Archive for January, 2009

Not blue. Purple.

I’ve been thinking about my relative absence and wondering  just what this is about. The seven year itch? Nah, too early for that. Though it’s been suggested I’ve strayed too much on another site at the expense of this one.  Just a little bump on the road? Maybe. Or perhaps it’s just…nothing.

I just feel like…I’ve forgotten how to blog, after almost three years (?). So recently, I crawled over to my long ignored Facebook acount and hung around–seems my whole family and more than a few former classmates abound there—and after reading Colin McEnroe’s Sunday column last week on the subject, I thought I’d go splash around in the water too.

But I’m just too wordy for Facebook. I can’t just crank out little one sentence blurbs on the state of my day, or  its random hour or minute,  here and there, randomly. It’s too naked. Unembellished. I feel too compelled to be clever, or jingoey, so as not to be banal, as so many of these little announcements over there are. If I’m even going to be banal or otherwise boring, let it be my way. Wordy and unedited. Inconcise, even.

So I’m back. And in not quite a foul mood, but as close as one could get to it. I feel like one of those dark, purpley days just hanging around; cold, moist, heavy and full. On the brink. Ominous. On those days, you know it’s going to storm, and you just wish it would, and quickly. On with it.

And why, maybe you ask? Or not?

Because  I just got…bifocals, folks. And I want to cry. I’m going to cry. Sometime.

I knew I needed them; I swore, often, that  I needed them—immediately, right now, when I couldn’t read a book anymore without my eyes feeling raked over. And now I have them—-now I’m actually wearing these fuckers, and….I hate them!

It’s not a vanity thing. Really, it’s not. I actually like wearing glasses; they’re almost better than shoes, as far as accessories go. The one thing I maybe don’t like so much about wearing glasses is the feeling that they tip my hand and fool people into thinking that I’m smarter than I actually am. Sometimes that’s not fun. If I were a doctor, that could have its benefits…I fully expect my doctors to wear glasses, and most of the time, they do. But being expected to be smarter than you are, in ways you surely are not, can be problematic and frustrating, know?

Anyway,  this is not about being old, either. True, I’ve spent almost a lifetime in denial of my actual age;  employing as my ruses various hair dyes, self absorption, capricious behavior, delayed life choices, and, um, a few much younger (but legal!) boyfriends. And apparently, it at least fooled my young, impressionable neices into believing that my sister T, and not I, was the eldest of my mother’s brood (thanks, T).

But sitting in that optometrist’s chair, I was casually accepting of my advancing middle age; ha-ha-ing, even,  as I bantered lightly with the doctor, who looked to be about my age;  or perhaps older. (Ok, I secretly feel that everyone’s older than me, in a way. In my mind’s vantage point, every non-relative I encounter is about a good three feet taller than me, and intimidating in the way monsters under the bed are when you’re six. I digress.). I was stoic and mature as I related the news to dear Mom, who’s also in denial of my age. All went well until I actually wore the specs, and, a full half day later, here I am, 43 and on the brink of full on tantrum that will monsterously outdo anything the kiddo ever mustered during her entire six years on this earth.

Apparently, this happens to almost everyone in their forties. Presbyopia. The lens of the eye hardens and it becomes more difficult to adjust and focus. Quite logical, nothing mysterious about that. I  wish I could just get another lens though. Or take some magical supplement for it. Anything but this. Because the hard plastic lens I’m wearing to compensate for my defective living lens isn’t that much more flexible. And when I flutter my eye around, doing whatever I do to see what I can see, I hit a blur, and then I feel lost. In fact, that  blur I hit is a metaphor for any time I’ve ever felt lost.

And that’s the problem, friends.  Inconcisely, and unedited.


need to pout…

I’ve mostly outgrown pouting but— two things:

Colin McEnroe’s recently cancelled afternoon radio show on WTIC was very much missed on Innauguration Day. Maybe he’s gotten over it, but I haven’t.

