September 4th, 2003

Chalkboard

Cleaning Out the Clutter, Our Halloween Madness, Flowers, The Knitting Store, Cancer, and John Prine

Cleaning Out the Clutter, Our Halloween Madness, Flowers, The Knitting Store, Cancer, Cancer Clusters, and John Prine.



Oh blah it's time to go to therapy, which is just about the last thing, (well, practically, if you don't count going to the dentist or the gynecologist), I want to be doing right now. I'd rather keep digging through my mountain of e-mail, or go with the gals to Target to buy orange and black plastic Halloween storage boxes.

I think by now you all probably know what a Halloween nut I am. Last year some of my kind neighbors got together and actually bought us dinner for three at a nice nearby restaurant, but of course I waited to long to use it and it expired. Shhhh, don't tell anyone, I still feel bad about this. I was going to take Esther and Irma to thank them for all the time they spend with me setting this elaborate haunted garden/yard up, but we never got around to it.

The kids in our neighborhood count on us now to put on the wildest haunted garden/front yard, so I never get to go out anymore and see anyone else's spooky decorations, or dress up and go to parties or anything. I've been wanting to go to that wild Halloween ball they have in San Francisco for a long time now but even if I went I imagine anything they would do there would pale by comparison compared to Burning Man. I'm pretty jaded at this point. Anyway, all of the various monsters, mannequins, costumes, gravestones, spiders, and their giant webs, animated flapping bats, witches, heads, pumpkins, props, fog machines, lights, special effects stuff, our giant black plaster grim reaper with his enormous scythe, and all of the little vintage collectibles that we put in display cases throughout the house take up about thirty plastic storage boxes.

We've put all of these in our storage unit, but sometimes when we pull it all out in early October, we miss a box or two and wind up wondering where the extra fog machine, or black lights, or the odd wiggling hand or crystal ball thing is. So we saw these great boxes on sale -- four dollars a box as opposed to the ten to twelve dollars a box for the clear ones at Bed Bath and Beyond, (Oh God the squeaking of my office chair is driving me nuts, new development, must fix,) and thought, "Hey, these would be perfect for us, they're cheap, they're Halloweeny looking, so we won't miss them when we dig through storage, and we can transfer everything and use the other clear boxes for the rest of the stuff we're digging out of the garage." Esther and Irma are going to head on over to Target while I get refills on prescriptions and blab away at my shrink.

I found this beautiful, antiquey, Victorian wicker baby stroller that had been gnawed on a bit by the rats, and almost threw it out, but then Irma's little Jacqui, (we're both Jacqui), thought it might make a good prop for our Halloweenishness and she's right. We're going to spray paint it black, swathe the whole thing in black tulle, very black-widowey, then plop a baby inside and have one of our teenage mannequins in a devilish costume pushing it.

We already have a few baby mannequins but they look so good sitting amongst the pumpkins that I thought I should get another baby for the pram. I had a hard time choosing between the white baby and the black baby because frankly I liked the black baby a hell of a lot better, but then I started worrying about anyone peering into the carriage and wondering why all our mannequins are beige but the little devil baby is black, so my empathic fear of hurting anyone's feelings took over and the ugly white baby won out.

It's a pretty realistic looking baby doll who cries endlessly when it's wet, so we'll just leave it wet, and paint it's eyes a spooky glittery shade of red with polish, and then dress it up in something lovely. Very Rosemary's Baby but without Mia Farrow and Ruth Gordon, damn.

Garage wise -- I can't believe the stuff I'm finding and had forgotten I had bought. God, there were so many wonderful things, vintage beaded French purses, bags of rhinestone costume jewelry, dresses, forties and fifties fabrics, china, crystal, books -- so many wonderful old books, art, lamps, toys, hats, props, just so much stuff, and we're doing all we can to save what hasn't been eaten by the rats, or made into nests.

