Why I Love Dandelions

For one thing, they require nothing from you. No tending, no watering, no nothing.

And they’re hardy. And pesky. Ever tried to get rid of dandelions? I’ve heard their roots are like 20 feet long! Plus, if you kill ’em off, you run the risk of killing off every other plant in your yard, or so I’ve heard.

: )

Yes, I love ’em. Mostly since I started looking at ’em, close-up, through my camera lens.



Plus, they really are the perfect shade of yellow.

: )

I am wearing shorts right now. For the first time this year, not counting when I was down in the Keys — which, apparently, will be our vacation destination again this year, and I could NOT be happier!

Good day for shooting, color-wise.



A flower from my yard, back by the trash can, completely unnoticed by me, ever, ’til the other day.

And now, something blue:



And something that is definitely NOT Flower. (Get it? And look closely: There’s more than one deer here!)

Up, Up and Away ...

Perfect day for a balloon launch.

Easter Remnants

Out on the boulevard, this morning, just outside the news office:



No, I didn’t eat ’em. Nor would I have eaten ’em, even if they hadn’t been lying (still sealed!) in the grass. Matter of fact, I cannot recall ever having eaten a Peep. But I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t like ’em, anyway, for this simple nutritional fact:

Peeps have zero (0) fat grams.

A few calories, though: 32 per Peep. And 40 carbohydrate grams per serving (5 Peeps), mostly from sugars (36 grams; there seems to be no accounting for the other 4 grams).

Most importantly, however: Peeps are not made of chocolate; hence, I have no interest in them ... except when I see a box lying, somewhat inexplicably, on the lawn. (Guess it would’ve been far more inexplicable if they’d shown up in, say, mid-August.)

: )

Isabella, lookin’ kinda goofy:



Actually, she was mid-yawn. And she is usually MUCH more dignified than that.

Basketball

Watched the most amazing basketball game tonight, which included a comeback from a 15-point deficit and a 1-point Fighting Illini victory over Arizona.

Go, Illinoize!

: )

This is a fun site: http://www.planearium2.de/flash/spstudio.html

And this is how I turned out:



If the bat were red, it would be JUST like the one I keep under my desk at work!

And, of course, the cone would be 3 scoops of chocolate.

: )

Other than that, this is truly me. Or I. Especially the eyebrows.

It is finished!

The 5-part special edition! My annual March madness is over — after being even more headache-inducing this year, in a way, because this year, I actually sort of knew what I was doing ... AND knew what to expect!

Strike up the band! Break out the keg! Come on over and celebrate with me, won’t you?

: )

Now: If only I had Good Friday off. Wouldn’t that be cool? Ah, but no such luck, and here I sit, on Maundy Thursday with nary a religious thought in my head ... though suddenly, I have a memory of a warm spring Good Friday, 20-some years ago, walking toward the Quad with my pals, listening to some wannabe minister and Sister Cindy (I think that was her name) calling people names and criticizing us all for “premarital kissing!” (gasp!) and possibly a little “for-ni-KAY-shun!”

And someone told me, back then, how, every Good Friday, right around noon or some time coinciding with the crucifixion of Jesus (I actually think that, with the different time zones and what-not, that this could not possibly be right ... but then again, I sometimes think too much), the sky will go all cloudy and the wind will blow and rain will fall. And so, every year since then, when I remember to think about that, I check to see if this actually holds true, and as far back as I can recall: It doesn’t.

I am wondering, at the moment, if I were predisposed to do so, if I could even possibly think about writing a news/political blog. Doubtful, for as close to the news as I have been for the past umpteen years, I am sometimes the least news-oriented person I know. Not that I am apathetic about the world around me — it is simply that, sometimes the world around me is a very small enclosure, and I have neither the energy nor the inclination to take on the cares and the troubles of anything outside my not-always-comfortable enclosure.

And as for politics ... to return to the 1980s, once again: Gag me with a spoon!

: )

If I were writing a news blog, however, I would first say R.I.P., Barney Martin, a.k.a. Morty Seinfeld.

If you’re not a Seinfeld fan, then those names mean nothing to you. In fact, I am a Seinfeld fan, and if you had told me that Barney Martin had died, I probably would have said, “Who?” For of all the Seinfeld regulars or semi-regulars, Morty was the one whose real-life name I somehow did not remember.

I mean, hell, I knew that Liz Sheridan played Jerry’s mom, Helen, and I even knew, also, that Liz Sheridan’s only other claim to fame (in my eyes, anyway) was that, in her younger days, she was, according to her autobiography, hot ’n’ heavy with a certain someone named James Dean.

Yeah: That James Dean. (Lucky girl!)

: )

I have also tried to resist forming an opinion on the Terri Schiavo case because it is overwhelming. And for a while there, my thoughts were: Let her die. She told her husband she would not want to live in a state like this (and no, she was not talking about Florida ... or was she?). She cannot possibly get any better.

I had not read much about the case, and honestly, I still have not. It hurts too much. It makes me think: There but for the grace of God (“go I,” said in a Juliana Hatfield/My So-Called Life tone of voice).

