The Introspective Liar

The Art Of Obsession

noreply@blogger.com (Lulu) — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 03:06:00 +0000

I've been silent for a long time now. Not because I have nothing to say. Well, maybe because I have nothing to say. I don't know. I just know that my stressful life continues to be stressful, but probably no worse than the next guy's. And stress generally makes me quiet.

When I get too stressed I retreat. I retreat into my books, my music, myself. During these times I tend to become intensely interested in something that has never really interested me before. Intensity bordering on obsession. I can't count all of the subjects that have caught my attention, occupied my every waking thought, every moment of my day not absolutely required to sustain my family and me. And I approach each obsession identically. I read. I read everything I can get my hands on about the subject. Most people who develop an interest in gardening tend to go to the local nursery, pick out a few plants, buy a trowel, a box of fertilizer and go dig a hole. They may watch a few episodes of Victory Garden or pick up a gardening magazine. I did all that. But not before I bought out my local Barnes & Noble bookstore gardening section. Last count, I had 40+ gardening books.

These go with my 60+ cookbooks, my 20+ books on sewing and tailoring, etc., a bigger selection of poetry books than my Barnes & Noble, and god knows how many books about specific periods of time in British or American history.

I have a new obsession. Something I never really thought much about before. Art History. I don't know what triggered this fascination. All I know is thanks to my "square-headed boyfriend" (my spouse's pet name for my MacBook) the history of art is at my feet, or at least my fingertips. I've found some of the most amazing resources, galleries, museums, etc. on line. So much information in fact, that I've only bought a handful of books. (Well only a handful if we don't count the ebooks and audiobooks. But those don't count. At least to me.)

This is still a fairly new obsession. I am a novice. But I am fascinated and it seems like I fall in love with a new artist daily. I would like to share some of my findings and tie them to my other obsessions in the Liar. But I promise nothing.

I will at least share a couple of observations I have made so far - predominately about my own personal taste.

1. I thought I liked Impressionist art. I don't think I do though. Too blurry. (I have learned quite a bit of real art-related terminology - contrapposto, staffage, tenebrism - but I still find that words like "blurry", "bright" or "fuzzy" work for me.)

2. Like a magpie, I am drawn to bright colors and shiny things. So specific artistic periods or movements - Rococo, Orientalism, Pre-Raphaelite - have caught my attention and my imagination so far.

3. Throughout history it was OK to paint naked women and children (and naked men to a lessor degree) and not be accused of pornography, as long as you gave the naked people common mythological names. An artist fond of painting nudes could paint to their heart's content as long as the pictures bore the name of Leda, Callisto or Diana. Name them Nessie, Mabel or Betty and the same painting was deemed unsuitable for polite society.

4. Religious-themed art seems to be the most violent. And often the darkest. Especially Christian art. Like actual religion, I've yet to see much in this artistic genre that appeals to me.

5. To appreciate art, just like appreciating life, go with what catches your attention. What makes you stop, pause and rethink everything you've thought up to that point. Then take the time to take a closer look. Try and determine exactly what it is about a particular piece that appeals to you. What speaks to you. Read what the experts say about the particular artist or the particular piece of work. But don't let their words color your opinion. Art truly is in the eye of the beholder. It speaks to you or it doesn't. An "expert's" opinion can't change that.

Here is a small sampling of what speaks to me. I will try and explain why next time.

A Woman in a Turban - Anne-Louis Girodet Trioson

Self Portrait (1835) - Emile-Jean-Horace Vernet

Temptation (1880), William Adolphe Bouguereau

The Painter's Honeymoon (1864) - Frederic Leighton

The Rape of Europa (1734) - François Boucher

Dear Rat

noreply@blogger.com (Lulu) — Sun, 24 Jan 2010 13:48:00 +0000

You mustn't swim till you're six weeks old,
Or your head will be sunk by your heels;
And summer gales and Killer Whales
Are bad for baby seals.
Are bad for baby seals, dear rat,
As bad as bad can be.
But splash and grow strong,
And you can't be wrong,
Child of the Open Sea!

Rudyard Kipling

Some day I will understand the deep meaning of these words of wisdom. In the meantime, I just enjoy them.

Hello again, perhaps

noreply@blogger.com (Lulu) — Fri, 14 Aug 2009 02:20:00 +0000

I'm not certain why I'm posting tonight. I have been thinking of doing so for several days. The lure has been strong, there are ideas enough to go around several times. But it has not been ... right. Tonight it is. Perhaps tomorrow it won't be.

But I do not feel compelled to post something witty, entertaining, thought provokingly original. I just want to post a perfect Sonnet. The one that has captured my attention since I first read it many, many years ago. From the poet who's voice often resides inside my head.

Sonnet VI

This door you might not open, and you did;
So enter now, and see for what slight thing
You are betrayed. . . . Here is no treasure hid,
No cauldron, no clear crystal mirroring
The sought-for truth, no heads of women slain
For greed like yours, no writhings of distress,
But only what you see. . . . Look yet again --
An empty room, cobwebbed and comfortless.
Yet this alone out of my life I kept
Unto myself, lest any know me quite;
And you did so profane me when you crept
Unto the threshold of this room to-night
That I must never more behold your face.
This now is yours. I seek another place.

... Edna St. Vincent Millay

I hope someone reads this someday, here or someplace else and it means as much to them as it means to me.

Exhausted Longing

noreply@blogger.com (Lulu) — Thu, 09 Jul 2009 03:05:00 +0000

It's late. I'm tired. Hate one day flight trips - in and out. Traveling for work used to be fun. Now just tedious.

It's late. I'm tired. He's not home. His regular Wednesday night commitment. I usually enjoy my Wednesday nights alone. But not tonight. Didn't get home from airport until after 8:00. It's late. I'm tired.

When he comes home I will want. And hope he wants too. Eyes drooping, bed beckoning, pillows calling. Can I stay awake long enough to enjoy what I want if I get it? Will he want nothing, or want more than I can give in my current state? Who knows? I don't.

It's late. I'm tired.

The Sound of Hell Breaking Loose

noreply@blogger.com (Lulu) — Wed, 08 Jul 2009 01:18:00 +0000

Here is the deal. At a youngish age you marry a man-boy you love. At least you think you love him. You know you feel different emotions towards him than you’ve ever felt for another boy. There was never the overwhelming sensation of an initial crush. In fact what grew between you grew slowly, methodically, at least on your side. But once it reached that point of recognition you knew this was unique. And to your young mind, unique feelings about a boy must equal love.

You feel terribly lucky because he also proves to be a good friend. You feel even luckier because he seems totally enthralled by you; even by the parts of you other boys quickly became disillusioned of. And there were lots of those parts, although most of them centered on your sharp tongue, your impatience over the general immaturity of boys and your quick disdain of any weakness you perceive in others. But he doesn’t see the negative parts, or if he does, they don’t bother him.

You continue to grow up alongside this man-boy. You start careers, buy a house, raise a family. Through the years the romance fades but never completely deserts you. Magazines tell you that you have sex far more frequently than most couples your age and married as long as you have been married. You consider this a good sign, but you absently wonder how long you have to be married before the nomenclature changes from ‘making love’ to ‘having sex’. Since you appear to be ahead in the game, you don’t worry too much. And the sex, well, if it isn’t heart-stopping and thrilling, it isn’t unpleasant either and you still enjoy the closeness and the intimacy the act requires.

