blue girl

No Shag Candy at this House

Malted Milk Balls, Milky Ways, Snickers, Milk Duds, Almond Joys and Take 5's. Thought of Jennifer, so I also picked up Sour Nerds, Pez, some Tootsie Pops and individually wrapped gumballs. Okay, the gumballs were shag, but not too bad.

Not half as bad as when I came downstairs and saw the horrified little angel face of a four year old with pigtails and white feathered wings, staring up at my son who was offering her a platter of cubed swiss cheese and pepperoni slices.

I knocked him out of the way and told her she could take whatever she wanted.

She chose a Take 5.

I told her to take two, and a shag gumball.

The Big Chill

This tiny graveyard is located about a mile from us, on a quiet country road, overlooking the Cuyahoga Valley. Directly to its left is a beautifully quaint, rambling old farmhouse. It's white with black shutters and the narrow gravel driveway winds around the left of the house, and dead ends into a small wooden shed. An old, rusty tractor rests near the front door by a table of organized farm tools. Corn shellers, reaper knife sharpeners. Axes.

On Sunday, when I drove passed, I stopped to admire the property. Hundred year old trees loomed, with their colorful leaves, burnished gold, alternately shimmering and hiding in sunshine and shadow.

As I crept forward, I caught the eye of an elderly woman as she hunched over the table near the shed. She pushed up the sleeve on her scrawny right arm, picked up an old tool, too heavy to carry, and dragged it behind her as she began walking, slowly, in my direction.

A quick breeze kicked up and as burnt leaves swirled several feet off the ground, the gate to the graveyard creeked open, making a quick, high-pitched screeching noise.

A pale child came running out of the house and bellowed, "Not yet!" And then stood shivering, staring at the ground.

As I drove away, the old woman with vacant eyes stood leaning on her ax.

In my rearview mirror, I watched as she turned and walked away, disappearing into the swirling, burnt leaves as the black wrought iron gate slammed shut.

Great Minds

My friend's recorded message on his voice mail at work is this:

Great minds discuss ideas.

Average minds discuss events.

Small minds discuss people.

Leave your name at the beep and I'll call ya back.

I leave him at least one or two voicemails a day, where I say, "I have a great idea, but I'm not leaving my name. Let's talk."

He was supposed to meet me and another friend for lunch last week and forgot. The minute I arrived and saw he wasn't there, I knew he had forgotten about it and knew he'd think that I should've called him to remind him.

The woman I was with said, "How could he forget?!"

"Easy. And he's going to be mad at me. Ha!"

"Why would he be mad at you?!"

"Cuz he probably thinks I should've called him to remind him. But, too bad for him. I'm not his secretary!"

We went to lunch and talked about all kinds of things, including the friend who didn't show up. We talked about him a lot, actually. And we laughed! Oh, did we laugh.

When I got back to work, I called him up.

"Hellloooooo? Where are you?! What are you doing?!"

"I'm here talking to Don."

"About what?"

"About you."

"Well, what are you talking about me for? That's a small minded thing to be doing!"

"I can't believe you didn't call me and remind me!"

"I'm not your secretary!"

"I knew that's what you were going to say! That's exactly what I just told Don you were going to say."

"Great minds."

Wow

Just read this over at Shakesville:

Bomb Iran, majority of Americans says in new poll:

The Zogby International survey shows 52 percent of Americans would support a strike on Iran, while 53 percent expect President Bush to launch such an attack before the end of his second term. Democratic candidate Hillary Clinton is voters' No. 1 choice to deal with Iran, with 21 percent saying they would like to see her take on Tehran from the White House. Republican Rudy Giuliani was voters' second choice, with 15 percent.

Just 29 percent of Americans think the US should not attack Iran, with one in five people unsure about military action. Of those who would support a strike, 28 percent believe military action should wait until the next president is in office, while 23 percent want to see Bush let lose US missiles against Iran.