Tonight when I was talking to The Lovely, we wandered onto this topic for the first time ever.

“They’re killing her,” she said. “They’re starving her to death. They’re killing her. What they’re doing is wrong.”

And I realized, in that moment, that I agreed with The Lovely.

Terri Schiavo is not brain dead. She is not being kept alive by a respirator. She is a living being who is incapable of everyday functions, and yes, obviously, she has severe brain damage ... but does that mean, without a clear, written directive, that she should be put to death?

Who decides such things — a husband who, clearly, has not abided by their marriage vows over these last 15 years, or parents who, clearly, want to do whatever they can to protect their daughter? (Kind of difficult not to let my so-called morals affect my judgment, I notice.)

Who decides?

Not long before my Grandma Evelyn died, she entered the hospital for the final time.

I had not been to see her for quite some time, probably a couple of months.

“She’s in pretty bad shape; she’s really out of it,” my mom said. “Don’t be upset if she doesn’t recognize you.”

No one wants to be told that, so before I entered her room, I most definitely was upset.

I saw Grandma lying there, her once stocky, solid body now withering away, small and fragile under her hospital gown. Her hair, which she had dyed dark brown until she was well into her 70s, was completely white now.

Don’t be upset if she doesn’t recognize you.

I walked up to the side of her bed, reached out and touched her thin, frail arm. “Hi, Grandma,” I said.

She looked at me. “Hi, Diana.”

It was the last conversation we ever had.

Cupcakes

I am going to make cupcakes for Easter dinner at my mom’s house. Or, rather, cupcakes for dessert following Easter dinner at my mom’ s house.

Yellow cupcakes with chocolate icing.

Di’s Dessert Trivia

Favorite cake: Yellow cake with chocolate icing.
Favorite pie: Pumpkin pie.
Favorite non-pie/cake baked good: Brownies sans nuts or icing. Although, if you really must add anything, make it powdered sugar on top.
Favorite non-baked good dessert: Chocolate ice cream.

One year, I went all out for Easter: Made some yellow cupcakes with chocolate icing, and then sprinkled green coconut (grass) and jelly beans (eggs) on top of each one.

How to Make Green Coconut

Place coconut in a Ziploc plastic bag. Squeeze a few drops of green food coloring into the bag. Zip bag shut and shake shake shake shake shake your coconut until completely coated.

My cupcakes were good, but, truthfully, I can do without any kind of coconut-jelly bean garnish.

Last year, for my birthday, The Lovely and I discussed birthday desserts. (I think I may have already posted this somewhere, but, if so ... well, I am quite certain it is not the first time I have repeated myself.)

The Lovely: What kind of dessert would you like for your birthday?
Di: Yellow cake with chocolate icing!
(Pause)
Di: Or brownies with powdered sugar on top!
(Pause)
Di: Or whatever Big John has. (Big John is our grocery.)

: )

When I was a kid, we used to bring treats to school on our birthdays. And sometimes our moms would come in, too, to join in on the celebration. Wonder if they still do that?

My most memorable school birthday was when I was in 3rd grade, so I must’ve been turning, what, 8? No, 9, ’cause it was 1974.

I had been looking forward to this day for weeks, in no small part because I had a huge crush on my teacher, Miss Biggs. She used to make up strange little songs to help us remember our multiplication tables, among other things; she also had a Danny O’Day doll and used to do ventriloquism (but we all knew she was the one who was actually doing the talking ... right?).

: )

Anyhoo, I was excited about my big day. Sometime close to my birthday, though, a boy named Ricky Stretch moved to The Ville. I don’t recall where he moved from, but I do remember he was pretty nice and had sort of a nasally voice ... and I also remember that, one day, not long after he had moved here, he announced that his mom would be bringing in cupcakes on April 18.

On my birthday!

I was mortified! I mean, my mom was bringing in brownies with powdered sugar on top on my birthday; how dare anyone else think he could bring something in on my birthday??!

I remember crying to Miss Biggs and complaining, and how she told me that Ricky’s mom was concerned about him making new friends at his new school, so she wanted him to bring some treats to school. And I told Miss Biggs how unfair it all was, that this was my birthday, and how I didn’t want to share the day with anyone else.

I’m pretty sure I also complained about this to my mom ... and if I know my mom, she probably told me that I could either take my brownies to school on my birthday or I could not take anything in, period, and that I had better “dry up about it.”

And, again, if memory serves me correctly, I believe Ricky and I both brought in our treats on my birthday, and almost everyone tried some of both and had a fabulous time.

(Man, I was such a stoopid little fuck, sometimes.)

Rainy Tuesday

What a perfect day: Rainy and cold.

: )

Yesterday, a visitor: A “Chorkie” (apparently, this is what you call a mixture of a Chihuahua and a Yorkie) named Ralphie dropped by the the news office. With his mama, of course. Who tells us he is a mixture of a “chuh-wow-wow” (heh) and a Yorkie.