There are times when you feel a frisson of desire for another man. Sometimes that frisson is quite strong. So strong you at least unconsciously consider whether you should sidestep your partner, whether temporarily or permanently and explore your options. But you are not that kind of person. To protect yourself you take steps to assure that you probably could not act on those feelings even if you wanted to, because they would not be reciprocated. You let yourself go. Just a little. Enough to declare to the world that you are not in play, but not enough to cause concern in the man-boy. You suspect he suffers similar experiences, but instinctively trust he is no more likely to act on those desires than you are.

You and your man-boy, now far more man than boy, become comfortable, complacent, and totally absorbed in the daily rigmarole of life. None of which are bad things to be are they? You don’t talk a great deal, but on occasion you and he find yourselves engrossed in an extensive and wide ranging conversation about issues that are important to you both. And those occasions feed your soul. Remind you that you made the right choice. Remind you why you married this man.

One subject you rarely discuss is sex. You have it. Exactly as you have been having it for the last several years. But you don’t talk about it. You don’t discuss your evolving fantasy lives. You don’t discuss what type of pornography or erotica the other finds interesting. You don’t discuss burgeoning desires, risks you are willing to take or activities currently outside your comfort zone that you think you would like to move inside.

Then something quite strange and wonderful occurs. You get old. Well, not old exactly, but definitely middle aged (as long as we are not talking about precisely the middle of your ultimate age - you don’t plan on living to be 102.) Weird things start happening to your body. As weird as what happened to your body at the beginning of your sexual journey. And those weird things affect your mind. How you think and how you feel about sex.

Your kids are grown. Your body is back under your control. At least it stops going wacky every few months as it decides whether to go through the process one more time and push an egg out the door, even though it has been years since those eggs had an open path to their ultimate destination. Your body settles into a new phase that doesn’t require near as much thinking, planning or scheduling. Now your mind has time to ponder. And time to listen to your body. It does.

You determine that the status quo can not continue. You give this a great deal of thought. Should you change partners for the rest of the dance? Should you give up entirely on your unrequited passions? Should you be demanding, take control, insist that what happens beneath the sheets must change? This last option is easy to dismiss since it is the opposite of what you are seeking beneath those sheets.

While you are busy trying to figure this out you are also sending out signals. The signals aren’t explicit but they are picked up by the man’s radar. Then you realize that your radar is picking up new signals from his direction as well.

Suddenly you both realize your signals are on the same bandwidth. After many, many years of meandering down paths that sometimes run parallel and sometimes are wildly divergent, your paths suddenly collide. The desires roiling suddenly bubble to the top then spill over. And you and this man you married such a very long time ago suddenly realize that your most intimate thoughts and dreams mirror and compliment his. It dawns on both of you that something, some infinitesimal and unconscious yin spoke to the other’s yang all those years ago, then lay buried right under the surface until the time was right to reveal yourself to each other.

And then all hell breaks loose.

When the Surreal JUST ((Keeps)) Getting "Realer" ??!!!

noreply@blogger.com (Lulu) — Sun, 05 Jul 2009 02:30:00 +0000

(Note-title edited by Sarah Palin)

I feel like I should have something insightful and witty to say about the train wreck that is Governor Sanford and the latest, bizarrely disastrous adventure in the life of Sarah Palin. There are no words to adequately express what fruitcakes both of them are.

Infidelity among male politicians is becoming so commonplace it is farcical. It no longer elicits a reaction from me. But, how the governor of a state thinks he can leave his post for 5 days without anyone knowing where he is defies reality. And then believe that after being so blindingly irresponsible, he should keep his job. Even though it sounds like the man is truly in love and his heart is breaking I can rustle up no sympathy. All I can think to say are words Denis Leary sates so eloquently - "Shut the fuck up!" Get that man off of my TV.

And then there is Sarah Palin. She opens her mouth and idiocy tumbles out. If it wasn't so painful to watch her try and form a cohesive thought it would be funny.

When I am a governor and decide I am bored with the job after two years I might decide to quit so I can make a bunch of money and to stave off the scandal that keeps encroaching on my dysfunctional life. I might decide not to worry about how much money other people and the state spent to get me elected governor, not to mention the thousands of hours willing volunteers spent knocking on doors and calling people encouraging them to vote for me. I might not care that I am leaving a government in the lurch while deeply involved in a disastrous financial crisis and I might not worry that I am leaving my mess for others to clean up. I might not stop to think about the fact that a large majority of US voters felt I lacked sufficient experience to be elected Vice President, and that another 7 months as an absentee governor probably didn't garner me much more experience. I might not even worry about that I will forever be labeled as a quitter, or as my husband would describe me, as a chicken-shit.

But, I would never, ever, ever in my wildest dreams think to begin what could be considered the most important speech in my political life to date, a turning point in my career, with this ringing introduction:

"Hi Alaska"

If you haven't read the text of her announcement, you must. It defies explanation or logic. Then, just for kicks go to Facebook and read her July 4th message. However, unless you want to loose your dinner, be plagued with nightmares or start babbling incoherently, I urge you not to read the replies to her Facebook post. They made my eyes bleed.

The Illusion of Control

noreply@blogger.com (Lulu) — Fri, 03 Jul 2009 01:51:00 +0000

have spent most of my life clinging rabidly to my supposed self-control. I've lived the ebb and flow of needing to feel in charge of every aspect of every event, person or location that invades my personal space to facing an overwhelming desire to give all control away. It is the conundrum I face a thousand times a day.

For years, my ego convinced me that my struggle was unique. Surely no other woman felt the constant conflict between mastering her own destiny and resigning herself to fate. Even with my closest friends, control isn't a topic that comes up in our conversations. We talk about important issues and trivial issues. We don’t talk about how much or how little control we exert over ourselves, our bodies, our domains. Regardless of how infrequently it is discussed, it is ever present.

Exercising self control is a universal struggle for women. It is not limited to women in developed countries where women have at least on paper, if not in fact, equal rights with men. While what I feel the desperate need to control in my own small plot of life is dramatically different than what a woman in Somalia fights to control, the fight is still there. It is the stakes that differ.

Interestingly, the realization that I am not struggling alone came through reading erotica. Primarily women-written erotica. Control is such a common theme in erotica it often becomes trivialized. The plots evolve around the continual barter for control of the central character’s emotions, her body, her life. Once I became attuned to the theme, I began to see it in everything I read -- contemporary fiction, historical mysteries, epic novels. If it was written by a woman with a woman protagonist, regardless of the plot or the genre, the issue of control is always there, right under the surface.

I don't believe this is such a defining issue for men. Perhaps they struggle more consistently with the issue of power. Closely related to control, but distinctly different in so many ways.

Some men probably struggle with self-control issues all the time and all men probably struggle with the issue at some point in their life. For men though, I don't believe self-control is a constant irritant, the splinter embedded in the palm of your hand you feel compelled to continually dig, never removing and always pushing deeper.

My one year of high school sociology obviously makes me totally qualified to spout out sociological theory so here goes: I assume that this distinction stems from the fact that since the dawn of humankind, men have had almost all of the control and women very little of it. While some women are fortunate to live in societies that grant them some level of control over themselves, most of the women on earth still exist in world where any control they have is limited, transitory, hard won and quickly lost.

And for the women who now hold some control over their own destiny, there is always that nagging thought in the back of our heads warning us that our hard won control can always be snatched back from us, with very little effort.

Back from the universal to the personal - my need for control is often the overwhelming fuel that feeds my fire. It can be exhausting. There are so many times I long to hand it over to someone else. Long to ask someone else to just take care of things (me) for awhile, so I can catch my breath.

