Do What You Can; or Breaking it Down to Its Most Manageable Bits

I have painted my nails a dark red.  Short nails at the end of fingers on a small hand, I stare at them.

The boiler in a rental unit has died.  The fascia and soffit on the garage has gone soft and splintered in the misguided rain.  A stained glass window is broken and must be replaced.

And I am getting a divorce.

In preparation of the upcoming move, I have been packing my life away. 

The house has never been cleaner.

I rise from the couch and head to the porch, where I put my earbuds in.  There is a man and a dog in the park across the street, and I watch as master hurls ball and loyal sidekick chases.

I light a cigarette.

When I finish, I go through all my books, wipe them off and separate them into “take” and “donate”. 

I am both impressed and horrified by the collection. 

Over the next three hours, I work.  One thing begets another: stacks of books are moved from the three-season porch, the shelves, from piles on the hardwood floor and then into boxes.  I break the vacuum down to the wand, suck up whorls of dusty clouds, then, dissatisfied, pull the bucket from under the kitchen sink and scrub on my hands and knees.  The house smells of PineSol.

Suddenly, I am tired. 

As if from a dream, I look down.  My nails are chipped; and in two cases, broken.  I have a shallow cut on the inside of an index finger.

And after a moment of staring, I go back to the couch, reach for the lotion, the clippers and the polish.

This, I can fix. 

Minneapolis, Late Saturday Night

The bus has taken on a warm, smoky glow.

“My name is Louis,” the bus driver had said.  “Drunk women call me Louie.  And I don’t mind at all.

“There’s only one rule tonight, and that’s that there is no rule.  This is a party bus, a drinking, dancing, smoking bus.  Dance, laugh, shout.  You need cigs?  I’ll stop.  You need something at a convenience store?  I’ll stop.  Keep all your lovely bits inside the bus, though, let’s not attract more attention than a black and pink bus already does.  Now let’s have a good time!”

This is not, of course, the trusty #17.  This is not a commute.

This is an adventure. 

It’s Erin’s bachelorette party.  Home from Arizona and full of the love that a two-year absence and a well-run pub crawl can spur, the sun has gone down, the music has been turned up.

“I THOUGHT I SPOTTED AN OLD HIPPIE,” LouAnn shouts.  We have similar dance moves – Soul Train comes to mind – and we high-five.

“I GOT ABOUT SEVEN INCHES CUT OFF ABOUT A MONTH AGO,” Megan yells.  “YOU DON’T THINK IT LOOKS CHOPPY?”

“I’M SECOND-HAND SMOKING OVER HERE, MAN,” shouts Kim.  “I TELL YOU WHAT – I’M GONNA GO IN THE NEXT BAR, EAT A LOAF OF BREAD AND ME AND MY GLUTEN ALLERGY ARE GONNA CLEAR THIS WHOLE BUS.  YOU FEEL ME?  YOU’RE JUST ONE SLICE OF BREAD AWAY FROM THE GASSY EXPERIENCE OF A LIFETIME.”

The black and pink bus slides majestically down the cobblestoned roads to the river, down by the Grain Belt sign, down by where the 35W bridge collapsed. 

Diana hands me a beer. 

“HISTORIC MINNEAPOLIS.”

I nod, move across the aisle from one side of the bus to the other to sit next to her.  “Can I just tell you that I’m pretty drunk right now?”

“You could tell me,” she says, “but I wouldn’t beli - hic! – I wouldn’t beli – hic! – I would be disinclined to have faith in your assumption.”

We grin at each other.  “Nicely done,” I say. 

She shrugs.  “English is my native language.”

We twist in our seats, look out the windows to the brick, to the river, to the stark beauty of the leafless trees against the starlit skies.

Behind us, music I don’t recognize throbs, bass-heavy.  Beautiful women dance in the aisle, shouting encouragement and jokes.  Outside, Minneapolis moves silently from winter to spring.

Diana wraps her arms around me, and I rest my head on her shoulder.

“We are the luckiest women in the world,” she says. 

I nod.  “I am inclined,” I say, “to have faith in your assumption.”

You Want My Fries?

I’ve been eating a lot of vegetables lately.

And I’ve stopped lurking about in doorways.

Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to Week Two of the Atkins and Week Three of an Abrupt Cessation of a Slight Smoking Habit.  I’ll be your host on this tour through the state of my head and my unrelenting craving for a little something sweet.

Just a little something!

A summer of skirts does strange things to one’s expectations, tailoring-wise, and it was late September when I found the rediscovery of full-time trousers to be a sobering one.

Seems my pants mighta gotten a little tight. 

Frankly, the seams that made their appearances on my thighs were an insult to thighs everywhere. 

Don’t misunderstand me.  I’ve nothing against seams.  I enjoy a good seam.  But to see them so blatantly stamped into my pale, yielding flesh was – and is – too much.

So I’ve taken a stand. 

For me. 

For us. 

Would you like a salad the size of your torso?  Because I currently have, in my fridge, every vegetable known to man.  You can only imagine how exciting dining with me can be. 

But wait! While one is actively turning away from cinnamon rolls and English muffins and – gulp – baked potatoes and wondering what else one can do with eggplant, why not pile it on and kick that nasty smoking habit? 

Lately, I’m all about the self-denial.

