Stuck in My Head

I have watched this enough times that it doesn't make me laugh anymore so I have to pass it on.

My Leige

A few weeks ago I went to visit my Dad and as I was pulling in to the driveway he was walking out to the mailbox. I stopped the car and we stared at each other for a few moments. I lowered my window.

Hi

Hiya

What’s on your head?

It’s called a hat.

Yeah but where’d you get it?

The French Foreign Legion.

It looks good.

Thanks.

I followed him back to the house or rather to the gate at the side of it, rigged up with slats of wood and chairs balanced on tables. Ficus vines, 3 feet high, grew along the top, so that you could barely push it open and squeeze through anyway.

“What’s with the obstacle co—“

“Don’t let the dogs out, don’t let the dogs out. “

As soon as he yells this, two dogs come bounding out of nowhere and hurl themselves up against the fence. I have to kick them in the head and growl while shimmying myself sideways through a 4 inch gap. Dad is right behind me.

“Grab their paws, grab their paws.”

I have no idea what he is talking about. All I can think is how weird it is that entering the house has turned in to a stressful operation like running from an enemy or robbing a bank.

“Grab their front paws, then they can’t jump.”

“Can’t you just tell them not to ju-, ohhhh.” One of them knocks me in the side like a 250-pound linebacker hitting a dummy sled.

Dad has grabbed the paws of the other and is walking him across the yard.

“Fucksake,” I scream. The dog keeps licking my hands when I grab for his paws, which would be fine except that he has the thick, jelly slobber of a distressed and crazed animal. Once I grab the paws I have to fully knee him square in the chest with each step. I can tell he thinks this is great fun: my Dad and I square-dancing with him and his brother through the garden.

“Why don’t you get them some collars, take them on walks?”

"Ehn." My Dad says this like he has considered it and ruled it out because it MAKES TOO MUCH SENSE. He grabs a stick off the table we sit on and holds them at bay like an African witch doctor.

“Jesus. I feel like I need a drink."

“Yeah. They’re sweet though.”

“They are not fucking sweet Dad. I have never in my life said what I’m about to say but I think you need to shoot both of them in the head.”

“Naww.”

“Seriously.”

I am sweating now, still breathing heavy. I realize my bottle of cool refreshing water is back in the car. I am ready to leave.

“You really need to get them some collars.”

My dad, still holding the stick out, stares at them, “You said that already”.

“I’m probably going to say it again.”

I can’t help laughing. We sit on the table in the middle of the yard like we’re on a raft out in the middle of the ocean. We sit this way, quietly, for about five minutes. At this moment, there is nothing we can't talk about.

History

This is too exciting not to post. I like the explanation of why Prop 8 was struck down.

Winnie the Sham

Yesterday's conversation in the car between Harry and Darla:

Isaac has to wear one of those Jewish hats.

It’s not called a Jewish hat.

What’s it called?

It’s called a Ka-bob.

(silence for 20 seconds)

I think a ka-bob is one of those stick things with zucchini and pepper.

No that’s a shishkaba.

This made me think of two things. First that it’s amazing to learn how to speak: what careful listening it requires, as well as a certain fearlessness to give it a try. Babies are great at this, as are most kids to the age of 10, when listening and fearlessness start to dim (maybe even before 10 really).

The second thing I thought was: How did Dar come up with Kabob? I mean I think it should be called a kabob and will call it that from now on, but how did that particular word pop up? Then I thought somehow her brain had filed it away under KA as in yam-a-KA (I know that’s not the right spelling). Mo did this too when she was little. She called Winnie the Pooh "Winnie the Sham" because somehow her brain had filed Pooh with sham-poo and she got them mixed.

I love that our brains have their own little filing system that we have nothing to do with.

Hip hopping

Click twice to see better

Fitting In

I am not a mature person. I can listen to discussions about politics or feminism or art, I can even contribute to the conversation, I can even be moved by someone’s passion on the subject, but there comes a time when my brain or attention span or whatever (maturity level) shuts down, you know, like the factory at 5pm, everyone leaves the building, all the lights go out, and the final alarm sounds out, then dies down to silence. My body is still there, still staring at the mouth of the person speaking, watching the interesting shapes it makes while the words come out, but my mind is elsewhere, dog heaven for example, rolling in the grass, barking, sniffing asses.

It’s not that I am easily distracted that makes me immature, it’s the subject matter I go to. I’m not proud of it. I am capable of depth and compassion, but after a certain amount of time, the odds are probably against it. You would think children would be a little more tolerant of this trait, but I’ve found actually the opposite to be true. It may be a little upsetting, I think, to see the main person you look to for guidance behaving like an idiot or saying something inappropriate. I get it. I fully support any child who mistrusts a 50 year old doing a hip hop dance.

Mo says, That’s it right there.

What?

You don’t say doing a hip-hop dance.

What do I say then?

(She shakes her head and sighs from the back of her throat.)

Come on.

I’m not going to tell you.

What do I say? I’m hipping and hopping?

Yeah Mom, you say hipping and hopping.

How can you deny that I have excellent moves?

Mmmn Hmm

You can’t deny it.

You’re not bad.

Yes!

You just need to stop talking.

Maybe this isn’t the best example of my immaturity but it sort of shows my desperation to fit in, which is kind of what’s at the heart of being immature.

Bootcamp

I had heard a story about Barry’s Bootcamp where a chubby lady, frustrated with the fourth set of back leg lifts, started crying in the middle of a class (“I think I have seriously injured my back.”) and the instructor got right up in her face and said Waa, Waa, Waa and then gave her a kick in the ass. (soccer style, not a hard one)“Look at that jigglin’; why don’t you cry when you look at that!” I love that. I love the idea of having to suffer and be miserable in order to succeed. So when my sisters asked me to go with them two days ago I thought: yeah Barry, bring it on.

First of all, as we were walking in, my sister took my arm and said don’t be scared but there’s our instructor. He looked over at us and winked. Juliette whispered “He’s a stone cold fox” and I felt simultaneously giddy and geriatric. The room was dark, not sexy, candle dark but cold, torture chamber dark, and to make matters worse the music was so loud I could feel it in my teeth. Something was happening, and I think I knew what it felt like to be a detainee at Guatanamo.

I can’t go into the details because I blacked out, but I do remember almost killing myself trying to do sidestep criss-crosses on the treadmill. And that no one there was laughing or smiling. And that on our way out, no one spoke or looked each other in the eye, and that I dragged my purse along the ground as a staggered across the parking lot. And that yesterday and today I have to sit down when I go down stairs, and brace my hand on the wall when I sit down on the toilet.

It’s fantastic. I’m going back tomorrow.