A Wandering Ranter, I

What is pretty?

I watch America's Next Top Model... yes, I know, go on, call me whatever, but, I like the show, and whomever 888770 is on youtube is, I want to thank you... without them, I'd have had to go without my fix since I've moved... all of my television viewing is done via my trusty laptop.

Plus, watching it via youtube lets me skip past the blah blah parts and get to the important stuff...the shoots, the judging, and Miss J taking the voted off model's name every week.

This year, I rooted for Lauren, the tall lanky model who had never worn heels from Brooklyn, and Whitney, the model who announced she had "...boobs, hips and a booty, and I'm proud of them. I won't change for anyone."

Lauren made it fairly far in the competition, then failed when it came time to do a commercial... the camera and memorising lines did her in... she was not moved on to be ANTM.

Off came her name from the jacket.

I put all my hopes on Whitney, even though she was in the bottom two on four occasions. She ate like a normal person, she was built like a normal person... she was proud of her body, full and rounded and lush.

She won.

Booya.

Pretty, um, special.

I also have tickets to see Neil LaBute's new play, reasons to be pretty, as part of my MCC membership. It's the third in a trilogy that started with The Shape of Things, and moved on to Fat Pig--all three plays about America's obsession with looks.

I don't know when I'll see the play, I've not made my reservations yet... I admire LaBute, I find his work to be sharp, he digs down and I find connections to my own life, especially in last year's production of In a Dark, Dark House, that often set me back... I wonder if he has read my secret diary that doesn't exist, listing my fears and emotions from my childhood.

His wit can cut wounds so deep and quickly, you don't know they are there until you see the blood dripping. The man can write. So, I'm anxious to see pretty...

...to a point.

I have to ask myself, after watching ANTM.... what is pretty? The premise behind the LaBute play is a comment made by a man about his girlfriend... well, let me quote:

"Greg's tight-knit social circle is thrown into turmoil when his offhanded remarks about a female coworker's pretty face (and his girlfriend's lack thereof) get back to said girlfriend........."~Playbill

There is more to the plot line, but, this is the part I'm focused on, and am thinking of, along with Whitney and her win on ANTM.

What is pretty, and what are the reasons to be pretty?

There were a huge (no pun) number of comments made about Whitney's success on the show, all focused on her 'plus' size. The fact she has a stunning face, even sans make-up, was often put aside.

I've seen photos of the two actors who play the women in the play, and neither are near the word plain or average. How do you act 'plain'?

We focus so much on looks, in this country especially... that it is an obsession. From the moment my children were born, my mother spoke of how beautiful they were. Granted, I think they are lovely... but, I did my best to raise them to see their full potential, not a face. They are your basic people... with features arranged in a pleasing fashion. They are also bright, talented, loving, witty and they put up with me.

I was not brought up in the same way. I'm not going into it, my children do read my journal... my past pain isn't necessary to make a point... what does need to be said is, in a place, in a country, in a world where how you are perceived can actually create the way you live....when no matter how you actually look..,.the face/body you see in the mirror is the one you carry in your head... words said to a child linger on into adulthood, and sometimes never go away.

I am an average, plain woman. I am not going to curdle milk or anything, but, I'm not going to stop traffic. There was a long time in life where I railed against my fate... I have a mother who is still, in her last quarter of life, a beautiful woman. My Aunt A is like her, both with the strong Gaelic facial structure that allows them to grow older and stay beautiful. My mother exudes pheromones like nobodies business, I've gone out with her, and seen men bypass me to flirt with her...

I do not have this gift.... or is it one?

Here is where I stand... I'm okay with how I am, finally. I wish we didn't raise up younger and younger girls to the place where I see 10 year old kids trying to look 15. I wish men (sorry guys!) didn't put the burden on 'mature' women to struggle to look younger, because they seek out young women instead of realising it is okay to date and have relationships with someone your age. I wish we could be more like the Europeans, and grow old with grace and joy... I wish we wouldn't say to our daughters, "Well, at least you have nice eyes."

I wish I'd stop wanting to put my breasts back where they used to be, and understand that using scotch tape to hold my upper eyelids firm and taunt by pulling them up and taping them to my forehead really isn't going to work... and people aren't saying anything to me because this is New York... and I ride the 'F' train... and people on the 'F' train are strange. The reasons to be pretty still niggle at me enough, I do want my breasts back higher... my eyes are fine. I pretend the tape isn't there, and the hell with those who say it is.

