Saw a purple tree this morning which had dropped a huge bunch of blossoms in the gutter. It looked like a long purple river flowing down the street.
Which reminds me…Easter’s just two weeks away.
LPR and I always make Mexican Easter eggs, which are filled with confetti. The idea is you sneak up on someone and bop them over the head with the egg so they get covered with confetti.
Instructions:
Every time you cook with an egg, punch holes in both ends (One pinhole sized, the other larger, about the size of your pinky fingernail.)Put your mouth on the smaller hole and blow the yolk and white into a bowl to use. Then rinse the shell in hot, soapy water and let dry. When Easter time comes, decorate the egg as usual. Then push confetti inside the big hole and glue tissue paper over both holes.
The first year we made them, we took them to church to sell as a fundraiser but sales were slow. The following year I painted pictures on the eggs--blossoming trees, dinosaurs, strawberries, cats, and lots of rabbits--in cars, in boats, sunbathing at the beach, playing trumpets, doing the Bunny Hop. Every egg was different. After that we always sold out.
Off The Subject
A song my brother taught me when I was 8:
Here comes Peter Cottontail
Hoppin' down the bunny trail..
Dead drunk!
We thought this hilarious.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Poe's Barbie Secrets
My friends and I never played that Barbie was a teenaged fashion model. She and Ken were always married with a large family, usually in the Antebellum South, with period clothes we made ourselves and plots borrowed from heavily Little Women or the Honeybunch series. (Lots of diphtheria).
My brother could sometimes be coerced into playing Barbies with me, but he wasn’t much fun. He would always have Ken strip her naked, then beat her up with the Barbie Sports Car, or hanging her from the curtain rod. He now confesses that he found Barbie a huge sexual turn on.
I have to confess we girls were rather titillated by her big breasts and highly-defined butt. (The first Barbies are spooky-looking with those tiny vampire eyes; you can tell she was originally a hooker doll designed to amuse businessmen.)
Then they came out with Ken who had genitals--minimalist, but genitals nonetheless. (Looking back, I wonder what the Handlers were thinking, coming out with such sexy dolls for young children.)
At age eight or nine we had virtually no knowledge of sex, but ever so often my girlfriends and I would, as we called it, “play dirty with our Barbies.” In these dramas Ken would kidnap Barbie, strip her naked, and force her to do the most humiliating things we could think of: he would keep her locked up in a drafty stable, ride around on her like she was a horse, using "bearing reins" that held her head painfully high, then make her to drink a quart of sour milk.
After that we’d go back to the wholesome mom and dad stories, now set in the South Sea Islands or ancient Greece.
I noticed about twenty years ago that Mattel put jockey shorts on Ken and gave Barbie smaller breasts, plus big eyes and a wholesome smile. Now they even have a Carol Burnett Barbie, dressed for the famous Went With the Wind skit, a curtain rod stuck on her shoulders.
I like the idea of a funny-looking Barbie. Sorta gives goofy girls like me the hope that we too will someday become fashion icons.
My brother could sometimes be coerced into playing Barbies with me, but he wasn’t much fun. He would always have Ken strip her naked, then beat her up with the Barbie Sports Car, or hanging her from the curtain rod. He now confesses that he found Barbie a huge sexual turn on.
I have to confess we girls were rather titillated by her big breasts and highly-defined butt. (The first Barbies are spooky-looking with those tiny vampire eyes; you can tell she was originally a hooker doll designed to amuse businessmen.)
Then they came out with Ken who had genitals--minimalist, but genitals nonetheless. (Looking back, I wonder what the Handlers were thinking, coming out with such sexy dolls for young children.)
At age eight or nine we had virtually no knowledge of sex, but ever so often my girlfriends and I would, as we called it, “play dirty with our Barbies.” In these dramas Ken would kidnap Barbie, strip her naked, and force her to do the most humiliating things we could think of: he would keep her locked up in a drafty stable, ride around on her like she was a horse, using "bearing reins" that held her head painfully high, then make her to drink a quart of sour milk.
After that we’d go back to the wholesome mom and dad stories, now set in the South Sea Islands or ancient Greece.
