I shall never forget the Russian salad

A Dirty Time of Year (poem)

noreply@blogger.com (ari_1965) — Sun, 26 Feb 2012 20:45:00 +0000

"We grow tired of your foolishness,"
I say to the dog
who points his graying muzzle up
and smells the air as if to find
the source of the plural

The sky the color of sweatpants pocket lint
tiny branches at the top of the birch trees
tangle in the wind
the mourning birds hunch under the eaves
and keep themselves to themselves

"We grow tired of your foolishness,"
I say to the dog
who turns and lifts his leg on
an old variety of tall grass
forgotten before my birth
remembered in my middle-age

An empty can of chili without beans
sits in state in the melting ice
that spills over the curb
the wind blows
and two burrito wrappers, a plastic straw, and a panty liner
chase each other in a gusty circle

A dirty time of year
No season for the weary of heart

"We grow tired of your foolishness,"
I say to the dog
who replies,
"Well, let's go home then
and sit on the couch
I'll rest my chin on your left thigh"

In Which I Explain to K____ Why I Can't Iron a Tablecloth Nicely (a story)

noreply@blogger.com (ari_1965) — Thu, 23 Feb 2012 04:19:00 +0000

"It would only take you a minute to iron that tablecloth nicely," my friend K____ says in a Come Now tone.

Ah, would that were true, my friend.

Draw near and I will tell you the reason for my affliction.

When I was born the gods were invited to stop by and bestow upon me the Gifts they give to all infants. There was a potluck. In some cultures the gods just drop by to view the infant, make a few oracular statements, and bestow their Gifts. But I was born in a country called The Midwest where by the Dictator's decree all invitations include the words "There'll be a potluck. Bring a dish to share."

My birth occurred in that time of year when the Goddess of Spring starts skipping around saying things like "Don't you just love the little birdies singing tweet tweet in the treetops!" and the Goddess of Winter says "Shut the hell up, you hippy-dippy, or I'll snow." In my country we call this period of climatic instability The Month of March. No one remembers why. Perhaps it's something to do with the fact that if you're smart you keep your boots on because you never know when the Goddess of Spring will decide it's time for warm weather so the flowers can bloom and then the Goddess of Winter gets so annoyed she snows, with the result that red tulips poke out of snow-filled flower beds and everywhere you step you step in slush.

It just so happens I was part of a baby boom. The gods' social calendars were crammed with potlucks that season. Gods usually time their arrival at potlucks carefully. Come too early to a potluck and, god or not, you may get roped into putting out stacks of plates and pre-filling Mr. Coffee coffee filters. Gods also try to make sure they arrive after grace is said, especially if people are going to hold hands and sing the Johnny Appleseed song. Gods hate that.

The day I was born gods rushed from one potluck to another, taking two helpings of lasagna from the pan on their first turn through the line, complaining loudly about the toughness of the baklava, barely glancing at the newborn child before announcing "This child shall have the Gifts of Tax Accountancy and Always Knowing the Location of the Needle-Nosed Pliers," and then rushing off to the next baby's potluck.

With so many potlucks going on, some scheduling snafus were going to happen. Four of the gods who were invited to my potluck arrived late. Three over-booked themselves that day. They were at the celebration for Elizabeth Anne Engenthaler and had appropriated three serving spoons and the entire pan of cheesy scalloped potatoes with bits of Canadian bacon when they suddenly realized they were supposed to be at my grandmother's house for my celebration. Gods, as I've told you, time their arrivals at potlucks carefully. They don't like to be early, but they like to be first in the food line everywhere. They rushed out of the Engenthalers' house. The fourth god forgot she was supposed to turn on I-90 and, instead, continued on 35E into the Land of Albert Lea. She wasn't that far way; she still could have made it to my potluck in time. But the Land of Alberta Lea also is known as the Land of Taverns. Gods like taverns.

