another case of the crazies

That's it. I am so over delegating this year's costume search to Google. One more exposed bosom falling out of gray sweater combo that looks like it was swagged from the closet of a sluttier version of Hermione Granger, and I am going to upchuck the remnants of my spaghetti and meatballs dinner all over this laptop screen.

And Patrick's baptism? One quick anecdote should sum it up -

(I should preface this by stating loud and clear: my sister has more than one major mental illness. So family events are, as a rule, synonymous with uncomfortable conversation, wardrobe malfunctions, and wack-a-doos galore. I do not say this to be uncouth or insensitive. It's just the way things are.)

I am sitting at the kitchen table, munching on broccoli, trying to ignore the odd few people in the adjacent dining room as gracefully as I can. Who are these people? Where did they come from? I often ask myself how my sister ever manages to meet anyone (if you've met her once, you understand)...but then I remember: the people that she "facebooks," the people that she is perpetually texting while her children run wild, the people whom she considers worthy of a baptism party invite...these people are, for the most part, as crazy or crazier than herself. Which is why I was keeping myself occupied with broccoli. Broccoli is safe. It doesn't wear purple spandex pants or fanny packs. It doesn't hypothesize that the Swine Flu originated from aborted fetuses. And it certainly never snorts when it laughs.

Broccoli and I were enjoying ourselves just fine when one "them" crossed into our territory. I'm not a total snob nor am I lacking some sense of social decorum, so I said "Hello." Cheerfully. With a smile.

Apart from her peculiar getup and eyeliner run amuck, this girl seemed...OK.

Not so.

She says hello or its equivalent. Then...THEN - she grabs a bottle of wine. Scratch that - THE bottle of wine, the one and only for this particular occasion. At first, I don't think anything of it. That's what wine is for. It's on the counter for everyone's enjoyment. She pours a full glass, takes one sip, throws the rest in the trash. Without a word.

Horror! Charlene makes her trademark "only in our family" face and the girl leaves the room. At which point Charlene whispers, rather harshly (it was her wine, after all) - "that's the third time she's done that!!! She takes one sip, then throws it in the trash!!!! I can't believe it!!"

"I can."

It didn't take long before my mom hid what little remained of the bottle. Enter crazy girl again (sorry to call her that, but I don't remember her name). She rummages briefly around the counter, mumbling about how she wants some more wine, but she just has to be careful about how much she drinks. Too bad we don't have that luxury, sweetie. Even cheap wine costs moolah.

I remember having at least one conversation with this girl over the course of the afternoon. It was weird.

She also helped herself to a Labatt she found in the refrigerator, which was apparently enough to get this poor girl drunk because for the rest of the day she was glued to a kitchen chair, eyes roaming, head drooping -she really pulled out the works. Then she stood up and nearly fall flat on her face, practically taking the chair with her. To which she giggled "haha, I was just kidding."

i'm turning myself into a demon

Fleet Foxes song titles are perfect for Fall. And their music... hot damn. This year, they are my go-to band for sunny Autumn afternoons (however far and few between they've been this season). I practically knocked over my second glass of beer when a local band started playing "Tiger Mountain Peasant Song" at a bar last Friday. Then they stopped after like 3 lines!!! Big wtf moment! I was so out of my mind that I marched right up to the singer and demanded an explanation.

"Why did you stop playing that song!?"

"Um, the drummer doesn't really know it."

"Well...can you just sing it then? You've got a guitar."

"Yeah. Uh, I think we're heading out though."

"Oh. You guys are awesome. Really, really good."

"Thanks."

"K. Bye!"

"Bye."


I'll be back later in the week with a run-down of baby Patrick's baptism. There's much to be said whenever the Halls gather under the guise of Catholic tradition. (teaser: one bitter divorcé, vomit, houseful of mentally deranged kooks)

Must go faster!

It could be the scads of zombie/horror/slasher films that necessarily arrive with the dawn of October that triggered this thought:

I wonder what it's like to run for your life.

I mean like really, really running top-speed from what could be, potentially, a gruesome bloody end. A limb-tearing, flesh-shredding death. Involving, I dunno, a T-Rex...or a guy in a hockey mask.

The fangs of death dripping at your worn Keds.

Lungs bursting, your throat catching.

I mean, what would you be thinking about? Would you be kicking yourself for skipping out on the gym all season? Would you ever reach the point where you just couldn't take it anymore and you'd gladly choose a quick death over running one more second? I personally loathe running (I wish I liked it) so this would be an awful way to go. Running and running and running and then - dead. Damn.

Thankfully, it mostly just happens in the movies.

i'm feelin' you, walt

This is what you shall do:

Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body. . .

Walt Whitman