It's fun in a way, opening boxes filled with so many things I had bought and then just tucked away, a bit like Christmas or my birthday. Years of flea market, garage sale, estate sale, and eBay shopping will do that to a gal, turn her into a wacky forgetful packrat. God, you should hear the stories some of my dealer friends tell me about their houses, teetering piles of bags and boxes, with only narrow pathways to walk through and that's all. Hey, at least I never got to that point. My friend Monique thinks we're all becoming such clutterers because we are suffering from social deprivation or soul hunger of a sort. Maybe I've been trying to make up for years of feeling empty and being in pain, who knows, but I'm ready to clear it all out, let it go, and make some room in our lives for, well, just room. Obviously I'm a pack rat with a compulsive yen for collecting, and I need to work on this, lucky for me I'm about to fly out the door to therapy, are you getting this -- why I need to go to therapy? Yes, of course you are ; )

Esther is working here with us this week to help get the garage cleaned out so we can start our art/music/storage studio remodel deal, and I don't really need to send her off to Target and the storage unit with Irma, but I took Irma's four kids shopping for shoes and school supplies last night, and it only seems fair to help Esther out as well, so they're going to look for some shorts for Andrea while they pick up the boxes. I want to help as much as I can but I'm such a compulsive debtor, credit cards are like toys to me, they seem like free money, and it's easy to forget that someone is going to have to pay them off.

Poor Irma's kids need so much and how can I justify buying anything else for our Halloween madness if I don't help where it really matters first? So I took all of her little ones to Target and bought them shoes, school supplies, and a few toys. Irma is really struggling right now, especially since her useless husband is off in some rehab in El Salvador. He keeps sneaking out to get drunk, then they round him up and toss him back in again.



Here's a picture of the bouquet I sent to Sharon. I wanted it to be lush, romantic, pretty and pastellish. I know she likes roses and I love gardenias, because they smell so incredible, so I had them add some as well and hope she liked it. I got a call from someone on her show telling me about tickets to next week's shows. I think that must have been some kind of mistake. Maybe my original ticket application got cycled back in again or something, or maybe someone said, "Here, call this crazy girl who sent the flowers and the card and the magazine and tell her we said thanks," and she got confused and thought it was about tickets. Ya never know. I just toss the love out there and if something bounces back great, and if not it's all good anyway, seriously.



It looks like warped.com, my host, is up and running smoothly again because I was able to upload my pictures and link them for you. Here's a better picture of the little collage I made for the top of the letter. I just scanned the actual letter but the digital collage itself is much bigger and prettier, oh well.



Damn, I really have to go, then when I get back I have to work in the yard for a few hours going through some boxes. Then Scott is going to come over and we're going to go at it, hee, and then we've promised to list things on eBay.

I'm back. Went to therapy, well, it's actually psychiatry, but I don't want you to worry I'm nuts and run off, so I downplay it. So... I saw my shrink, then did a couple of errands and went in to the knit shop. I faced my strange fear of the knitting store and it was fine. They seemed like groovy chicks and they had the most beautiful yarn and I bought some for a pal.

I bought some skeins of this great multicolored green yarn for a sweater and I'm going to start taking classes this Saturday, yeay. I can't wait to make weird hats like ana. Irma is going to teach me to crochet. I'm also signing up for Adobe Photoshop classes so I can sharpen up my baby skills there. I hope I'm not taking too much on but with all this weight melting off of me, and my lightening up my possession burden, (we'll deal with the cat situation next, maybe), I'm feeling like I can do more and get out more. We'll see.

I've been reading Strange Days: My Life With and Without Jim Morrison by Patricia Kennealy-Morrison on the recommendation of my friend Mary. Mary can come up with a list of books to buy or borrow in a second, that's because she reads for a living. Something I used to do a long time ago but hated. I was good at it, but the pressure of having to read to look for potential material and to have to review people's precious work, (work that meant so much to them but which was mostly crap, seriously, oh the stuff I used to have to read, you can't imagine) and then honestly write up what I thought of it was just too hard on my friendly little soul. I want to prop people up and encourage them and reading, or story analysis, was tough because ninety-nine percent of the scripts I wound up reading were realllllly bad, drech, truly.

