Saturday, July 31, 2010
Welcome back blog . . .
It's been months since my last post. Too many months. I am still working out what exactly my blog is about . . . does a blog work better if it's about one thing, or can what one writes be all over the board? If you know the answer to this question or would like to offer advice please post a comment. Anyway, I'm going to try to be a more consistent blogger. Hopefully you stick around for the upcoming posts.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Long Live the King
Mini Graceland
Two blonde barbies coiffed
and suited for serious lounging in pale patterned bikinis
sat stonefaced and forlorn looking
by the tiny guitar-shaped pool in the backyard.
The funk of fingerprints covered the girls,
cloaking their swimsuits in smudge.
Too much manhandling . . .
The absence of the King weighed heavily on them.
He's captured, with glory, in faux
gold plating in the front yard, to the left of the graying house.
He's missing his guitar
and the blondes.
Two blonde barbies coiffed
and suited for serious lounging in pale patterned bikinis
sat stonefaced and forlorn looking
by the tiny guitar-shaped pool in the backyard.
The funk of fingerprints covered the girls,
cloaking their swimsuits in smudge.
Too much manhandling . . .
The absence of the King weighed heavily on them.
He's captured, with glory, in faux
gold plating in the front yard, to the left of the graying house.
He's missing his guitar
and the blondes.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
My Signal is NOT a Suggestion!
Large trucks, semis, or 18 wheelers as they are respectively known are an intimidating and awkward presence on the road, particularly on roads smaller than a highway. Their wind can push you to the side of the road; their wake can carry you along; and seeing around them is impossible. And the way that they can communicate without involving the rest of us on the road is, at the least, irritating and unfair.
I had the occasion recently to view a bumper sticker on one of these big trucks which came across as dire warning: My Signal is NOT a Suggestion! I go a little crazy when drivers don't use the signals installed in their vehicles. That is their sole purpose in life -- signaling. Don't deprive them of the only chance they have to do their jobs, to show off even. So upon seeing this driver's sticker, I thought, "Good for you buddy! Tell those non-signaling bastards that they better watch out!" Then, using my signal in the spirit of the driver's clear directive, I switched lanes.
Interestingly, tall people can have some of the same effects on the rest of us as those 18 wheelers. They dominate the rooms they inhabit. Tall-ies can communicate with other Tall-ies without involving the rest of us. They can hit you in the head with their backpacks without really meaning to or knowing that they've given you a concussion. There is one time when tall folks look more like the rest of us: when they are, literally, on the same playing field. Whether it be a football field, basketball court, or hockey rink, they look proportionate to those around them. But anyone who has seen Mario Lemieux in regular clothes walking amongst the average heighted, knows that he's a giant.
Usually, I don't have the opportunity to spend much time around people that are what I consider tall, taller than 6 feet. My family is Italian and is thus more round than tall. My husband is definitely taller than me but at 5'10" he is within the bounds of average height. He does have one exceptionally tall cousin who is around 6'5". And since we only him on extended family occasions he is looked up to as a lovable oddity in the family, a "gentle giant" if you will.
I do have one tall friend. He lives in my hometown and we see him on most visits. This tall friend came into my life via marriage. My very short best friend from childhood married her high school sweetheart (they were even voted "best looking" -- how adorable!), a former basketball player. Jason is at least 6'1" maybe a bit taller. When he hangs out with other friends, who also used to play basketball, he is just like us average height people. But when he steps into my or my parent's home, his height is not unnoticable. On a recent visit to the old stomping grounds, Jason, Michelle, and their "best looking" offspring came over to the folks' house. We're all good enough friends to hug and give a little kiss, and being Italians, we hug and kiss everyone anyway. As Jason stood in the middle of my parents' living room, taking up a lot of space, I went to give him the friendly hug and smooch on the cheek. His tallness, or perhaps my shortness, made the situtation awkard and I hit his neck with the kiss rather than his cheek. I was embarassed and hoping he hadn't noticed. All I could think was, "My signal was NOT a suggestion!"