Which reminds me of the time I was in fifth grade, and it was math and I was reading a word problem (gotta love the word problems), and one of the words was Chihuahua, so I read it and pronounced it “chuh-wah-wah,” just like you’re s’posed to, and Miss Kull started laughing and laughing and laughing, and I was like, “What the ...?” and she admitted: “I always thought that word was pronounced, ‘chu-HOO-uh-HOO-uh,’ just like it’s spelled!”

I must confess: I fell a little bit more in love with her that day.

Anyhoo, the Chorkie mama put Ralphie on the counter and I proceeded to take pictures of him. And managed to get one that was in focus.



Someday, perhaps I will have a doggie. Perhaps even a Chorkie.

: )

Listened to a mix today at work, turned up to maximum volume. Last song on the mix is this one.

Solsbury Hill
(Sarah McLachlan’s version)

Climbing up on Solsbury Hill
I could see the city lights
Wind was blowing, time stood still
Eagle flew out of the night
He was something to observe
Came in close, I heard a voice
Standing, stretching every nerve
I had to listen, had no choice
Did not believe the information
Just had to trust imagination
My heart was going boom, boom, boom
Hey, he said, grab your things, I’ve come to take you home.

Oh, darling, home
Oh, darling, home
Oh, darling, home

To keeping silence I resigned
My friends would think I was a nut
Turning water into wine
Open doors would soon be shut
So I went from day to day
Though my life was in a rut
’Til I thought of what I’d say
Which connection I should cut
I was feeling part of the scenery
I walked right out of the machinery
My heart going boom, boom, boom
Hey, he said, grab your things, I’ve come to take you home.

When illusion spin her web
I’m never where I want to be
And liberty, she pirouette
When I think that I am free
Watched by empty silhouettes
Who close their eyes, but still can see
No one taught them etiquette
I will show another me
Today I don’t need a replacement
I’ll show them what the smile on my face meant
My heart going boom, boom, boom
Hey, I said, you can keep my things, they’ve come to take me home.

I am so in love with this song (Sarah’s version AND Peter Gabriel’s version) that it’s not even funny.

: )

Me, in a Nutshell

Or, perhaps, on the halfshell.

: )

I do not have a garage; hence, my car is exposed to the sometimes harsh elements of the Midwest.

Namely, bird shit.

And, if the current state of my car is any indication, the birds around here have perfected their aim using the Grand Am as target practice.

So, yesterday, as I am out driving around on a mostly perfect day, I think to myself, hmm, I should take this beast to the car wash. Not the Super Wash or the new Dirt Blaster or whatever it is called, but a real, honest-to-goodness car wash. The one with the sprayer and the foaming brush and the giant vaccuum for cleaning out the inside, too.

As I am heading back toward town, I dig through my change cup (it is supposed to be an ashtray, but there is NO SMOKING allowed in my car) and come up with about $3 in quarters. Which I know will be nowhere near enough to wash my filthy, shit-covered car (I swear, it looks as if it has been in some kind of paintball war ... and lost).

I am not saying I have to have a perfectly polished vehicle. I have actually done a pretty good job, for me, of keeping this one clean, but I am a realist. And I realize that there are certain times of the year (winter, when I am sometimes tracking snow in and out of my car, and spring, when I am sometimes tracking rain and mud in and out of my car) that I really cannot worry about keeping it spotless.

Plus, I have always believed that a thin layer of grime actually serves to protect the surface of my car.

: )

Anyhoo, I gather up my change and realize I need more for the car wash. So I decide that I will first run by the grocery store and then go back home, drop off my groceries, get more quarters and go to the car wash. Of course, after the big trip to get groceries, all I can think about is getting back home and putting them all away. Plus the game is on by then, so within moments of my arrival at home, my car-washing plans are all but forgotten.

Fast-forward to today, late this afternoon, after I have spent too long at the office and am completely exhausted, I think, hmm, maybe I will run by the car wash, finally.

And then I remember: I heard it is going to rain tomorrow. Possibly for the rest of the week.

: )

Uncle Joe's Deli

I am kicking myself at the moment because I did not stop to see if Uncle Joe’s Deli really, truly does have fried bologna sandwich-scented candles for sale. Oh, well, there’s always tomorrow ... unless they sell out!!!

: )

And don’t think I didn’t run by Big John on my way home, specifically to pick up some Oscar Mayer bologna/baloney and some white bread, because yes, indeed, I DID. But I opted for rotisserie chicken and pickled beets (the tiny whole ones), instead, for lunch.

And my John Denver CD, The John Denver Story, accompanied me on my drive to the lake. And I fell in love all over again with “Annie’s Song.” And I still claim “Rocky Mountain High” as my song, or at least my John Denver song ...

And they say that he got crazy once, and he tried to touch the sun
And he lost a friend but kept his memory

... and “Leavin’ on a Jet Plane” is better by Peter, Paul & Mary, but that’s OK: I like John’s version, too. And “Sunshine on My Shoulder” is still the quintessential John Denver song. Period.

And this is where I used to teach:





OK, not in that actual lil’ one-room schoolhouse, but this place is located on the edge of campus.