Also, from Shakes, last week:

"I've told people that if you're interested in avoiding World War III, it seems like you ought to be interested in preventing [Iran] from have the knowledge necessary to make a nuclear weapon."—President Bush, today, at a press conference.

"This is inane. World War III? Against Iran? Really? Because Iran seems a lot like a medium-sized middle income country with few military capabilities rather than a near peer-competitor of the sort against which you might fight a world war."—Matt Yglesias

Yglesias also notes that Bush appears to have moved the goalposts from "preventing Iran from having a nuclear weapon" to "preventing Iran from having the knowledge necessary to make a nuclear weapon. I'm not sure what the significance of that switch is, but it seems significant."

Hmmm. Wow.

My Trickster and My Treat

On Sunday, I decided I was going to be Martha Stewart for Halloween.

Bad choice. 

Didn't fully understand the skills and talent I'd need to pull it off.

I was hoping my son would choose to be the compassionate, empathetic, understanding boy -- who I went through 300 hundred thousand hours of excruciating labor to bring into this world and have slaved every day of my life to raise properly.

Wrong.

Didn't realize what a shallow opportunist he is.  Getting an easy laugh at my expense.  Wonder who he gets that from?  Certainly not me, his mother, who went through 300 hundred thousand hours of excruciating labor to bring him into this world.

Obviously, my white plate and glass salad bowl are desperately trying to be this for Halloween.

May not be pretty, but it worked. 

Kind of like the cake, which was delicious.

"You Keep Thinkin' Butch, That's What You're Good At"

"Certain friendships,” Robert Redford once said about Paul Newman, “are too good and too strong to talk about.”

Yep, some sure are.

This month, Redford broke his silence to say that the final movie they planned to make together was not to be...

Read all of Robert Stein's Exit Butch and Sundance at newcritics.

My Son's Lobbying to Go to a Rock Concert Wednesday Night

I'll bet someone else's isn't...

Town Square Theatre

The Skimmer, September 2007

The Skimmer's doing a series of paintings for a gallery in town that will be displaying them during the holidays. Landscapes aren't his favorite things to paint, but they'll probably sell faster in this red town than paintings inspired by the thought, "George Bush and Dick Cheney are such ____________________!" (Fill in your favorite expletive.)

You know what they say, If you can't beat 'em, take their money.

I Like This Kid

Not a day passed that I didn't beg my parents to move to a mansion or the next best thing, a slum. If I couldn't live in a mansion, I reasoned that I could be happy in a slum because the slums of the nearby city, Holyoke, most resembled New York City. Sidewalks, streets, multistory cement and brick buildings. Living in the country hadn't been my choice. I'd have taken an elevator over a tree any damn day.

From Augusten Burrough's essay "Fetch" in Possible Side Effects.

Oh, How I Can Relate

I Miss My Brain

Today I tried to open the office door with my car unlock button. I know there is a more efficient name for the car unlock button fob thing, but I don't have it right now. I had trouble driving without unnecessary impact. I showed up with my daughter for ballet at the wrong time. And the wrong day.

I used the suddenly vacant space of time to take the dog and the never-to-be-professional ballet dancing daughter to the sub-freezing dusk "no dogs allowed" park, instead. We ran from one end of the frozen tundra golf course and back, with a 4 month old puppy running circles around us. The air was biting, the light was low. It was hard to see the white puppy in the white snow. It felt wonderful. My daughter and I looked at each other from across a space of field, knowing that we had done the dog good. There was a big stone, the size of a resting cow, that I had never seen up close before. The inscription on the side said something about in memory for all the solders of the war of 1812 who died in hospital, or camp, or something like that, "and are buried here." I think I am going back tomorrow with the dog and reading it again. I saw the placard and year, but thought Teddy Roosevelt and wondered why folks from the Spanish American War infirmaries would be brought up this far north and put in the middle of the golf course. I decided that there must be a reason, and then ran after the dog.

See, I miss my brain.

Read the rest of I Miss My Brain, by Catherine at As Little Harm As Possible.