So, Whitney won ANTM, there is a final play in a group whose second offering I never want to see again, because it made me sob in pain.... and I give up on America accepting we are what we are... be comfortable with it, why doncha? More interesting is, this applies to women far more than men.

I saw a dating test online once... I answered the questions the same way, as a man and as a woman.... I only altered one area... the amount of money made per year. Being a mature woman, my chances in the dating pool were slim, even though I listed myself as making over $100K a year. As a man, I was hawt.

I guess even cash can't make up for some things.

What is pretty? Why is pretty?

Shakespeare said in Love's Labours Lost

Good Lord Boyet, my beauty, though but mean,
Needs not the flourish of thy praise:
Beauty is bought by the judgement of the eye,
Not utter'd by the base sale of chapmen's tongues.

(and you wonder why it's taking me months to read his complete works??)

I think Margaret Wolfe Hungerford (no relation to our Margaret) said it best:

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

I guess she forgot that if you aren't pretty to begin with, no one looks to see if what is behind the face is interesting, witty, bright and true.

Shame, really.

The Wheels On The Cars Go Round and Round

Cars.

I am not a fan of this beast--I've stated this before, I'll state it now, and in the future, I'll wave the nozzle of the gas pump I'm at (with luck I'll remember not to be holding down the pumping thingy) and say it again.

I grew up in the days before seat belts. I actually remember my car seat...it had a little steering wheel on it, and a yellow horn in the middle of it. I don't remember much else years 1-3, but, I remember that. It hooked on the back of the great bench seats that were essential in keeping control of children in the back seat.

I rode with two people who weren't fond of each other. This condition never improved in my life with them.

The cars changed, the addition of two younger siblings were put into the mix....but, they didn't change.

I found comfort sitting in the wheel well area of the backseat... back behind my father's seat, I'd soak up the heat from the floor, refusing to move even in the summer when it was almost unbearable. I loved the safety of the space. I suppose it was the same reasons I liked to lie under my bed... enclosed spaces made me content. For as many years as I was able to squeeze into that small area, I'd curl up there, resting my head on the hump which I was pretty certain some genius had built just for me... I was upset when I finally grew too leggy to fit, and had to move up to the seat itself, which brought on it's own set of problems.

Lying there, the words coming from the front seat wove and drifted above me, a cloud far above my head, only a few sifting down to my level, the rest flowing out the back windows along with the ash and poisons of their cigarettes, the open window ventilation carrying everything out-- cleaning, for a moment, the air I breathed of both sets of toxins.

Our cars changed over the years.....my dad was a Chrysler man, the models changed, the maker stayed the same. It helped his cousin had dealerships.... he stayed with that line of cars until he discovered Toyotas.

It was the same time he grew out a beard and started wearing jesussandals. He was a radical like that.

I hunched in a corner of the back seat of our various cars until we bought the station wagon, a godsend to me.... I was allowed to take over the back section, complete with the rear facing seat, for myself. If we were traveling, I piled the suitcases around me for protection--what did Ralph Nader and those people know about little white dummies flying around in case of an accident? I had Samsonite protecting me! On long journeys, I drifted into a self hypnotic state, reading and falling into the worlds I read about, becoming every character, wondering whose voice was in my head, as the words ran through my brain. I watched the road, from my back facing position, not wondering what was ahead, I was always interested in the there and gone. I could sit and drift and let the history of our trip roll out behind me, voices and words from the front a blur.... I was very happy that way.

I still do car trips best as a driver... and I do them by getting in, pointing the car in the direction it needs to go, and getting there.

You have not lived until you've driven from Denver to New Orleans in a van in July with a control freak for a husband, a fused neck in a brace and five children under the age of 14. If you can, try and lock your 3 year old in the car at some point during this trip, making sure she remembers it in detail, and tells everyone how you tried to kill her. Add in a brush with a hurricane and it all adds up to a great time.