: )

And today is the first day of spring. Which makes me want to get in my car, again, and drive south, straight to the Gulf of Mexico, or west, knowing I will reach mountains, eventually.

Cable Woes (and Salads)

So, just over a month ago I decide to bite the bullet and finally sign up for digital cable. And when I call the cable company, I actually tell the girl, in these exact words, “I want to see about signing up for Showtime.”

Because, truthfully, I wanna watch The L Word.

She tells me that in order to get Showtime, I have to switch from basic cable to digital cable — which I already knew because I had called a couple of years ago when I was thinking I needed HBO. She also tells me that SusCom is offering a free preview of all premium channels for 30 days!

WHEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!

She sets up an appointment for the guy to come to install the digital receiver and what-not. And everything goes exactly according to plan; in fact, I like the cable guy so much that I am seriously thinking about having him come back to install a cable modem for Internet service. And then, over the next couple of weeks, I try out almost of all of my new channels and, except for a brief fuck-up on ... I dunno, HBO? Cinemax? whilst I am watching Glory, the channels all seem to be working perfectly.

And I remember, vaguely, making a note of the installation date: February 20. And as time moves along, I think to myself, well, they already know I want Showtime, but I probably need to let them know I am thinking I might just keep HBO, also.

And yet: They never said I would have to let them know, so I figured they might actually have the type of customer service that, a few days before my free preview ended, would contact me to say, “Your free preview will be ending on ______, and we were wondering if you would like to subscribe to any of the premium channels.” At which point I would have said, “Well, of course, as I told you, I want to subscribe to Showtime, and I would also like to add HBO.”

Or, what the hell? Maybe I would have kept all of them, just because I am someone who is highly resistant to change?

Idiots.

: (

I made a kick-ass salad Friday night:

Baby spinach leaves
Avocado
Mushroom pieces
Hidden Valley buttermilk ranch dressing

Spinach and mushroom are pre-washed and ready-to-go, right out of the package. Avocadoes take, what, 2 minutes to dice?

Though, next time, I will probably use Italian dressing instead. Because, honestly, the only kind of ranch dressing I like is the kind I make myself, “from scratch” (heh). And Italian dressing right outta the bottle does not trouble me at all.

My favorite kind of salad includes this stuff:

Lettuce
Artichokes
Red onions
Diced pimientoes
Parmesan cheese

Mandatory homemade ranch dressing on top. (They serve this salad at a place called Murphy’s Bar & Grill in Carbondale.)

Clusterfuckt

I think my head is a little clusterfuckt* at the moment.

And no, not because of the Kahula. (And yes, I realize the word is actually Kahlua. I simply prefer MY spelling.)

: )

Maybe it is because spring is here. Maybe it is because I know what I need to be doing, and I am not (yet) doing it. Maybe because ... well, just because.

* — Tee-Hee and I do strange things to the English language when we chat and e-mail.

I cannot reveal what all of those things are because most of them are inadvertent, happy accidents (i.e. typos), but one thing is our tendency to shorten words that end in -ed by replacing the -ed with a t. So “clusterfucked,” of course, becomes “clusterfuckt.”

Much like people do in real life. Accidentally or otherwise.

: )

Gwen Stefani always looks as if she is having fun whenever she performs. And what a bod!

(In my next life, if I am not a Major League Baseball player, as I hope and dream I will be, then perhaps I will be a real girly-girl capable of dancing and performing onstage whilst wearing 6-inch spike heels.)

Gettin' My Buzz On

One Kahula Mudslide and already I got a bit of a buzz.

: )

I love being a lightweight.

40

Just now, I realized that exactly one month from today, God willing, I will turn 40.

This is supposed to be a monumental event, and I am sure it will be. The party guests have been invited to the mostly family (in more ways than one!) gathering, and I am already expecting a slew of “gag gifts” from those in attendance. The lil’-kid side of me is hoping for a few good gifts, too, but I’m already figuring on lots of over-the-hill-related stuff.

It’s OK. I can take it. Never let it be said that I have lost my sense of humor.

I do hate letting go of my thirties, though. I mean, when I was in my twenties, I never imagined that I would enjoy anything associated with that decade. Something about anything thirty-related just seemed so ... so ... boring, or something. And now, everything associated with being “in my forties” ... well, to be quite frank, it just sounds so old.

And I know it’s not. Yet, for the most part, many of the friends I get to hang out with on a regular basis are “in their forties,” so all of the aches and pains and whatevers that they have complained about over the last few years, I have been able to shrug my shoulders and give them the old, “How would I know? I haven’t even hit 40 yet!”

(Yes, secretly, they all hate me. But I’m OK with that.)

: )

Not sure why, but this song is going through my head:

40

I waited patiently for the Lord
He inclined and heard my cry
He brought me up out of the pit
Out of the miry clay

I will sing, sing a new song
I will sing, sing a new song
How long to sing this song
How long to sing this song
How long ... how long ... how long
How long ... to sing this song

He set my feet upon a rock
And made my footsteps firm
Many will see
Many will see and fear

I will sing, sing a new song
I will sing, sing a new song
I will sing, sing a new song
I will sing, sing a new song

How long to sing this song
How long to sing this song
How long ... how long ... how long
How long ... to sing this song

— U2

Speaking of that Irish band:

I love St. Patrick’s Day but didn’t really do anything extraordinary to celebrate yesterday. Other than wearing my green Shamrocks 9 T-shirt and my green-’n’-white boxers and my green Mardi Gras beads. Should have managed to find me some Harp, but ... I did not. Prolly would not have been able to drink it, anyway, not if I wanted to make it through another extended workday today.