I noticed about twenty years ago that Mattel put jockey shorts on Ken and gave Barbie smaller breasts, plus big eyes and a wholesome smile. Now they even have a Carol Burnett Barbie, dressed for the famous Went With the Wind skit, a curtain rod stuck on her shoulders.
I like the idea of a funny-looking Barbie. Sorta gives goofy girls like me the hope that we too will someday become fashion icons.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Books That Changed My Life
Someone asked me for book recommendations, which is like asking an alcoholic to take a drink.
These are the best of the best:
The King of Mulberry Street (Donna Jo Napoli) A nine-year old Italian immigrant arrives alone, forsaken, and penniless in New York City, not speaking a word of Engish. How does he survive? You'll be surprised and delighted. Based on a true story.
Everyday Holiness (Alan Morinis) A handbook for bringing the sacred into one’s daily life. Very nurturing and life-changing book.
Watership Down (Richard Adams) If you haven’t read this yet, turn off the computer right now, run out, and get it. Hypnotic, mythical in impact. I almost named my first-born Hazel.
Bury the Chains (Adam Hochschild) How a small group of concerned citizens changed the world. (If nothing else, just read the first two pages of the introduction. Amazing!)
China Boy (Gus Lee) A skinny little boy learns how to defeat bullies. The ending will make you stand up and cheer.
Three Cups of Tea (Greg Mortenson) Fighting terrorism one school at a time. Perseverance facing down the impossible.
The Great Gatsby (F. Scott Fitzgerald) Way better than when you read it in high school. The luscious poetry:(here speaking of Manhattan) “I became aware of the old island here that once flowered for Dutch sailor’s eyes--a fresh green breast of the New World. Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Gatsby’s house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams...”
Ah, I swoon.
These are the best of the best:
The King of Mulberry Street (Donna Jo Napoli) A nine-year old Italian immigrant arrives alone, forsaken, and penniless in New York City, not speaking a word of Engish. How does he survive? You'll be surprised and delighted. Based on a true story.
Everyday Holiness (Alan Morinis) A handbook for bringing the sacred into one’s daily life. Very nurturing and life-changing book.
Watership Down (Richard Adams) If you haven’t read this yet, turn off the computer right now, run out, and get it. Hypnotic, mythical in impact. I almost named my first-born Hazel.
Bury the Chains (Adam Hochschild) How a small group of concerned citizens changed the world. (If nothing else, just read the first two pages of the introduction. Amazing!)
China Boy (Gus Lee) A skinny little boy learns how to defeat bullies. The ending will make you stand up and cheer.
Three Cups of Tea (Greg Mortenson) Fighting terrorism one school at a time. Perseverance facing down the impossible.
The Great Gatsby (F. Scott Fitzgerald) Way better than when you read it in high school. The luscious poetry:(here speaking of Manhattan) “I became aware of the old island here that once flowered for Dutch sailor’s eyes--a fresh green breast of the New World. Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Gatsby’s house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams...”
Ah, I swoon.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
The Problem With Thank You Notes
My task this week was to write a thank you note to the editor who critiqued my manuscript at the writer’s conference. Everyone knows it’s a smart business practice.
The problem is I am hopelessly neurotic about it. I know I am schmoozing this editor--my big chance to impress her. I must also plug my manuscript to make sure she remembers me later when I submit something. But I have to write like I am not schmoozing and not trying to impress or plug my book.
I wrote four drafts of the thing--Three measly sentences and it’d taken me five days. Yesterday I had to make myself some of my two-minute ice cream (recipe below) just to calm myself. Is it any wonder I never get stuff done?
My friend Jacqueline says I am perfectionistic. I think I’m just following my family's rules. As a kid the biggest sin was making a mistake. It didn’t matter if it was a minor offense or an innocent error, there was hell to pay.
A Typical Example:
At age eight, I had to dress and get to school by myself every morning because Mom worked. One afternoon when I got home, Mom had a screaming fit because I’d worn my Brownie uniform with a magenta sweater. Apparently they clashed. To make matters worse, school pictures had been taken that day, so now I’d ruined them. The shame of this hung over me for decades.