That person in my life has always been a man. My father, my boyfriend, my spouse, a coworker. And there's the rub. That nagging fear that if I give in, give over control to the man in my life, the world could shift backwards and I would never regain what I have loaned. I realize the injustice in this thought. The men I speak of are enlightened and fair. They would never intentionally take permanent control over me, would be insulted if I even suggested this was a concern.

This brings me back to women’s erotica. A genre with an historically limited audience. While men could pick up Playboy, Hustler, et al at the nearest convenience store and gain fairly easy access to pornographic films, a woman did not have easy access to erotica.

As in so many other situations, the internet is the great equalizer. Erotica written for the female audience flourishes online. I know this because I find myself continually ferreting it out.

So much of that erotica focuses on dominant/submissive relationships with women generally, but not always, in the submissive role. Often times she struggles against this role and only reluctantly gives in. And I wonder how close to the bone these stories cut. Wonder if a self confident, successful in their own right woman, can truly give up the control she fought so hard to obtain. Cede it over to a man who will likely never be willing to give it back. If she understands that by this single act she may be considered less than she was by everyone, except perhaps, the person who accepted her gift. Is that enough? I don’t believe it ever could be for me. But maybe ...

Compulsive Reading Materials

noreply@blogger.com (Lulu) — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 04:34:00 +0000

I haven't changed my reading list on the side panel in quite awhile. Partly because I seem to be either( a) too lazy to keep it up to date or( c) too busy to do so. I am constantly striving for the middle ground, but fear (b) will always allude me.

However, the main reason I haven't updated it regularly is I am indulging in one of my periodic reading ruts. One of the banes of my existence is the series author. The authors that write two, thirty seven or sixty eight books all featuring the same cast of characters. If I come across them when only one or two books have been published, then I can usually control my addiction. By the time the next book in the series comes out I have moved on to other reading interests. But if I wait until five or six or even more books in the series are published, then I am lost. I become obsessed with reading each book in the series, reading them in the correct order and not stopping until I have read every frigging one of the damn things.

Occasionally this turns out OK. If the fifth book or the twelfth book in the series is as well written and entertaining as the first, I consider my obsession time well spent. Most of the Anne Rice Vampire Series were entertaining to read and at one time I eagerly awaited the publishing of the next book. I can't say the last book was as good as the first, but I read them all. Strangely, none of her other series ever captured my attention.

Most of the time, the series loses its creative energy after the first couple of books. But once I get started, if the next book is available, I am on a mission. I'm determined to get through them all. Regardless of how unreadable the sixth or twenty seventh book might be.

I'm sure this goes back to my early reading habits. I used to keep written lists of books in a series and cross each one off as I turned the last page. I worked my way through Bobbsey Twins, Nancy Drew, Trixie Beldon, Donna Parker, Cherry Ames, Laura Ingalls Wilder, Louisa May Alcott and the Anne of Green Gable series. I even read all of the Walt Disney- Annette series and the Lennon Sisters mysteries. (This last statement is one of the most humiliating confessions I have ever made.)

I also believe I inherited this quirk from my mom. When she died, in the back of her closet were three grocery bags full of Agatha Christi paperback mysteries. I am certain she read them all. Perhaps in one setting. Or at least on one year.

Now I am engrossed in the Anne Perry mysteries featuring Charlotte & Thomas Pitt. I should say I was engrossed when I was reading the third and fourth books in the series. The first couple were not particularly well written. They were her first published books and there was absolutely no development of the main characters. The next few improved steadily. I am now on book 12. I think there are 25 in the series. The improvement stalled around book 8. They are still readable, but not compelling. Regardless, whether I want to or not, I will probably get through them all. Fortunately, they are fast reads and several are audio-books, so my ipod can speed the process along.

A part of me realizes that reading a book because it is number 16 in a series rather than reading it for the pleasure of reading is not particularly noble. I assume authors that find commercial success with a particular set of characters or a particular narrative stick with their story not because they can't write about other subjects, but rather - why spoil a good thing? Or as my father-in-law used to say, "if it ain't broke, don't fix it."

And yet I persist. Even though I have a backlog of books I really want to read, they will wait until I have pushed my way through the Victorian world of Charlotte & Thomas Pitt. I still see little character development, but each book does touch on issues of the day - suffrage, class struggle, child labor, the impact of the industrial age on society. If it was an issue at the time the characters played their roles, Anne Perry weaves it into the story. That keeps them engaging. Plus, I have to admit Ms. Perry's own weird history also helps keeps me interested in the series.

I am actually a person of few compulsions. And this one seems fairly benign. I just hope Ms. Perry is done writing Pitt books. I can't take much more.

The Writer's Life - But Not Mine

noreply@blogger.com (Lulu) — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 03:00:00 +0000

This post has floundered as a draft for several days. Every time I start to work on it something changes in my online universe. The topic remains relevant, but new facts must be inserted. Which means already penned sections must go, or else it will be epic in its final proportion. Perhaps the exorcised sections will show up in another post.

What prompted my musings in the first place was this post by Susannah Breslin on her blog The Reverse Cowgirl. I read her work regularly and am fascinated by her ability to take a world most people find ugly, dirty and disconcerting and point out the beauty, even if it is a heartbreakingly sad beauty, that lurks beneath.

She later advised on Twitter that the young man whose inquiry she responded to was not pleased with her response. I can understand that. However, I found it ... clarifying. And refreshing. The honesty in her words is a slap in the face to many people who believe they are the next Bronte sister or even the next Carl Bernstein and all they have to do is form a complete sentence, then readers will flock to their words. It propelled me towards proactively stating what has gradually been dawning on me for several months.

I remember clearly the day I decided to be a writer. I was in the 5th grade. Our assignment was to cut a picture out of a magazine and write a story about the picture. My selection was a picture of a girl about my age, looking out a window at gray, drizzly skies. I named her Anastasia. I have no idea why. I decided she was sad. About as complex an emotion as I was up to in 5th grade.

The real reason she was sad will be saved for a future post. Suffice it to say that the reason I used in my story was that her dog had just died.

My teacher loved it. On this assignment she did something she had never done before. Right next to the bright red 100% scratched boldly across the paper she wrote: "You should be a writer when you grow up." That sealed the deal. From that day forward, while I mentioned other ambitions, finished school, began a career in financial services, got married and had kids, I knew in my heart that I was born to write.

In a single act, 125 words written on a Big Chief tablet with a picture from a magazine pasted across the top, the driving ambition of my life crystallized.

Flash forward many, many years. I write a killer business letter. I can reduce an underling to tears reading the eloquently scathing first sentence in an email missive from me. I write contracts, I write policy language and I write magazine articles regarding my industry that everyone agrees are informative, educational and never dry. I proofed, edited and occasionally rewrote both of my kids through high school and college. I've written short stories and essays - even the beginnings of what I dreamed would be a novel. I've kept a journal and have been writing in this space since January.

But am I a writer? God no. I have a way with words, especially in formal, business documents. I am witty and articulate. I have an extensive vocabulary and love to show it off. However, I am not and could never be confused with a serious "writer" aka "author" of great works. I am a journeyman - not an artist.

And that is becoming OK with me. It was a painful revelation at first. But, I've discovered several other things in life I am really, really good at, so there is compensation.

I am occasionally envious of people who do have real talent. But mainly I just enjoy reading what their talent reaps. I am amazed that some of my favorites, who are so incredibly and obviously gifted, are either still struggling for recognition or don't realize themselves that their gift goes way beyond simple skill.

