Is anyone else frustrated that the New Bev is showing Moulin Rouge! and Marie Antoinette on Valentine’s Day? Argh. Why couldn’t they be showing something classic from the 40s/50s/60s instead of these maudlin romances? Now I have to have a less fun Valentine’s Day date and go out to a nice dinner instead or seeing two movies and eating cheap popcorn.
Next year, I either want some classic romances in black and white, or some home run romantic comedies, you hear?
As I mentioned in an earlier post, my Auntie Josie passed away recently. Josie was an active participant of The Arc of Tempe, which provides advocation, recreation, and community for people with physical and/or mental disabilities. In fact, the Arc’s Recreation Center is housed in my great-grandparents’ old farmhouse, that Josie lived next door to, but that is a whole other story for a whole other time.
This story is about me. Well, it’s about me and a gentleman named Daniel.
Daniel has down syndrome and is a member of The Arc of Tempe. He knew my auntie well and in addition to participating in the memorial service the Arc held for her, he came to her funeral service. We had a reception after the service in the church hall. I piled my plate up with food (okay, cookies) and sat next to my mom, who was sitting across from Daniel.
"Britney Spears!" Daniel exclaimed to me.
We asked him what he meant.
"She looks like Britney Spears!"
"Well Daniel," the worker from the Arc sitting next to him said, "I don’t think she really does look like Britney Spears, too much."
"Yes she does! She’s pretty!"
And everyone let it go at that.
There are no words to describe the joy this occurrence brought me. Britney Spears, y’all. Britney. Spears.
I’m going to remember this when life gets rough. I’m going to remember that someone out there thinks I look pretty, like Britney Spears.
Overall, how do you feel about the recent Oscar nominations?
Today was not Oscar Nomination Day for me, but rather First Day at My New Job Day. My excitement for this cannot be communicated. I almost peed my pants when I realized my name was going to go on the front of my office. Sure, I share my office with one other person, but it’s an office, with walls and a window and everything. Also, I have my own phone extension with a fancy voicemail message with my fancy official title. AND THEY ARE PRINTING UP MY BUSINESS CARDS AS WE SPEAK.
I will think and talk more about the Oscar’s later when it’s not FIRST DAY AT MY NEW JOB DAY!
I guess what I’m really saying is, I’m too busy staring in wonderment at my key to the ladies’ bathroom down the hall to look at Oscar nominations. Ask me again when I’m not overly celebrating my employment.
I spent this past weekend making a pilgrimage of sorts, going to Tempe, Arizona, to a house on a piece of land that has been in my family for over a century and to a service at a church that my great-grandparents helped to lay the cornerstone in.
There were many poignant moments, as well as laughter, as family history was recounted and shared. More importantly, though, there were stories told about my dear Great-Aunt Josie who recently passed away.
My Auntie Josie contracted Whooping Cough and Pneumonia when she was three years old. She had a dangerously high fever and the doctor gave her Bromide, which is now a known neuro-toxin, to bring it down. After she recovered, she was unable to speak and although she did regain the power of speech, she had permanent brain damage for the rest of her life.
During her funeral service, one of the pastors shared a story. He said that during one of his first meetings with Josie, he asked her what her favorite song was. She said, “The Magic Penny Song,” (which is the mantra of the children’s choir at her church) and asked if he knew it. He said he did, and she proudly informed him that she was going to have them sing that song at her funeral. Which we then proceeded to do.
"Love is something if you give it away,
Give it away, give it away.
Love is something if you give it away,
You end up having more.
It’s just like a magic penny
Hold it tight and you won’t have any
Lend it, spend it, you’ll have so many
They’ll roll all over the floor
Love is something if you give it away,
Give it away, give it away.
Love is something if you give it away,
You end up having more.”
I hope I can learn to give my love away as freely as she did, making new friends and cherishing the old, giving it away like that magic penny.
I’m looking for two really talented tap dancers (male, late 20’s to mid 30’s), at least one of which who can also sing well, and both of which who can act comedically. This is for something I’m going to be developing over the course of six months and it all hinges on the performances, so I want to…
You hear that, hoofers? Click the link above for more info.
I am veeeerry tired after having a hectic morning. I have been mentally trying to psych myself up to press on and make it to the finish! Which, OF COURSE, made me think, wouldn’t it be better if “the finish” was a group of VERY handsome men from Finland, waiting to attend to my every need? The Finnish?