No, I’m not.

Yes, I am.

It’s been just over three weeks since I’ve had a cigarette.  I’ve had opportunity to test my willpower, something I’ve done while drinking and then hanging out of doors, gazing longingly at the group from which I’ve only recently graduated while they inhale and exhale.

Selfish bastages.

And there you have it.  Weeks Two and Three of the New and Improved Pearl:  You can have her dessert and she’ll save your spot while you go have a smoke. 

Have a good weekend, everyone.  Come back tomorrow.

Funny. She Didn't Strike Me as Violent...

When you hear the reports in the other blogs – and you will – please be sure to mention, somewhere in your comments, that I must’ve really been pushed because you, personally, never noticed a violent streak.

Come on! Do this for me! Tell them I was never violent, dammit!!

Sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. Apparently I was not meant to run on less than four hours of sleep.

That’s right, you heard me! Four stinkin’ hours of sleep, and you know why?

Because last night, starting at 1:20 and ending at an obscene hour that dares not speak its name during the work week, the downstairs folk took up door opening and closing.

All the kids are doing it.

Sure there were a couple “slams” in there – I mean, who could resist? – but primarily this was just a matter of wanting a cigarette every 20 minutes or so.

Shhhh. Let’s pretend we’ve been asleep.

Mmmm. This is nice. We should cuddle more often.

Wait.

You hear that?

That’s the sound, at 1:20, of someone opening the front door, the one directly under your bedroom.

And that? That’s the sound of them pushing the door shut, with a hip, if I’m any judge.

Now let’s wait 20 minutes, shall we?

And there it is! Ladies and gentlemen, I give to you the sound of the front door opening again, being shoved shut with a hip and – what’s this? Forget something on the porch? In an unprecedented move, the two-person cigarette-smoking team from the United States has gone back to the porch! Ladies and gentlemen! The Ukrainian judge has thrown his score cards to the ground but the Canadian judge is allowing it!

On and on it went, from bar-close until just before sunrise, during which I drifted in and out of a vengeful sleep.

I began composing letters in my head.

“Dear Inconsiderate Non-Full-Time-Working Nincompoops. How are you? I am fine…”

Sure, I could’ve called them, but why? It did not work the last six times they took up competitive smoking, and I don’t like the odds for the seventh.

The time for civility has ended.

I’m going to need a truncheon, a sleeping bag, and a good length of heavy-gauge chain.

And if anyone asks you, just tell them: You know, she seemed so normal…

I Don’t Know Nothin’ ‘Bout Elevators

Hi.  My name is Pearl, and I spend a lot of time in elevators. 

Hi, Pearl.

As you would suspect, this daily vertical winching has been slowly turning me into something of an expert in elevator presence.

So you can imagine how surprising it’s been for me, then, to find that there’s a definite lack of situational application for this information.

I reflect on all of this as I board the elevator, my bags held against me so as to not intrude on the space of others, my thoughtful punching of “Door Close” as the last person presses the button with their floor emblazoned on it.

I reflect on this as I realize that the early-morning smokers have also boarded.

As a person who has never enjoyed a pre-dawn smoke without it having come at the tail end of a long and drunken evening, never needed one before work, I can’t help but wonder if my fellow workers couldn’t have stood in the wind just a little longer, maybe popped an Altoid.

There should be something I can do with the smell, with the mix of filtered tobacco and cold air, something I can connect it to that will shine a light on something else.  Like the day I discovered the meaning of the phrase “crossing the Rubicon” or the realization that “he” didn’t call not because he was busy but because he just didn’t care.

I’m always looking for connections.

But sometimes there aren’t any.

Sometimes something stinks just because that’s what it does. 

Man.  There’s so much more to situational elevator presence than first presents itself.

The Kitty Knows All, Tells Only Some

“Acme Grommets and Gravel, Pearl speaking.”

“I hear you’ve taken up smoking again.”

“What?”  I switch the phone from one ear to the other.  “Liza Bean, is that you?”

I’m shocked, not so much that the cat has called me at work, but that she’s heard that I’ve been smoking. 

I thought I’d kept that under wraps.

“Of course it’s Liza Bean,” she purrs.  “You silly, silly human.”

I smile, weakly.  I’ve not been myself lately, and I assume that Liza Bean Bitey, of the Minneapolis Biteys, is softening the yelling-at I am about to receive with the pre-dressing-down assertion that I am a “silly, silly human”.

Liza Bean Bitey, a small-pawed, symmetrically striped cat, world record holder in the standing gerbil jump (612, laid end to end) and bloodline heir to the Spanish throne, clears her throat.  “Now this smoking –“

“Look,” I say.  “I know it’s bad for me.  I know I shouldn’t.  I mean, I’ve seen the pictures of the lungs and –“

“- oh, shush,” the cat says, softly.

“What?”

Liza Bean Bitey shakes her head, an action made clear by the sound of the tiny gold bells on her collar.  “I just thought I’d call to let you know how cool I think it looks.”

I smile.  “What are you up to?”

I can hear her smiling, diamonds by moonlight.  “Sometimes one needs to take care of one thing at a time,” she says.  “Sometimes, the best thing one can do, when faced with so many delightfully destructive options, is a small control burn, if you take my meaning.”

I nod.  I’m on the phone, yet still I nod.