Did I mention how glad I am that this is Friday??!

"I think it moved!"

And how funny that, not long after my hetero-homo-erotic sex post (oh, yeahhh!), I would stumble upon the Seinfeld episode in which George gets a massage from A MAN and then spends the rest of the show worried that he might be gay!

(NOT that there’s anything wrong with that!)

: )

My ass hurts. That’s the favorite phrase amongst me and some of my co-workers. And usually it’s another co-worker who’s making our asses hurt, and our asses are hurting not in the traditional sense, but in the pain-in-my-ass sense.

I think my ass hurts in both senses, actually, as I have been parked in my chair, in front of the computer, for much of the last 2 days. Working on a special section.

(If I get it finished by deadline, it will be one of the most amazing feats of my professional career.)

: )

Tomorrow the NCAA Tournament begins, and because I have been “off sports” for quite a while now, I have to think I will do worse this year in the office tourney than I usually do ... and I never do better than middle of the pack, which was particularly annoying back when I was the sports editor. Or, rather, it would have been annoying if I actually gave a fuck about it ... which, once I started losing by a significant margin, I did NOT.

: (

This is one of those moments I wish I could blog telepathically throughout the day ... ’cause I know I had a couple of (mildly) interesting thoughts today but didn’t manage to commit them to memory or write them down ... I mean, why would I do that, surrounded by notebooks and pens and even my work computer, all the live-long day??!

Ooh, but one of those thoughts was this one: I am soooooooooo damn happy that The Shield is back! And already I can see that Glenn Close is a brilliant addition to the cast! And I loved seeing the sparks between her and Vic, and her and Claudette (hope they’ll get Dani/Danny involved in the mix!), and Glenn and that prick ASSeveda, whom I detest even more because he played the manager of that razzem-frazzem Blue Bear boxer in Million Dollar Baby. Grrrrrrrrrr!

(Perhaps I am taking my TV-/film-watching a little too seriously? Nah!)

Let's talk about sex.

Yeah, right. That’s what I’m going to write about tonight.

Heh.

Occasionally, though, I like to read about sex. Find out what other people are up to. Who knows, maybe I’ll learn something, I tell myself.

What I learn, usually, is that a heck of a lot of people out there are having sex, in ways I could never imagine ... or at least in ways I could never have imagined before stumbling upon various Web sites.

And I’m not even talking about those sites that can randomly appear when you innocently type in some mundane-sounding link, either; I’m talking about sites that are devoted to writing about sex.

Blogs of a different nature.

Erotica, some might say — of which I will admit I am a fan, as long as it is original and well-written and ... well, hot.

: )

I wonder, sometimes, what my dreams mean. Or if they mean anything.

The other night )last night?) I had a dream that I was “with” a female acquaintance of mine. Not “with” as in “having sex,” but as in “together.” Like, we were going to be MARRIED! (“Meddied??!” “MEDDIED!!!”) And this woman was not a particularly attractive woman, but when we were together, she had this odd sort of “being in love” glow ... but then I found out that she had decided that once we were married, we were going to be moving away, and my boss informed me that June 29 (or maybe it was July 29) was going to be my last day, and all of a sudden I was like, “No, that is not going to be my last day, and I am not moving away!” And I realized, all at once, that I was most definitely not in love with this woman.

And she was devastated, but ... there was just no way I could agree to any of this.

Sometimes — at the risk of heading into TMI Land — I have sexual dreams. Many times — in fact, most times — they involve sex with a man.

Which only makes me wonder: Do heterosexual-identified people (for want of a better term?) ever dream about having sex with someone of the same sex/gender? Do other homosexuals also dream of having sex with someone of the opposite sex/gender?

Is it possible that I am queerer than I originally thought?

: )

On another tangent: My stomach aches. Not so much an ache as a twinge. PLEASE say it is NOT the flu ... unless it is that really fast-acting flu that would last just long enough to get me out of work for a day.

: )

Sunday, Lazy Sunday

Today I went to the mall in search of Fighting Illini-wear. Found a T-shirt for Tee-Hee (seems there is no University of Illinois merchandise to be found in Texas) and an unexpected Leave It to Beaver-style shirt for Delra.

The mall is in a college town, and one of the shoppers I passed looked like a girl who had rolled out of bed not too much earlier (it was past noon at the time) and was strolling aimlessly along. Reminded me of those days, some 20 years ago, when I would have been doing exactly the same thing on a Sunday.

Just had to smile over that!

