This week’s disappointing outcome in my home state of North Carolina, which chose hate over love and not only reaffirmed an already existing ban on gay marriage but also took away the domestic violence protections and partnership rights of all unmarried couples, followed by Vice President Joe (VP Joe! my buddy in foot-in-mouthery) and President Obama’s warm statements in favor of loving the loving peoples, reminded me of a thing that makes me cringe.
Several many years ago, an online friend of ours, known as Little Brian because he was younger and slightly shorter than Other Brian, came to spend the night with us while on a road trip. We had a dinner party, and LB and I hit it off in person even more strongly than we had online. He was a deeply lovely young man, enthusiastic and interested in whatever came his way. Friendly, easy, and a great cook. Later on, he sent me a small jar of taxidermy eyes, which I’ve already intended to turn into creepy earrings but haven’t because you know, it would take about 30 seconds per pair, and **who has that kind of time**???
A few months later, Brian was in a car wreck that he was really lucky to survive. He called me – and said to me that I was one of the first people he called – to tell me that what he realized about himself as he watched his survival flash past him was that he was gay.
My response was, “Oh! Okay.” And then to go on and ask more questions about the accident, because I was way more concerned about his survival.
I only heard from him once after that, and it took me a long time to realize that my response to his coming out probably was the cause of that. That my not being bothered about his sexual orientation had the same effect as not honoring it.
To Little Brian: I am sorry I let you down, my friend. I hope your life since then has had many joys.
Look at that handsome man!
Two new poems available, both of which I’m very proud.
My poem “This Illusion of Flesh” is now available in Mythic Delirium issue 26. Editor Mike Allen gave me a lot of really helpful editorial advice on this one and helped me make it a much better piece.
At one point he said, “I have a hard time picturing the being who says this.” I cocked my head for a few minutes and thought BAROO? When I responded with “Dude. That’s me. That’s how I experience my own life,” he laughed a lot.
Very nice review it here. Squeaky!
My poem “From the House of Dionysos” is also up at Strange Horizons. Poetry editor Sonya Taafe poked me to write that one after a comment I made on her blog, so I punished/rewarded her by submitting it to SH, and I was pleased as punch when she accepted it.
Sonya also made some really helpful comments: she has gotten me started on a trend of lopping the ends off of all my poems, and it has improved them all.
Ha! Lopping off the 5′ untranslated regions and only leaving the coding lines. #nerdery
It has been a while since I had much publishing news! That’s happy stuff.
April 26th, 2012 in
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Perhaps you remember this photo:
And now, this headline:
I didn’t restart the thing on purpose, I swear.
March 29th, 2012 in
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Highs near 80 this week, though the meteorologist (or, as he says it, “meat-eater-ologist”) on the radio reminded us that it is technically still winter. Yuck!
A meat-eater-ologist would have a lot of study subjects in this area.
The whole winter was absurdly warm, and since early February we’ve had a constant deluge, so we’re having Mud Season this year, just like Vermont. I fear the Mosquito Problem to Come. Because you know every time I get a headache this summer I’ll spend at least 20 minutes being convinced that it’s West Nile encephalitis.
Some trees never really lost their leaves. Some are unfolding pale green, as usual.
So very many are dead. Last year’s drought was brutal for Houston’s trees, with estimates that up to a third of them died. We should be thankful, I guess, for a mild winter, which might have coddled some of the weaker ones through until this spring’s rain. But plenty of them couldn’t take even the tiny bits of cold weather, and they remain grey and skeletal, sad shadows.
(*When I was little, we had a pale blue beach towel with a blue walrus on it. On one end was a smaller walrus with the word “harrumph” underneath. This was, of course, “the harrumph towel.” My sister and I used to fight over it. I’ve never seen anything else with Harrumph [the walrus's name, of course] on it. Wouldn’t I just love a harrumph mug!)
I think that one of my most useful and maddening attributes is that I will regularly open my mouth and say something very smart that I didn’t realize I knew.
For example: a couple of years ago, someone made the comment that I’m “so weird.”
“I beg your pardon,” said I, “I am perfectly normal for me.”
This was such a relief. It’s true! Inky fingers: normal for me. Love of both schmancy meals and fish sticks: totally normal. Glee for dichotomy: run of the mill. Holding two contradictory opinions at once: standard. Viewing the sun as an enemy: practically hard-wired. Hatred of peaches: in the operating instructions.
Since then, I have become an evangelist of my own normality. “You are a honey-roasted nutbar, V.” “No I’m not! I’m normal for me!”
And, like any recent convert, I figured that because I found this idea to be liberating and comforting, so would everyone else.
“Ooo, *giggle* I’m such a weirdo!” one friend said.
“Naw. You’re normal for you!” I said.
And I watched as she briefly considered setting me on fire.
Turns out, some people are comforted by the thought of being complete weirdies who are Misunderstood By The World. Huh!
Far be it from me to learn a lesson the first time. I spent a good six months trumpeting the Personal Normality Theory to people and getting Napalm Eyes in return. So, okay. I shut the hell up.
About other people, anyhow. I still insist that I am a Perfectly Normal Virginia.
The eatin’ has been good around my house lately.
I bought a head of cabbage, just because it looked good at the time, which of course led to Cabbage Conundrum by the time I got home. I’ve made roasted cabbage within recent memory, but I consider that a failed experiment. I believe the source of the error was having made an entire giant head all at once and then being left with a large container filled with limp, cold, leftover roasted cabbage stinking up the joint. After sufficient shudder time has passed, I may try it again, one or two wedges at a time.