Anyway I love books about The Doors and Jim Morrison and hadn't read this one and am enjoying it. It's a little on the formal side, the writing, and a bit overwrought, but it's an autobiography and just like I love Reality-TV, I'm a junkie for a good, based-on-real-life story, I can't get enough of them. Especially when it's about people fucking, doing drugs, writing music, fucking, doing drugs, fighting, and performing.

Mary and her husband just bought a house in New Orleans, as a vacation house. How do people do that -- get so lucky that they can afford to do amazing things like this? Probably because they don't throw away every dime they make shopping, like I do. I just think it's so exciting that they're going to do something so seemingly exotic. Buying a home in New Orleans that's a couple hundred years old and fixing it up sounds exotic and sexy to me.

My friend Susan was worried that she might have cancer, but thankfully it turned out to be endometriosis. I'm so relieved and happy for her. I love her very much and it's such a relief that she's okay and through the worst of this.

It seems like cancer is everywhere, all around me, has been, all my life. My friends, my beloved uncle Doug, my mother-in-law, then my mother. Scott's Mom and brother both died of it. I hate cancer, just fucking hate it, and it feels silly and small to write that. I don't understand why my Mom's doctors weren't more interested in why or how she got it. You get it and they go after it and then it's over, well, sort of, but no one comes around and asks questions and compares them to answers from other people. I always thought it would be like that; "What kind of deodorant do you use? Where do you live? Do you have asbestos in your attic? Did you smoke? What kind of water are you drinking? Do you exercise? Do you put chlorine in your pool? Do you eat meat or a high fat diet? Do you sit too close to your television? I don't know, I just expected something, some kind of study, and it never came.

I met a woman once who had had breast cancer, and I may have mentioned this to you before, but it just blew my mind. After she beat it she went home to Long Island to kind of recover and take a break with her family and when she started talking with her friends she learned that they had a massive breast cancer cluster in her neighborhood. A huge percentage of her childhood playmates had had breast cancer as well. And no one was interested in the fact that all of these kids had played in these foggy mists that hovered in their front yards that came from the trucks that would drive up and down their streets spraying DDT.

The dogs are fighting over their toys downstairs. I get two of everything, well, actually five of everything, but just in different sizes. But Ali and Lulu are like two little squabbling siblings who want whatever the other one has, "It's my knotted up rope!" "No, it's mine!" "All right then I'll take the peanut butter stuffed Kong" "No I will!" "No me!!" "Bark, bark, bark!!!" Sometimes it drives me mad!

Lulu who is just five months old and actually looks a little like Stitch, the character in Leelu and Stitch, is going through a stupid dog chewing phase. When we were out in the backyard today sorting things out she actually climbed around me and grabbed a teardrop-shaped, red, glass, Christmas ornament and was crunching it up like it was no big deal. Crunch, crunch, crunch. I screamed and ran after her and I think I got all the pieces. But if I hadn't seen her she might have swallowed those bits of glass, so we had to ban her to a safer play zone. I must be super puppy-inexperienced. I forget how goofy they can be. "Mmmmm dangerous glass, yum, yum."

Scott was singing this song to me this morning and I've been hooked on it all day. He thought John Prine wrote it. One of the first songs I learned on guitar, that I've forgotten how to play, sigh, (I always seem to be sighing here), was a John Prine song. BTW we're going to see John Prine play at the Spreckles, (sugar family -- friends of Mom's), theatre in October. They had good seats, orchestra row B, yeay. I don't like to go to see/hear someone unless we can get great seats, it's just too heartbreaking to be so far away that they look like a speck, and you wind up watching them on some screen or monitor.

Scott doesn't know yet, I did it as a surprise, I hope he'll be happy. We were both so tired tonight we almost didn't get together and we certainly didn't list any of my pretty beaded bags, or anything else for that matter, on eBay. But at least we got together and cuddled and hung out, and I got through two more boxes from the garage with Esther's help.