And that leads me to the next post that prompted this confession. One of my very favorite writers is Remittance Girl. Her fiction is adult in nature. But to say she is a gifted writer is an understatement. I read what she writes and am awed. Even if the particular story doesn't appeal to me, her imagination, her storytelling skills and her ability to draw the reader in, until they become the character and see the world through the eyes of the character is beyond the ability of many successful and published authors. Her reverence of the written word is always obvious. Why she is not consistently on top of the NY Times bestseller list is a mystery to me.

I read this recent post on her blog, which was her reasoned response to a totally irrelevant remark posted as a comment to one of her current stories in progress. The remark had absolutely nothing to do with what she had written and was only made to be hurtful to RG. Instead, it made the poster seem small in stature and spirit as well as just plain ignorant.

I cannot read what RG writes compare it to what I write and say with a straight face that we are both similarly gifted and talented writers. But I can be pissed when someone belittles her talent so stupidly, almost to the point I take it personally.

And finally, a third event that just occurred and insisted I make room for it in this post. If no one else sees the connection between what Susannah Breslin said, the post on Remittance Girl's blog, the post I mention below and my willingness to finally admit I am not a writer - sorry. It makes sense to me.

There is a gentleman named Deity. He has a blog I've read regularly for a couple of years. He recently admitted to being burned out and stopped posting a couple of months ago. His decision was a loss felt by many. Just this afternoon he offered this small gift. A short piece infused with the joy of the everyday, the comfort of routine and a love of one's place in life. It moved me to tears.

He is a writer. I am not.

Crashing

noreply@blogger.com (Lulu) — Fri, 19 Jun 2009 02:40:00 +0000

Flipping through channels, I happened on Dave Matthews Band video for "Crash Into Me". The song has been a favorite since the first time I heard it. An alluring siren call. There are songs you hear that make you feel happy, make you feel sorrowful, fill you with joy. This song elicits nothing but a burning need to shag.

The video is perhaps a little too surreal. It is beautiful, a visual masterpiece, but the meaning of some of the imagery goes right over my head.

That hardly matters though. Everything about the song, the arrangement, the lyrics, the mix, everything appeals to me. Every aspect of the song begs you to sink, to join, to crash. I love it.

The Allure of Men

noreply@blogger.com (Lulu) — Fri, 12 Jun 2009 00:24:00 +0000

I am a woman of uncomplicated tastes. Especially when it comes to what is sexually attractive about a man. To me, it is nothing so crass as rippling biceps, a broad chest or an over-sized bulge at crotch level. Those are enticing furbelows I grant you, but I am always more attracted to the subtle touches of masculinity.

That said, it isn't a subject I devote a great deal of thought to. I know what I like. And I don't have to give words to it when I see it. My appreciation is ... instinctive.

But the topic came up at lunch today. I could tell that the other women in the conversation had thought about it. Had attached words to what solicits an instinctive reaction in them. Which made me question myself. Could I express it, if required? So, as I went through an extremely stressful afternoon, I kept calming myself by bringing my mind back to the subject of what makes a man sexy to me. Here is, I think, my top ten.

10. A man who looks as equally at home in a faded, worn T-Shirt with the name of a beer or a band that hasn't existed in 20 years as he does in a the finest cotton dress shirt with French cuffs and understated cuff links.

9. A man with a sense of comfort in themselves and in their bodies. A comfort that is inviting. That makes you want to sink down into them, like you would sink into a hammock on a summer afternoon or a rug before a fire on a winter night.

8. A quick wit. The best foreplay is conversation. The very best foreplay is conversation filled with risque innuendo, playful threats and double entendres. Followed closely by graphic and descriptive comments at appropriate junctures, once the time for foreplay has passed. I'm sure that mental agility bears a direct correlation to physical agility.

7. A man whose sense of what makes a woman sexy matches the definition of me.

6. The texture of the skin right behind a man's ears. There are so few places on a man's clothed body that feels satiny smooth and warm. A tiny spot you can appreciate because it isn't rock-solid or hairy or rough. It serves as a harbinger for the spots you can't easily access with his clothes on that hopefully shares that texture.

5. A man who knows when to shut up. I know this is typically a complaint men make of women. But I find men who prattle even more annoying than I find chatty women.

4. A man proficient with the use of all of his given senses. A man who relies only on his visual sense when he evaluates a woman misses so much. A man who breaths your scent and finds it intoxicating, who can't seem to touch you enough to ever satisfy his need, who thinks you taste better than his very favorite beer, the devil's food cake his mother bakes for his birthday or peanut butter and a man who listens, appreciates your sound and is always attuned to it when you are together, is delicious.

3. A boyish smile. If an 85 year old man smiles at me with a crooked, boyish grin, I melt. I'm a sucker for a lopsided, mischievous, 'awe shucks' smile every time.

2. A man who is curious. A man who is willing to try almost anything. A man who has very few items on his mental checklist of sexual activities that he is unwilling to contemplate. A man who possesses an amazing imagination and isn't afraid to use it. A man with a highly developed sense of adventure.

1. Eyes. Eyes that are deep-set, almost sleepy looking, yet always look engaged and interested. Eyes that are as fascinating to stare into when they are half closed and unfocused as they are when they are wide open and intent on you. Eyes that are clear and clearly reveal every emotion as it passes through his mind. Eyes that tell the story of the man.

Relevancy, or Thoughts Upon the Psyche of Gnats

noreply@blogger.com (Lulu) — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 00:43:00 +0000

I'm not posting and I'm not sure why. I think part of the reason is I started this blog to become more disciplined in my writing, and as I have freely admitted numerous times, I am not a disciplined person. The more I try and impose self-discipline, the more likely I am to rebel. It is inevitable.

Other fascinations are now engaging my attention. As I have also admitted, I have the attention span of a gnat. My life is a series of discovering a new fascination, spending an intense but relatively brief period of time learning all I can about the subject, slaking my thirst, then losing interest and and moving on to the next topic of which I find myself enamored. Throughout my life, this pattern has repeated itself more times than I can count.

I also find myself focusing even more inwardly than usual. Always introspective, always introverted, I go through periods in my life when these aspects of my personality increase their already sizable control of my psyche. Right now I feel the need to cocoon myself, both physically and mentally.

I learned a long time ago to go with the flow of my thoughts, my interests, my current mindset. I've also learned that if I don't particularly like the Lulu I am at the moment, if I wait a few minutes that Lulu will be replaced by another, hopefully more likable version of myself.

I will continue to post, when I feel I can say what I need to say. I would like to think that what I say may be of interest to others as well. But that is secondary to me. I have a difficult enough time being relevant to me, to worry about being relevant to others.

The Simple Life

noreply@blogger.com (Lulu) — Fri, 22 May 2009 18:34:00 +0000

I am a very simple person. Really. I am not high maintenance and can easily manage myself with very little outside supervision. Somewhat absent minded, somewhat lacking in common sense. Introverted to the point of self-involvement, but hey, at least that means I am not wasting much of your time, yet able to bring forth some measure of empathy when called for.