: )

The L Word keeps getting better and better. Which, considering how it started the season (zzzzzzzzzzzzz), is no big surprise. And I am amazed to find that I am really starting to dig Jenny, who, as the writer, should have been the one I liked, but I really did not, most of last season and the first 2 episodes of this one. Now, though ... I dunno.

And I adore Shane. And Bette, though her choices have been really stoopid. And I love the Dana-and-Alice storyline. What the heck, I like them alllllll!!!!

: )

More crocuses. (What can I say? I already admitted I am obsessed.)





And I think this is a tulip tree or something.

Another Saturday Night

And that should put another song in my head, and maybe yours, but honestly, the song in MY head, halfway, is “Night Moves” by Bob Seger, mainly because I heard it just before I turned off my car, about 30 minutes ago, after I had returned from a romp through The Lovely’s neighbors’ yard and a visit to the airport. And I had thoughts of traveling south, to seek out a Fighting Illini T-shirt with a big orange “I” on it and, of course, another one of those amazing Quatro’s pizzas, but then I decided, nah.

I wanna go home and write for a while.

And besides: There is always tomorrow, God willing.

And I had a few thoughts on God, earlier today, not long after I woke up, actually.

For the record: I do believe in God — the Christian idea of God — and Jesus. I also believe, very much, in heaven. And I believe in miracles.

I do not believe that everyone has to or even should believe in one God, the same God. I do believe I have no right to say that, because I grew up attending a Methodist church, my “religion” is any more (or less) valid than anyone else’s.

A friend of mine is Lutheran, a particular synod of the Lutheran church, and not so long ago, one of the leaders in the church faced exile or ex-communication or whatever because, post-9/11, he was in favor of taking part in a gathering of people from all faiths, or even no particular faith.

This, to me, goes against everything that I believe, in terms of religion — the fact that anyone could be criticized for embracing someone of a different faith.

When I see a flower bloom or a sun set, I believe in some kind of greater power, for sure. And maybe it is all random chaos theory, or a Big Bang (heh) or whatever, but ... I really do not believe that.

“Some things are true, whether you believe in them or not.” — Seth Plate (Nicolas Cage), City of Angels

And speaking of movies: Scarlett Johansson is rather striking in Girl with a Pearl Earring, which I am half-watching at the moment.

: )

And I must admit, I have developed quite a thing for crocuses (croci? Jim Croce?).



And today I made a couple of discoveries, one of which occurred whilst I was talking to Tee-Hee during the Illini game. We were discussing various “smart people” we know — “book smart” or “intellectual” people — and she tried to include me in this category.

“OK, yeah, I’m smart. I guess I do have an intellectual side,” I told her, “but then my creative side always comes along and distracts me.” (She said she understood that perfectly.)

: )

The second discovery occurred tonight, after shooting various flower photos — a few of which I took with the camera held away from me and angled just so, so I could get even closer to the bloom — and feeling rather UNcreative, myself, because I knew the camera was doing all the work, really. (Times like these I really, REALLY hate autofocus and miss my standard SLR ... but then, the immediacy/instant gratification aspect of the digital camera always trumps manual focus.)

I drove to the airport and decided maybe I should shoot the clouds from behind a tree or the barbed-wire fence or something. And as I looked around, I found several scraps of wood and metal, and branches, on the ground, and I decided to put them in the picture.

Because anyone can take a picture of a sunset — or, rather, a picture of the clouds in the sky right after a sunset — right?



But who else can lasso a sunset? Or would even think to, for that matter, after finding some random rusty piece of wire lying around?



And by doing so, does that make something “art”?

Meanwhile, back to the flowers — and the notion of the camera doing all the work:



I like daffodils. Or jonquils. Or whatever they are called.



: )

The Journalist

I no longer teach; hence, I am no longer able to enjoy that mid-March college holiday known as spring break the way I did for a few years there, circa 1995-2003, when, despite the fact that I still had to go to my “day job,” I could nevertheless appreciate NOT having to teach for a week. (I can say, without a trace of uncertainty, that instructors enjoy spring break every bit as much as students do.)

However, I can appreciate the good fortunes of my pals, so this week, whilst my best friend has been enjoying spring break, I have been doing my best to get out of the house right along with her.

And tonight I discovered a most awesome pizza place: Quatro’s. And I had been meaning to try their pizza for years, but every time I thought about it, I decided on something different, something familiar, usually (if that makes sense) ... even though people rave about this place. And so I had my hopes up WAY high, and Quatro’s did not disappoint.

Although, I must admit, when they say “deep pan pizza,” they are in NO WAY implying that this compares, on any level, to “Chicago-style deep pan (dish) pizza” ... though it is every bit as tasty. In fact, I enjoyed this more because it is not as tomatoey as Chi-town ’za.

Speaking of Chicago: I managed to resist the urge to stop by Hibbett’s and get me one o’ those ultra-cool Nike Cubs shirts that I spied a few nights ago; however, I may be going back sometime this weekend, just to see if I can resist the urge twice in one week. (I can’t.)

: )

I actually wrote a journal entry tonight when I was waiting in line FOR 20 MINUTES at Taco Hell:

1. I hope I never have a van ... unless it’s a maroon VW van with a white top (like Shawn’s) or a tan VW van with a white top (like Kurt’s).

