family portrait

Obviously Mom is the head of the household. She's so good. And smart! And I don't know where she finds the time between all the homemaking to work that 'do the way she does, but whoo-eee! Mom's sure a hottie! But don't even think of crossing her! That halo may sparkle like the Christmas silver, but Mom knows how to make your life hell if you're asking for it!

Dad may look like a happy, slightly balding, pipe-smoking Buddha, but he was a mafia don in his time! He got his pipe off a dead man! And, oh ho! Those aren't his eyebrows, now! No! They're giant leeches! Or caterpillars! That's why he appears so mirthful! Caterpillars crawling on his face make Dad giggle like a giddy schoolgirl!

Oh, and that's little ol' me in the middle - with the beatific smile and the perky ponytail. I'm wearying my best going-out dress - the one with the little bows at the shoulders. But I never let the boys untie them! I was voted most popular and I made out with the captain of the football team once! I'm extremely well-rounded!

The little cutie-pie with the pigtails is my baby sister, Julie. Isn't she a doll? She got into the pots and pans the other day, and we all laaaaughed! The boys'll think she's just the cat's pajamas when she gets a little older. Watch out for those shoulder-bows, Julie!

The dog is Abby. She's a golden retriever mix, but we think she might just have some cocker spaniel in there! Look at those curly ears! Isn't she a sweetie? She knows how to sit, speak, and dust behind the fridge with her ears! She also eats birds! Mother's little helper, indeed!

And the boy...well, I suppose that's little Tommy. We don't speak of Tommy. Tommy...went away. Tommy was such a rapscallion! He sure didn't have a halo!

Oh boy! What did Mom slip into the ham loaf!

jackhammer time

Nothing I enjoy more than an unanticipated jaunt through downtown Tucson at 10:30 p.m. on a Wednesday on account of highway construction in a car that has an ignition problem.

Unless said jaunt includes M.C. Hammer.

Meth heads! Crack whores! Crazy drunken guy passed out on the railroad tracks! Out of my way! It's 10:30 on a Wednesday night! You know what that means, don't you?

Why, it's Hammer Time, of course!*

And thus, once again, M.C. Hammer saved the day with a stirring rendition of "U Can't Touch This" -- followed closely by a bunch of other crap by people who obviously lost their Hammer at a very early age. Unlike me. But somehow, that night, the Magic of Hammer reached out through my radio, across the Jon Mayer and the Creed, stretching across the airwaves to gently nudge all vehicular traffic into turn lanes and tap each stoplight to green as I approached - singing, naturally. A hymn to Hammer.

Yo, Hammer! Let me bust the funky lyrics! Cuz, you know... That's what I DO.

I didn't have to stop once through all of Tucson's ginormous thriving downtown.

Not even at the frontage road where there's often a homeless guy who God-blessed me for a banana once -- even though I'm pretty sure I didn't deserve it, considering how many times I've rolled up the window as the light goes red at that very intersection. Maybe it was just homeless code for "Not another frickin' banana. Jesus Christ, I'm gettin' scurvy over here." It doesn't matter. The Hammer was with me, so I didn't have to stop and face my shame this time, yo. Thanks, Hammer!

And not even - oops! Through Tucson's magnificently humongous and vibrant downtown! I must've blinked.

But I never stopped singing.

Break it down.



*In a related note, on Wednesday night, I also dreamed that I knew a recipe that would let people fly. It included a banana. A byproduct of guilt, you say? Maybe you should stop rolling up your windows at stoplights down by the freeway and give folks a break, you say? Like maybe some actual money or a smile instead of a piece of fruit you don't particularly care for anyway? Aww, get outta here, homeboy - you know you can't touch this!

thanksgiving day

indestructable

Thursday night, we invited a couple of friends over for drinks and pie on the patio. At some point, Clariza glanced under the table and found this:
The following morning, Clariza brought her mother, Millie, over to visit with our backyard plants -- many of which Millie had given us last spring. As we wandered about with our coffee, Clariza suddenly pointed to the ground and shrieked, "Kong!"

But I'm not posting a picture of what she saw. Suffice to say that, while the Kong may not be indestructable after all, it's certainly indigestible.

rutabagas: "You haven't seen the last of me! Aha ha ha!"

Every childhood Thanksgiving that I can clearly remember involved a terrible something called smashed rutabagas. It was - and is - a family tradition, and my sister and I hated it. But Family Law dictated that we were required to eat at least a bite of smashed rutabagas or we would not get pie. Or grow up to be happy family citizens. Or successful as adults. Probably we would also end up in rehab.

Additionally, at some point during every Thanksgiving dinner, we were assured that when we got old enough to have a choice in the matter of whether we would serve smashed rutabagas or not for Thanksgiving dinner, we would ultimately bow down before the rutabaga tradition and haul out the smashing tools. We would want to smash and feed poor defenseless rutabagas to our own hapless families one day.

Naturally we did not buy this at all.

Until now.

Bon Appetit has published in their November issue a recipe for smashed rutabagas. They even call it "Smashed Rutabagas". And in the picture, they look like my old nemesis: smashed rutabagas. Except that they include not only ginger-roasted pears and thyme, but also plenty of heavy cream and butter. And you all must know by now that I'm not a big believer in namby-pamby recipes that don't involve plenty of cream and butter. So I'm going to give smashed rutabagas another chance. Or, perhaps more accurately, I'm going to give cream and butter a chance to make rutabagas edible.