I need only the following (and the order of priority changes day to day):

1. Periodic non-sexual attention from the spouse.
2. More than periodic sexual attention from the spouse.
3. Knowledge that my grown kids are occupied, safe and reasonably content.
4. Knowledge that my dad, even if not living an ideal of life is safe and reasonably engaged.
5. Books, in any format, with a steady stream instantly available so I never have to worry about being stuck with 'nothing to read', a fate almost worse than death in my mind.
6. Occasional acknowledgement of my existence from my cat.
7. My Mac Book and a fast Internet connection - and the charger that goes with it.
8. My iPod/iPhone, full of my music and the charger that goes with it.
9. Occasional updates on the health and well being of extended family and my few closest friends.
10. My sheets changed regularly.
11. Some dirt to dig in periodically. Actually planting something would be nice but not mandatory.
12. A refrigerator stocked with my food necessities of the day, which right now are: Diet Coke (always) jello sugar free pudding, celery, baby romaine lettuce, baby spinach, sun dried tomatoes, reduced sugar peanut butter, Havarti cheese, skim milk, olive oil, balsamic vinegar, dried cranberries and pecans. Oh and occasionally some chicken or tuna salad thrown in for good measure. There are always more foods I like, but this collection can keep me going for weeks.
13. My bathtub and bath salts
14. Lulu Guinness perfume (the original scent)
15. A couple of personal appliances that shall remain unnamed.
16. If forced to leave the house, appropriate clothing beyond my yoga pants/tee shirt or nightgown.
17. Yoga
18. Reliable transportation to periodically get me from here to there, but I'm not picky about the mode - whatever works is fine with me.
19. Tweezers

That's about it. Certainly a bountiful of needs compared to those of a monk. But still, if you think about it, it's not a lot in the big scheme of things.

I need to remind myself of this periodically. Knowing this makes me content. I could want or demand far more from life, but I've learned the hard way, that more rarely equals better. So I can live happily with what I have.

Just Checking In

noreply@blogger.com (Lulu) — Thu, 21 May 2009 02:20:00 +0000

Not sleeping. Not sure why. Usually not a problem for me.

Work has actually been going well, at least until today. I'm back to working far too many hours, but I'm only working as much as I feel like. Between increased office time, doing some gardening, opening up the porch for the summer and various other projects, weddings, parties, etc. (not to mention some very interesting new marital adventures) I haven't been that interested in my trusty MacBook (or as my family calls it - my square headed boyfriend). So, less posting, less following of blogs, less everything.

That will change. It always does. I tend to have the attention span of a gnat. Till then though, be well.

Yes, This is a Look of Extreme Disinterest On My Face

noreply@blogger.com (Lulu) — Thu, 14 May 2009 00:02:00 +0000

A couple of years ago I read a very interesting book - The Brief History of the Dead by Kevin Brockmeier. A rather warped but wonderful take on the afterlife, certainly as plausible as any other ideas floating around. I highly recommend it.

The central character, central because every other character in the book existed solely because she did, is the very last person alive on earth. Certainly not a character the reader would envy. Definitely a frightening and lonely existence.

Today I say give me frightening and lonely please. I actually do envy the lucky fuck at the center of this novel.

Some people have the ability to project this air of caring compassion, even though they are incredibly self-centered and anything you say to them goes in one ear and out the other. While you are talking they are maintaining eye contact, nodding their head at the right moment and wincing sympathetically whenever you pause. You are certain they are taking to heart every word you say.

What they are actually doing is deciding what they want to eat for lunch, what book they are planning to read next, if their butt looks big in their slacks, and when will this jack-ass ever shut up? To them your voice sounds just like Charlie Brown's teacher in the animated cartoons. No matter how profound your comments, your listener hears "Waah-waah-wah-wa-wa waaha."

Almost all the time, I am that listener. Except minus the ability to project an air of caring compassion. Most the time I have trouble drumming up even an air of mild disinterest.

And yet, some days it seems like the whole world lines up to air their grievances and bare their souls to me. It happens so consistently and in large enough numbers that I am pretty sure there is a concentrated effort by the rest of the world to force me to focus on every one's thoughts but my own.

Maybe an email goes out calling for volunteers. Maybe there is a phone tree. "Hi. Just reminding you that you're scheduled to annoy Lulu for 30 minutes next Tuesday by talking about the boil that has popped up on your butt, your marginally intelligent son's futile quest to get accepted at Harvard, your endless list of sins attributable to your ex husband, the bastard, and why your grocery store quit selling your favorite brand of peanut butter. Oh, an don't forget to call the 10 people on your list and tell them they are scheduled to bug her that day too."

People ... people. Take a closer look at my face. That blank stare you get when you start prattling on is there for a reason. It is saying "I don't care." It is screeching "Go away-leave me alone." When I look disinterested, shockingly, it's because I am.

I say this not just in the hope of getting people to leave me the hell alone. I say it for the rest of the world's benefit. People tell me things, concerns, worries, partly because they think I can help them, or fix what is broken. I can't. It takes everything I've got some days just to remember to feed the cat, wear shoes that match and open the garage door before I start the car. Don't count on me. I sure don't.

Thank you. I feel much better now.

The Books That Came To Me

noreply@blogger.com (Lulu) — Mon, 11 May 2009 12:27:00 +0000

Nixy Valentine wrote about what makes libraries special today. It brought back such a flood of memories I couldn't contain them in a comment on her blog.

When I was growing up a Bookmobile parked three doors down from my house, every other week. I am always surprised when someone doesn't know about bookmobiles, so let me explain.

Our bookmobile was a mobile library that moved throughout our area in order to bring the library to the people. I've always assumed they were intended for rural communities where access to an actual library was limited.

I grew up in a mid-western suburb about 3 miles from the nearest public library branch, so I've never understood why we had a bookmobile, but was elated that we did.

It was a converted small bus with bookshelves lining the sides and a single shelf down the middle. Small and cramped, but to me it was paradise. I grew up in a house full of books, they were usually the most common gift we received at birthdays and Christmas. Plus, we made regular trips to the public library and my schools had well stocked libraries.

Still, the bookmobile was special. It came to me. And if I told the driver what I was looking for, the next time he came, he would hand it to me, holding it back from everyone else, just to grant my request.

Through that bookmobile I devoured the entire series of Nancy Drew, Bobbsey Twins, Donna Parker and Cherry Ames. I owned some of the books in the Little House, Anne of Green Gables and Louisa May Alcott series, but the bookmobile provided me the rest.

Besides the more recent series, the bookmobile introduced me to so many classics, The Little Princess, Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farms, Hans Brinker and Heidi. As I grew older it introduced me to Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre, The Catcher in the Rye and Pride and Prejudice.

My bookmobile gave its greatest gift to me by introducing the book that is still my favorite today - A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, by Betty Smith. That book speaks to me in a way no other book ever has. I read it again every three or four years. But I will never forget the first time I read it, selecting it from the bookshelf in the cramped bookmobile, walking up the street to my house, I was so excited I couldn't even wait until I got inside. I sat down on my front porch, opened the book, and fell in love.

Just What You Didn't Know You Wanted

noreply@blogger.com (Lulu) — Mon, 11 May 2009 01:22:00 +0000

Mother's Day still surprises me every year. I know the day itself is coming, I'm just still surprised and a little disbelieving that I actually qualify as an honoree of the day. Which is a little disturbing since my eldest child is closer to 30 than 20.

I have been a mother for over a quarter of a century and I'm still not sure I understand how that actually happened. I mean, I understand the science behind the condition, but the fact that I am a parent still catches me off guard.

Up until shortly after my eldest was born and almost died, I was absolutely convinced I would never be a parent. The role didn't interest me, didn't suit me and didn't deserve me, at least it didn't deserve my ineptitude and incompetence. I'd had a less than stellar role model. And at the same time I was honest enough with myself to know I had not been an easy child to raise. I sure the hell wouldn't want to raise another me.

I have frequently felt so unprepared for the job that even though the closest I ever came to medical school was my high school biology class, I probably would have been better equipped to be the doctor in the delivery process, instead of the potential parent. Even today I sometimes feel my kids would have been better off if I had taken the role of obstetrician instead of mother in their introduction to the world.