“You’re not allowed to do it for long,” her purr dropping in tone just a bit to show she’s serious.  “That would be passé, don’t you think?  Nothing gets older faster than a middle-aged woman drowning her sorrows in smoke.”

“Hmm,” I say.

The cat smiles over the line.  “Look.  Pearl.  I’m a fan of crutches in all shapes and sizes, but that’s all they are:  crutches.  No point in crutches becoming handicaps.”  The cat cups the phone’s mouthpiece briefly, she says something and what follows is the sound of several cats in the background laughing.

I frown.  “What’s going on?”

“We’re loading up the car,” she says.

“The –“

“Not your car, Pearl,” she says, smiling.  There is the briefest of pauses.  “You know,” she says, “I’ve seen you smoke, and I daresay you have quite a look about you when you do.”

I smile.  Just a little.  “I do?”

“Just like Bette Davis,” she says.  “Elegant and dangerous.  A little minx of a smoker.”

“I am?”

“Oh, yes, my dear.  If I run across my old cigarette holder, I’m giving it to you, family heirloom be damned.”

I smile. 

“Of course, you’ll want to take up wines next,” she says, the words spilling out from her gently smiling lips.  “Nothing says ‘I’m in the midst of a trauma’ quite like wine.”

I nod.  “It’s been a difficult summer.”

There is silence for just a moment.

“Anyway,” Liza Bean says, yawning, “The smoking.  It will need to stop soon, yes?”

I nod.  “Yes.”

Liza Bean Bitey, of the Minneapolis Biteys, chuckles indulgently.  “Good girl,” she says.  “OK, well, I’ve got to run – some friends and I are popping in for the last few days of Burning Man  -- I mean, technically, I was never here, you understand?  I’ve been at Burning Man the whole time, yes?”

When confused by a cat, it’s best to agree.  “You were at Burning Man the whole time.”

“Good girl,” the cat says. 

And she hangs up.

The Squat Bald Man in My Head

Comments yesterday - too cool - requesting more info on the guy relegated to the further corners of my brain -- the corner, apparently, where one is free to ignore the No Smoking signs! -- more info on the guy fond of slogan tee-shirts and lighting one cigarette with the butt of another, has resulted in this post. Here it is. And don't forget. It's your fault.

The squat, bald man in my head has a louder, and sometimes opposite view of life than I do.

He’s the one cackling with glee when the young XL woman in the M pants struggles to lift her own body weight up the steps of the bus, the guy who looks me in the eye to make sure I notice her, the one who lifts a knuckle-y finger to point out a possible gravy stain on her chest.

He’s the guy who mutters questions under his breath related to the state of our country's educational system, just loud enough to hear but not loud enough to make out while standing behind the man with 14 items in a 10 Items or Less line at the grocery store. And sometimes he meets that guy’s eye, then shoots an imaginary weapon at his gallon of two percent, grinning.

He’s the lout yelling at the guy playing the flutophone and irritating the lunch crowds down on Nicollet. Trilling madly and playing with a flourish seen infrequently since Liberace's death, Flutophone Man's upturned hat is at his feet, implying that your change would be the reasonable response to the audio assault hurled in your direction. “Would you shut up?" he bawls at him. "For cryin’ out loud, you have no skills!”

All said in good fun, of course.

The squat, bald man is not a violent man – necessarily – but he wouldn’t mind watching.

And he likes me.

“Oh, oh, oh,” he says, sitting down on the couch, square elbow to my ribs. “When you run to the store, get me a pack of Marlboros.”

“I’m not running to the store.”

“Yeah, right, but when you do,” he says, lighting one cigarette with the glowing end of another, lips curling and uncurling around the words, “get me some smokes.”

“I thought I told you I don’t want you smoking in my head anymore.”

“You did.”

There is an uncomfortable moment of silence as we stare at each other.

“Whatever,” I say, turning away. “Just don’t blow it into my sinuses anymore. I hate that. Blow it out my ears.”

I can hear him smirking. He leans against me. “I’m gonna need the car Tuesday night.”

I sigh heavily, turn back. “OK. One, why does everyone think they can use my car; and Two, where the hell do you have to go on a Tuesday night?”

He lifts his chin, blows smoke toward the front of my head, catches himself, and turns toward an ear. “The less you know – pffffffffffff – the less you can tell.”

I don’t like this, but like the cat, the squat bald guy in my head has a way of returning the car with a full tank of gas, a sure way to my heart. I worked at a full-service gas station for half a year in my late teens and have a love/hate relationship with the pump.

“Fine,” I say. “But leave the seat the way you found it this time.”

The smirk leaves his face and he draws himself up in a show of false dignity. “A man’s posture is his own,” he says, indignantly.

He grins. “You allow me full adjustment rights on the front seat, and I won’t tell anyone you had three cigarettes Friday night on that freak-out you girls called an evening.”

I lean back on the couch, rub my eyes, press my fingers against them until they explode in a Byzantine disaster of black and red.

“Fine,” I say.


At least I'll get a full tank of gas out of the deal. Plus my cigarettes from the other night are still a secret.

And The Cake Should Say “To Pearl, Who Bravely Persists…”

Hi, my name is Pearl; and it’s been almost 14 weeks since my last cigarette.