If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go kill the rest of this day by pretending there are handsome Scandinavian men waiting for me at the end of it.
I spent time with my little nephew a day or so ago. He wanted to go into the downstairs bathroom, whose door is childproof. Apparently, he likes to wash his hands in there. They put a little stool in front of the sink, and although he needs help with every step of the process, he still feels like quite the big boy.
His dad said he could do it later, it was an activity reserved to immediately before mealtime, and went into the kitchen while my little nephew and I continued to play. My nephew walked back over to the bathroom door, looked up at me with sad, pleading eyes, and asked, “please.”
I told my brother what his little cutie-patootie was doing, standing in front of the bathroom, asking to please wash his hands. Like any human being with a heart, he gave in, and my little nephew and I had a fun time washing his hands. I like to think it helped that I praised him endlessly and told him what a big boy he had become, his tiny little face barely peering over the edge of the sink, beaming with utter delight.
How many of us have the same desire as my little nephew? Isn’t that what we all want? We want to feel important and accomplished and validated. Please.
My mind races, putting puzzle pieces into place making sense of what has been and what will be. My heart heavy, I realize that I start another year alone. I start another year surround by great friends and high hopes.
A heavy heart, a happy heart, a hopeful heart.
I think back on the love’s I’ve had and the impact they’ve had on me and my life, and how our time on earth intertwined for better or worse. The music she loved or the bakery she secretly wished she’d opened. The passage of her favorite book, or the arch of her back. I wonder where they are in relation to all these things, is that song still piercing or her back that shapely? Does she wonder where I am and think about how I love her? Does any of this really matter in shaping my future and the way I love others each and everyday?
There are times in our lives where we’re shown our exact abilities for every single emotion.
How it works within us—how it impacts others—how it shapes our sensibilities.
Within relationships however all bets are off and the rules and tactics are as fluid as the mercury that dictates them.
It’s with this peace that I realize, even in the toughest relationships, our humanity and love survived us.
It’s with this perspective that I start a year anew, with the hope that love will find you.
This is lovely.
Things I especially love: The Weepies, the phrase “a happy heart” (I love to say “I have a happy heart”), the idea that all at once we can feel sad, yet happy, yet hopeful; one emotion does not preclude another.
“In the middle of the last century, a now-outmoded technology—the manual typewriter—invaded the American workplace. To accommodate that machine’s shortcomings, everyone began to type wrong. And even though we no longer use typewriters, we all still type like we do.”—
Heaven is a place with your cousin and a fridge full of food and a freezer full of tamales and a garage full of orange soda and diet coke and sparkling cider and a fuzzy-faced dog and Writer’s Guild Screeners of movies you haven’t seen yet. It also has a clean, warm bed and free internet and the soothing sounds of a teenage boy playing Call of Duty in the other room, but only after he has shown you the machete that’s in the house and the knife he keeps hidden in his room (in case of robbers).
I have a man in my life whom I refer to as (not in his presence of course) my taco boyfriend. He works at my favorite taco stand and I see him far more often than is probably good for my arteries. He recognizes me and smiles his charming smile and waves even before I get out of my car. He always asks how I am and will get me my order before those who ordered before me. He is my taco boyfriend.
Usually I pick up food from the taco stand alone and take it over to my real boyfriend’s apartment, or my real boyfriend picks it up and brings it to me. But recently, we went to the taco stand together. My taco boyfriend was working. It was slightly awkward. My taco boyfriend did not seem pleased.
The next time I went, he was noticeably more stand-offish and while he acknowledged me with politeness and asked how I was, his tone was almost cold.
I have a problem. A book problem. I have too many books. In the past year I have developed a deep and abiding love for the Los Angeles Public Library System and have broken my addiction to buying used books and cheap paperbacks. But I still have stacks and stacks of books currently sitting in my parents’ house. And I have a secret plan for them…
Someday, when I have any type of disposable income, I’m going to have an open floor plan loft and display all my books on shelves that create partitions. Or just an awesome library room in my home that has built in bookshelves on the walls. OR. OR A STAIRCASE MADE OF BOOKSHELVES FILLED WITH BOOKS. I might have to acquire a few more books before this is possible, but not too many more.
This post was brought to you by a girl whose prized possession is her copy of the Complete Works of Shakespeare that only cost $7.50.