I had the occasion recently to view a bumper sticker on one of these big trucks which came across as dire warning: My Signal is NOT a Suggestion! I go a little crazy when drivers don't use the signals installed in their vehicles. That is their sole purpose in life -- signaling. Don't deprive them of the only chance they have to do their jobs, to show off even. So upon seeing this driver's sticker, I thought, "Good for you buddy! Tell those non-signaling bastards that they better watch out!" Then, using my signal in the spirit of the driver's clear directive, I switched lanes.
Interestingly, tall people can have some of the same effects on the rest of us as those 18 wheelers. They dominate the rooms they inhabit. Tall-ies can communicate with other Tall-ies without involving the rest of us. They can hit you in the head with their backpacks without really meaning to or knowing that they've given you a concussion. There is one time when tall folks look more like the rest of us: when they are, literally, on the same playing field. Whether it be a football field, basketball court, or hockey rink, they look proportionate to those around them. But anyone who has seen Mario Lemieux in regular clothes walking amongst the average heighted, knows that he's a giant.
Usually, I don't have the opportunity to spend much time around people that are what I consider tall, taller than 6 feet. My family is Italian and is thus more round than tall. My husband is definitely taller than me but at 5'10" he is within the bounds of average height. He does have one exceptionally tall cousin who is around 6'5". And since we only him on extended family occasions he is looked up to as a lovable oddity in the family, a "gentle giant" if you will.
I do have one tall friend. He lives in my hometown and we see him on most visits. This tall friend came into my life via marriage. My very short best friend from childhood married her high school sweetheart (they were even voted "best looking" -- how adorable!), a former basketball player. Jason is at least 6'1" maybe a bit taller. When he hangs out with other friends, who also used to play basketball, he is just like us average height people. But when he steps into my or my parent's home, his height is not unnoticable. On a recent visit to the old stomping grounds, Jason, Michelle, and their "best looking" offspring came over to the folks' house. We're all good enough friends to hug and give a little kiss, and being Italians, we hug and kiss everyone anyway. As Jason stood in the middle of my parents' living room, taking up a lot of space, I went to give him the friendly hug and smooch on the cheek. His tallness, or perhaps my shortness, made the situtation awkard and I hit his neck with the kiss rather than his cheek. I was embarassed and hoping he hadn't noticed. All I could think was, "My signal was NOT a suggestion!"
Friday, July 24, 2009
Accidentally French . . . In a way
Like many educated, interested, fashion-inclined young American women, I am obsessed with most things French. I spend not an insignificant amount of time imagining my French self. Would my style be less studied? Would I be less naive and more nonchalant? Would I be taller and have thinner thighs? Would I be intimately familiar with even more ways to wear a scarf? Maybe most importantly, would Charlotte Gainsbourg and I be friends? I like to think so. Imagine though I might, I have come to terms with the fact that I am essentially American; wide-eyed and friendly to strangers. Perhaps the fact that most belies my non French-ness is that I am not a dedicated smoker, puffing away without guilt, safe in the knowledge that if this pleasure doesn't do me in, something will.
Fortunately for my Franco-aspirations, a cousin of mine married a French girl and they live together in Paris. Paris!! That infinitely faceted, outrageously expensive jewel of a city that calls out to dreamy American girls like me. The irony that pervades this multi-cultural union is that Nathalie, the Frenchwoman, loves America. Imagine! She thinks American girls have better skin, are nicer, and aren't afraid to get a good tan.
There is one thing though that Nathalie does not love about America. She told me that the first time she came to the U.S. she felt completely ugly because the men on the street didn't verbally reflect her lovliness back to her. No one proposed marriage or swore that he would most certainly perish if she walked away without him. No one grabbed his heart as she walked by and compared her to the fairest bloom blushing under the sun's sweet rays. Together, Nathalie and I lamented that the best many American men can manage is a leer. Having been to Paris a handful of times, I can confirm the intoxicating, confidence boosting effect that French men have on the ladies. Could this be the root cause of the French woman's je ne sais qua?