Hi, Pearl.

Who knew how easy quitting would be? Why, I’ve only considered begging for smokes oh, 10 - 20 times now; and the skin around my fingernails has almost entirely re-grown.

I feel like a new woman.

Even if I was quite fond of the old.

I recount the number of weeks it’s been since my last cigarette like a woman giving an infant’s age. Fourteen weeks now…

And I tell myself: I could have a cigarette if I wanted one, but I can’t.

And you know why?

Because I quit.

And that’s all there is to it. I no longer cough at night, I don’t stand outside in the rain/snow because of my addiction, and I no longer spend money on cigarettes that could go towards the good cosmetics.

Because I quit.

But…

The whole problem with quitting is that, once everyone’s heard the big announcement “I’ve quit smoking”, there’s very little hoopla.

Darn little hoopla.

See, everyone is proud of you when you quit. “Congratulations! Hope you can stick with it!”

Of course I can stick with it. I said I quit.

But that’s all bravado, isn’t it? Sure, you feel all puffed up and righteous when you first quit. Look at me! I’m doing something responsible! Hey! Look over here! I’m a mature individual doing the right thing!

And then that wears off, and you’re left wondering how long you can keep it up.

And then your friends, drink in hand, eyes glazed with drunken camaraderie, grab you by the arm and slur into your ear, “Hey! Less go out an’ ‘ave a ‘grit!”

And that’s when you notice that the hoopla has worn off.

You’re hoople-free.

OK! You think. Now that I’ve quit, maybe I could just have one?

No. You cannot.

Because you quit. And quitting is lonely.

I keep my mouth shut. I want my smoking friends to quit, too, to save their money, to live longer.

But mostly I want them to stay with me.



Hi. My name is Pearl, and it’s been almost 14 weeks since I’ve had a cigarette.

Man Those Cats Can Jam

Pet doors are swinging wildly today all over Minneapolis regarding news that Squeak Toy, the all-cat band out of Northeast Minneapolis, will be playing a surprise gig in the alley between Jefferson and Adams this coming Saturday night.

And all the coolest cats will be there.

It is with a healthy mix of both excitement and trepidation that I report this – exhilaration over seeing Liza Bean Bitey (of the Minneapolis Biteys) on the violin again, and perhaps a touch of anxiety over the crowd that Squeak Toy pulls in.

Have you been to a Squeak Toy gig?

It’s not common knowledge, but Liza Bean trained classically as a kitten, playing her way through the cabarets and pubs of Eastern Europe. She has always been light on the details, although she did once tell me, after too much absinthe and not enough cat nip, that she shared a rail car with Eugene Hutz of Gogol Bordello “somewhere cold” in the early 90s.

If asked she still insists he stole her lighter.

Those days are long behind her, of course, and she’s moved on to less strenuous pursuits like espionage, jewel heists, and the pursuit of, if my high school French serves – and I believe it does – “the best damn pastries in Belgium”.

Honestly, it’s right there in her diary, although that spiky, old-world script is hard to read.

And who could she possibly know in Belgium?

This still leaves, of course, Squeak Toy.

They’ve been practicing in the basement now for weeks (or, as the drummer calls it "the abasement"). Look around the room: Liza Bean Bitey (of the Minneapolis Biteys) on violin; Stumpy “Lucky” Strikes on drums; Ignatz D. Katz on upright bass; and a large long-hair with yellow eyes on piano that was introduced to me, less than cryptically, I thought, as “Hairball” .

I’m playing this off as if I’m not excited, but in all honesty Squeak Toy’s gigs are great fun: wild music, unrestrained revelry, four-legged leapings from garage roof to garage roof, and, I swear to you, two years ago a cat who slipped down a neighbor’s chimney and came back up with a full-sized couch.

I’m not saying that kind of behavior is right. I’m just saying it’s nice to have a couch in the alley.

What’s that? Oh, yes. Of course. He put it back first thing the next morning…

The preparation starts today. I’ve already drunk more water today than in all of last week and shall continue to do so in the hopes of diluting the hangover that lies at the end of this particular party; I’ve got plans to go to yoga every day this week; and I’ve got a 3:00 appointment with Donna on Saturday, allowing ample time for the creation of what we like to call “party hair”.

Meow.

Squeak Toy’s in town! Wooooooooooooooooooooooo!

When A Cat Leaves You A Present, Decline

As I expected it would, yesterday’s post about Liza Bean Bitey (of the Minneapolis Biteys) caught not only her eye but the eye of our little self-grooming hot-water bottle of a cat, Dolly Gee Squeakers (formerly of the Humane Society Squeakers).

Dolly Gee, aka, Here Kitty Kitty, aka Holy Crap Grab the Door Here Comes the Cat! came to us via the Humane Society. She is what appears to be a long-haired Siamese of some sort, a beautiful animal with stunningly crossed eyes.

“We think she’s about a year old,” said the woman at the Humane Society. “Of course, her eyes are a bit crossed, and she can’t seem to jump beyond, well, beyond standing on all four feet. And she does appear to have some sort of periodontal disease…” The woman paused. “She was dropped off in our night deposit box just two days ago, you know.”

As an aside, did you know you could do that? Drop an animal off via a night deposit box?

