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."

Job? Apartments? Stable life? Puh-leeze.

It's nearing 2 am. I can't drag myself away from Craigslist. Must. Find. An. Apartment. Tonight.

Buffalove

Overall, this has been what one might call a very “Buffalo” summer. Probably because it was Paul’s first in this “jewel” of Western New York and we had to show him the sights, so to speak. To keep him from jumping on the first plane home.

So, in our most Buffalonian way, we packed June to August with Labatt’s, Bison’s games with distant French relatives, city garden walks, zoo treks with too many babies and not enough hips to carry them.

There was the gluttonous Taste of Buffalo (too many people and smells, if you ask me) and the “oh-that’s-soooo-Buffalo” rainout of the much-anticipated Neko Case concert. (I’m still shaking my fist at the sky)

We did make it out to ArtPark to see Pink Floyd tribute band, The Machine, which was the most fun I’ve had in ages.

trippy laser show!

There were romantic dinners on Elmwood, awful dinners on the porch with screaming toddlers. There were parties in the country where we drank box wine and played washers. And, yes, there were about 600 times where I was mistaken as the mother of Marek, Gabriel or Michael.

But my favorite moment of summer? This award goes to my finally fulfilled goal of finding Rick James’s grave in Forest Lawn Cemetery. I especially liked the honorary 40 of Bud placed among the flowers.

Classic Buffalo.

ok, ok. Here's your post!

At the behest of my sole reader, I am going to try to bulk up this blog with some actual writing.

Speaking of writing, I have been on FIRE the past two evenings. And by "on fire" I mean like 5-6 pages worth of half-decent story-ish stuff. Which is a lot for me because I'm the slowest writer this side of town.

David Sedaris is coming to UB October 1st. Tickets are like $36. More than my tightfisted self is willing to pay for almost anything these days. So I tried coming up with reasons why I should go:

1. I could take Theresa as a birthday gift. But then I realized if it was really a birthday gift, I'd have to buy her ticket, which would double that 36 bucks.

2. Ok. I could go with Paul for our anniversary (which we've decided pretty much coincides with Theresa's birthday). But then I realized he's never read a single Sedaris book, except for Holidays on Ice, which I bought him as a Christmas gift before I knew Paul well enough to know he has very different taste than me (at least as far as humorist books go). So that would be a pretty crummy anniversary present, for him anyway.

3. Well, dammit, I could still go. Then I did a little youtube action and found Sedaris reading on Letterman (a video that this blasted internet is not letting me post at the moment). Anyway, if you've never heard Sedaris speak - check. it. out. He has (I'm sorry) the faggiest voice on the planet. After listening to him for all of 4.2 seconds I decided I like him in book form better than in person. Still contemplating the splurge to see him, though. He is one of my favorites, after all.

What else?

Becky had her baby, so congrats to her. I apologize if it sounds off center for me to open my first blog in over a month about books and Sedaris readings and gay voices when my sister just had a baby. A baby being born should be a much bigger bit of news than a dry fruitcake reading at UB, right? Yeah, well. Babies are about all I deal with on a daily basis. So I have to talk about books and things that I actually like to keep my head on straight, if you follow my meaning.

Anyway, his name is Patrick Ryan, he's a little peanut, and he's a healthy little peanut.

...just kidding - this isn't a real blog post.

Reasons I haven't been keeping up with this blog:

1. It's sunny out! That's a first.

2. Babies.

3. Lately, I've been focusing any meager scraps of writing oomph I have left into different areas. Only time will tell how that goes.

A real entry should be forthcoming. Hopefully a more compelling one. I just don't have it in me. There's a lot of family chaos and I feel like the shit's gonna hit the fan bigtime pretty soon.

I'm exhausted.

Stay tuned...

the continuing saga of a life with babies

My sister, on Cheerios: "I sprinkle that shit like birdseed. On the carpet, the couch cushions, the damn toilet seat. It's like come and get it, feeding time!"





But seriously, Cheerios have overrun our home. Help!


(*note: I just googled "cheerios" and this baby picture popped up. No idea who she is. I'm well aware of the creep-o factor here. But it just worked for the blog, so stick it.)

penny for your thoughts

“Liz, tell me something.”

“What do you want me to tell you?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Tell me anything. Tell me something mind-blowing if you can.”

A few nights ago, I received the preceding request from a fellow co-worker. It’s a simple enough question. I could have said anything. I’ve never seen Karate Kid. I’m staunchly against texting. I think moral relativity is killing our nation.

“Um. Well. Gee. I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me something instead?”Ah, the ever evasive route of the wimpy copout. But she wasn’t letting me off the hook that easily, so she countered: “Ok, I’ll make it easier. Just tell me something you believe in.”

“Like religious beliefs?”

“Doesn’t have to be. Whatever. Just something you believe in.”

“Well,” I faltered. “I believe in God, I guess. Um.”Then it was silent for a while as I fumbled for something – anything – that would not lead this person to believe I was completely dead upstairs. It’s hard, of course, to be quick on your toes when you’re put on the spot like that. Still, coming up with one statement, be it a slice of petty trivia or some life-altering philosophy, should not be that overwhelming of a challenge. Right?

I could not think of one damn thing. So I said so. At first, this didn’t bother me. Did this girl actually expect me to pull some useless information out of my ass just because she was bored? And why couldn’t she think of something? I mean, it’s not like she was totally serious about the question anyways. I was under no obligation to perform.

But then, as I had nothing else to do really, I continued to grope around in my mind. The more I did this, the more unsettled I became. Why couldn’t I think of one interesting thing to say? Was it because I’m so uninteresting myself? Has my brain atrophied to the point where it no longer processes fascinating information the way it used to? When you’re in school (for the most part) your mind exists in a continual whirlwind of new concepts, new opinions. Your ideas are forever being modified, your beliefs are challenged, sharpened, or tossed by the wayside. Have I lost that?

Don’t I even think anymore?

That, my friends, is a frightening question. One that, once raised, calls into question the entire future of your intellect and creativity.
My co-worker’s request unfulfilled, I busied myself in work, letting my anxiety bury itself in the tedium of my duties.

Then I helped some customers who were, for lack of a better phrase, dumber than the crap that comes out of my ugly Shih Tzu’s ass. And I felt a little better about myself.

And then I came home and had a beer and finished Amy Tan’s The Joy Luck Club (an exquisite, gorgeous novel), and I felt a lot better about myself. And I asked myself all sorts of questions about motherhood and relationships and memory and storytelling and cultural identity.

And guess what? My brain still worked.

And guess what else? Just because I couldn’t come up with something to say tonight, well, that doesn’t mean I don’t have a store of things to tell the world.

All in due time. All in my own way.

And that is more than ok.

really?!

It's way past my bedtime, but this just defines my life at the moment:

I worked all night, I'm beyond exhausted, and when I go to brush my teeth there's a fucking GREEN SPIDER on the bristles of my goddamn toothbrush!!!!! Why me?!

What really gets my goat, though, is that of the trillion places in the bathroom he could have chosen to park his green ass, he had to pick the fucking brush bristles....not even the handle.

Now I'm too infuriated and tired to look for a spare brush, which probably does not exist. Bah.