While I can admire them, I will never be able to relate to women who's life calling is to be a mother. I've never had the maternal instinct 'pull' that those women have.

But I have learned that while maternal instinct may not be overflowing in me, it seems to show up when I really, really need it. The best way I can describe it is to say I go through motherhood in stops and spurts. For long periods of time that instinct lays fallow, not called on, not needed. But periodically the small reserve of maternal instinct I do have senses danger, trouble or anxiety involving my children and that instinct launches into hyper-drive. Like the 90 lb weakling who gets such a rush of adrenaline they can lift a full size car off a person trapped beneath it, for short spurts of time, when it is most needed, I become Super Mom.

I will never be the mother either of my children deserve. But in spite of my ineptitude both of them grew into amazing adults. Fortunately their Dad is a wonderful Dad for both of them. He makes up for a lot of my parental shortcomings. As they grew and matured I found parenting easier. Now that we can relate as adults, I find being their friend extraordinarily easy.

Mother's Day reminds me of something terribly important. Sometimes you don't know what you are capable of or what you need in your life. When you are this dense, periodically the gods, your dead ancestors, the tooth fairy or whomever you believe in smacks you across the head and in their infinite wisdom presents you with a gift you didn't even know you wanted. When that happens, shut up and take the gift.

An Abbreviated and Partial Listing

noreply@blogger.com (Lulu) — Sun, 10 May 2009 00:35:00 +0000

I will not:

Join AARP.
Join any women's organization that has anything to do with 'Red Hats'.
Frequent the website WOWoWOW.
Stop Using Profanities.
Stop listening to new music and new artists.
Ever even think about moving to a Retirement Community.
Go to the Dr. more frequently than I get my hair cut and colored.
Talk about going to the Dr. with as much excitement as I talk about a vacation, a wonderful book or a great movie.
Discuss my medication, high blood pressure, cholesterol level or any other chronic condition I might develop in the future.
Stop showing cleavage when the occasion calls for it.
Buy any clothing from Quacker Factory or other labels of its ilk.
Wear holiday themed clothing - no sweatshirts with pumpkins and witches, no sweaters with Santa and a Christmas Tree.
Stop making love, having sex or just plain fucking.
Ever apologize for anything I did in my past or be embarassed of the laws I broke.
Stop pointing out injustices or jack-asses to preserve my personal comfort.
Start tolerating stupidity.
Stop being curious.
Stop learning new things.

It's Circus Time

noreply@blogger.com (Lulu) — Fri, 08 May 2009 23:50:00 +0000

Right now I am just leaving my office on a Friday night. Terribly sad. As usual I am turning off the lights and locking the place up.

I've worked in the same field since I was 20 years old. I've done extremely well for myself and considering I am employed in a very old, very conservative industry, if you have to be employed in this industry, my special niche is probably about as glamorous as it gets. I certainly experience a great deal more diversity in my day to day work than others in this line of business do.

I've also been responsible for managing staff for 15 years. I've managed as few as 5 and as many as 50, predominately professionals. Overall I've enjoyed it. I like, or used to like, training people, encouraging and motivating them to succeed. I'm not a particularly personable or warm person and have always been uncomfortable with the sympathetic/empathetic aspect of managing staff. I know how to manage to each persons strengths and weaknesses, I just don't enjoy doing it, so anymore, I don't. Well, I still do, sometimes. But it no longer feels natural to me. Through the years I've become very adept at the distancing part of managing people. I've learned the hard way how difficult it is to manage friends. I am surprisingly efficient at firing people, something I am ashamed to even admit.

This is the career and industry I know. It is a career and industry that can still, on occasion, entertain me. But by and large, I am bored much of the time. And boredom, far more than happiness or pleasure, governs my attitude and my attention span. And this is the dirty secret about why I am always the last person at work in the evening. For the first time in my career, my attention span seems to last for shorter and shorter durations. So I work longer hours, just to accomplish the same amount of work I would have accomplished 2 years ago expending an hour to hour and a half less time. I need more breaks and more distractions to get through the day.

I think sometimes that I would like to try something new, walk away from what I do, have done for so long, and do very, very well. So many obstacles. Let's see - old dog, new tricks comes to mind, unwillingness to make certain adjustments at this point in my life, comfort level, reputation and respect and then there's the big one ... money.

I am not ready to even begin contemplating retirement. I know it is not a stage of life I will handle gracefully. Fortunately, it is still many years away.

But, I am wondering, am I too grown up now to run away and join the circus?

A Warning

noreply@blogger.com (Lulu) — Fri, 08 May 2009 22:10:00 +0000

Recently I wrote that I wanted to get back to my original purpose of this blog. Trying to write honestly about how I feel, what I am learning, what I think and not worrying about who will read it, and how it will be perceived, banking on the probability that very few will ever read it and I will never know how it is perceived.

Somewhat easier said than done.

But, in honor of my trifecta I am giving myself a gift. Between now and the 16th I am going to try to post more frequently and post about what I really want to talk about at the moment, no matter how inane or foolish I sound. We will see how this goes. I don't do foolish well.

Time Flys, While Standing Still - The Dates that Count

noreply@blogger.com (Lulu) — Fri, 08 May 2009 22:00:00 +0000

This weekend is the start of the annual trifecta in my family. Between now and May 16 falls Mother’s Day, my birthday and our wedding anniversary.

At the time the stars aligned, I didn’t plan for these momentous occasions to fall so close together. I was actually born on Mother’s Day and every six (or is it seven?) years, the two events collide. My mother never forgave me for the inconvenience of labor and childbirth on a holiday created to recognize her supreme sacrifice and one of the few upsides she’d discovered to the whole parenting thing.

Twenty years later, she decreed that no daughter of hers would bring shame to the family by becoming a teen-aged bride. Three days after my twentieth birthday, I married.

I’m not sure why we started calling this time of year the trifecta. It probably has something to do with the fact that the Kentucky Derby runs right around these dates. Ever since I became a mother, the most recent of the 3 holidays I qualified for, we treat the individual dates more like a season. A low key season to be sure, but a season.

My sister in law, who believes in massive celebrations for every personal holiday, (she manages to stretch her April birthday celebration into a 30 day bacchanal) feels sorry for me that all 3 days fall so close together. I miss two other occasions each year to be feted. She says it is almost as sad as being born on Christmas.

I like the symmetry of it though. It sounds old fashioned and decidedly un-feminist to say, but the natural progression from birth to marriage to motherhood sort of appeals to me. I can’t decide however, whether I should shoot for dying during this time frame or not. It seems fitting to do so.

On the other hand, I had no say in being born, and had no plans to experience the other two events up until a good 10 minutes after each one had happened. Marriage and motherhood never factored into my plans and ambitions. I stumbled into both and realize daily how lucky I was.

Time has been a great deal on my mind lately. In earlier posts, I’ve touched on how my view of time and its constancy is evolving. As I approach the annual reminder of the three most momentous events in my life, I am again rolling the idea of the passage of time around in my head.

While I realize the marking of events by days on a calendar is artificial, it is the way humankind marks events. The number of hours in a day, days in a week, weeks in a month and months in a year may be supported by mathematical calculations, but they are not elemental. Not essential for our existence. We could decree tomorrow that we will start measuring and marking the passage of time by a single revolution of Saturn around the sun, by the passage of Halley’s Comet by the earth, or the life cycle of salmon.