Plastic Jesus
Ernie Marrs

I don't care if it rains or freezes
'Long as I got my Plastic Jesus
Riding on the dashboard of my car.

Through my trials and tribulations
And my travels through the nations
With my Plastic Jesus I'll go far.
Plastic Jesus! Plastic Jesus,
Riding on the dashboard of my car

I'm afraid He'll have to go.
His magnets ruin my radio
And if I have a wreck He'll leave a scar.
Riding down a thoroughfare
With His nose up in the air,
A wreck may be ahead, but He don't mind.

Trouble coming He don't see,
He just keeps His eye on me
And any other thing that lies behind.
Plastic Jesus! Plastic Jesus,
Riding on the dashboard of my car ...

Though the sunshine on His back
Make Him peel, chip and crack,
A little patching keeps Him up to par.
When I'm in a traffic jam
He don't care if I say "damn"
I can let all my curses roll

Plastic Jesus doesn't hear
'Cause he has a plastic ear
The man who invented plastic saved my soul.
Plastic Jesus! Plastic Jesus,
Riding on the dashboard of my car ...

Once His robe was snowy white,
Now it isn't quite so bright -
Stained by the smoke of my cigar.
If I weave around at night,
And policemen think I'm tight,
They never find my bottle - though they ask.

Plastic Jesus shelters me,
For His head comes off, you see
He's hollow, and I use Him for a flask.
Plastic Jesus! Plastic Jesus,

Riding on the dashboard of my car ...
Ride with me and have a dram
Of the blood of the Lamb -
Plastic Jesus is a holy bar.Collapse )
Chalkboard

I Love My Live Journal Friends!

Kittens, Ana Has Turned Me Into a Yarn Nut, Pills and Vitamins, Hair Loss, Sorting Through More Boxes, and Women's Suffrage.





Good morning my darlings! This picture is for all of you who I want to keep in touch with, and whose journals are sorely lacking in my commentage. I wanted to find an image that would express how much I love and appreciate all of my Live Journal friends and family, and I know this is too romantic, but hey I'm girlie, so it fits.


I tried to take some pictures of the kittens for you so you could see them and get a sense of their still-tiny size, but they are so wiggly and kitteny it was a fairly lost cause.


At least you can sort of see them, but they won't sit still for a second, especially not when I steal them away from Mama, bring them in my office and place them, gently, on my keyboard.


This one's a little better but still too fuzzy. I think I'll wait till they're a little bigger, and sadly, but also hopefully, these will be the last kittens we have here, unless we foster some.

I feel so guilty that we let this happen again. My friend Susan teases me about being the most irresponsible responsible animal lover she knows. They're so wonderful and I'm grateful and adore every precious little kitty life, but I know it's completely irresponsible and wrong of me to have let this happen, especially when there are so many cats dying in our fucking so called "shelters."

We finally fixed all the boys but it looks to me like Sydsu, our Whatever-Ticked, (I can never remember the fussy name they call his color, but it's basically tabby), Oriental Shorthair, got in a little last-minute pussycat action with one of the nursing Mama's, just before he was hauled off to the hospital, for the fixing of certain kitten making parts. That whole business of not being able to get pregnant while you're nursing, well, that's off completely, just right off. Our girls were so horny and ready for action, they'd be mewing and shoving their bottoms up into the boys faces, even with thier kittens still clinging on to their nipples.

I was decidedly not horny just after I had Beau, but maybe that's because I tore and had so many stitches, and was suffering from sore boobs and a complete lack of sleep. But when I was pregnant, oh Lord, that was a different matter, I wanted sex round the clock, in the shower, on the counter, standing at the window, in the bath, on the floor by the refrigerator, in the car...



Here are a couple of pictures of some of the booty I brought home from the yarn store yesterday. Can you see that one spool with the pale, peach colored yarn, covered in sequins? Guess what nutty, hat-crocheting friend of mine that little sixty dollar present is for? God, knitting is expensive. I had no idea. I actually feel bad about this because I could have bought a used computer for Esther's little girl for what I paid for all of this yarn. Well, to be fair I have given her a used computer, and a new one to Eduardo, and two used ones to Irma and her family, it's just that they age so quickly and there is just no way on this earth that I can keep my own and Beau's computers current, let alone keep up with speeding computer techonology for five more kids. No matter how much I want to be able to.