I've had cars of my own....a Jeep that hit a skunk at one point in it's life, causing me to sell it; whenever it got hot, the stench filled the interior. And, let's face it, I am not a Jeep kinda gal. I had a Corvair. Damn you Ralph!!! I had a Karmin Ghia, with a Porsche engine. It was cute and sweet and it was murdered by a 1975 Dodge that hit me broadside at 60 mph. Someone was watching over me while I flipped in the air twice. There was the 1973 MBG-GT. The 1989 Mazda RX7. The single year cars, most of them used, all driven by a woman with a lead foot. I moved onto vans and the SAAB 900, and the ubiquitous minivan, Norm. Currently, I have Norma--lovely, safe, loves her mechanic, Norma Desmond.

I didn't like any of them... steel boxes that trapped me on a road I didn't like, that brought me memories I couldn't block. I want go where I have to go, without an internal combustion engine. The past rises up to smother me, in ways I cannot deal with in a practical way. Thus, when I find myself in a car, I try to get from point A to point B as quickly as possible. Oddly, I've only had three speeding tickets in all my driving life. Even delicious road trip food doesn't help--who can not love crispy Cheetos and diet Pepsi? Stopping at the delights of side shows along the lines of the recreation of Stonehenge made of cars or the biggest ball of twine in Minnesota can only slightly make me do the happy dance. I will admit I'm a sucker for postcards and really bad magnets, but, that's about it.

There's a great chance I'm going to end up doing a road trip in June from New York to the Land O'Utes to move my stuff back there.... a road trip. In a small car. Days driving. Granted, it will be with The Investment, and I get to choose the music, and we'll do the stopping and stuff. Still, it's a road trip. In a car.

And, I. Don't. Like. Cars.

One Last MeMe

Write Procrastinator gave me this.

It's the last one I do...



Ten Years Ago:

I was struggling to raise my children on my own. I attended law courses on state grants to write my own briefs because I couldn't afford an attorney, I was depressed, and I burned furniture in the winter. Good times.



Five Things on Today's To-Do List:

1. Watch "La Vie en Rose"
2. Write something....oh, does this count?
3. Laundry
4. C & R day!
5. Pretend I'm productive



If I Were A Billionaire:

You mean when I'm a Billionaire (and now I have that stupid "If I Were a Rich Man" tune in my head)



Three Bad Habits:

1. I squeeze toothpaste from the middle of the tube.
2. I talk in films, doing the six degrees of separation thing and complaining about continuity.
3. I will not eat in front of people I don't know.

Five Places I've Lived:

1. Colorado
2. Mississippi
3. Arizona
4. Louisiana
5. New York



Five Jobs I've Had:

1. Demonstrating how to play a dulcimer at a shop in Grand Lake, Colorado.
2. Cooking lunch for a bank's employees
3. Production Stage Manager
4. Travel Agency Manager
5. Bingo Goddess



I'm NOT tagging.

The Boy

There has been a hole in my life, during my time away.

The boys were here in New York, and I was miles and miles away from them... wondering how they were. I had the occasional thought, "Do they think of me, too?" After all, I am not family, I am not long in their lives... we spend a few hours together and then, I'm off to my little flat downstairs.

Today, I had a chance to see them for the first time since I returned home... I knocked, and my questions were answered. C called out, "Miss Quin! Dad! She's home, she's home!" and a small bundle of jeans and tshirt and deep, dark, red hair crawled up my legs, pulling himself into my arms, wrapping his own around my shoulders as he buried his face in my neck, saying my name over and over. He took my face in his hands, actually looking me in the eye, a difficult thing for him to do....."Oh, never leave me again, never, never, never!"

I rocked him, both of us in our different versions of separation from life, him with his touches of autism, me with my Asperger's, both of us afraid in so many ways of touch and fear of affection and not knowing how to interact and the ineptness that can overwhelm us.... we rocked there, as he wrapped himself around me much like the moonflower vines I love wrap around a post, and we crooned to each other. He whispered in my ear all the things he'd done while I was gone, along with the nocturnal habits of the aardvark, and how he'd seen one at the zoo--did I know they would pee to mark their territory?

We walked outside to look at how his new plastic alligator I brought him fit into the sandbox. R came home, sunny and open and gave hugs and thanks for his gift, dashing back inside to do what he does so well... be sunny and open and joyful.

