Back once again

C came home from work today and told me that her grandma died this morning.  We’re leaving tomorrow for Louisiana so she can attend the services.  I am only going for support, driving help, and so she won’t feel weird staying at my parents’ house without me.  I am certainly not attending the funeral because it seems mean to stress C’s parents out any further than they already are.  I may not like them, but they don’t deserve that.

We’re leaving tomorrow, but she couldn’t get the whole day off.  Which means she’ll be working the opening shift, coming home, and then we’ll leave.  Which should put us in Slidell between 1 and 2 a.m.  Yippee.  And I’ll be around on Saturday, so if anyone wants to come see my car-less self, holler.  We’re taking off and coming home again on Sunday.

Me and my injuries

I’ve had some great ones. And never from doing anything cool like skateboarding or hang gliding or anything like that. No. I hurt myself just walking around and doing lame things.

When I was 19 I sprained both ankles at once. You heard me.

I had gone with my mother to her office one night, though now I don’t remember why. Were we stealing things? Rummaging for post-its? Who knows. Anyway, as I was walking out back to the car there was a HUGE step down that I didn’t see because it was so poorly lit. Well, I stepped and then promptly sprained both my ankles, falling and also kind of cracking my head on a brick wall. My mother ran back inside to call my father. By the time she came back out, I was laughing hysterically. She thought I had some kind of head injury or had become hysterical but really? I figured out what I looked like, sitting flat on my ass with both feet dangling in the air in front of me. And I thought that was pretty damn funny.

So my dad showed up, loaded me in the back of the minivan, and drove me to the hospital. Where the triage nurse promptly pissed me off. While asking about my prior history, she said “And do you have any prior instances of heart problems, dizziness, clumsiness?” And she laughed a whole lot at her stupid joke. I hated her at that moment, and complained vehemently to my mother and told her to find a way to chastise her thoroughly (Mom worked for that hospital at the time).

Anyway, a very nice nurse named Dusty gave me a shot in the hip that dulled the pain. I went home and slept. The next day, I was given crawfish alfredo and roasted green beans for lunch (that I had cooked the prior night) and people came to visit me and bring me books.

We borrowed a wheelchair since, you know, I couldn’t walk, but that was pointless in a house without wide doorways and full of carpeted floors. So I borrowed my dad’s kneepads from when he did construction and crawled around for a couple weeks. Fun!!

Definitely a favorite

I don’t keep my lolcat love a secret–I check icanhascheezburger on a daily basis. But this one is definitely one of the best ones:

Thanks, M, for pointing it out!

Even better than Ghandi

While I’m on the subject of my childhood sleeping habits, I feel I should tell the story of how I got a new bed at age 8.

We had recently moved into a new house, the first house my parents bought and where they lived until I was 21.  Around this time, for whatever reason, I decided that I completely hated my bed and could no longer abide having to sleep in it every night.  As part of a prolonged, peaceful protest, I began sleeping on the floor.  I was very careful to do this in full view of my parents.

I began by sleeping in the hall directly outside my parents’ bedroom door, ensuring that they had to step over me every morning.  I was soon told that this was no longer allowed, as my mother frequently either tripped over me due to her lack of coffee or willfully stepped upon me in her effort to quash my rebellion.  Undaunted, I slept in my own doorway with my head poking out into the hallway.  This only took a few months before I was gifted with a new daybed.  I was a happy, happy child, oh yes.  Did they finally get tired of seeing me, in all my pathetic glory, sleeping on the floor like an orphan?  I’m still not sure.  But I surely did feel victorious.

At her request

In a comment to my last post, my mother insisted I disclose the real reason I stick my feet out of the covers. While this isn’t the reason any longer, it certainly was when I was a child.

I had weird rules during childhood. One of them was that my bedroom door remain open. The other was that if any person passed by my room on their way to bed they MUST stop and tell me goodnight or I love you. This mostly applied to my mother, because I apparently felt that I could control her behavior more easily. I worked out a signal, even, to let her know I was awake and she must stop and say something. I made it very clear: if you pass by and my feet are out of the covers, I am awake. Stop and speak. If I have pulled them in, I’m asleep and you may pass.

Of course, my feet stayed out whether I had fallen asleep or not. I don’t know why this signal/system seemed logical but whatever, I was 6. So naturally my mother stopped saying anything because my feet were always out regardless. But there were many times when she THOUGHT I was asleep and I was NOT so I shot up from bed as she passed and screamed “You didn’t tell me goodnight! I see you!!!!”

Now, though, I just have hot feet and I don’t like covers. I use what I call the “technicality blanket.” It’s a slip of sheet over my hip because to sleep with absolutely nothing feels weird but covers are too hot.

One more time

I’m posting this even though I posted it YEARS ago.  But it bears repeating.

I know, this sounds stupid, but hear me out.

In no way do I pretend that this is fact. I am merely explaining my view of things, as it looks from within my head. Not enough people do this, I think, and that leads to conflict and a general lack of empathy. So here goes:

Fish don’t have teeth. That’s right. In MY mind, that’s how it works. Some fish have teeth, but they must be either big or dangerous. Whales – big. They have teeth. Piranha – dangerous. They have teeth. Sharks are big and dangerous. They have extra teeth. Any fish that fails to fill either requirement – no teeth.

