Flower Power Meets Grrl Power
Earlier this month we were shocked to learn that our local thrift store was bolting from the neighborhood. I sprang into action and started a petition, I contacted the organization that runs the store, the Bishop, local media and local bloggers, friends and family and anyone I could think of that might help. I received no response from the non-profit, but the Bishop sent a Vicar to the store to alert us all that they heard us and were looking at alternatives to serve the community. One radio reporter said he’d take the story idea to his editor, but I never heard back from him.
The goal was to get 100 signatures to try to sway their decision. If the honcho at the non-profit decided to follow the online petition he is probably pretty sure of himself right now. There are exactly 35 signatures there. His glee will last till exactly the moment the President of his Board of Directors gets my letter with copies of the online petition and the paper one with approximately 400 signatures and a carbon copy to the Bishop. (The copy for the Bishop includes a thank you addressed to his lovely personal secretary because it was her who forwarded our letter and brought it to his attention.)
All we have accomplished to this point is give voice to those who need the place most, poor and working families with limited resources. What happens next is out of my hands, but despite the fact that I don’t get to make the final decision, I still feel strangely empowered. You give a Baby Boomer’s kid a Cause and you make her Roar!
Better a living platitude than dead inside...
My Mother always told me I was fully prepared to choose wisely between right and wrong; all that was left, no matter what else I did, was to have the courage of my convictions.
Winston Churchill said that success is not final and failure is not fatal. He contended that it is the courage to continue that counts and that without courage all other virtues lose their meaning. That’s little consolation when you fail and fall on your ass (metaphorically speaking). But universal truths aren’t always about bringing comfort to your ailing ego.
I personally think courage is a sort of insanity. Mark Twain defined courage as resistance to fear (resistance is futile), it is mastery over it (not the absence of fear). Well, I let the monster out of the cage and now I have to ride it. Forest: trees? I see neither wisdom nor courage; it is done so it just is. And the fear creeps up and screams in my head,
“WTF did you do?! Undo it, undo it!!!” The answer is no.
I took a stand because I believed it was high time I did. I meant it. I have the courage of my conviction, even if it gets me spanked yet again. I can’t back down any more, I hit the wall: the time has come to push back or wither and die. I’m not afraid to die, but I need to die for something better than conformity.
UPDATE: I had my say. For the moment, I can let that stand while others think on their next move. I’m ready for mine whatever their actions (or inaction). I can concentrate on other things until it’s my turn to do something. But the pussyfooting is over. That ship has sailed.
Letting go
Tomorrow is going to be an interesting day because it will present me an opportunity to break out of a role that has been imposed on me but which I did not exactly fight. I suppose the battle takes a head tomorrow. I either take a stand or remain a throw rug. Before going to bed shortly, I must decide how much I value myself and how much more I’m willing to lose to live up to it. Do I possess the confidence and enough faith in myself? Because this will be about drawing very specific lines in the sand, and there are no gray areas here: it’s death or resurrection. Backing down means adding insult to stagnation. It might also mean change – unprecedented change that leads me to a worse place.
I’d be more afraid, since I’m betting the house. But the house is an illusion; I have nothing and therefore nothing to lose. It’s all or nothing and I already have nothing. Let’s try the other thing for a change!
This is what New Agers might refer to as a
Letting Go. Tomorrow I will, at least symbolically, release the butterflies.
I Like my Jazz Singers Tragically Flawed
There is something enigmatically charming about Amy Winehouse, but I fear it is the train wreck waiting to happen that I see in her. She sounds like a slacker Billie Holiday with a bit of Dinah thrown in for good measure
(Mom says she reminds her a bit of Janis too). She lists her musical influences thusly: Sarah Vaughn, Dinah Washington, the Shangri Las, Elvis Presley, Mos Def and Busta Rhymes, among others. Interesting choices. (Check out her
YouTube videos here.)
"Back to Black" keeps playing in my head and "Rehab" reminds me of my misspent youth – especially because she is probably hanging out with the same reprobates I was. "F*ck Me Pumps" is too familiar and, not wanting to be the lead in that little story, one of the reasons I never quite belonged and found it rather easy to walk away and never look back.