If we changed our measurement of time, what would happen to my birthday, my anniversary? How would it be marked? How would I know when to expect gifts, breakfast in bed and extra-special anniversary sex?

Fortunately, I don’t see this as an issue looming large on the horizon. We are creatures of habit, so while our current method of delineating years isn’t perfect (think: leap year) we are not likely to change to Saturn’s or salmon’s cycles anytime soon.

The real question is, the year after I die, is my birthday still my birthday? Does the fact that a person, now dead, was born on that date have any relevance? I always remember my Mother’s birthday, twenty years after her death. I remember my grandparent’s anniversary. I celebrate neither. No presents, no breakfast in bed, no extra-special anniversary sex. After I am gone, no one else will remember either event.

Even birthdays of the dead that we do celebrate – Lincoln’s and Washington’s – have become inaccurate for convenience sake. So, do I pause in quiet appreciation of Lincoln’s birthday on February 12th or on Presidents Day?

I like the idea that for as long as humans exist on earth and their measurement of time does not change, May 12th will always be my birthday, whether anyone is alive who even knew of my existence or not. It isn’t the remembrance or the celebration that marks the date. It is the fact that the date exists and on that date in one year of thousands, I was born. It is another small way I mark my immortality, my existence beyond the finite borders of birth and death.

WAG #10 Participants

noreply@blogger.com (Lulu) — Wed, 06 May 2009 12:38:00 +0000

Here are the participants in WAG #10. Please read and let them know you enjoyed their work. Instructions for next week are below as well. Thanks!

How to Join the Writing Adventure Group

Heidi Ervin (New WAG Member!)

Dasos (New WAG Member!)

Lulu

Next week’s Writing Adventure:

“WAG #110: Scaredy-Cat” Another people-watching exercise! Choose a stranger and observe him/her for a little while. Now give them a phobia. A full-on, jump on the chair, scream like a little girl, unreasonable fear. (Or however you imagine them to respond.) Try to choose something that fits the person you’re watching, and let us know what it is about them that clued you in to their secret fear. The object is not just to describe the fear, but to make us understand why it fits with this particular person.

Special thanks to Christine Kirchoff for this week’s topic idea! Email NixyValentine AT gmail DOT com to contribute topic ideas. It’s very helpful!

Post the results on your blog, and read this post about the group for information on how to notify me so your post will be properly included in next week’s list. (Note, please include WAG #11 in the subject heading and tell me how you want your name to appear! If you do not, I will use the name as it appears on your email.) Deadline: next Tuesday, May 12th.

Writing Adventure Group #10 - I Butchered This

noreply@blogger.com (Lulu) — Tue, 05 May 2009 22:51:00 +0000

Here is my entry to WAG #10. The instructions: “WAG #10: The Professional” As we go through our days, we’re surrounded by people doing everyday jobs: the guy that reads the gas meter, cashiers, bank tellers, security guards, doctors, circus clowns… This week, your assignment is to observe someone doing a job (their profession should be one you don’t know that much about). Describe him/her and also what they’re doing, why they’re doing it (as best you can tell), and how. Feel free to use your imagination, but don’t forget the concrete observation!

I grew up in the beef capital of the world. As a child I would go to lunch with my Dad at the steakhouse restaurant in the stockyards. Going in through the backdoor, scraping my Keds at the boot scrape for the stockyard workers, it never dawned on me that what I was eating came from the cattle I saw moving through the chutes as we walked from the parking lot to the restaurant. Once I realized where my sandwich was coming from, that restaurant lost it's appeal.

Today, while we buy our groceries at a large, modern and well appointed supermarket, we still buy our meat at a small, old fashioned butcher shop. It's my husband's idea, not mine. I do best when I don't think about, much less look at, where meat actually comes from and what it looks like before it is delivered to me in pristine, white, butcher paper.

I try to send my husband, a handy kid or anyone I can rope into going to the butcher shop so I don't have to. Occasionally though, it can't be helped. I have to go to the meat market. I have to look at and interact with the butcher.

Butchers alternately repel and fascinate me. If I think about what they do, I can't eat the product they create. Yet I am fascinated about why a person becomes a butcher. What makes them decide that they want to work 40 hours a week cutting through dead muscle, fat and bone, trimming what was once part of a living creature into an unrecognizable mass wrapped in Styrofoam and plastic wrap?

I watch the butchers at my meat market and wonder what they do when they go through the white swinging door with my bone-in Boston Butt (a cut of pork used for my family's secret recipe for pork tenderloin sandwiches) and come back with a pile of translucent, paper-thin slices of pale pink elasticity with all trace of bone removed. What do they think about as they slice through that hunk of hog that used to be the hind quarter of a living creature? And what exactly goes on in that back room that am I not supposed to see? It can't be as bad as what I imagine. At least I hope it can't. My imaginings run to the carnage in the first 20 minutes of the movie Saving Private Ryan.

Is being a butcher more or less pleasant now that the meat comes to them already partially processed and their job is made easier thanks to the advent of electric saws, grinders and tenderizers? Do the old-timers still reminisce about their long-retired favorite cleaver?

Do butcher's prefer to work with a specific animal, much like an artist prefers still life to landscapes? I would assume that some butchers work better in the chicken medium than the pork. Is that true? Why? Is it a visual, olfactory or a tactile preference?

If I were forced to become a butcher tomorrow, something I haven't given much thought to, I think I would prefer chickens over red-meated animals. Even though the only chickens we eat now are boneless, skinless breasts, I have cut up whole fryers before, without disgusting myself too much. But I've also watched chickens have their necks rung or their heads chopped off. I've seen the headless bodies jerk and jump. And I realize if I was a butcher, I would picture that process every time I picked up a fryer or a hen in order to separate the thighs from the legs, the breasts from the wings.

As I've studied butchers through the years I have made one interesting discovery. As a kid I remember feeling nauseous when I'd watch a butcher, who's white apron was heavily spattered with blood, talk to my grandmother about such questionable meat products as suet, gizzards, blood sausage and that great mystery - mincemeat, all of which she used regularly. By my observation butcher apron's today are considerably less bloody than they were when I was a child. I don't think this is one of those instances where my childhood perception of something is warped by the passage of time. I think they really are less bloody.

Which begs the question, do they just change their aprons more often, or has the miracle of modern science somehow engineered cattle and poultry so they aren't as bloody as they used to be?

A Train Wreck that Didn't Wait to Happen

noreply@blogger.com (Lulu) — Sat, 02 May 2009 21:57:00 +0000

We just got home from a wedding. I’d never met the bride. The groom is my husband’s friend. We’ve been introduced, but I don’t really know him. I was happy to go anyway.

I like weddings. Especially weddings that I am not in and I am not paying for. People are generally well behaved and they look their most presentable.

I usually get teary-eyed. The only wedding I’ve been to as an adult that didn’t make me weepy was my son’s. However, the bride and I were the only 2 people in the packed church not sobbing. I think the two of us determined someone had to remain calm and collected and since no one else seemed willing to fill that role, least of all my son or his father, it fell to us. But that is another story.

I’ve never met a married woman who doesn’t cry at weddings. Sometimes for joy, sometimes in sorrow, who can say. There aren’t that many events that trigger wedding memories so it isn’t unexpected that while the couple of the hour are saying their vows, the married people in the audience are thinking about another ceremony, another day.