It wasn’t until about five years ago that I suddenly realized, “Wait a minute. That picture was in black and white. What difference did it make if I wore a magenta sweater?”
But this stuff gets injected into your DNA and it takes continual work to leach it out.
As far as the thank you note was concerned, what I finally did was pray—“God you know what this editor needs; give me the words.”
Suddenly I remembered—a thank you note is just an act of kindness. After all, everybody is insecure, even editors.
After that I forgot about impressing her or making sure she remembered me and my manuscript. I just sent an act of love. She had given me a very thoughtful and gentle critique and even her criticisms encouraged me because they made my writing better. And that’s what I told her. No schmooze, just fact.
NOW FOR THE GOOD PART
Poe’s 2-Minute Ice Cream
(This particular recipe is designed for people who are trying to eliminate sugar and cholesterol, but purists can substitute cream and add sugar to taste)
1 frozen banana
1 cup frozen strawberries or peaches
1/2 cup nonfat milk
1 Tbl cocoa powder(optional)
1 Tbl nut butter(optional)
Puree in blender. (It helps to pulse, and you have to stop frequently to push the fruit down between the blades) After two minutes it should have the consistency of soft-serve ice cream. For firmer stuff dump it into a Tupperware and freeze for an hour or two.
The problem is I am hopelessly neurotic about it. I know I am schmoozing this editor--my big chance to impress her. I must also plug my manuscript to make sure she remembers me later when I submit something. But I have to write like I am not schmoozing and not trying to impress or plug my book.
I wrote four drafts of the thing--Three measly sentences and it’d taken me five days. Yesterday I had to make myself some of my two-minute ice cream (recipe below) just to calm myself. Is it any wonder I never get stuff done?
My friend Jacqueline says I am perfectionistic. I think I’m just following my family's rules. As a kid the biggest sin was making a mistake. It didn’t matter if it was a minor offense or an innocent error, there was hell to pay.
A Typical Example:
At age eight, I had to dress and get to school by myself every morning because Mom worked. One afternoon when I got home, Mom had a screaming fit because I’d worn my Brownie uniform with a magenta sweater. Apparently they clashed. To make matters worse, school pictures had been taken that day, so now I’d ruined them. The shame of this hung over me for decades.
It wasn’t until about five years ago that I suddenly realized, “Wait a minute. That picture was in black and white. What difference did it make if I wore a magenta sweater?”
But this stuff gets injected into your DNA and it takes continual work to leach it out.
As far as the thank you note was concerned, what I finally did was pray—“God you know what this editor needs; give me the words.”
Suddenly I remembered—a thank you note is just an act of kindness. After all, everybody is insecure, even editors.
After that I forgot about impressing her or making sure she remembered me and my manuscript. I just sent an act of love. She had given me a very thoughtful and gentle critique and even her criticisms encouraged me because they made my writing better. And that’s what I told her. No schmooze, just fact.
NOW FOR THE GOOD PART
Poe’s 2-Minute Ice Cream
(This particular recipe is designed for people who are trying to eliminate sugar and cholesterol, but purists can substitute cream and add sugar to taste)
1 frozen banana
1 cup frozen strawberries or peaches
1/2 cup nonfat milk
1 Tbl cocoa powder(optional)
1 Tbl nut butter(optional)
Puree in blender. (It helps to pulse, and you have to stop frequently to push the fruit down between the blades) After two minutes it should have the consistency of soft-serve ice cream. For firmer stuff dump it into a Tupperware and freeze for an hour or two.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Speaking of Stupidity…
This weekend I attended a writer’s conference at the coast. Soon after I arrived, something happened to my brain. It thought I was in high school. Once again I felt like an space alien. It didn’t help that most people there were published. A lot. I struggled every second to blend in. Or at least keep the other authors from shoving me into my locker.
As always in these situations I forgot to meditate, I forgot to pray. But the triumph is that I didn’t hide out in the bathroom, my favorite survival technique in school. I even went up and talked to people.
But on the last day I wished I’d stayed in the bathroom.
Sunday morning I arrive late to breakfast, so most tables are full. I sit down in an empty seat, then realize--Oh no! I’ve sat down next to a Big Author, a speaker at the conference. (We’ll call him Emerson Waldo.)