Little pout: Can’t imagine a senate without a Kennedy. I wasn’t all gung-ho over Caroline, but there’s been freshman senators with weaker qualifications. I have an extra cushiony soft spot for the Kennedys. They remind me of my mother’s family. Big. Irish Catholic. Clannishly close, and with similar issues and tragedies, except the glaring fame and fortune. I thought a lot of Robert Kennedy on Innaugeration day, actually.

good read

I need. I want to read The Sky Below, and this one(admittedly because of the John Irving comparisons. His own latest have disappointed.). Any others I’m missing? Anyone?

Also, after virtual absence of interest in photography for too many years (photography was my major), I have been looking at the recent edition of BW magazine. Wolf Suschitzky’s work, especially his By the Water, Light and Shadow, and  Loving Care  galleries, I like.

conversations with the kiddo

from a short two days ago:

“Does Santa have a penis?”


“Well, yeah. If he’s a boy, he has a penis, right?”

“What color is his toilet?”

“Red. Santa’s toilet is red.”


“Welllll….mine’s only white.”

(muttering under my breath) “Don’t even…”

just because

I’ll be around later today or tomorrow, but I wanted to throw this up on here because…just because. It’s from The One Hundred Languages, which is a part of the Reggio education philosophy. My daughter attends  a Reggio school.

No Way. The Hundred is There.

The child is made of one hundred.
The child has
a hundred languages
a hundred hands
a hundred thoughts
a hundred ways of thinking
of playing, of speaking.
A hundred always a hundred
ways of listening
of marvelling, of loving
a hundred joys
for singing and understanding
a hundred worlds
to discover
a hundred worlds
to invent
a hundred worlds
to dream.
The child has
a hundred languages
(and a hundred hundred hundred more)
but they steal ninety-nine.
The school and the culture
separate the head from the body.
They tell the child:
to think without hands
to do without head
to listen and not to speak
to understand without joy
to love and to marvel
only at Easter and at Christmas.
They tell the child:
to discover the world already there
and of the hundred
they steal ninety-nine.
They tell the child:
that work and play
reality and fantasy
science and imagination
sky and earth
reason and dream
are things
that do not belong together.

And thus they tell the child
that the hundred is not there.
The child says:
No way. The hundred is there.

Loris Malaguzzi

(translated by Lella Gandini)

back from the gumdrop mountains

Damn. I haven’t been around much, have I? Oy. And how were your holidays? Ours were awesome. A quiet, peaceful little cocoon of  quirky goodness.

Except that Santa flubbed a gift due to a last minute, virtually impossible request from my kiddo, who I suspect either got her holidays mixed up or is attempting to fuse Halloween and Christmas together, ala Tim Burton.

What was Miss Wheedle’s hearts desire? A skeleton costume. A freaking skeleton costume!

“Why Mommy, why? Why didn’t Santa bring me my skeleton costume??”, pleaded little Cindylou Who in despairing tones.

“(sigh). Because he couldn’t find just the right one. Anywhere, my sweet.”

Gah! Just what was she going to do in that thing? Besides dance around the tree and chant in it? Just where was she going to go wearing that? Actually, I know. At the playground, where she already prowls around in her black masquerade mask, looking oddly like some strange little bird.

I awoke the next morning to find she’d also perched, upside down, her coveted, overpriced Webkins batty-bat on the bottom boughs of the Christmas tree. “Just like Stella Luna, Mommy!”  Another Christmas present, by the way.

The big event during the holidays, though, were a pair of unexpected guests; two tiny, adorable elves. Noooo, not new birds. Twin, one year old boys we’d taken in over the week. Long story. Pretty cool though. Surprisingly easy; no fuss, no muss. Shocked myself. I could have had twins and managed that. Yep. Pretty cool.

Oh, and the new birdies, you might have asked? (or not.) They are flying. They are showing their new plumage and they are….boys. Both of them. One resembles Stella the fawn, and one resembles Miles the grey. Teenagers, they are; with croaky voices attempting to find their own song, just like the Fraggles. Adorable.

Happy New Year to you and yours, peeps!

January 2009
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