And four teeth? Well, what’s a little gingivitis amongst us beauties, eh? Perhaps she’ll grow some new ones. What do I know?

At any rate, she was just too beautiful, we thought, too friendly, too perfectly suited, size-wise. She’ll be a lovely companion to Ms. Liza Bean Bitey (of the Minneapolis Biteys).

And that was our theory.

In reality the two detected deep flaws in each other immediately. Words were exchanged, claws exposed. Dolly lobbed the first insult, derisively labeling Liza Bean an “indoor feeeee-line”. Liza Bean retorted by describing Dolly in such detail and with such vehemence that all I can recall are the words “polyester-pantsuited alley roamer”.

Liza Bean responded to the new arrival by perching herself atop Willie’s head for the next six weeks.

Dolly Gee responded by eating enough to triple her size in half that time.

How she managed to do that with four teeth, I have no idea.

And now, of course, Dolly Gee has seen yesterday’s post, knows that Liza Bean and I went out for a couple of drinks.

Look. I’d have taken her, but if you think Liza Bean can’t hold her liquor, you should see Dolly. Dolly’s got the morals of, well, a cat; and after a couple beers she’s up on tables, dancing suggestively, eventually disappearing with some Tom only to re-appear in the morning, looking sheepish and then drinking all the Fresca in the house as she nurses her hangover.

It’s embarrassing.

Liza Bean is furious with me.

“Running out of material?” she purred viciously. “Needing to write about lunch with friends now, are you?” She narrowed her bright green eyes at me. “Do you know what I deal with, every day, while you’re out, doing God knows what…”

“I hardly think that going to work constitutes God knows –“

Liza Bean was not to be dissuaded. “It’s horrible. Horrible. She sits there in those Daisy Duke shorts, humming entire Disney soundtracks – do you know she uses your eyeliner? Well she does. I have other places to go, you know. I don’t have to stay here.”

She lit a Virginia Slims – in the house! – and exhaled toward the window.

I promised her I would take care of it, that I’d find a discreet way to talk to Dolly Gee Squeakers (of the Humane Society Squeakers) about the sanctity of a peaceful home life.

“Well see that you do,” Liza Bean demurred.

There was a brief pause.

“Frankly,” she said – and is that contriteness I hear in her voice? – “I didn’t think this conversation would go as well as it has. Hmm.” She paused, seemed to visibly run several thoughts through her head before dismissing them all.

She shrugged, took a drag off her cigarette. “You might want to check the inside of your shoes before you go running out the door tonight.” She blew a smoke ring toward the window.

I cocked my head at her in anticipation.

She shrugged again, stubbing her cigarette out. “I left a little something in one of them for you.”

“Not the new ones!”

She closed her eyes, dismissing me. “The same.”

And Liza Bean Bitey (of the Minneapolis Biteys) fell asleep.

Wherein I Lose On Style Points, or Even When They’re Not On, I Think About the Olympics

When you hear the reports in the other blogs – and you will – please be sure to mention, somewhere in your comments, that I must’ve really been pushed because you, personally, never noticed a violent streak.

Come on! Do this for me! Tell them I was never violent, dammit!!

Sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. Apparently I was not meant to run on less than four hours of sleep.

That’s right, you heard me! Four stinkin’ hours of sleep, and you know why?

Because last night, starting at 1:20 and ending at an obscene hour that dares not speak its name during the work week, the downstairs folk took up door opening and closing.

All the kids are doing it.

Sure there were a couple “slams” in there – I mean, who could resist? – but primarily this was just a matter of wanting a cigarette every 20 minutes or so.

Shhhh. Let’s pretend we’ve been asleep.

Mmmm. This is nice. We should cuddle more often.

Wait.

You hear that?

That’s the sound, at 1:20, of someone opening the front door, the one directly under your bedroom.

And that? That’s the sound of them pushing the door shut, with a hip, if I’m any judge.

Now let’s wait 20 minutes, shall we?

And there it is! Ladies and gentlemen, I give to you the sound of the front door opening again, being shoved shut with a hip and – what’s this? Forget something on the porch? In an unprecedented move, the two-person cigarette-smoking team from the United States has gone back to the porch! Ladies and gentlemen! The Ukrainian judge has thrown his score cards to the ground but the Canadian judge is allowing it!

On and on it went, from bar-close until just before sunrise, during which I drifted in and out of a vengeful sleep.

I began composing eviction letters in my head.

“Dear Inconsiderate Non-Full-Time-Working Nincompoops. How are you? I am fine…”

Sure, I could’ve called them, but why? It did not work the last six times they took up competitive smoking, and I don’t like the odds for the seventh.

The time for civility has ended.

I’m going to need a truncheon, a sleeping bag, and a good length of heavy-gauge chain.

And if anyone asks you, just tell them: You know, she seemed so normal…

Misfit Christmas 2009, or, In The Land of The Drunken, The Loquacious Man is King

It okay with you if I just lay here on the couch while we talk? I've got a bit of a headache.

Saturday night was Misfit Christmas, an annual event wherein old friends, new friends, and friends of friends come to the house bearing gifts, six packs, trays of food, and the best of attitudes.

I started out, as I always do, with the best of intentions: I was going to take pictures. I was going to chronicle the party.

There would be portraiture, and, should the need arise later, proof.