This theory tends to piss a lot of people off. Friends send me to biological web pages with diagrams of fish. My girlfriend threatens to take me to the aquarium to prove me wrong. I tell her “Why would I want to pay all that money to see fish gumming their food?” This makes her scream and hop around like I just snuck itching powder into her bar of soap. It’s funny.

Again, I never claimed that I was right, this is just how it works in my head. I understand that my brain often has nothing to do with reality. I mean, when I was in kindergarten and got cold in the classroom, I would make a pile of all my red, yellow and orange crayons and warm my hands over it. I actually believed that those colors were having an effect. Sure, it might have been the friction of my little hands rubbing together over the “fire,” but to this day I’m still halfway convinced that I was on to something. So quit telling me that I’m crazy! Just let me believe what I want to, it’s not hurting anyone.

Maybe next time I’ll tell you about my views on inanimate objects. They have feelings, you know. Ask Tom Robbins; he understands.

I was nicer this time

Really, I was.  The neighbor came over again to say hello when I was out on my back porch and I made it a point to be friendlier.  We talked for a couple minutes before I invited him to jump the rail and have a seat with me and then we chatted for almost an hour.  He’s very nice and fun to talk to.  He mentioned that the people who live next door to him are from New Orleans, one of whom is a white guy named Gumbo.  Seriously.  He offered to take me driving in his car when he repairs it because I mentioned how much I like driving really fast.  I find this amusing, and also highly tempting.  I really do like moving in some sort of vehicle (boat, car, whatever) while it travels at a very high rate of speed.

Not that this is interesting to anyone but me, but I might as well blog about this because NOTHING else is going on in my life.  I sit at home and attempt to do research.  When I get burned out on that, I watch The Office.  But I’ve already finished all 4 seasons, so now I’ll have to find something else to do.  Or work more.

To you, Dad

I’m starting to think I haven’t given my dad his due. This is the thing: I am a fairly shy person. It might not be obvious but really, I am so shy. Especially when I have to stand up and talk in front of people. Last semester, I gave an in-class presentation and thought I was going to throw up the entire day before. Which is silly. But when it got down to it, I was fine. And that’s because when it was my turn I just took a deep breath and somehow channeled my father. You don’t grow up watching someone perform and speak to large groups of people without picking up a couple things here and there. And that got me thinking that, wow, my father has a lot more to do with how and who I am than I’ve been giving him credit for.

And I can’t even fully encompass how dad has influenced my music tastes. I am picky about music, god knows. But I’m picky about it based on whether the rhythm is interesting. I need syncopation because it’s the best thing in the entire world and nothing makes me happier than someone making damn good use of an unexpected upbeat. When I listen to music, I hear every part separated and can even be convinced to sing along with each part separately. Which my father does. All the time. It’s a good thing. I was raised on the radio and MTV and yes, I am fully a child of the 80s, but I was also listening to Stravinsky, Gershwin, Ellis Marsalis, Frank Zappa, Billy Cobham, and The Doobie Brothers. Hell, “Clear as the Driven Snow” still knocks me out and I know precisely why-there’s this part in 6/8, I think, overlapped over a part in 4/4 and it all comes together at the end and it blows my mind EVERY damn time. And every time I was listening to this music, either at home or in the car on a trip with dad, I was told to Listen. Listen to this part here. And that part alone would be sung for me and damn if I didn’t listen the whole time.

This musicality has influenced me in other ways. If my mother taught me to love words, my father taught me to love their cadence. Because when you get down to it, it’s the rhythm that counts. My love for poetry has sprung from this marriage of meaning and meter. And also, I’m thinking, my love for how language is used. My father uses language for a living-his words are crafted for timing and effect. And watching him my entire life has certainly led to my asking about how and why language can be shifted and manipulated. What are the nuances that count? Why this word and not its synonym? The fact that I chose linguistics as my field of study isn’t surprising, considering the hyper awareness of language that surrounded me.

I am realizing that my quirks and weird brain aren’t all from my mother (who is weird enough in her own right). They come from dad as well. I laugh at my own word transformations as much as he laughs at his own spoonerisms. I sing along with bass lines or a trumpet if that part is particularly thrilling. I can puzzle my way through anything. And I can command a room, if I have to. Mom taught me grace, to be sure, but dad taught me to wield it with style.

I love you, Da-dee.  Thanks for being exactly who you are.

Someone has already posted clips

Yay! I wanted to hear “Chilly Down” from Labyrinth as performed by Shuttle Debris, and it’s on youtube, of course. So here’s a clip of that:

And my other favorite song, “As the World Falls Down”

Great Sunday

I couldn’t have asked for a better one.  G, K, and M all came over for breakfast with C and me.  Breakfast casserole (which everyone loved), grits, and G made a fruit salad.  Yum!

And then it was on to see Labyrinth with music from the film performed by Shuttle Debris, a local band.  Okay, so I didn’t expect their versions to be played OVER the film, but they did a good job and I liked them a lot.  Especially their version of “Chilly Down,” the song with the orange muppets who take off their heads.  I’m gonna bother said band until a copy of that song is somehow available.

And then back home for coffee and conversation.  I might sneak over to G and K’s later to steal a piece of carrot cake.  Mmmmm.  Carrot cake.  G said that K had to make some sort of brown sugar custard for it, which intrigues me.