2. I am not afraid to burp really loud.

3. I am letting go.

And I drove over those rolling, blind hills, chasing (but not capturing) a sunset. And as I drove, for part of the time, I had a few lines from “Gentle on My Mind” by Glen Campbell (!!!) running through my head ... and then bits of the beginning of “Annie’s Song” by John Denver (!!!), and right there and then, I decided that if I ever actually do learn to play the guitar (which obviously is not going to happen any time soon, as there sits the guitar, in its case, which is gathering dust and cobwebs as I type), I will have to include at least one of these two songs in my repertoire.

: )

Some of my favorite things to hear:

The words, “I am on my way home, and I have food” ... my mom’s voice, and my sister’s voice ... the songs “Overcome” and “The Dolphin’s Cry” by Live ... the sound of my phone(s) ringing, except when it’s “Unknown Number” or any area code I do not recognize ...

: )

This week’s films:
Wonderland — Val Kilmer rules, but Lisa Kudrow makes the entire movie.

House of Sand & Fog — Great acting, all around, but IT’S JUST A FUCKING HOUSE!

A Western Trilogy: The Missing — Cate Blanchett is one of the best actresses of our time, as is Tommy Lee Jones, and I do not quite know how to rank Ronnie Howard as a director, but this movie was beautifully filmed; The Good, the Bad and the Ugly — I do not believe I have ever seen more than 5 consecutive minutes of this film, except for the last 15 minutes or so, but the final 15, for me, are awesome ... and crap, for the life of me, I canNOT remember what the third movie was (Oops!), but I know it had cowboys in it ... no, wait: It was NOT a Western, it was Glory — And how great is Denzel in this one??!

And now I have Summer Lovers playing, so I had better pay attention.

It's beginning to look a lot like springtime ...

So you can blame me if you have that song stuck in yer head for the rest of the day.

: )



More later ... possibly including a story about the time, when I was in kindergarten, that my mom forgot to pack my underwear before sending Debra and me off to the baby-sitter’s house — a tale I was reminded of, for some reason, today at work.

: )

Unexpected Ballet

Today, shortly after I awoke, I went and stood in a lake and took pictures of people running, willingly, into the lake. (My Timberlands are waterproof, but not when the water flows into the eyelets and over the top of the boots; must give them a thorough cleaning tomorrow.)

Then I went to a skating party, where I received an invitation to attend a ballet tonight.

And me being me, I accepted without really even caring at all about going ... and in fact, I was feeling sorta tired and unenthusiastic.

But tonight was perfect.

I saw the Ballet Internationalé — based in Indianapolis, of all places — perform Russian Treasures and Carmen. And to be perfectly honest, I know so little about dancing, overall, that I would not know good ballet from bad ballet.

But this was terrific.

And I loved that, during the introduction to Carmen, I immediately recognized the music. And, OK, it was (in part) because it is the same music that plays on the Gilligan’s Island episode in which Gilligan plays Hamlet (!!!), but still: I like when I know the stuff, and I as familiar with half of the songs in Carmen.

I do not know how well-known (or not) the members of this company happen to be, but I will say that I was amazed by Zhanna Sinitsyna and her performance of “Dying Swan.” She has these amazing long, lithe arms, and as I watched her dance, and her hands, I thought, wow, would it not be incredible to be that “in control” of every aspect of your own movement.

And another dancer who caught my eye was Ogulcan Borova, who performed in “Don Quixote” and also played José in Carmen. His dancing was wonderful, and his face and butt were beautiful.

I believe I could really learn to appreciate ballet.

: )

The "Oops!" Philosophy

For the sake of variety — OK, it is actually more about curiosity (that and the fact that tonight’s CSI is a repeat) — I decided to check out The O.C. for the first time. Can’t really say that I’m all that impressed, but mostly that’s probably ’cause I don’t usually watch it and I’m not sure about all the connections and what-not.

Very cute girl-girl couple, though, including the gal from Lost & Delirious (Mischa Barton, can’t remember her name on the film), and Real Estate King from American Beauty (Peter Gallagher; he’s also in that Summer Lovers/King movie that I’ve not yet watched). And this clever line, or something very much like it:

“Yes, that’s right: Alex and Marissa, no longer welcome in the red states.”

(Perhaps I should explain that Alex and Marissa are both girls.)

: )

Don’t know much about philosophy; matter o’ fact, the only philosophy-related person I ever knew was a drunk named Frank Taylor who was a professor of philosophy at EIU. Never heard him say anything philosophical, though, and I certainly never took any of the courses he taught, nor any philosophy courses, period, or logic, or anything of that nature.

Doesn’t keep me from spouting off my “philosophies” or theories or views or whatever they are, about various aspects of ... well, life, I guess.

One of which is The “Oops!” Philosophy.

I have learned, in my 39-plus years on this planet, that it is impossible to stay mad at someone who uses the word, “Oops!”

Naturally, it also helps if that person also apologizes profusely over whatever it is that she or he has done wrong, but honestly: “I’m sorry” is not really necessary.