And I was darn good about it, too. Right up until about the arrival of the 10th guest, whereupon I became distracted by laughter and bright, shiny beer cans.

But what, you ask, is involved in a Misfit Christmas?

Well, there should be a game, and specifically a game that involves gifts. The “you-shakes-the-dice-you-steals-the-presents” game was as raucous as last year; and I walked away with a giant pencil (with its own sharpener), bath salts, and a notebook for my purse. Other people won, among many things, candles; perfume; home-made Christmas-themed fridge magnets; bottles of wine, a number of books, and a rather obscene statue involving two pigs dressed as medical professionals.

Which reminds me. Whoever won the beef heart? It’s still in my fridge. I can’t believe you didn’t take that home.

Then there’s singing. This year’s karaoke was as it usually is: a mixture of genuine talent and good-natured hollering. The interpretive dance, however, was a new addition to the festivities. Kansas’ “Dust in the Wind”, in particular, lent itself to a bending, swaying, pirouetting normally found amongst only snake-handlers and epileptics.

There should be food at Misfit Christmas, as well. We went with clam chowder, but any non-staining food would do. Our guests brought food as well, and if you haven’t tried the Buffalo Chicken dip, then my dear, you simply haven’t lived.

The night ended as it always does: on the smoking porch. We could see our breath, even without the cigarettes, but we were drunk, there were flannels and blankets, and there was the possibility that Dave would drop his pants again. Who could leave?

The taxi came for Vin at 3:30, Charlie and George left at 3:45, and Mary and I grazed on the leftover Christmas cookies until 4:00, whereupon we retired, her to the couch we made up and me to the bed in the other room.



And now you know what makes up a Misfit Christmas. And if you’re going to have one, give me a call. I can bring the dip.

What’s Black and Blue and Craving a Margarita?

I’ve got a bruise on my left knee the size of the State of Delaware, the result of running into a large box of something while walking in a crowd. If I had seen it, I could’ve avoided it. As it was, however, I could not see it and therefore fell with all the grace of a dropped sack of grain.

I, in the “fine” tradition of Midwesterners, was stoic about it, insisting that I was – you got it: “fine”. But when you fall and it hurts immediately, you are actually a couple clicks away from “fine”.

“Surprised” would’ve described it initially, followed quickly by “flummoxed” and then “needy”.

It’s a respectable bruise, a bruise with fortitude, a bruise that will no doubt go on to vote responsibly, come to a full stop at intersections when called upon to do so, and keep a clean oven.

This bruise is not kidding around.

The biggest problem with this bruise is the fact that it manages to be under trousers or just peeping out from under a skirt most of the time. Truth be told, I spend surprisingly little time naked - it is, after all, autumn - which would be the best way to really appreciate the storms-a’comin’ purples and greens, the raw-meat reds, and the bilious yellows of this bruise.

I suspect I’m particularly sensitive to this subject due to my current heightened and non-nicotined state.

Honestly, what’s the point of having something large and painful if no one’s going to see it and comment on it!

There’s no cake for not smoking, and there’s no cake for big, unseen bruises.

For cryin’ out loud, people. We need more reasons for cake.


Have you entered to win a little sumpin-sumpin in celebration of my 500th straight post? Go to yesterday's post and take the quiz!

Where There’s No Smoke But Still Fire

I haven’t had a cigarette in 14 days.

The secret of my success so far?

Complete and utter denial. Cigarette? What cigarette? What in the world are you talking about?

Never heard of the things.

So far, this has worked for me. My ability to compartmentalize my world is one of my greatest assets.

It’s been pretty easy, but then again I’ve only been drunk – or as I prefer to think of it, mostly drunk – twice in the last 14 days.

And tonight is the Area 52 Halloween Party.

How tough could it be?

You know what’s wrong with quitting cigarettes, though? Aside from the dearth of cigarettes, of course?

There’s not enough fanfare.

Where’s the brass band? The public acclaim?!

Where’s the confetti?!

Hey. I don’t want much, maybe a cake, a parade, a banner, Shriners riding in formation in tiny cars, possibly a call from the President.

Oh. And some sort of award ceremony, preferably on TV.

That’s right. I quit smoking, for my own benefit, and rather than sucking it up, keeping my mouth shut and just doing what needs to be done because it needs to be done, I want acclaim.

Look. I know that I should be satisfied with the fact that I’m saving money, that I don’t cough at night anymore, that I no longer smoke myself sick at parties and wake up stinking and swearing I’ll never have another.

I know that. I did it for my own good.

Still.

There should be a cake.

I’m Just Going to Step out onto the Porch for a Moment

To be honest, I feel safest with a half-smoked cigarette in my hand. There it is, my slim filtered friend, half-gone and yet there’s still plenty left.

Wait. You what? You thought I quit? Where’d you read that?

Oh, right. Yes, it was me, wasn’t it?

Hey. I was probably drunk when I wrote that. You know how I am when I’ve been drinking.

It becomes harder and harder to sustain this smoking habit, even if it is only two or three a day; and now that winter approacheth, I am reminded, once again, that I can’t keep doing this.

Have you smoked in Minnesota? It’s not legal, apparently. The smokers have been sent scurrying, a stinky tangle of them at the doors of most public buildings, outside bars, restaurants, apartment complexes.