This creates a crisis. On one hand, I want to suck up to this guy; after all, he’s famous. At the same time I have total contempt for the extremely narcissistic lecture he gave the day before. I decide I will say nothing, eat my breakfast, and get out as fast as I can.
But he looks at me expectantly. Rats. I have to talk to him.
I don’t want to be like everybody else: “Oh Mr. Waldo, I just adore your latest book.” So I say, “Tell me. What was your childhood like? What made you into the writer you are today?”
He looks surprised. Good. He must be intrigued. Maybe he’ll retain fond memories of “that delightful conversation with...what did you say your name was, Miss?”
His answer: “I liked to read.”
I say, “Yes, but we all liked to read. What experiences led you to writing your particular books?”
“I spent twenty years clerking at K-Mart…”
I am shocked. “I can’t imagine you clerking for twenty years.”
“Pumping gas was worse.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Abruptly he stands, “Well, it’s been nice talking to you.” He LEAVES!
I am appalled. What a rude man! After I tried so hard to give him something interesting to talk about.
Following breakfast I go to a Panel Discussion by all the conference speakers. To my surprise, I don’t see Waldo. What’s happened? Did my questions upset him? Is he sick? Hiding in the bathroom?
Stop it, Poe. I push away my neurosis and tune into the discussion.
Then I see one author I don’t recognize. I say to my friend, “Who’s he?”
“That’s Emerson Waldo.” Long Pause.
OMG! I’d been talking to the wrong person! No wonder the guy got up and left. He must have thought I was a total nut case.
For ten minutes, I think about going back to my room and seeing if Housekeeping could lend me a gun to shoot myself with.
But suddenly I started laughing and haven't stopped since. According to Al-Anon, one mark of maturity is the ability to laugh at oneself If so, I must be the most mature person in town.
Mature but really, really stupid.
As always in these situations I forgot to meditate, I forgot to pray. But the triumph is that I didn’t hide out in the bathroom, my favorite survival technique in school. I even went up and talked to people.
But on the last day I wished I’d stayed in the bathroom.
Sunday morning I arrive late to breakfast, so most tables are full. I sit down in an empty seat, then realize--Oh no! I’ve sat down next to a Big Author, a speaker at the conference. (We’ll call him Emerson Waldo.)
This creates a crisis. On one hand, I want to suck up to this guy; after all, he’s famous. At the same time I have total contempt for the extremely narcissistic lecture he gave the day before. I decide I will say nothing, eat my breakfast, and get out as fast as I can.
But he looks at me expectantly. Rats. I have to talk to him.
I don’t want to be like everybody else: “Oh Mr. Waldo, I just adore your latest book.” So I say, “Tell me. What was your childhood like? What made you into the writer you are today?”
He looks surprised. Good. He must be intrigued. Maybe he’ll retain fond memories of “that delightful conversation with...what did you say your name was, Miss?”
His answer: “I liked to read.”
I say, “Yes, but we all liked to read. What experiences led you to writing your particular books?”
“I spent twenty years clerking at K-Mart…”
I am shocked. “I can’t imagine you clerking for twenty years.”
“Pumping gas was worse.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Abruptly he stands, “Well, it’s been nice talking to you.” He LEAVES!
I am appalled. What a rude man! After I tried so hard to give him something interesting to talk about.
Following breakfast I go to a Panel Discussion by all the conference speakers. To my surprise, I don’t see Waldo. What’s happened? Did my questions upset him? Is he sick? Hiding in the bathroom?
Stop it, Poe. I push away my neurosis and tune into the discussion.
Then I see one author I don’t recognize. I say to my friend, “Who’s he?”
“That’s Emerson Waldo.” Long Pause.
OMG! I’d been talking to the wrong person! No wonder the guy got up and left. He must have thought I was a total nut case.
For ten minutes, I think about going back to my room and seeing if Housekeeping could lend me a gun to shoot myself with.
But suddenly I started laughing and haven't stopped since. According to Al-Anon, one mark of maturity is the ability to laugh at oneself If so, I must be the most mature person in town.
Mature but really, really stupid.
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