So these four gods arrived late at the potluck held to celebrate my birth. Now we come to the heart of my story and the source of my lifelong misfortune. These four gods arrived late at my potluck, and they found nothing left in the lasagna pans except hard, crusty bits at the corners. The ham bone was picked clean. The deviled eggs were only a memory. The mashed potatoes were long gone. The baklava pan was empty. Every white sugary filling on graham cracker crust dipped in milk chocolate and sprinkles bar had been eaten. There was a half-empty bottle of ketchup standing next to the platter that had held hot dogs and buns, but that was it.

Now remember, the three gods who had been at Elizabeth Anne Engenthaler's house had left without finishing the pan of cheesy scalloped potatoes with bits of Canadian bacon. The fourth god had had a lot of peanuts, but nothing else. They were hungry. They expected to eat their fill at my grandmother's house. But all the food had been eaten. There was nothing left for the gods.

Now you think one of my relatives could have, quick, jumped into the car and gone to the grocery store. Or knocked on the neighbor's door and asked if they have any fried chicken to spare for an emergency? I mean, there were four hungry gods in the kitchen, looking very irritated, the smell of brimstone rising in the air. There were no boxes of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese in the house? But that's my family for you. No use in a crisis. Only good for hand-wringing at the time and post-disaster reenactments.

So the four gods didn't get any food. They got angry instead. They took it out on me, an innocent child. The four hungry gods left my grandmother's house without bestowing their Gifts. The fourth god stopped on the doorstep and looked back, feeling a little guilty. But then she remembered the deviled eggs she hadn't had. She was partial to deviled eggs. And her heart hardened. All four gods shook the dust from their shoes and left without bestowing their Gifts upon me. They were the Gods of Dusting, Vacuuming, Ironing, and Putting Things Away Right After You Finish Using Them.

And, so, my dear K____, I can't iron that tablecloth nicely. Alas, I haven't the Gift.

In which I notice a word

noreply@blogger.com (ari_1965) — Tue, 21 Feb 2012 02:27:00 +0000

in the juxtaposition of the bottom two of a pile of old magazines I need to put in the recycle bin.

Too bad it's not Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

Sun worship

noreply@blogger.com (ari_1965) — Fri, 17 Feb 2012 17:55:00 +0000

Notes for a Blues Song Called Ain't Meant to Make No Chicken and Rice This Week

noreply@blogger.com (ari_1965) — Thu, 16 Feb 2012 14:45:00 +0000

Evening One: I was in the mood for baked chicken on rice. I bought some chicken thighs on sale.
Night One: I discovered all my Pyrex pans must have been appealing to the someone at my last dwelling place who rifled my belongings and went away with things. Can't make chicken and rice when you ain't got a baking pan to your name.

Evening Two: On the way to Target to buy Pyrex, I stopped at the thrift store to buy 69 cent stuffed animals for the dog to eviscerate. I found a square Pyrex pan at the thrift store.
Night Two: Got Pyrex. Got chicken. Got no cream of mushroom/cream of chicken/cream of celery soup. Can't make chicken and rice without a can of Campbell's cream of something soup.

Evening Three: Stopped at a store and bought cream of chicken soup on sale 6 for $5.
Night Three: Got Pyrex. Got chicken. Got cream of chicken soup. Got rice...no, got no rice. Chicken and rice without rice is just soupy chicken.

Evening Four: Stopped at a store and bought rice.
Night Four: Got Pyrex. Got chicken. Got cream of chicken soup. Got rice. Googled "baked chicken and rice" to get the oven temperature setting, and read the words "Cover with tight fitting lid or Reynold's Wrap." Got no lid. Got no Reynold's Wrap.

Night Four, Part 2: Divvied up chicken into freezer bags and put them all into the freezer. Ain't meant to make no chicken and rice this week.

Buddha in his purple PAWS

noreply@blogger.com (ari_1965) — Wed, 15 Feb 2012 01:33:00 +0000

He walked a little funny in his purple rubber PAWS boots at first. Then he got over that. Then he wasn't sure he could pee while wearing purple rubber boots. Then he got over that, too. Then he just walked along happily.