Listening to her is something of a throwback but the lyrics will remind you that it is a whole new world and a new century too. Certainly don't expect Carla Thomas crooning "Gee Whiz."
You MUST Bill and Coo!
Usually, we stay up late Saturday nights to watch “Masterpiece Theater” or “Mystery” on PBS. But they’ve been on begging mode and there was none of that this night. Instead they played 2 documentaries, “Winged Migration” and “Emperor’s of the Ice.”
Then, at the usually appointed hour there was a listing for a movie; a relatively short film running just over an hour. All the TV guide said was “
Bill and Coo, 1947.”
I don’t even know how to begin… Bill and Coo were birds. Lovebirds, to be exact… This is supposed to have been a children’s movie but I suspect gargantuan amounts of marijuana were involved in the concept meeting, the writing and performing (including a circus act with a line about “rolling your own”). We haven’t laughed this hard in years, and we were sober! Twisted and surreal but charming in a bizarre way.
Just when we were feeling jaded and thinking we’d seen it all! Dude, you gotta see this thing (
download it)!! I’ll end this by quoting a review that appeared in the New York Times:
an otherwise restrained critic was moved to describe the film as "by conservative estimate, the God-damnedest thing I've ever seen."
Fashionistas are going to hell
Every year, if resources were available, we’d get a new outfit for Easter. It was a tradition. This was the ultimate Sunday’s best!
There will be none of that this year, for various reasons. But that doesn’t mean that we still don’t look at the sales circulars with their pretty little dresses and precious shoes and matching bonnets and remember our childhoods and family tradition, of Easters past and things like that… (The only pastel hued Easter eggs we are interested in getting are Faberge!)
It was the boys’ suits that left us speechless. They looked like pimp suits! Sure we laughed and laughed; but someone is going to buy these unfortunate ensembles and make their children wear them to church. That just seems so perverse.
They eat babies, you know?
I don’t relish in the suffering of others. I do enjoy me a little comeuppance and the utter humiliation of those I despise, but that’s different. Most of humanity’s ill fates bring me no joy and I tend to empathize a little; I’m not a complete bitch – despite rumors to the contrary from ex-boyfriends and others that have crossed me. Rest assured, if I was the catalyst to their pain, they probably had it coming. I don’t commit senseless acts of evil, they are well planned and executed, and placed squarely on the lap of the intended.
I tell you all this because as the political arena opens up to yet another presidential campaign, there will be a need for
“strategists” and I am grossly under-employed these days. It barely pays the rent, but it masks my true genius nicely.
Call me! Will freelance for good chocolate.
I ain't sweating this sucker!
Still a bit stiff, but less so than yesterday, or even this morning. And after hearing the body count that suffered at the violent meeting with concrete these last few days, I count myself awfully lucky.
One of the nurses from the clinic around the corner from our house took a header and met the top step at the entrance. Instant head injury: bloody and ugly. Lucky for her, she did this in a building full of doctors and lots of bandages. One of the little old ladies we know also took a spill, but she broke two ribs.
I dodged a
nucular missile, as far as I’m concerned. The occasional muscle tinge is a minor annoyance that will pass soon enough. The few bruises, those will take a little longer to disappear, but they’ll be but a memory in time—except when I tell the story and whip out the lawyer’s business card, goddess bless his misguided soul. All I have to remember is: don’t kneel, don’t do the twist like we did last summer (and don’t twist again), and buy a granny bar for the bathtub.
You know I’m okay when thoughts of malady are quickly replaced with ideas of whom I’d like to play doctor with instead...
Owwwwwwwww!
Everything hurts. But only on my left side; so, if the body decides to have a heart attack, how will I know? Whatever, we will deal with that 911 call when the time is necessary.
In the meantime, I will be performing no jigs. And my flamenco days are over, because at the moment holding up my left arm is not conducive to graceful, subtly sensual movements. (Especially because we are back to the smelling of the camphorated vapors and more nausea!)
I suppose I can be happy there’s little bruising. The calendar says March, feels like February. Unless
this is my Spring crisis?! I hope
it is and we’re done humbling me.