C and I stayed outside a bit longer, discussing the lilac bushes and bumblebees vs wasps, why the flowers he had picked died, how he needed to put them in water...I told him where I had been... I told him I'd seen armadillos, and he asked if they were dead. "Yes, they were." He thought about that, and asked if the cars on the road had killed them. "Yes, they are too slow, C... it's a shame."

The subject was done then, asked and answered and done.... it was time for him to go spend the night with his aunt. I had to promise I'd be here when he returns tomorrow.

This makes things harder.... I'm told he had bad days in school when I was gone. He cried one night. I find in him the same connection on certain levels I have with The Investment, an instinctive understanding that is between us, based on our quirks. The idea of leaving him saddens me.

Who else will save their lost tooth in a ziplock bag for a week before putting it under their pillow, just so I can see it? Who will curl up with me, looking for films on youtube of dinosaurs and lions and will insist we watch the attack of the Indian Rhino 47 times a day? Who will dance with me when we watch "Move It" from Madagascar, and not think I dance funny? R sits and laughs at us, before he, too, joins in.

I speak softly around him. He finds ease around me.

We fit.

Another Day, Another Flight

Car to plane to plane to bus to train to ferry to home.

An interesting week, indeed. It started with mother deciding I should drive from New Orleans to her home in Mississippi... me, the person who hasn't driven in almost a year, save the three block attempt in the fall, when a number of New York drivers told me I was #1 in their book of driving. Back when I stalled out the manual transmission I was driving, because I've not driven a manual transmission in donkey's years... and what does she drive?

A manual transmission VW. No, not a chicken killing machine, it's upgraded, but, it's got a clutch and you move the stick thing in the middle of the bump thing between the seats when the engine sounds as if it is going to come through the firewall.

My mother is a backseat driver. I was going too fast, too slow, I didn't check my mirrors enough, I was not paying attention to the magnolias in bloom, the trucks that had tires bigger than we were nor her perfectly good family gossip that I've listened to so often, I know when she's going to take a breath.

She also is horrible about giving directions...

"Momma, there are three exits coming up...which one do I take?"

"Oh, any of them...no, wait, take the next one."

"This one coming up?"

"No, the next one after that! This is this one, that is the next one."

I drive past only to hear, "Oh, well, why didn't you turn there, it's a short cut."

And I know this, how?

I never did figure out the town of no theaters or WiFi.... there is no rhyme nor reason to the way the streets are laid out... the upside is, there is a WalMart, and the vet backed me up in telling mother to stop feeding the terrier table food. In a matter of days, she stopped scratching. The terrier, not mother. I think it was the fried sweet potato sticks that put me over the edge...seeing my once snappy New York Westie eating fried potato sticks was a bit much.

Mother is upset over the food restrictions...and I'm pretty sure she'll still sneak in a bowl of coffee to the dog every morning when they sit outside and watch the birds in the birdbath.

I wasn't there 24 hours, when I felt ill... this was before the dog eating the sweet potato sticks, and not due to my consuming my weight in boiled crawfish and loving my coffee and chicory.

I've had a fairly serious headache for a few weeks and put it off to allergies... long to short, I ended up in the hospital, with high blood pressure. Yet another pill to take, all of it traced to my missing thyroid. Crap food... I had to be tested one morning (they'd seen a shadow on my CAT, so, an MRI was done to make sure I didn't have a brain tumour). The kind nurses left my breakfast, so, I came back to cold toast and cold grits.

Did you know cold grits solidify to a form somewhat like a brick? You can actually pick up the entire mass from the bowl and eat it as if it were a sandwich.

I declined, and opted for the yummy cold coffee. Twenty four hours there, and they released me... with, yes, more pills.

I never made it into the city proper once we drove back to Louisiana... we did see a plethora of dead armadillos, the lovebugs were in season, and a great number of them died on our car with smiles on their faces (for those who don't know, lovebugs link together as they mate, then fly around, smashing themselves on cars and trucks across the south), the magnolias were blooming, and that massive dense forest that makes up Mississippi, with the thick underbrush crept up against the highway.

You always feel it moves silently in the night, waiting for an unsuspecting car to pull over...and vanish.

Kudzu abounds, of course, consuming everything in it's path. Bless the government for bringing that into our area!