They're just rubber, no sole. I got them to enable him to walk on the heavily salted sidewalks around here without pain. They seemed to do the trick, and they stayed on him for the whole walk through the neighborhood. First boots ever to stay on him for more than a few steps. I have no idea if they'd stay on him while running off-leash. But the off-leash park trails aren't salted, so....

I read about these Paws boots on the blog Two Pitties In the City. Buddha wears the large size. I also bought medium, blue, so I'll have to return those to Petco. I felt bad going to Petco, but my local Chuck and Don's doesn't carry them. I called to check and the lady just sighed in my ear. I'm not the first one to call for PAWS, I guess. Price at Petco: US$16.99 for 12 boots in a pack.

The location for the new couch seems obvious.

noreply@blogger.com (ari_1965) — Fri, 10 Feb 2012 18:47:00 +0000

My Dog Has Never Been On a Balcony (poem)

noreply@blogger.com (ari_1965) — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 23:01:00 +0000

My dog has never been on a balcony
until two weeks ago last Tuesday
Yet he knows that this outside
is not really outside
but an extension of inside
and, so, no lifting the leg

“How did you teach him that?”
asks an admirer

My smile conveys modesty
with just a touch
of when you’ve got it
you’ve got it

Actually, I’ve never taught my dog anything
except to walk badly on a leash
and to wait for the dollop of tartar sauce
to land on the plate
before eating his share
of the battered fish sticks

I Asked the Moon (poem)

noreply@blogger.com (ari_1965) — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 02:09:00 +0000

I asked the moon
a Tuesday moon
backlit against a blue on blue quilted sky
if I might leave
there comes a time, I explained,
in case supportive material
was needed

The moon, backlit like the head of the actor playing Jesus
in the scene when Peter and the eleven
finally put two and two together and make five,
the moon did not reply

O Moon, I asked again, in case
the apostrophe was the proper form
I once was educated
thought you cannot see it now
in my dead eyes

O Moon, I said,
it is a sad weakness on my part
that I need permission

O Moon, I asked,
but there was no reply

sunrise in the window

noreply@blogger.com (ari_1965) — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 13:05:00 +0000

sunrise

noreply@blogger.com (ari_1965) — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 13:04:00 +0000

Farewell to tomatoes?

noreply@blogger.com (ari_1965) — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 01:09:00 +0000

I've just read, in a reputable source, that tomatoes are bad for people who have arthritic knees. It's something about acid. I'm nonplussed. I've been running a list of the recipes that I make on a regular basis, or used to when things were normal. They all contain tomatoes. Fresh, canned, or dried tomatoes. I've been fondling tomatoes in supermarkets and farmer's markets what seems like all my life. During my childhood in St. Paul, supermarket tomatoes were much better than they are now. We used to slice them so that you had a dinner plate covered with tomatoes. And then you sat on the front step with your plate and ate your sliced tomatoes with a fork. Some people sprinkled salt, some sugar on the top. I just liked mine plain. Nothing better than sitting in the sun with a plateful of excellent tomatoes, smelling of the sun.

These days I buy tomatoes at the farmer's market. Well, I used to, before everything went to hell these last several years. Year-round I routinely buy canned tomatoes half a dozen at a time. Also, tomatoes are the only vegetables I've ever grown myself.

As I said, I'm nonplussed.

As far as I can tell, the only thing I make that doesn't contain tomatoes is oatmeal.

Quandary.

The fault, dear Brutus, lies not in our shower curtain rings. But in ourselves....

noreply@blogger.com (ari_1965) — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 14:33:00 +0000

I bought a particular pack of shower rings because:

a) I'd bought all the other choices at least once before. I've moved a lot in recent years.
b) They were kind of cute -- a sort of elongated S with little ball tips.

"Why the heck does the big part of the S fall off the rod when I pull back the shower curtain?" I've asked the dog every morning for the last two weeks. "How hard is it to make SHOWER CURTAIN RINGS that work?" I asked him more than once. "Where the hell is the ********* receipt?" I asked him* last night, and then got all irritated just picturing myself standing in line at Target to return a package of shower rings.

