G to the U to the C to the K

Ms. Gucky, if you're nasty

(no subject)
I guess I'm continuing this ramble over at Dreamwidth: https://gucky.dreamwidth.org/

I have heard Gene Wilder speak more often than most other people.
I am sick of celebrity memorial posts. But here is my celebrity memorial post.

On Gene Wilder and swear words I didn't understand.Collapse )

Parenting is work.
There is the emotional labor of parenting and I'm about to whine about it.Collapse )

All the things.
I would like to be the kind of person that can exercise every day.
That counts calories.
That eats well.
That keeps a clean house.
That exceeds expectations at work

I would like to be the kind of person that is always thoughtful.
Says just the right thing.
Is aware of her cultural biases and microaggressions.
Assumes the best about people.
Contributes to a culture of smart, dissatisfied kindness.

I would like to be the kind of person that takes 10 minutes to just walk outside.
Goes to roller skating class on Mondays at lunch.
Attends the movie screenings and guest lectures on campus.
Makes time for 20% time projects.

I would like to be the kind of mother that always is there without being up in the kid's grill.
Fosters a sense of confidence and creativity.
Inspires self reliance and exploration.
Raises an empowered, safe and successful human being.

I would like to be the kind of person that always recycles.
Remembers to reuse a metal water bottle.
Conserves water.
Brings reusable shopping bags to the store.
Grows her own food.

I would like to be the kind of friend that is always there for people.
Celebrates joys.
Provides support.
Can be trusted and turned to.
Always understands.

I would like to be the kind of wife who is supportive.
Always thinks about her husband's needs empathetically.
Considers what is best for everyone.
Never loses her temper.
Does thoughtful little things.

I would like to be the kind of person who dabbles in social media.
Doesn't overshare or overcomment.
Doesn't care who's reading or liking things.
Has a steady Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, Pinterest without duplicate content that's always appropriate for the medium
Without it taking over her life.

I would like to be a person that does the right thing
Drinks enough water.
Gets enough sleep.
Meditates 30 minutes a day.
And doesn't beat herself up all the time
for not being at all
the person
she'd like to be like.

You never know what you'll know even when you plan for knowing, you know? Read more...Collapse )

Sometimes you can't pay attention to all the email you get because of the one message you don't.

In Praise of Sloth Reading.
Reading has been a joy of mine since I could remember. Words. Words. Words.Collapse )
tldr; reading slow is good, too.

Perfect moment.
It was a Thursday, although I had woken up in the dark at a strange hotel after five hours of sleep so my brain still parsed it as Wednesday night. I got on the 405 south and trusted the GPS on my phone to guide me in the thick gray blankets of fog that blocked all but a few inches of twisting reflectors on the empty highway. The crappy Chevy Cruze sputtered and whined as I asked it to go faster. I was cold, but I kept the fan on my face to keep from nodding out. The fuzzy local NPR (KNPR) drifted in and out with every curve and corridor, a strange amalgam of news and ambient fuzz filling the tinny speakers long after I lost KROQ. I drove and drove and drove in a trance, slapping myself awake a few times to remember where I was, where I was going.

I promised myself I'd stop along the way if I made good time, reward myself with a Diet Coke, a Coke Zero, at the next shining fast food sign along the highway. The fog banks, murky purple and dusty blue made way for a gleaming yellow rounded m off in the distance. The adrenaline got me to the exit just as the first light of dawn poured over the sad Home Depot next door.

Pulling into the drive thru[sic], I was surrounded by towering ferns and birds of paradise flowers sprinkled with shining morning dew. A smiling case told me that "Adventure Time toys are here!" prompting me to utter, "Mathematical!" instinctively to the fuzzed voice of Morning Edition. A pleasant, tired teenager handed me a bag filled with a plain biscuit, a giant Coke Zero, a strawberry smoothie and a "boy happy meal toy" - no extra .10 for the bag, even.

As I pulled back onto the Highway, Finn triumphantly ruling the rental car's dash, the sun rose dramatically, smeared with searing orange and tropical pinks lighting the air force jet trails like an '80s neon art piece, the local music station fading in, the caffeine kicking in, all of San Diego sprawled out before me like a California cliche train board, and more than an hour left to get to my first meeting of the day. This. This is what's worth living for.

Most times, my I Ching reading is apt.

Keep this melon growing in the shade.
It is a blessing from heaven.

Um, yeah.

Nobody walks in LA
A few years ago, a gas pipe line blew up San Bruno, just south of here, along the same pipe line that runs beneath our neighborhood. So Pacific Gas and Electric is ripping up the streets all around us every four feet and putting in new giant pipes - in the sidewalk, in the crosswalks, in the street. And they fill up the holes with sticky, loose asphalt, which I'm sure makes us look from space like a coupon neighborhood to be cut along the dashed lines. But also makes it smell like tarry asphalt as I walk the dog, as I try to avoid the mess, muck and tar. But the smell.

The smell of sulfur and asphalt baked in the sun is immediately the smell of so many years ago, of the La Brea Tar Pits of my childhood. A sad downtown tourist attraction where I could press my face into chain link to stare at concrete mammoths forever trying to pull themselves free of a lake of tar in the middle of LA - a baby mammoth calling out to its mother drowning with an dirty Big Gulp cup at her side.

There's a museum there now. Maybe there always was one. But I don't remember the museum before my adult years. I just remember standing at the bus stop, the smell of tar, standing next to a monument to the horror of drowning alive in sinking tar taking over a block in the largest city I'd ever seen. Low riders and business folks driving past the mammoth family, oblivious to their eternal call for someone, anyone, to rescue them as the city itself swallowed them one by one. And my nightmares, dreams about the crosswalk, the sidewalk, the grass suddenly becoming seeping pools of tar that I would never be able to pull my feet from. And the rude teens standing by, throwing trash over the fence to see if they could make it sink, which will someday to be recovered as its own time capsule of 7-11 wrappers of the late 20th century.

The LA of the '80s stunk of petroleum. The derricks in the south pumped oil of some sort from the ground like miniature versions of oil fields from TV, but less grand because they were wedged between highway overpasses and broken down trailers. The sticky, black tar balls from the oil refinery washed up on the shores of the beaches, clinging to the bottom of your feet, requiring your dad to siphon a bit of someone's gasoline to remove before you climbed back in the car - but don't get near his cigarette. The community service worker going door to door, warning you not to eat the berries that grew from the bushes or the lemons that fell from the trees thanks to the lead in the air drifting from the Hollywood Freeway that shusshed us to sleep. The headlights, the tail lights, the giant boat-like cars that made you nod out in the back seat with their creamed air carbon monoxide leaks through the rusted floor boards and duct taped exhaust pipes. And the stench of the La Brea tar pits in the hot sun.

Oh, how I miss it.


Log in

No account? Create an account