And courtesy of Mother Nature, in just a few short minutes it will be too dang cold to smoke outside. It’s early October, and already I’m wearing most of the clothing I own in order to step out onto the porch for a cig. Soon, I’ll be knocking on a neighbor’s door, trying to borrow a cup of woolen socks.

The temperature is set to rise again in a couple days, a 30-degree swing between today and Friday, and that should buy me some time to either gird my loins (or pay someone to gird them for me) or to resign myself to icy extremities and intermittent stench because this sitting on the porch, blowing furtive smoke toward the street? It will not stand.

Smoking. On the one hand, it’s an expensive, terrible habit.

On the other hand, it goes delightfully with beer and those funny friends of yours.

And on yet another hand, it’s a health risk, which is also expensive and does not go well with beer.

Decisions, decisions.


Also, quickly: Tomorrow is the first of three “scary stories” I’ll be posting for the next three Thursdays. If you have a scary story to link, tell me how to link it and I will!

Farbin Brabbin Rock Bill Reeber

2:47 already? Wasn’t it just midnight? What? You leavin’? Already?! You just got here! Oh, okay. Yeah – no, totally. I get it. I gotta get up early, too! Gonna clean a house tomorrow…

What? No, me and Kathy and Amy and Diana and Stephanie went to Barrio, home of the $9 margarita. What? No, it’s a great drink and it’s completely worth it, although I come close every time to licking other people’s glasses to get enough salt. Why is only half the rim salted? It’s weird.

Yeah, you’ll be pleased to know I did not drive. We took the bus in and it was completely above board. Of course we paid our fare and whatever was said by the bus driver later was complete hearsay. Okay, well, it might not be hearsay, but I’m finding it inadmissible for some reason and that’s all I got to say about it.

We didn’t take the bus home, though. Stephanie drove to Surdyk’s for beer for Kathy’s deck and then to Kathy’s afterwards and I remember that ride clearly. What? I do, too! She drives like a controlled maniac, and I respect that. I would drive like that if I could.

Another beer? Okay. I’m just sitting here with Kurt’s guitar, picking out Black Sabbath tunes. The Wizard? NIB? Of course!

Oh , man, maybe that last beer wasn’t such a good idea. I gotta catch a ride with Kurt and Willie – they can run me home on the way to Area 52, right? No, go ahead, you guys! Area 52 is a great place for musicians to gather. Play your little black hearts out. I gotta go home and write my blog.

I got some great ideas.

Oh, man. An empty house and an empty screen. I’m in trouble.

Huh? Sphurbim? Fribbin locka danke schoen?

Ahhhh.

Maybe if I just close my eyes for a little while…

Hunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnh shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Hunnnnnnnnnnnnh shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Hunnnnnnnnnnnnh shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Well, Sure, If Everyone Else Is Having Another One…

Don’t pay the ransom! I’ve escaped the clutches of an afternoon at The Spring Street!

We all survived: Erin, April, T, and I.

You know, the proper order of an afternoon of drinking is very important. Me? I recommend starting off with a burger and fries, particularly if it comes with bacon and fried onions. Drinking on an empty stomach leads to early inebriation, awkward flirtations and headaches.

And who needs the headaches?

I truly enjoy the people one meets while at a bar and grill. I’m in love with humanity. The guy with the mohawk and the Minnesota Twins tattoos – that’s different. The girl in what appears to be a toddler’s t-shirt, a belt and a pair of thigh-high sandals, knee-walking drunk at 1:00 in the afternoon? That’s just plain dedication, folks.

It was a beautiful day on Saturday, and we spent a lot of it on The Spring’s patio.

Initially, I must admit that I was against the no-smoking-in-the-bar rule, but having to step out on to the patio to smoke has lead to the meeting of people you would not normally meet. It’s become an intimate act: the group standing outside, smoking their dirty little cigarettes, form a camaraderie based on engaging in the act most natural to a bunch of inebriated goofs: Smoking.

“What’s your name again?” The man has tattoos suggesting that he has a thing for skeletons.

Again? I enjoy the casual BS that goes along with the bar. “You don’t remember?” I say, feigning, disbelief. “You said we were soul mates! You said we’d last forever! Go! Just go – you’ve broken my heart!”

Poor guy. All he really wanted was my lighter.

I needed Saturday afternoon: the friends, the laughs, a little escape from reality.

A mini-vacation? I can afford it at The Spring.


It’s a helluva life.

Flies Gone Wild

Saturday night was the fifth annual Kegger in the Woods, an all-night festival of grilled food, tables of salads, dips, desserts and condiments, dogs, toddlers and children (until the grandmas take them away at 9:00, anyway), and, as my favorite fig-filled pastry used to say, “here’s the tricky part”: a 16-gallon keg.

Mmmm. Keg beer.

You hear that? That humming sound? No worries, mate. That’s my brain, post-party, absorbing the life-sustaining nutrients found in ice-cold Diet Coke.

I’ll be fine. Fine!

And today’s writing will in no way reflect what may or may not be a bit of a hangover.

So! Having talked around a fire until 3:00 with other late-night folks, laughed until my face hurt and slept in a tent for the first time in five years, what stands out the most?

Flies.

Jesus Martha, have you been in the woods lately?