When I hung the shower curtain the night I moved in, I put the little S end through the hole in the shower curtain, and put the big S end over the rod. It looked fine to me. I didn't see any other way to put them on, since the little S end would not fit over the rod, obviously. Well, evidently, I was supposed to shove the little S end through the hole in the shower curtain, work the rest of the ring through the same hole, and THEN hook the big S end over the shower curtain rod. I just figured it out this morning, "Well, who the hell would know that? There was no diagram on the box!" I said to the dog. I had that sinking feeling that you get when you wonder if you are the only one in the universe who needs to have a diagram on a box of shower curtain rings.

*I don't know why I ask the dog things like this. He never replies with anything constructive. He never even looked at the shower rings. Lately our conversations seem to consist of him asking, "Where's the couch? When are we getting a couch?" And I reply, "Cheese and Rice! I'll get us a couch. I've been sick, or haven't you noticed?" I mean, honestly, he's half Belgian Malinois. He's supposed to be able to think of more than one thing at once. You'd think he'd be able to put the couch question aside, and look ONCE at the shower curtain rings.

I don't care if they're pink and lime green, they're still the size of horse pills

noreply@blogger.com (ari_1965) — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 13:50:00 +0000

After receiving several guilt trips from nurses at work (my office is lousy with nurses, as well as nurse practitioners and doctors), and the dreaded phrase "bacterial infection" got bandied around, I called the clinic and was able to get in within the hour. Yup, bacterial infection.

Big lecture from a cute Asian-American doctor on not coming in sooner. Shorter lecture from an African physician's assistant on not coming in sooner. A shot of antibiotics in the heinie. Hurt, surprisingly. Big lecture from a nurse practitioner asthma specialist on not coming in sooner. "Do you want this infection to settle in your lungs, aggravate your asthma, and then you end up with pneumonia again?" she asked, presumably rhetorically.

Then the Anglo-Indian doctor came in and asked, "Has everyone already told you that you were foolish not to come in to the clinic sooner?" I replied, yes. "Then you and I will move on to other things that you are foolish about," he said.

Big lecture on my weight (I have lost 7 lbs in 4 weeks, but in the great scheme of things, my weight loss is progressing like the Great Sphinx erodes. It's eroding. But at the rate it's eroding, it won't erode away in my lifetime). Big lecture on my anxiety levels. "I can see on your face you are thinking about five other things right now while you are listening to me so politely with your hands folded on your lap. And all of the five things you are thinking about are worrisome and cause you to be nervous nellie and eat chips."

(You have to do an Anglo-Indian accent when you read his quotes. Picture Gandhi in a tie and labcoat. I love him. He pulls no punches.)

To get started on the antibiotics right away I had the prescription filled at the clinic pharmacy. Horse pills. Bubble gum pink/lime green capsules. They are so large they look like props for a demonstration.

very thankful to wake up and look out the window at trees and sky and life

noreply@blogger.com (ari_1965) — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 14:09:00 +0000

after living with only a basement egress window for eight months, everything is up

Repeat after me: I will not turn the fact that I threw up on the dog this afternoon into some sort of metaphor for my life.

noreply@blogger.com (ari_1965) — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 03:32:00 +0000

He survived. Luckily, we were both standing on the kitchen linoleum at the time. I threw the first available and machine washable fabric over him, and slowly walked him up the stairs to the bathtub. After I rinsed off the worst of it, I had to soap him down. Poor thing. He firmly believes that water is for drinking purposes only. His ears flattened back when I vomited on him. Startled, probably. Then they drooped. And they stayed in a drooped position all through the bathroom ritual. Nothing quite conveys despair and discomfort quite like drooped ears on a dog whose ears normally stand erect. But he survived the vomit, and the bath. And, as soon as he was out of the bath and free of the dreaded bathroom, his ears went back to their normal stand-up status, and he dashed around the house, dancing, and wiggling. He bounces back. Nothing phases him for long.