I made this discovery years ago.

I had worked with this guy named Dave for about a year, maybe longer. I covered sports and he covered news, but in our newsroom, all our desks are out in the open (and not nearly far enough apart), so we all sort of have to get to know each other, a little bit, from proximity alone.

He had driven into town in a junked-out beater. There was no license plate on his car, only a hand-lettered piece of cardboard placed where the rear plate should have been (completely against the law in Illinois ... and probably every other state as well).

I remember he said, “Hmm,” in a Sesame Street-Bert tone of voice, all the time.

One night, one of our co-workers invited a few of us over for dinner, and she gave Dave detailed instructions on how to get to her house.

I was not able to attend the get-together. Dave, apparently, never made it over there, either — despite, apparently, driving by her house over and over and over.

“This car kept circling and circling and circling,” my co-worker’s daughter said, “and I was going to go out and flag down the driver, but he looked like an ax murderer!”

To me, Dave looked a tiny bit like I imagined my sixth-grade boyfriend, Kenny Dallmeier, would have looked when he grew up: Dark hair, dark glasses, thin. He was nice enough, and when he decided to leave for another newspaper, the night before his last day of work, he invited me over for dinner. We ate pizza from DiMaggio’s and watched a movie, and then we spent a couple of hours talking.

When I left, I remember thinking: He’s a really nice guy; I wish I had gotten to know him better before he left.

The next day at work, I tried to access some of my files from the network, but couldn’t.

“Does anyone know what’s wrong with my computer?” I asked, in a mild panic.

“Oh, ah ... hmm. I might have accidentally deleted some of them,” Dave said.

“Deleted them? How did you delete them? What were you doing with them in the first place?”

I glared at Dave.

He smiled kind of sheepishly, then shrugged, then said, “Oops!”

I wanted to yell. I wanted to rant and rave. I wanted to kick his ass, but, honestly, what can you do when someone looks at you and says, “Oops!”?

That’s right: Nothing! There is no possible response to that word!

(I’ve never heard from Dave since that day ... and believe me, he has never heard from me, either.)

Sunset Flight

Mark this down: For the first time since ... well, whenever, sunlight shone into my living room before I left for work. If ever I needed something to get me out of my funk, that just might do it.

: )

And then, after a day full of ... well, whatever I do in a day: sunset.



What did I ever do in the days before digital? When I would shoot rolls of film and then, basically, never get them developed? I honestly do not know.

And now, I have stumbled upon The Last of the Mohicans. And I remember seeing this film in a theater, and perhaps I saw it too soon after having seen Dances with Wolves or something, I dunno, but when I first watched Mohicans, I felt as if something were missing, somehow. And then ... I do not remember when or where or how or why, but sometime, later, I saw it again.

And I fell in love with the film. The story. Sacrifice, love, heroism ... and a GREAT soundtrack, which is easily on par with Dances; in fact, perhaps better because, for some unknown reason, the Dances with Wolves soundtrack (at least the one I have, anyway) does not include THE best song in the movie, the song where John Dunbar is dancing around the campfire, shaking the stick and basically going wild, the scene for which THE MOVIE IS NAMED, pretty much; how they could not include this song is beyond me, really.

Anyhoo, I now adore The Last of the Mohicans.

Stay alive, no matter what occurs; I will find you. No matter how long it takes, or how far: I will find you.

And the scene where Alice jumps ...

Damn.

: )

Earlier this evening, I watched a little bit of Rocky III, which previously had been my favorite of the Rocky series or franchise or whatever the hell it turned into. And I still find great humor in the performance by Mr. T/Clubber Lang and visual satisfaction in the ultra-ripped body of Sly Stallone, but other than that ... in terms of boxing movies, Million Dollar Baby KICKS THE ASS of any Rocky flick out there. And in terms of stories, too, it is better than anything Rocky-related.

There. I said it.

And perhaps the best part about Baby is the fact that, when it ends, you know: There ain’t gonna be no rematch. Which is kinda sad and sweet and somehow just about perfect, really, as sequels sometimes suck and stories should stand alone, really. Usually.

: )

The plane landed safely. Almost unnoticed, actually.

Blue

After watching the NYPD Blue retrospective and season/series/forever finale, I am just now starting to realize how much I am going to miss Andy Sipowicz. Possibly THE greatest TV character ever.

: )

Meanwhile, I have discovered that one of the best ways to get googled, these days, is to include the phrase “mo cuishle” somewhere in your blo- ... er, journal. You can also include “macushla” and, as I have learned after some very rudimentary research, the so-called proper Gaelic spelling, “mo chuisle.” And no, I am not going to say what it means.

(See the film!)

: )

I am in a funk. A late-winter, soon-to-be-spring funk.

I need to increase my expectations of myself. To push myself. To set some goals and figure out how to reach them.

I need to lower my expectations of others. No, that is not quite correct: I need to keep from expecting too much from others. (Does that make sense?)

How about this: I need not to get get my hopes up.

There. Perfectly stated.

And I wish I had some chocolate ice cream.