Jelly

I could watch jelly fish for hours.

The grace of movement

The repulsive pulsating blobs

That somehow transform into beauty as they move

Dancing together alone

Stanley Park Aquarium

Quick road trip with Andy on his spring break

Two days in Vancouver with my boy.

Checking out the City landscape....and the ethnic food

Then...

Back to school. And work.
Blah....

Compared to this Chick, Chelsea Handler is an angel...

Chelsea Handler at the Paramount last night. She was expectedly irreverent. Best parts were when she was cracking herself up so much she had to catch herself, pull herself together to get out the story she was trying to tell. That kind of shit is contagious.

Unfortunately during her opening act by Guy, a regular sidekick on her show (a large, bald, openly gay feller), the couple with tickets next to mine arrived. I smelled them before they fell into their seats: cigarette smoke and scotch. Lots of both. And cheap perfume. The woman was next to me. And within a matter of seconds it was trouble. “Oh man, I hate this guy. HE’S SO GAY.”

Then her hands go up. Waving. “Where’s Chelsea. I HATE this guy, Guy.”

Then she starts talking to her date. Really loud. I subtly “shush” her. “No you shut up, you.” She says to me. She’s lighting into the guy about the bitch she’s sitting next to (me). There’s a little shuffling. He tells her he’ll switch places. He has to kind of drag her off her seat, shove her into his place. I murmur “Thank you” to him. She continues to rudely say how much she hates the guy on stage because he is “so gay.” Mr. tries to tell her she needs to calm down or she will get kicked out. She’s defiant. I see the guy in the seat behind her now leave. After a few minutes an usher comes, lowers to her level and says “Ma'am, I have had complaints about your behavior. This show is for everyone and you are ruining other’s experiences. You have one warning. If you do not behave you will be removed.” The woman is really pissed now. Her date calms her down. She is mostly better behaved. Though she speaks loudly about the bitch on the other side (me) to her date. He keeps reminding her they will get kicked out. She quiets down some but I have to tell you I really didn’t hear much of what the entertainer was saying. I was too distracted by the drama next to us. My heart was racing. I was distracted. Disappointed that this was the way the evening was going.

Then Chelsea is introduced. Drunk row lady leaps up and stands in the aisle. Whooooo. Arms flailing. Drunken swaying. Big fan. She won’t sit down. “Sit down” several folks behind yell. Date man coaxes her back to her seat where she still won’t sit down. Guy directly behind her says directly at her “SIT DOWN.” She turns around and five inches from his face says “Fuck off.” Her date grabs her and sits her down. She totally focuses on Chelsea, screaming her name over and over. I see out of the corner of my eye, the guy behind leave his seat and come back. Drunken chick is teetering between passing out in her dates arms and conversing with Chelsea about all her jokes. Next, usher with two other assistants come, bend down, tell drunk chick she must leave, right now. Boy friend pushes her up and follows her out as she is saying “I didn’t do anything.”

Show goes on. Now I can focus on Chelsea. She’s funny. Uncomfortable topics sometimes. But what I expected. After a full hour of entertainment, including some good exchanges with the audience, she wraps up. Lights go on. We gather our stuff to leave. One last best part of the night: I go to grab my coat and find an extra one. A very nice soft buttery black leather jacket. It’s drunk lady’s. She missed Chelsea. And now she’s missing her leather coat. I laid it over the seats. Maybe somebody nice will get it.

She

Standing in the kitchen, as still as possible now, she reviews in her head all the things she could have missed, but so far hasn’t found them. It is no matter. Whatever she could fix will be replaced by some other discovery of a mis-step. She will be an irritation. She has resigned herself to that. Yet still, religiously, methodically, each evening she tries to figure out and fix what might be discovered. The rocks build up inside the shell that is her, and her mind, very soft now, is the air between the rocks. It goes so deep that when the noise of the garage door opening whacks her backside into the present, she nearly passes out from the confusion wrought from the transport from inside to outside in zerotosixtyinlessthanasecond. Inhale, sharp, reflexively. She cannot give up the attempt to start things out right. Why does she find herself asking the same Godamn question every night: “How was your day?” It’s so automatic. She doesn’t really want to hear the litany of the things gone wrong. The wrong things done to him. The people who let him down, most likely including herself. Her happiest fantasies involve a different answer: that the world was good today. That he was happy out there and happy to return. She gains a few seconds between the sound of the garage door and the entry to the house as the beverage refrigerator is on the garage side of the door and he will have stopped to arm himself with a cold one before he enters into her presence. She actually appreciates those few seconds, even if it means he is feeding his habit, another source of irritation for her. Because it is a few more seconds where she is outside of his polluting presence. She forces herself to turn to the door as he comes through it. She thinks she hates him. And in so doing hates herself. Months later, in a rage, he will be holding their wedding picture, shaking it at her face, just inches away, growling “what the hell about this then?” as if this alone should change her behavior. “Then” she says, “back then I did not sign up for this. That is a picture. It is nothing more than a picture. Fuck it. And you too.” (her real self, her original core, did not use this kind of language. It was something he built in her)

In her world she used to see colors. Lots of them. And texture: the more the better. She used to notice the amusement the world had to offer and the synchronicity tied around the gifts hidden in plain view. Her senses were alive and aware of connections that were hidden from those around her. She understood her place in the world and was good with it. She could taste food with her eyes and nose, touch emotion with her hands and taste, see inside things that were otherwise hidden. But that had become foreign to her. Eroded so slowly that she hadn’t noticed it was gone until one day when she had a flash that so much was missing. What was now normal was not how she was born or made to be. She was gone and in her place was a woman who stood at the sink and knew nothing but dread.