I don't seem to get normal colds anymore. Miss High Fever is my pageant name.

Countess Chills.
Frau Stiff Neck.
Signora Gastrointestinal Upset.
Flag-Lieutenant Phlegm.
Constable Cough.
Lady Snot.

I made the mistake of calling in to say "I'm sick and working at home" instead of just calling in sick. I really did work on home, too. I worked on a newsletter in InDesign even though I had spots dancing in front of my eyes and was in pain every time I turned my head. Dumb, dumb, dumb. All sorts of types of crud are going around the office; surely no one would penalize me for calling in sick when I am so obviously sick. I have never once been given an indication that they would not be understanding if I needed to call in sick, leave early, or come in late. Why then do I tip-toe around in fear all the time? My goal tomorrow is to wake up and put on my big girl panties (metaphorically). If I feel better, I go in to the office. If I still have a high fever and can't bear the thought of straying far from the nearest toilet, I call in sick, take off my big girl panties (metaphorically), and go back to bed. This living in fear every minute that I will do something wrong and they will fire me and I will have to live in the car and park on secluded streets to hide from the repo man and the dog will starve has got to stop. I'm sure it's not healthy.

I swear these multiply in my living room while I sleep.

noreply@blogger.com (ari_1965) — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 01:22:00 +0000

In certain cultures, a line of Vicks Vaporub above the lip is considered an aphrodisiac

noreply@blogger.com (ari_1965) — Sat, 21 Jan 2012 22:33:00 +0000

I made that up. I get to make things up. I'm sick. I have a fever. Yes, I'm in the throes of yet another seems-like-a-cold-but-why-the-high-fever? upper respiratory weirdness that seems to be my special thorn in the butt. Well, higher than that.

104F. I am the only person I know who gets a typical cold (runny nose/sneezing/little bit of drainage down the back of the throat), but spikes a high fever with it that lasts for days.

This is on top of the sniffles-n-sinus thing I've had since November 7th.

I ran out of handkerchiefs and dog bandannas last night, and took what they used to call a floursack towel to bed with me. I usually use flour sack towels to dry the dishes. I had no idea until last night that they make excellent and generous hankies. Also, it's hard to lose a flour sack towel in the bedclothes during the night, unless the dog chooses to sleep on it.

I was cheered momentarily today in Target by the sight of two rows of tins of Sucrets. I didn't see them at first. I yelped in my mind, "They don't make Sucrets anymore! Just 18 varieties of Hall's - those useless candy things." I felt wash over me that God Is Dead feeling. And then I spotted the Sucrets, on the shelf nearest the floor, next to the Cepacol, and other tastes bad so you know they're medicinal aids. Sucrets throat lozenges work well. And the tins make great holders for safety pins. Also, mini first aid kits for the glove compartment. I miss the tins that Band-Aids used to come in. I spent large portions of my childhood scraping the paint off Band-Aid tins in order to reveal the shiny metal beneath. Then you had a shiny little tin you could keep things in. Anything. Even Band-Aids. I wonder if there was lead in that paint. That might explain a lot.

After the high of finding Sucrets have not switched to boxing their product, a crash was inevitable. The impossibility of keeping a row of Vicks Vaporub on my upper lip while having to wipe my dripping nose every three seconds got to me. The human body just is not configured correctly. I mean, you spread a product on your upper lip that contains an ingredient to help your sinuses drain in times of trial, and it works. But the mucus drains out your nostrils and on to your upper lip, the upper lip coated in the Vicks, and so you wipe off the medicine along with the mucus. Come on, who thought of that? A redesign is called for. My quarrel with evolution is not whether it's true, but why it's so damned slow. It suddenly occurred to me that human beings are nothing more than gallons of various bodily fluids inadequately contained in a sack of skin. So I stood in the living room and cried. I took off my glasses, because you can't have a really good cry wearing eyeglasses, and looked around to put them down on the end table by the couch, and then realized I have neither couch nor end table. So I started crying I don't have anything nice I'm living like a denizen of Hooverville tears. But I was interrupted by the need to blow my nose. Then I cried all over again because in my heart of hearts I am a delicate cambric handkerchief edged in lace sort of person, and I feel that identity slipping farther and farther away the more I blow my nose on my flour sack towel.