I'm going to use the green yarn at the top of this picture to make a sweater. I looove green. But first I have to learn to knit, so I'm going to play around by making a scarf. Irma is going to teach me to crochet. Oh and there's a cool book that I wish I could just loan you, (or somehow let you flip through the pages of, so you wouldn't have to spend the money like I did), of celebrities and the scarves they knit. It has Darryl Hannah on the cover, (whose parents are friends of my parents somehow, God, who doesn't my Mother know in some way, Larry Flynt?), and all of the scarves were said to have been knit by the women inside, (Oh wait I think Isaac Mizrahi may have knit one -- love him -- so glad he's made a nice comeback from his financial troubles, I swear he's so lovable I wish I could kiss him and cuddle up with him), then the scarves were auctioned off for AMFAR. Nice.

I have my usual, enormous line of pills here in front of me that I have to take. And I promise Brendan that as soon as I get a chance I'll check out your recommendation. I also need a good hair and nail vitamin. My aunt, who I am no longer calling my fake-aunt, because we're friends again, it's amazing what a little gift of a Brother IZ CD will do for a person, I think I should send them to everyone, seriously, said that I should take something called Nioxin -- that it's helped her a lot with her thinning hair, and my stylist has me using a Kerastasse, (Oh God do I love anything made by Kerastasse! If you ever take one of my recommendations seriously this is the one. This stuff will make the most brittle, screwed-up overprocessed hair feel like silk. Sonia are you listening? You should sell this stuff to your clients, seriously), product that has some awful name like, "Hey There You Old Bag! Use This For Your Thinning Elderly Hair!" Hello, what about people undergoing chemo, or big gals losing way to much weight way too quickly?

The Rogaine thing is out for now while they debate about it's dangers to the liver, yikes. Someone please tell Diane Keaton, I read somewhere that she uses it. We all know my ex never did, since he's as bald as the capitol building, so at least he won't have to worry about his liver over this one. The drinking though -- that's another story.

But back to the pills, and just for fun, here they are in order; an anti-depressant, Effexor, (Gosh what is there to be depressed or everly emotional about these days? Beats me Sadham Hussein, or maybe that should be Beat Me Sadham Hussein), two Colace , a Synthroid for my non-functioning thryoid, the pill I take whose name I can't remember right now because this is the pill that is supposed to help me remember things and stay focused, lovely, two Advil that look like candy, (love that since I don't get any candy anymore), a vitamin C, two multi's, two Bs, an iron pill, and a giant flax seed capsule that I can barely choke down. Bleh, pill taking, not fun, and yet so good for you and somehow tiny stomach fillingly positive, heh.

Well, I have people waiting on me to sort through the detritus of my life. Things that have been comingled with the chewings and left overs of a certain wild brown tribe of rat's lives. Plus make me promise that I will walk and I will call the gynecologist and I will call the dentist, okay? Not. How about if I just walk and call the doctors tomorrow? Would that be all right with you? Pretty please? I don't like doctor people, (no matter how nice they are, poking around inside my oriffices), not nice, no not nice at all. Now who's being the big baby? Yes, you're right Mr. Scott.

Today after I pick Beau up from school we're going to go to the mall to Hot Topic so my little guy can buy school clothes that will make him look like a recycled version of myself in the eighties, only now they call it Goth. I am feeling so old lately, blah.


I love these vintage suffrage cards. Makes me proud to be a part of this lineage of women who had to fight so hard and struggle so mightily to gain the rights that our girls toss aside so lightly. The whole history of voting rights gets me riled, but I have to go, and there's always plenty of time to rattle on about this another time.

Love you all!
Jacqui

This one makes me think about how careful I have to be to instill respect for women in my son.