Mother remains in ICU, more because she hates sharing a room than anything else. My trip to the airport included a stop for a (bad) softshelled crab po-boy,...sadly full of grit, a pint of frozen gumbo and a (great) shrimp po-boy that I packed in my case along side the pounds of CDM coffee and chicory. These seafood sandwiches topped off my already consumed over the time there- fried oyster po-boys, at least two dozen raw on the shell oysters (no, the stories aren't true), a good two pounds of shrimp, fried shrimp, boiled shrimp, coconut shrimp, stuffed oysters (along with the raw ones) and catfish. And butterbeans and blackeyed peas and fried chicken and tomato and cucumber salad and fried green tomatoes. And gallons of coffee. And a praline or two.

Yum.

Driving over the Lake, you could see the dirty water of the Mississippi dumping in from the opened spillways.... it's carried down mud, trees and even a cow or two from upriver. The levees were threatening to break again, so, the Corps of Engineers have opened up the spillway, and dumped the excess into the Lake. It's amazing how you can see the difference between the waters, and where it enters, it's choppy and rough. The building goes on for I-10, to re-build what Katrina ripped apart.

My Aunt A and I drove and talked and laughed as we always do... without her and my cousin, Ann, I would be lost with this situation with mother. I know she is being watched over and someone is there to check on her daily. I could fly back here, and rest easy, remotely monitoring the situation. Home health care will step in once she is back at Aunt A's... after that, well, we'll see how it goes.

Once I arrived here from the Ferry, I was tired...it had been a long trek home, and I treated myself to something from the Ferry... a gypsy cab ride! I knew it would be a memorable one when I closed the door, gave the address and he said, "How do we get there?" I loves me my gypsy cabs.

Plus, I knew my aunt would be worried otherwise..."Boo, take a cab!" she'd said to me.

I am lucky with my maternal relatives... I come from a line of women who are giving and loving and never hold over my head the odd quirks I have had all my life. They laugh with me, not at me... and love me for who I am. My cousin, MV, saved my life in the thyroid thing... pushing, giving info, always there to tell me to believe it would get better, what questions to ask. Her sister gets along with mother, something I'm not able to do for long periods of time. And their mother?

She's the one I called Aunt Lolo... who calls me Boo, yells at me, says the terrier is a white roach, has housed the parish priest since Katrina, would give you the shirt off her back, has this yard full of gnomes and statues and a huge bower of honeysuckle and who loved her husband the way we all want to be loved by our spouse. The way he loved her until the day he died.

They keep me going back to New Orleans. That family of mine, who act as if I've never been gone, that all speak at full volume, the ones you know are there. Ann's husband, who never fails to ask how my fat ass is doing, in his heavy accent, yet, will drive all over to find me an oyster po-boy the night I flew in.

Thank you, Lolo and Ann...all of you. For everything you did when I was there, more importantly, when I'm not there. I want to be Lolo when I grow up.

She's there making a little something to eat, reminding you to take your meds, to go to bed, to say your prayers... her only failure was not making me spray on the Off... I now have 4762 mosquito bites, all swollen, all being scratched in shifts.

Including the one on the sole of my left foot that is driving me mad.

About ME

Yes, it's about ME!


1. Grateful Guy had a contest in April, and I won!!!

My wonderful list of prizes include:

1. A bamboo flannel. Totally unused, though it has been laundered ready for use, according to the manufacturers instructions.
2. A copy of Life Wealth 101. 2nd hand, though a good readable copy.
3. Coffee. You all know how much I love my mug of hot coffee, so I’m giving away a 100g bag of vanilla flavoured coffee beans.
4. A decorative “cake soap” bar. I’ll try to get some pictures of this up soon. It’s a bar of soap, in the shape of a slice of cake. There’s a layer of what appear to be oats on the bottom, then the rest of the “cake”, with a layer of “cream” on top. All made out of soap.
5. A Green & Black’s cereal bar.

He has a great journal, not only for the possiblity of winning a contest, but, because he makes you remember the little things in life can make you happy.