Only in Freaking Brooklyn
My morning started with my trying to transfer my last antihistamine from its bottle to the smaller container I carry in my work bag. I mishandled it. It fell on the floor and rolled under the stove. “
Oh, freaking great!” I thought, “If the mouse comes back, at least he can eat it and one of us will be allergy free…”
I walked gingerly to the train station, down the subway stairs, and through the park between the Courthouse and Borough Hall. I had just taken the change for my morning coffee out of my pocket and was putting the extra change back when I went airborne. I tried to scream but it was useless, I braced for impact instead.
I landed chest first, bounced and dragged on my left side; and then both knees scraped along. I broke my pocket, I took a chunk of pinky – which started bleeding immediately, and there goes that pair of stockings! My coat now has salt scrapings on it as does my bag. But other than a layer of skin coming right off my right knee, a bit of blood, and the lingering soreness that will probably last me a week, I think I will survive.
A very gallant African American gentleman helped me up as I tried to snap out of the hard landing. “Are you alright?” he asked, concerned. A second gentleman came towards us and slowed down.
“I think I scraped myself a little but other than my dignity, I think I’ll be okay, thank you,” I responded, fighting tears.
The older gent went into his suit to fish out his card, “If you’re not, you call me. I’ll be your witness! I’ll even take a picture of your injuries with my cell phone.”
I started laughing.
“Nooo! What if, God help us, you need surgery on that knee? No! You keep my card and I’ll be there for you.”
I kept the card. Every New Yorker should have a good ambulance chaser story of her own! (I hope that line doesn't come back to bite me in the bee's hind!)
Aroma/Aversion Therapy
There is nothing like the smell of camphor and menthol to bring memories of fear and well-being, comfort and horror, nausea and nostalgia. It is psychological and physiological warfare at the cellular level!
Would you rather experience relief now or relive childhood trauma? This would be what Stephen King would do if he wrote “Sophie's Choice” as a psychotic tug-of-war.
With apologies to Gloria Estefan: Watch out, the vapors are gonna get you!
Hootie’s Hotty?
I knew I was in trouble when I disembarked the bus last night. The temperature had dropped considerably since my lunch hour – at the rate of 25-30 degrees. There was a freezing drizzle falling and an artic gust building up. My body rebels when you expose it to extremes like that.
After several false starts towards sleep, I awoke at 6 am -- an ungodly hour -- and doubled up on antihistamines. The effect we wanted was less dripping and congestion. I got that and a minor coma!
I was nauseous, my voice was going fast, my sinuses hurt, my head was hazy and it had blown up with all the liquid and crap that was being processed with rapidly and loudly. I looked like a freaking blowfish! Not a good morning…
The big snowstorm seemed like a fiction from my window though. I found out later in the afternoon that this was not the case. Some of it had iced up and Mom took another tumble out there. She landed on the same knee and is nursing an aching bod right now.
St. Patrick’s eve tended to suck this year. Maybe tomorrow will be better.
My Heart is like Mudville…
Sure, I’m mixing sports metaphors, but it remains true:
there is no joy!
This afternoon, moments before the tourney began, I put my bracket together. I did so half-heartedly because I knew my team was not strong enough to make it past the second round. That does take the fun out of it a little. But I wasn’t expecting them to get tossed in the first round!
So I mourn. I was able to enjoy the other games, it’s not like the year those evil trolls from Marquette-
(I can’t speak of it, it’s too soon, forgive me).
Oh, it’s a mad, mad, mad tournament!
In B-ball, free throws and free love!
Here it is, the last day this week when sanity appears to rule. Tomorrow, I am a college hoop fool! 32 teams meet and 16 will survive to play Saturday. Tomorrow, it is the proverbial Ides of March and for many it will be Bloody Thursday – when some brackets start to take a beating. Then, a full weekend of games!
My bracket is sitting on its traditional nook, clean as a whistle because I know my team might have a round or two in it but no championship.
I have no stake, but that doesn’t mean I won’t enjoy it. Like other things in life, there need not be love if pleasure is all you seek…
Wooster-shire. Wooster-shire! You fumb duck!