This too shall pass. And it will. I once stenciled "This Too Shall Pass" in fancy script on a tiny throw pillow. If I recall correctly, one of my foster dogs ate it.

R.I.P., John Banner (poem)

noreply@blogger.com (ari_1965) — Sat, 21 Jan 2012 03:51:00 +0000

It was never my intention
to pay homage
to Sergeant Schultz
on Hogan's Heroes
in my choice of outerwear

But my warmest winter coat
is long and gray and wool
All I need is the helmet
to complete the look
R.I.P., John Banner

My Sergeant Schultz coat
has two large front pockets
big enough to hide strudel

Every snowstorm I say to myself
as I walk out the door
to brush a foot of snow
off my car
don't forget to close the flaps on your pockets first
so they don't get filled with snow

Every snowstorm I forget

Strangely heavy feeling as I walk into the house
a pool of water underneath the coat hook
the dog looks virtuous

Remind me why I live here?

noreply@blogger.com (ari_1965) — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 13:37:00 +0000

Nice to move in and see this on the fridge.

noreply@blogger.com (ari_1965) — Sun, 15 Jan 2012 15:23:00 +0000

Three Meetings On Monday Morning (poem)

noreply@blogger.com (ari_1965) — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 14:21:00 +0000

I will get up from this chair
smile pleasantly at the questioning faces
and walk out the conference room door
to find myself on the platform in good time
to catch the train that goes from Minnesota in winter
to Dublin in mid-springtime
with a stop for a slow lunch and a Dubonnet rouge
in a Paris cafe where once
I taught my lover that hazel is the word
for eyes not blue not green not gray not brown.

In My Defense, I Point Out That At Least I Wasn't Drinking Alone (poem)

noreply@blogger.com (ari_1965) — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 17:05:00 +0000

The day with its claws well stuck in
What will loosen that hold?

The preferred potion
old as time
guaranteed to kill days and claws
warm together lemon, honey
warm the mug, too
add the whiskey
stir with spoon
fill the mug
drink it down
repeat.

I'm sure I could find
statistics
for the skeptical.

Last night I carried
from Bloomington to Burnsville
in addition to my own
not insubstantial weight
a particularly large bird.

I told him birds are
not allowed inside the house.
I threatened him
with Dakota County Animal Control.
He rode me in through the door
his claws deep
in the back of my right shoulder.

I tried music.
I tried laughing
when the live audience laughed.
I tried a little leftover smoked turkey
and a nice glass of iced water.
I tried all the humane methods.

But there was nothing for it
but to resort to a poison
old as time.

The first one didn't work.
The second also failed.
The third I made
minus the lemon,
the honey,
the heating,
the mug,
the spoon.

I thought briefly
that I ought to give this variant recipe
a catchy name all its own.
But there's no need.
It already has one.

I am a drop things on the floor type of person

noreply@blogger.com (ari_1965) — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 04:09:00 +0000

who wishes she were the sort of person who arrives home after a work day, removes her shoes, takes a neatly folded chamois cloth from the shelf, wipes the shoes carefully, folds and replaces the chamois cloth on the shelf, puts a shoe tree in each shoe, and places the pair of shoes in the closet. Every day.

The Loneliness of an Egg (poem)

noreply@blogger.com (ari_1965) — Wed, 28 Dec 2011 22:44:00 +0000

The recipe card says two.
Take them from their hollows.
That leaves one.

The loneliness of an egg.

The recipe card says two.
An occasional cook
doesn't risk deviation.

What’s it like on the shelf,
solo, in the dark?

One egg, scrambled.
So good for the dog’s coat.