Minnesota has had an unseasonably warm September so far, and a new crop of flies has appeared, hungry and legion.

Would you believe two of the little buggers actually landed on the picnic table in front of me – right in front of me! – humped incredibly quickly and then took off without so much as an “excuse me”?

What?!

It broke my little world wide open.

Why have I never considered their tiny little urges?

And more importantly, if I’ve failed to consider the sex lives of flies, what else have I missed?

Summer Party, 2009

Saturday night was my annual Summer Party, held this year on the coolest July 18th on record for the City of Minneapolis. I think the day's high didn't reach 70.

I've had a summer get together pretty much every year for the last 25 years or so.

The lists and the things on the list necessary for a party are many. We plotted. We bought. We moved. We lifted and iced. We scrubbed the usual and then we scrubbed the areas that hadn't seen a damp rag since the last party.

And then there was food. Oh, the food. I believe in lots of it, and the bulk of it made at home. So many wonderful friends bring bowls and bowls of food, offerings of meat for the grill.

By 5:00, the kitchen table and counters, the card tables outside were covered with platters and bowls of food. The pickle roll-ups were gone in an hour. The taco dip didn't last much longer than that, primarily owing to a particularly enthusiastic fan who stood at the table and almost single-handedly finished it.

Come on, man! Put it on a plate and let other people take a crack at it!

All in all, though, I think one of the many ways the party can be accurately described is as follows:

Reba, Rainy, and I are standing in the kitchen. It's 2:30 a.m. and Reba absolutely cannot get over the fact that it's 2:30 a.m. and she's still awake, she's been going to bed by 9:00 every night for the last two years, she's having such a good time and oooh look at all the food.

Reba has a touch of the ADHD.

And that's when we found ourselves at that stage in the evening when, if you're at a well-stocked party, you come face to face with the food still available in the kitchen. And in drunk and disorderly fashion, we met this dietary challenge by reaching for plastic forks.

En garde!

For several moments, there is just the sound of us grazing on cold fried chicken, hummus, a black-bean-and-corn salsa, Chinese cole slaw...

For no real reason, Reba and I look up to watch Rainy, a 28-year-old woman who looks like an angel. She has twisted a large knot of a cold spaghetti salad onto her fork. She manages to get her teeth around it, minus the strands dangling from her lips. She looks at us, smiling.

Reba looks at her and says, "You know, I gotta really applaud your efforts there, Lorraine. That's a whole lot of food you just crammed into your mouth. Way to go."

We all looked at each other in a moment of silence and then roared with laughter. We laughed for the next 10 minutes, playing off it, admiring each other's commitment to clearing the dishes, and eventually poor Lorraine collapsed onto the kitchen floor. We laughed until tears ran down our faces.

And that's how I would describe Saturday night.

The last of the guests left at 4:30.

And Sunday evening, my friends, at the time of this writing? I feel fine. To tell you the truth, I feel fabulous. Because you know what I learned Saturday? I learned that when the opportunity to laugh long and loud comes up, you should throw everything you have at it.

Happy Monday, everyone.

My Rock Habit

I’ve got a thing for rocks. I don’t know what it is, but I’ve always been attracted to rocks: granite, sandstone, shale, agates.

Everyone in my family is like this. My mother and my sister both incorporate rocks in the scheme of things.

My brother had a rock polisher when we were little. It droned on, rolling non-stop for days and days and days. He only used it once, that I can recall – we were spastic, distract-able children – but I was jealous of the agates he got out of it, courtesy of Lake Superior.

Even today, wherein he is years and years older and yet somehow just as much a spaz, Kevin has some incredibly cool agates in his house.

And my father. Well, my father only recently discovered the Allman Brothers, and that rocks, too.

Rocks: So simple. So quiet. Rocks are nature’s haikus, deceptively simple pieces of poetry; and so you can imagine how surprised I was to recently become aware of how they could lead one to a life of crime.

Crime!

It wasn’t until the trip to the Pacific Northwest two years ago that I fell under the rock’s spell.

Have you seen the mountains? Have you seen the boulders, the colors and striations of the Rockies? The sun’s light, when it hits the rocks, makes you believe.

Believe what, you say? Why, believe whatever it is that makes you feel right.

So I took them. I took the rocks.

Willie was sure we would be arrested. I had 13 good-sized rocks in the back of the rental car on the way home, representatives of Washington, Idaho, Montana, and North Dakota.

“It’s illegal to take rocks,” he said.

“Oh, like they’re going to pull us over for having unlawful knowledge of extraneous rocks,” I countered.

Big Willie used them to line the flowerbed in the front yard.

Since then, I’ve come to find out that it really is illegal to take rocks from the Rockies.

When the police drive by, and invariably slow down, I go in the house.

Holy shit.

So why am I telling you all this?

So that I can tell you this: I almost did it again.

Almost.

But you should’ve seen the rocks! Piles and piles of them, accent rock in the hotel’s parking lot and their little smoker’s park with its little smokers’ benches just outside of the parking lot… Large, respectable rocks right there, next to the smokers’ area…

For what are a couple of margaritas without a couple smokes?

That’s right. I bought a pack.

And I enjoyed it.

But I didn’t take them. I wanted to, but I didn’t.

The rocks, I mean.

Because I’m better than that.

And there were cameras.