Dinner tonight? Pterodactyl wings and grog!
Okay, it’s really stewed turkey wings. Mom picked them up almost on a whim, but it was more about tradition. March Madness is wing season.
The problem is that our recipe calls for the wings to marinade overnight in soy sauce (olive oil, hot sauce, vinegar, garlic and onions). Mom has developed an allergy to soy and that idea no longer works. She didn’t think about it until after she made the purchase.
I improvised and suggested that she instead try dressing the chopped wings in Worcestershire sauce. Any time I have to discuss this particular ingredient, I turn into Jerry Lewis, because in spite of my multiple college degrees I simply cannot pronounce
Worcestershire. I pucker up my lips, begin with a lovely "Woo..." then I start stuttering and twitching and it’s a complete disaster each and every time I try!
A helpful Irish friend from long ago told me he did not see the problem,
“Isn’t it pronounced Lea & Perrins?”
Sharing the love...
Mom tells me the Bishop sent someone to the store today. They aren’t sure they can stop the store from closing, but they wanted us to know that they are looking into alternatives for the area parishioners.
How cool is that?
Selection Sunday is like Happy Pills!
Momma has not been centered lately, as evidenced by at least that last blog entry. It needed to be said. Now let’s let it permeate the ether and hope it takes because this is my high holiday and I need to fully prepare for it.
This week I will be considering brackets in many different configurations. I do this for relaxation because I never wager on basketball.
My brain turns into hundreds of permutations of tiny circuitous little diagrams that spark enough pleasure to keep me off the ledge until Spring. March Madness is New Year’s, Easter, Christmas, Halloween and the
best birthday ever wrapped into three weeks of absolute mayhem and merriment!
And yes, one of my brackets will somehow have Duke taking it all. It’s not about being rational but about true love – it’s a long story and ancient history. This is the most fun I’m going to have until I am blessed with some clarity about where to take my battle next.
Here’s to joy!
I told you already: DON'T Poke the Kitty!
My uncle once told me that lying was easy and the reason people got caught in lies was because they couldn’t keep their lies straight. The best lies were always the outrageous ones, though, because people are more apt to believe the unbelievable than the simple inconveniences of life. Somehow anything that ends with the words, “Who’d make this $h*t up?!” is a real winner when being pathological.
I find that the truth is much more convenient because the facts are always at hand and can be found out if you look for it. Truth, like true beauty and true love, is eternal. Of course, it’s culturally relative: it’s either sacred or a myth.
I’m big on integrity, not that it has brought me anything concrete in life. It’s an ideal and I’m sticking with it. So, if I tell you something as fact; then document it for you: don’t question me or ascribe dishonest motives in my actions regarding the facts that we have held as canon for years. That’ll just piss me off and it will cause me to retaliate and make you pay for the offense. I may be powerless but I am smarter
and vindictive. Screwing with me is never a good idea. I hold a grudge and I’m already combative
and I, obviously, have nothing to lose, so you gotta like my odds!
Fair warning, is all I’m saying…
Justice does it full circle
My great grandmother, Chón, always said that if you did something wrong, you’d pay. She told me that retaliation wasn’t necessary because these things always come back to haunt you. She wasn’t very religious, but she knew with every fiber of her being that the Universe eventually catches up with you for your misdeeds. She advocated patience when dealing with scoundrels.
I said it
before, and now the Jury is out and they tend to
agree with me…
I’ll take the high road and not do the little dance that goes with the little song.
This is a new one on me...
Here’s a sentence I wouldn’t have guessed I’d say (let alone type or blog) in my entire lifetime:
Today, I faxed the Bishop.
I have no way of knowing whether he is even capable of helping us maintain the store here or come up with another alternative, but I figure it’s worth a shot! Who knows?
Seriously, you never know. I mean,
dude, I
faxed the
Bishop…
A Fool & Her Laptop & All That Jazz
It is exactly seven days till Selection Sunday – Christmas Day for college hoops fans! I spent my afternoon into the early evening watching college basketball games. It was awesome.