When I think back on my wedding, specific moments, responses, and reactions will be forever burned in my memory. It’s nice that at least a couple of times a year we get invited to a wedding and I can spend a few minutes leafing back through those memories and savoring them again. The greatest hits list of my wedding includes the following:

1. My mother, in her infinite logic, decided to have my dog put down the morning of my wedding. She thought I would be so consumed with wedding nerves, I wouldn’t have time to be upset about the death of my pet. So while I was getting dressed, my older brother was given the task of delivering my beloved Scotty to the vets for his own ‘special’ day. Then, to assure I truly would be too busy to focus on her announcement, she apprised me of the act just as we arrived at the reception.

(Even though it dilutes the impact of this tender tale, in an effort at full disclosure I will admit that my dog was suffering terribly from a condition that medicine could no longer control and more than one vet had told us there was nothing else they could do for him. So the action wasn’t unreasonable, the timing just sucked.)

2. The week before the wedding my then fiancé's aunt loudly labeled my cousin a ‘filthy scab’ at a wedding shower my cousin was hosting. This was the result of a heated argument squished between insipid wedding shower games. The subject was an upcoming teacher’s strike in our state. Actually ‘filthy scab’ was the tamest of the invectives my future aunt by marriage used. She had a foul mouth. A really foul mouth. I usually admired her colorful use of profanity. I’ve been known to repeat a few of her more original epitaphs myself. But, that day I wasn’t admiring. I was livid.

Bows and ribbon were flying, the little pastel mints were aimed and thrown with deadly force. My future mother in law was trying to shield my new china place settings with her own body. I was frantically looking for the Sabatier Boning Knife I’d just opened. Whether to hide it from my cousin or use it myself, I will never know. But I was ready to call the whole thing off. It took my soon-to-be husband several hours in the back seat of his car to remind me again why I wanted to marry him, regardless of his aunt. The wedding back on, I still threatened to carry the boning knife down the aisle, in case his aunt did anything else to piss me off.

3. Shortly before the wedding, my grandmother, did her duty and had a ‘talk’ with me about married life. Her major concern had to do with my insubstantial dowery. Evidently the paltry 6 sets of pillowcases and the 7 'days of the week' tea towels I had painstakingly embroidered between the ages of 8 and 12 - which I admit, didn’t exactly fill my hope chest - reflected poorly on her. But this was not the lead-in to the discussion. It was prompted by my showing her the entirely appropriate undergarments I’d bought to wear on my wedding day. I happened to mention my fiancé was with me when I purchased them. This revelation led to one of my grandmother’s famous non sequiturs. With a straight face she pronounced -

“I have never allowed your grandfather to shop with me for such intimacies. Nor would we ever even discuss such things. That would be as good as admitting I actually wore them.”

The ‘talk’ went downhill from there. I often wondered how she would have reacted if I confessed that sometimes, I actually did not.

4. All of my attempts to exclude my father’s new wife from the festivities failed. It wasn’t that I didn’t want her there. It was that I hated her. She was a year younger than my oldest sister. She was sickeningly sweet and dishonestly devout; a beautiful porcelain doll, but the facade masked Medusa. She made my dad downright giddy. According to my husband, this last offense was because she possessed ice-cream cone tits. Evidently the engineering skill required to get those breasts in that specific type of bra to assure that you always saw her boobs at least 5 minutes before she actually entered the room, and they were always positioned parallel to the floor, appealed to my father, the architect. Or so the logic went. All I knew was when she entered a room she sucked all the life out of it.

My parent’s divorce was bitter, scandalous, and still very raw. But my mother assured me that with a little help she could rise above the occasion and survive the forced proximity. Unfortunately my mother’s helpmates were Valium and vodka, both of which I generally discouraged. For my wedding day though, I gladly accepted all the help they could give her. I personally witnessed her take her little pills, and kept the vodka bottle close by.

5. At the reception I backed into my husband, who had a cigarette in his hand, and caught my wedding dress on fire.

Then, there was the crooked paint-by-number (I’m serious) larger than life-sized painting of Jesus above the alter that took center stage in our pictures. There was the obvious fact that all members of the wedding party, except for my dad and possibly the minister, had recently indulged in some form of mind altering substance. I could go on and on.

Ah, good times. Good times. I think I will skip weddings for awhile.

A Different Voice

noreply@blogger.com (Lulu) — Sat, 02 May 2009 18:50:00 +0000

I finally mentioned my blog to my husband a couple of weeks ago. I wasn't worried about him seeing anything I wrote. But we live so closely in each other's pockets, sometimes it is nice to do something without the other knowing. This never lasts too long. We are both compelled to periodically spill our guts.

When I finally told him about Liar, I got the reaction I expected. "That's nice babe, have you seen my ipod/car keys/glasses/ball cap/laptop/earbuds/cellphone?" I suspected he read a few posts, just to make sure I didn't embarrass him too badly and once reassured, he promptly forgot about it.

So I was surprised when he told me he'd written about the Neil Young concert he'd just gone to. Surprised not that he wrote about it, after all it combined several of his obsessions - music, Neil Young, tube amplifiers and hybrid cars. Surprised because he asked if I would think about posting what he wrote. I told him I was glad to share, as long as he wasn't expecting an actual audience to read his words. He said he realized this wasn't exactly Huffington Post, so I am happily obliging:

When Neil Young came to my hometown in concert, he did not disappoint the faithful that came to see the legendary performer who’s music and socially conscious voice has been strong enough to keep shining from the decade that ushered in Richard Nixon to the decade that ushered out George Bush.

The evening began without a formal announcement about the opening act. The band Everest came out while the crowd was still milling and as technicians continued to make adjustments to the equipment that crowded the stage. By the time they finished their first number people began to take notice that someone was performing and within seconds they had everyone’s attention. Then they ripped into several well-crafted songs that caused the small crowd to calm down and focus. The last number they played had a wonderful guitar frenzy that echoed like a steel bullwhip cracking in the now-full arena.

After Everest finished their set I could have gone home feeling my money was well spent. I suspect the Neville Brothers who followed them felt the same as I did. When they took the stage after Everest they were unable to build on the energy that Everest generated and a noticeable let-down followed each of their songs. Finally there was a small spike when Aaron Neville sang a solo. I am sure they would have sounded better in a New Orleans bar with the sound of clinking glasses in the background.

Finally, it was time for Young. He started loud and proud with a new song that got the sparks flying again. Many of his new songs are laced with lyrics about Young’s hybrid car project, the LincVolt. While these new songs were good they did not fill my craving to hear him sing his old standards. I would have to exercise a little more patience before Neil would serve up the old stuff, because next he hunkered down into an almost fifteen minute screaming guitar set that left me thinking of Miles Davis; while amazing it lacked cohesion and while beautiful it was laborious.

Several well-known standards followed with a few more new songs tossed in. His finale was an excellent cover of the Beatles song “A Day in the Life” that brought the crowd to it’s feet. As he reached the end of the song he got down close to one of the bigger amplifiers causing peels of feedback distortion. Just when you thought he was about to let up on the electronic whining and howling, he got a little crazier and ripped at the guitar strings like a mad werewolf until they all broke. He skillfully used the broken strings like little whips to play the guitar pickups on the now string-less guitar that was leaning against the amplifier, battered and broken. Then, abruptly the stage lights when down and he was gone. I felt a warm sensation of contentment sweep over me, as I joined the crowd in thunderous applause.

I have to hand it to Young. There are not many performers his age that would have the guts to let a group like Everest open for him, at the risk of having the raw energy of a much younger group suck all the air out of the arena before the main act even took the stage. But this night Neil Young proved he is still infected with the restless energy of youth. I am sure this kind of thinking never enter his mind and I hope it never does.

Note - the tee shirt graphics refer to Sal Trentino Electronics and the shirt is available at Young's website.