So I knew what I did NOT want to do with my (more reasonably sized) new head of cabbie. I turned to the ever-reliable 101 Cookbooks and found Rustic Cabbage Soup. Recommended! Great for the raw, wet days we had in mid-February. Filling and virtuous.
I also found myself in possession of red lentils, sweet potatoes, and acorn squash. I suppose I was having an Orange Moment. Praise be to Google, which gave me Lentil, Spinach, and Sweet Potato Ragout from Recipes 4 Every Kitchen when I plugged the ingredients into the search bar. Because I made it with red lentils, I think mine’s prettier than the picture on the site – a nice bright yellow punctuated by the orange sweet potato and green spinach. Man, it is so good: unctuous, smooth. The mint is like tiny bits of firecracker in there. I’ve been eating it under or on top of all kinds of things. Tonight I’ll top it with some nice salmon. Last week I had it over cheese ravioli. Highly recommended.
Every time I see the word “organic” I hear it in Alice Krige’s voice from her role as the Borg Queen in Star Trek: First Contact.
Every time I see the name “Ramirez” I hear it in the voice of the Kurgan from Highlander.
The actor who played the Kurgan was in Cowboys and Aliens, an exceedingly silly movie that was just right for a sleepy Saturday night accompanied by pizza.
“Hey, it’s that guy!” I said when he came on screen. “From Highlander. He played the kudu. The Cromm. The kookaburra. You know.”
When I say I can’t remember anyone’s name, I mean it.
PS: I couldn’t find a clip of the Krige, but you can see the kookaburra/Ramirez thing here, at 1:08ish.
PPS: I keep thinking of more of these.
When I see the name “Agrippa” I think of “He has a-studied hees Agreepa” from Princess Bride.
It is possible that the following sentence has been uttered in my house: “I’m easily startled; but soon I’ll be back, and in larger numbers.”
A Classic Virginia Phrase: “Eat, Papa, eat! The children want a fat Santa!” Sadly, this is not *actually* from Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. It is a paraphrase. But if I say it often enough it will come true.
January 23rd, 2012 in
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In October of 1991, as a Wee Baby Thing Fresh from College, I moved to Chicago. This caused my parents a great deal of distress, but it turned out pretty well: I ended up loving Chicago (still do); I moved into a gorgeous, affordable apartment with roommates from college; and I lucked into a fortuitous arrangement to get my stuff up there from North Carolina. Once in Chicago, I started temping pretty much right away and soon got my first-ever grown-up job.
I lived just north of Clark & Halsted, and if there is a good place for a freaked-out young lady to live, it is the heart of the gay district. That soothed many of my worries. It was close to Action, close to cute shops and restaurants, and our landlords were friendly and protective. My roommate M was one of my best friends in the world, and my roommate K was organized and calm. My job wasn’t so awesome, but what did I know about the subject? I was a not-savvy 21. It was okay. I had big dreams of Making It in the Theatah (that’s a story for another day).
So my boyfriend of the time, who became The Unlamented Starter Husband, is not someone I want to blog about because why speak ill of the Long Ago and Far Away, but one small point he had in his favor was a sense of food adventurousness, and at the corner of Clark and Halsted was an Afghani restaurant. At that point in my young life, it was a little amazing to me that an Afghani restaurant even existed, much less in a place where I could get there. What I remember about the meal: it was super good, especially the appetizer, which was some kind of pumpkin thingo with meat sauce that blew my tiny mind.
That was when the internet was still a tiny baby, and if I took notes on what I ate, it’s in a journal packed way in the back of the attic, so for the next 20 years I thought periodically of the Afghani pumpkin thingo but never successfully searched for it. I will admit that when we went to war in Afghanistan, my first thought was “oh no” and my second was “pumpkin thingo.”
Cue about 3 weeks ago, when my friend Rosa asked on her blog what dishes people considered their specialty. One person posted about kaddo bowrani, and I used the mighty power of Google to find out what that was.
Pumpkin thingo!
Tonight I made it. I had roasted butternut squash, not pumpkin (reheated in the microwave with a bit of sugar and cinnamon). I had pasta sauce, not tomato sauce, and leftover Roast Beast, not ground beef.
Even bastardized, it was worth waiting 20 years for. AND I have enough left for lunch tomorrow!
January 9th, 2012 in
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What a quiet Christmas we had. I was mostly organized this year (discovered on Christmas Eve that I had neglected stocking stuffers for several people: oops), and the Wickeds didn’t arrive until the 26th. I took time off from 23 Dec to 2 Jan.
I made a nice Roast Beast dinner on Christmas Eve. On the 25th, we had a very quiet day to ourselves. I Skyped with my mother and sister, and later we spent some time with Dingo’s mother, brother, and sister-in-law. Very chill and pleasant. Even having the kids here has been really relaxed and low key.
And I looked forward to it, for the first time in several years. I liked having the tree up (though the lights on the top half gave out not long after we put it up). I liked watching all the old, goofy movies. Pro-tip: avoid the 1992 remake of Christmas in Connecticut.
Still, there has been a lot of weeping. A lot of wistfulness, a lot of missing folks who are no longer here in body. This makes me grateful for how snuggly the cat is when the weather is chilly. On my days off, I’ve been taking a lot of walks – the nice, leg-tiring kind, with carols playing in my headphones. Wish I’d gone this morning, when the air was opaque and the trees dripped from fog. Now it’s clear and sunny. Lovely, but not so much in keeping with my mood.
There were plenty of good things that happened in 2011: my trip to Greece, my new job. But I’m not sorry to see it end. In this in-between time, this quiet, I haven’t let myself set any goals or make any lists. I’m trying to be here. To listen.
December 29th, 2011 in
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