was my saving grace — being able to make people laugh) and talking about music and discovered our shared love of Bob Dylan and Ani Di Franco. We became fast friends and the following year, roommates. I won’t go into the details, the ins and outs, the loveliness and the occasional ugliness of that time we spent together, but when I left the US, I wasn’t sure if we would stay in touch. I’d been an idiot, hurtful, irresponsible, irrational — I wouldn’t have blamed her if she ran a mile and never bothered to answer emails I sent from across the pond.

But she did, and she does. And the words we write are the most real exchanges I have, no bullshit or fake niceties, with little small talk. We discuss and share our innermost thoughts, fears, dreams, loves and aches, all without drama or judgment. We each play the rock and we each flow like water, constant in one another’s lives and prepared to carry the other forward if they were to ever get stuck in between those hard places in life that won’t budge until pushed.

Once again, Bob says it much better than I ever could. From the scratchy album we wore out in that threadbare living room:

You breathed on me and made my life a richer one to live,
When I was deep in poverty you taught me how to give,
Dried the tears up from my dreams and pulled me from the hole,
Quenched my thirst and satisfied the burning in my soul.

The tune that is yours and mine to play upon this earth,
We’ll play it out the best we know, whatever it is worth,
What’s lost is lost, we can’t regain what went down in the flood,
But happiness to me is you and I love you more than blood.

• Friends , Life's Lyrics , Squish Squish
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NS February 28th, 2007

I’ve never been big on cleaning. I have no OCD tendencies (except for when I’m pregnant and live in a house with a brand new, gleaming white toilet, sink, tub and floor — then I am cleaning that shit every 5 minutes because otherwise it’s just icky and you can see every speck of dirt and every hair and my irrational impregnated self cannot sleep if it’s not spotless) and no one has EVER accused me of being a neat freak or ‘anal’. Okay, well, Paul might have, but this is a man who can’t even close a closet door after he’s retrieved an object and leaves dirty Q-tips sitting around the bathroom, so I don’t think he’s one to judge cleanliness levels and whether methods to dispose of said dirt are over the top or not.

I wouldn’t say I hate cleaning, just that I lack the motivation required for how often it needs to be done. I have days where I’d rather stick myself in the eyeball repeatedly with a toothpick than scrub the stove and others where I go to vacuum and find myself in the midst of a cleaning frenzy, unable to stop until I drop and every surface shines. Once I’m in the Zone, there’s no going back. I actually enjoy cleaning when I’m in the mood, the sun is shining bright, the windows are open, and some good, energetic songs are pumping through the speakers.

Today, the songs that got me through cleaning out the fridge and silverware drawer and bleaching the countertops were “I Love To Boogie” by T-Rex, “Paint it Black” by the Rolling Stones, “99 Luftballons” by Nena, “Family Affair” by Mary J. Blige and “Sing Sing Sing” by Big Bad Voodoo Daddy. Which songs keep you from slitting your wrists while you’re dusting the day away?

• Banal Breakdown , Life's Lyrics
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