2. Along with my LTGP, Peter, and our third partner, the every fab GolfWidow, I was awarded a prize at the Blog Prom held by Sunshine last week. You can see my groovy Prom Crown on the side of my journal. Let it be known that Peter won for tearing up the floor with his dance moves, and GW for her hip attire, among other things... she won THREE awards... rock on, my friend, rock on! I won for being most likely to be smoking something slightly illegal in the parking lot.

As if.


I want to thank both Sunshine and Grateful Guy for my wonderful things... they are treasured.



Now, to other things...

The person who commented on my last entry...

Thank you for reminding me that not everyone is nice who posts here... it makes me appreciate those who do offer their words of decency, humour, kindness... the things that make me think or give me a reason to possibly alter my view on an issue rise in stature.

You remain a wankstain.

I have been at a hospital from around 6.20AM until 6.15PM this evening, in a sitting room, waiting to hear about my mom. I still haven't seen her. She's okay, but, no rooms are available to place her, so, they kept her in recovery. I slept sitting up in a chair and drank hospital coffee. All of that was better than reading your blargh.

I've given you too much of my time already.

I have to go back once again to the ICU, come home and try and re-arrange a flight to New York, and change the sheets because the terrier had a temper tantrum.

With all of that, my life is still so much brighter than yours.


Word.

Catching Up

Amazing what has happened in a week.

The flight down was long, as flights tend to be when you are in a hurry to arrive somewhere. A long, long journey from my flat to LaGuardia... I left the house at 4.30AM and arrived at the airport at 6.30AM, via two buses and a train. The public transportation system of New York is arduous but, it does deliver.

The day I chose to fly was the day the FAA tightened up it's two carry on's mean two carry on's... so, my purse now counted... turned back by TSA, I checked my small carry on, and then actually had two carry on's instead of two carry on's and a purse.

Curse them!

I had an easy time on the flight, if you remove the fact I sat in the first row behind first class... the class that receives food... something American doesn't serve to we peons. The smell of cooked breakfast wafted back to my seat, causing me to drool a bit onto my useless laptop... useless because although I loaded my i-Word, I neglected to bring my serial number... I have with me a pretty paperweight here in the wilds of Mississippi. No WiFi, no way to do any writing... currently I am using an ancient eMachine and dial up.

I digress.

The flight to New Orleans from Miami started with passengers pointing at me as I boarded....and laughing.

They were all wearing shorts and flip flops.... I still had on my sweater and jeans from New York. I had the great good luck to sit in front of the loudest man I've ever heard. He was drunk before we left... his girlfriend kept shushing him.. as if that helped.

Mid-way to New Orleans... it happened.... three rows ahead.... a man became ill and an announcement was made, "If there is a doctor is on board, please make your way to row 15".

Whoa! Drama!

Two men moved to the row... one from 1st class, one from coach. If I had been the ill person, I'd have waved off Mr. Coach. If you are a doctor and can't afford 1st class, don't come near me!

We all peered over the seat backs (with the exception of Big Mouth who shouted "IS HE DEAD??") to see what was on... the ill party had a bit of a convulsion, it seems.... had a shot from his bag, and all was well.

Ho hum.

The rest of the flight was foodless and dull. Upon landing, while we stood and waited for the crowd to surge forward, Big Mouth was talking to his companion who had given up on keeping his voice down.

"I can't wait for JazzFest. I'm going to have a great time... right baby??" He grabbed her ass.

I turned and asked, "What day are you flying back?"

"Tuesday!"

"Whew. I was worried... I'm leaving Thursday... and I was concerned I'd have to change my flight."

I don't think he found that as amusing as the people around us.

Oh, and they lost his luggage. heh.

Tons more fun.... planted what seems to be a zillion plants in the rich soil of my mother's yard, her little cottage is just that... sweet and a cottage and very dear.

The town has no theater, no place to buy coffee, nothing. She wants me to move here. Granted, Craftsman style homes abound, the air is full of flower scents, green is everywhere, people wave and stop and ask how you are. She is having an operation on Tuesday to have a kidney removed... when she returns in a month, there will be casseroles and ladies to drop by and clean the house... they have purple hair and fluttery hands. Say a little prayer, to whomever, if you would, please.

Me? I've fallen into the way of life already. How do I know?

Weather Guy was in New York for the weekend, and called... "I can't adjust to your voice, with that accent."

My, oh, my....