Escape was found in fantastical fantasies involving poison, pillows held over sleeping faces, cut brake lines, guns even. It became a wonderful way to pass time that had once been spent in more creative, artistic pursuit. Often her thoughts scared the hell out of her. Eventually it became a matter of two options: numbness or helluvfire fantasies that became too scary to even imagine.

Somewhere, over the

May you beat the leprechaun tomorrow, and find your pot of gold.

I miss the days of green beer, Mickey's by the six pack, corn beef and cabbage with friends. I think I'm reminded of it after checking in with Andy to hear his plans. I remember those days fondly.

A New Dimension

I sat in my seat mesmerized. These lovely glasses on my nose. The big screen in front of me became more than a scene as I became one with the characters on Planet Pandora.

As far as the movie Avatar goes, I wasn't knocked on my azz by the story line. Well, the premise of becoming one with the natives through genetic crossing was clever, but in the end it was pretty darn predictable. Maybe a little more violent than I enjoy. But the 3D affects were astounding.

Speaking of seeing things in a new dimension, my son is really amazing me these days. I caught a ride over to "the 'Berg" with Anne and Ronda and their two sons yesterday. The WSU Lacrosse team (on which their boys play) was playing at Central. While the guys warmed up on the field, we went and picked up Andy to take him to lunch. Yellow Church cafe: the best!

Sometimes I have a hard time keeping a straight face when I tell people Andy's majoring in communication. Historically communication has not been his strong point. We're talking extreme shyness, poor eye contact, one word answers, monotone voice. But over the last year or so, he's come so far. He was enthusiastically relating to Anne and Ronda the things he's involved with at school. He has one of the most listened to radio shows on campus. He's pulling in A's and B's while working 19 hours a week at the station. He's organizing a campus fundraiser "Chili for Chile" to help earthquake victims. He's speaking with a confidence and enthusiasm I never thought possible. Perhaps its a little bit of "Late Bloomer" syndrome. Whatever it is, I love it.

As I love to remind my friends, "you can only be as happy as your saddest child." Right now my child is making me very happy. A great new dimension for sure.

um...what I'm not saying is...

I am in a dry spell. Life is not profound at the mo'. It's a grind. Nose to the grindstone. Work taking up way too much of my waking hours and permeating my dreams. Burned. Burned out. Stressed out clients. Fires to put out. Things to worry about in the off hours. Not a good chapter to be in right now.

I have had some really great things over the last few weeks: beach get away with Anne where we met up with my bro' Tom and his wife for a razor clam feast and chocolate fest; catching a movie with friends; going to a play with others. But even then, in the back of the head: work stress. Puts a thick blanket over even these distractions.

I need to kick my own azz. Which leads me to reveal that I am this evening browsing the internet for Wii Console and Wii Fit deals. Do they have a Kick Yur Own Azz game for that? I want to find a workout option to do at home since I don't seem to be very good about the gym kinds of workouts these days. But then would that just be another piece of equipment that I'd sink $$ into that ends up collecting dust in a corner of my house?

I think I need to create something for myself to look forward to. Currently: no trips on the horizon; no classes signed up for; no nuthin' to plan to do other than all the stuff I'm behind in at work.

and so, just hard to blog as there is nothing much to share other than the mundane.

Stay tuned. Or not. No promises. Send help. Kick azz. Take prisoners. Wake up. Shod off. Buggers. Swear loudly. Pray louder. Kick my azz. Inspire me. Don't worry. Be happy. Good luck!

What I Imagined....

Sometimes I crack myself up. Standing in line at the theater (please pronounce "thee-ah-tah" ) bathroom last night, I am staring at the condom machine. It is staring back at me.

I imagine myself (as if in having an out of body experience) squealing with glee. And for the benefit of all waiting behind me, and the others washing their hands and checking the mirror, I say in a very loud voice "Oh wonderful. Thank God! I almost forgot" and then whip some quarters, like say six, out of my wallet. I then (imagining still) go up to the machine and select three marvelous condoms. Slip them into my purse. Turn around to the ladies behind me and say "don't you just LOVE when they make this so conveeeenient?" With a wink, I dissapear into the stall.

I didn't have enough guts to do it. I did however have enough guts to go back and wait for a moment when there was no line, no women primping, and take a picture. I believe I scared the shit out of the woman in the stall just to the left of the machine. I think she thought I was photographing her on the toilet. At least she was in the right place to have the shit scared out of her.