Maybe it was the decidedly French manner in which I prepped myself for the day that led to the accidental echo of the particularly French phenomenon described above. Late for Mass, I skipped the shower and indulged in a lavish spritzing of a daytime appropriate eau. The pixied hair, though not dirty, appeared so (in that perfectly non-chalant French way) due to the bed-heading it had received. Time allowed only for a smudging of mascara. Blush, normally a daily superstar, sat forlorn in the vanity, surely disappointed by disuse. The ensamble, I must say, was well thrown together, acheiving a tiny triumphant American echo of that "tossed together" yet polished look that French women are so good at and for which they are universally envied. I attribute my coup to the quality of the elements of which the outfit was composed. Low, gray Converse Chuch All-Stars; a smiple sheath with a small black tribal pattern traveling down a warm blue background all the way to the ankles; the weathered brown belt; and, an ironically American touch, the perfectly fitted and perfectly worn dark denim jacket! Simple gold hoop earrings, a gold bangle -- a childhood gift from my father, and a baby pearl necklace served as the simple accoutrements.
Every inch the natural born American citizen, I was booking it to Mass, when a man on a dirtbike, procured from who knows what rural, broken-down, machinery filled front yard and appropriated for an illegal urban street life, zoomed past me. As he zoomed past, he said, "Hey Baby." Decidedly not French. I ignored him and kept up my hurried pace. Also decidedly not French. Mr. Dirtbike persevered though, turning his rickety ride around! He pulled up, engine sputtering, and smiling asked, "So you married and all that?" The sun bounced playfully off of his gold teeth. I smiled and said that yes I was married and on my way to church. He looked forlorn, but stayed sputtering in the middle of the road as I walked on, feeling a little closer to my French self.
Fortunately for my Franco-aspirations, a cousin of mine married a French girl and they live together in Paris. Paris!! That infinitely faceted, outrageously expensive jewel of a city that calls out to dreamy American girls like me. The irony that pervades this multi-cultural union is that Nathalie, the Frenchwoman, loves America. Imagine! She thinks American girls have better skin, are nicer, and aren't afraid to get a good tan.
There is one thing though that Nathalie does not love about America. She told me that the first time she came to the U.S. she felt completely ugly because the men on the street didn't verbally reflect her lovliness back to her. No one proposed marriage or swore that he would most certainly perish if she walked away without him. No one grabbed his heart as she walked by and compared her to the fairest bloom blushing under the sun's sweet rays. Together, Nathalie and I lamented that the best many American men can manage is a leer. Having been to Paris a handful of times, I can confirm the intoxicating, confidence boosting effect that French men have on the ladies. Could this be the root cause of the French woman's je ne sais qua?
Maybe it was the decidedly French manner in which I prepped myself for the day that led to the accidental echo of the particularly French phenomenon described above. Late for Mass, I skipped the shower and indulged in a lavish spritzing of a daytime appropriate eau. The pixied hair, though not dirty, appeared so (in that perfectly non-chalant French way) due to the bed-heading it had received. Time allowed only for a smudging of mascara. Blush, normally a daily superstar, sat forlorn in the vanity, surely disappointed by disuse. The ensamble, I must say, was well thrown together, acheiving a tiny triumphant American echo of that "tossed together" yet polished look that French women are so good at and for which they are universally envied. I attribute my coup to the quality of the elements of which the outfit was composed. Low, gray Converse Chuch All-Stars; a smiple sheath with a small black tribal pattern traveling down a warm blue background all the way to the ankles; the weathered brown belt; and, an ironically American touch, the perfectly fitted and perfectly worn dark denim jacket! Simple gold hoop earrings, a gold bangle -- a childhood gift from my father, and a baby pearl necklace served as the simple accoutrements.
Every inch the natural born American citizen, I was booking it to Mass, when a man on a dirtbike, procured from who knows what rural, broken-down, machinery filled front yard and appropriated for an illegal urban street life, zoomed past me. As he zoomed past, he said, "Hey Baby." Decidedly not French. I ignored him and kept up my hurried pace. Also decidedly not French. Mr. Dirtbike persevered though, turning his rickety ride around! He pulled up, engine sputtering, and smiling asked, "So you married and all that?" The sun bounced playfully off of his gold teeth. I smiled and said that yes I was married and on my way to church. He looked forlorn, but stayed sputtering in the middle of the road as I walked on, feeling a little closer to my French self.
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