Then I spent part of my evening following up on my little project. One of the reporters from a local radio station answered my e-mail and said he’d discuss it with his news director and get back to me. Then I decided that perhaps instead of trying to appeal to a manager of sorts, maybe I’d have better luck with people with bigger titles – the Bishop, the council running his charity, the churches that supply the majority of the items the store sells, a few other reporters and bloggers… I have a feeling he’s going to have a very long Monday. And I will be affected by the proverbial ringing of the ear all day as my name is taken in vain over and over again.
I capped the evening by making chicken Parmesan in a lemon/oil sauce. It turned out okay. Plus I have leftovers for sandwiches for game time tomorrow. I’m hoping they televise the North Carolina-Duke game, not that I think Duke is quite at the strength to knock out NC, but it will remind me of better days and infuse me with pre-March Madness glee!
Ralph Nader Taught Me Well
It started last night, I felt myself getting congested and there was little I could do. I took some Mucinex, but it barely did anything to help. I awoke several times and finally at 4:00 a.m., I took some Tylenol allergy med because I was also in a sinus pain funk. I awoke with a swollen face, after a collective hour of sleep, in a haze that resembles a nasty hangover but without the night of fun.
My day is a haze. The evening was more animated.
Yesterday, I sent a courtesy e-mail, alerting the gentleman who manages the charity that runs the thrift store about my petition. He has not responded to me. I imagine he is not pleased since he chose not to even alert the patrons at all and they found out when the “For Rent” sign was unceremoniously plastered above the front door as some of them shopped on Tuesday afternoon.
We have been in the neighborhood for almost 22 years and I understand the store has been here for some 6 decades. So the events as they are unfolding seem wrong to me, especially because the store is sorely needed. It may not be the most profitable of enterprises, but that’s hardly the point: it’s a charity! Those affected will be the elderly and families with limited resources, some of whom do not know whom to turn to when in need. Besides the things they can buy at very low prices, the store also serves as a community information center for services and programs in the area.
So I spent my evening spreading the word to area bloggers, local newspapers, the Brooklyn Diocese who runs Catholic Charities, the City Council and anyone I can enlist in what may very well be a fool’s errand. But a losing battle has never stopped me from fighting! It’s all about the journey. Besides, WWJD, right?
God Gave Me the Finger. Again.
I thought I’d gotten off almost scot-free. I survived February. It’s more accurate to say that I scraped by because, despite the calendar thing, I’m not out of the woods just yet. As in years past, the one humorless god gave me the finger. Again.
Mom took a spill this evening coming back from the doctor’s office. She is nursing one knee with a cold bottle right now. It’s ugly, swollen and black and blue. The other one is slightly bruised. We won’t really know the extent of damage until tomorrow when the aches begin to manifest themselves with a vengeance.
Luckily, a gentleman came to her aid. And she made it home on her own, though slowly and not easily.
It would have been easier and less painful if it had been me. God can bitch slap me all He wants. I probably have it coming… I don’t like it when Mom gets hurt. For quite a while I was convinced God got a kick out of mocking me – probably getting back at me about that whole debacle I call the 1980s. Dude took that whole tit for tat thing to a Biblical level!
Year of the Pig starts off right!
February is finally over and I barely made it out in one piece. I just had one of those unusual days when activities just sprang like a fountain of plenty. Well, it is the Year of the Pig so let's be prosperous in all ways possible!
I applied for a couple of freelance assignments that could have me reading more.
I wrote an online petition to get started in our campaign to save the local thrift shop – be dears and help us out: http://www.petitionspot.com/petitions/stvincent.
I had an impromptu, online edit meeting about story ideas for the SIM with the CO and a wholly inappropriate chat with the 2O.
Fun, excitement and exhilaration without the calories or sweating… Priceless.
Earlier this month we were shocked to learn that our local thrift store was bolting from the neighborhood. I sprang into action and started a petition, I contacted the organization that runs the store, the Bishop, local media and local bloggers, friends and family and anyone I could think of that might help. I received no response from the non-profit, but the Bishop sent a Vicar to the store to alert us all that they heard us and were looking at alternatives to serve the community. One radio reporter said he’d take the story idea to his editor, but I never heard back from him.
