Me

Library

Library. All is quiet. I get a not so secret pleasure out of saying Sssh! When I’m behind the desk. I love putting my hair up in a bun. I love that I wear trifocals on library day. But on a beautiful day like today, hardly anyone came in. But it gave me time to shelve books and ponder people’s taste.

Why oh why do people read Nora Roberts?! Why is she having a career? I tried to read a first page of a few of her books today while I was putting books away and her words literally hurt my brain. It felt like drinking orange Kool-Aid because you don’t have access to fresh squeezed orange juice. The other one I don’t get is all those guys: Pattersons, Balduccis, etc. Who gave these people careers? Why doesn’t anyone read real stuff? Even my mother just reads mysteries….okay, I know. Just sounds like whining.

My stalker came in. I’m beginning to have a crush on my stalker. That’s kind of crazy but he’s become a mainstay of my library experience. I love you, my Samuel Beckett…come in and make me answer your reference questions, oh baby…

Julian and the kids came to keep me company as well. They think of the library now as their second home…they also have some tripped out sense of their own mother’s power. I have the key to their favorite building in town. I access it any time. That’s probably weird. I also have the key to the satellite college campus in Chester and use that bathroom when we are up there. Sometimes when favorite stores are closed the kids look at me and say ‘open it mommy.’

We have a brand new copier at the library. Makes me wish I still made zines…

Meeting of the Minds, Fried

So I’m sort of doing the civic duty thing and going to this meeting at the Taylorsville Grange Hall regarding the future of the Grange in Indian Valley including the use of the hall with the kick ass bouncy dance floor.

The guy from the state Grange organization gives a talk and does his little PowerPpoint presentation of what it’s all about. It has its antiquated charm. But key in the whole thing is that except for having to have a bible open at meetings and doing an opening prayer, you can pretty much have each Grange be and do just about anything. Fair enough, I think, They aren’t specifying the king James and the prayer of serenity or anything like that. My mind starts going this building is great. I can see movies in here, theater, dance parties, etc. And mind you after five years in Indian Valley, my tolerance for quilt shows and tea and Methodists in general has gotten better.

Then I look around the room. It’s burned out hippie baby boomers everywhere. They start yelling at the guy from the state about how their anti-establishment asses aren’t joiners and how they want to take over the building and why should they listen to the state. Honestly, old enough to be my dads in here and they can’t quite seem to hold it together to be polite. Or cordial. Or at least civil.

They launch into we don’t have any children so we don’t need the kind of programs offered. Up in your face sort of speeches. The patchouli running high and the deodorant running low.

I find myself in the odd position of wanting to apologize to the state Grange people for the idiot behavior of the masses. And the word choices , my, my--- accusations of black mail, hostage taking---a war is being fought in Iraq in their name and they’re going to take over a dance floor if it’s the last thing they do…

Part of the ridiculousness? If they don’t want to join, they don’t have to. They don’t have to be at this meeting. They don’t have to be anywhere. I’m solidly with the old Methodist ladies in Taylorsville on this one. Bring on their fall cheesy craft show. Bring on a spin on the dance floor of a non-tie-dyed band. I’m there.

Nails

Paloma and I got our nails done this morning. Manicure y pedicure. We totally couldn’t afford it right now as I’m not working as much and if anything ever feels like a luxury , it’s nails. Birthday money! But at the same time, nothing quite gives you the feeling of feminine fuck yeah like newly done nails. Looking down at my hands when just manicured makes me want…well…ME!

I never did this much when I was younger. I made fun of the whole process. But now, I don’t know. It’s easier than losing weight. Once, a self-righteous co-worker, turned friend, turned enemy talked smack about his sister. He had a good job, good college graduate. She was on welfare and had two kids, no job, no college. He sent her money every month to help out and went for a visit and noticed her nails were done and yelled at her for ‘wasting’ money on nails. How could I explain to him that I knew exactly how she felt?

Good nails means you don’t, for a few minutes, feel poor, screwed and desperate. You are on the other side. The side that calls the shots. The side that says beg for me and my hot painted nails. The side that says don’t tell me you’ve never thought about how they’d feel scratching their way down your back. Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about how they’d feel circling the happy trail on the way down.

Pedicure. That’s a whole different matter to me. I only have (arguably) 5 ½ nails between my two feet. In southeast Asian nail salons in San Francisco (where I feel most comfortable doing such things) I’m usually asked if I had some random accident (once got asked—Agent Orange?) or if I was born that way. I’ve usually been given a discount too. Not so in salons run by white women. Not sure why this is. But pedicures help take away from the deformity of it all. The women at the California nail salon in San Francisco even dab my claw toe nail with paint. I love that. And the giggle that seems to accompany it. White women doing pedicures avoid the claw except to ask if I want them to file it down.

And so here I am---about to grade papers on the laptop, sitting cross-legged with newly perfect nails. Hoping I can make them last a few days.

Paloma already has a one nail chipped. She chose bright pink poster paint looking polish. Last time they were blue. Matches well with her self inked tattoos.

The Vieja

Diego sang happy birthday to me this morning while snuggling into my arm. Daughter snored at me. Husband was like ‘whatever, you are going to milk your birthday, aren’t you?’

I hate week day birthdays.

I still want the world to stop and celebrate me, damn it!

Will be heading to Twain, California tomorrow for a little time spent at the river and cottage. Something chocolate sometime today. A bottle of good whiskey sounds tempting…or maybe a bottle of nineteen year old boys…

The List

Wee bit of a hiatus there…after that month long stint of a poem a day.

Things I found out on the weekend. As Wednesday is my 39th birthday I’m realizing important truths.

1) I’m too old to stay out beyond midnight.
2) I need to remember specifics like, if you start out on margaritas, stay there. Don’t switch to gin and tonics even if it is your favorite.
3) Just because one’s mother is a lesbian doesn’t mean she’s uhm…alternative. She might be really, really conservative when you say random things about your own sexuality.
4) Grading papers goes better with whiskey.
5) If you tell people you are going to be reclusive in order to write, they’ll ask to come with you.
6) Working out and belly-dancing is often better than sex.
7) Mortgage brokers lie like rugs.
8) I can’t decide whether I like Wes Anderson films.
9) I don’t want to ever move from the mountains; of course, I’m saying this after the snow has thawed.
10) Not everyone has a sense of humor. Don’t make fun of your best friend’s ass.
11) 3 years old is not too young for boarding school. Is there a boarding preschool somewhere? What does it mean when a 3 year old tell you she hates you?

May Day, May Day

I’m not wearing red. I’ve lost the will to march on behalf of anything. Paloma is besides me sending origami paper with her scribbles of serious prose to various grandparents in business size envelopes with free labels and hello kitty stickers. The serious business of being a writerchick in training.

Yesterday she had her preschool screening. The nurse pricked her finger testing out Paloma’s blood. The nurse was full of ‘this will only hurt a little bit…’ Paloma was full of staring at her finger and pleading with the nurse to ‘do it again…’

Whew. 30 poems in 30 days. Hmm…I think I like 3 of them…that I guess has to be worth it. And now the count down to turning 39 begins…