We'll see how it goes. Will tradition be reborn? It's probably too early to say. But I will be honoring one other tradition this year for sure: if the Guatemalan doesn't pull down at least one bite dammit of smashed rutabagas this year, he's not getting any pie.

it all seems a little shady

I know some people who are really, really tall here in Tucson. They can grow 'em pretty tall in the midwest, I guess, but it's not like this. I mean, really, these people are giants. Maybe they grow taller here because they get so damn much friggin' sun all the time.

But obviously this is a post about tall people, and not one in which I complain about how hot it is again. So I will cease and desist with the defaming of the sun.

So these tall people who surround me...one of them was explaining to me on Saturday how when he's standing around in various situations the natures of which I'm not clear on exactly--

(but I nevertheless envision him standing in line at Oktoberfest or possibly waiting on his turn during a game of croquet while sipping a good scotch and finger-clapping for other people. Maybe? Does croquet ever elicit finger-clapping?)

--he will often notice that other people who are also standing around kind of shuffle purposefully about in such a way that they wind up in his shadow. So he creates shade for people who would otherwise have to stand about in the sun. Possibly while playing croquet. On Thanksgiving Day.

Well, this got me thinking.

You know something that tall people probably have to buy a lot of because, while they're busy altruistically casting shady spots for other people, the sun is hitting them full on in the face and also because they have more exposed surface area? You know, because they're bigger than other people?

Sunscreen.

And, hi, guess what. You can't buy sunscreen in Tucson in November. At least not at Safeway. You know why? Because it's not supposed to be sunny. Well, at least it's not supposed to be as sunny. But that's not the point anyway. We live in the desert. The desert. The desert. How can grocery stores with any sort of sense stop stocking sunscreen in September in the desert? And can you repeat that last sentence back to me three times fast? Tall people still need sunscreen in November. Maybe more than ever, with global warming and all.

And - even more frightening - according to my theory, the sun is creating ever taller folks all the time! Taller folks who will be unable to get sunscreen at Safeway when they most need it! During the winter holiday season!

I suppose if we just blindly let the sun bake our tall people the way Safeway would have us do, eventually there will be so many of them and they will be so tall that they'll cast enough shadow to shade large portions of the desert - maybe even Yuma - more or less continuously throughout the year. The overall climate will begin to shift. It will get cooler and wetter. (Uh...because it's my theory and I like rain.)

Eventually the creeks and rivers will begin to run, and young oaks and maples -- and maybe even daffodils! -- will sprout up through the gravel. Then -- and only then -- will it make sense for the stores to remove their sunscreen products at the end of August and begin selling wool sweaters halfway through September.

Maybe unprecented growth among Tucson's population of extremely tall people is the way to curb global warming. Maybe that's what Safeway's been up to all along.

Meanwhile, it's still November. It's still almost 90 degrees, and this wool sweater is killing me. Where's the nearest tall person? I could use a little shade.

everyone says i'm pretty hot...but then, they are too

Good news, everybody! This Thursday is Thanksgiving!

You knew that already, you say?

Huh. I guess I keep forgetting that we're more than halfway through November because, oh. Right. It's still 85 degrees during the day here. (Emphasis mine.)

Like any well-acclimated Tucsonan, I fully expect temperatures to continue to soar well into the seventies right around Thanksgiving. But...I'm sorry. Eighty-five? What are we, Venus? Venus the planet -- not the goddess. Although by all accounts, she, too, was pretty hot. As soon as I wipe all the sweat out of my eyes, maybe I can let you know for sure.

on the agenda: to plan or not to plan...

Have you worked it out yet that -- on occasion -- I will click on "New Post" and simply start spewing forth whatever comes to mind with no thought of plot or character development -- or even denouement?

Yes. I do that. And, even more shocking, I am doing that right now. Ha!

But you know, I bet it's even more shocking to you that I know the word denouement, right? I'm a little bemused by the whole thing myself, actually.

Now if only I knew what "bemused" means...

Somewhat disappointingly, the only thing coming to mind this evening, besides French words that have to do with literary works that I am currently not working on, is that I ordered a Turkey tonight. I went with a 12 to 14 pounder in case anyone was perched on the edge of their seat wondering.

I kind of figure that, with a smaller Turkey (and without a reliable meat thermometer which I apparently do not own - you know who you are, meat thermometer) it's slightly more likely that I will cook the Turkey all the way through this year than with a larger bird like the behemoth I inadvertently got last year no thanks to a store which will remain nameless but which happens to rhyme with "Child Coats" which are apparently things that small people are traditionally required to wear in parts of the country that are not here during the wintry month of November.

How was that for a run-on? See? This is the kind of thing that happens when I have no plan*.

So, to recap, yes, this year I plan to cook the bird all the way through. Even if it's by accident.

I am really looking forward to Thanksgiving. Would you like a preview of my agenda? Yes? Yes? Really? Frankly, I'm a little bemused again, but...okay:

7:00 Reveille

7:35 Calisthenics

8:15 Breakfasty pastries and perhaps a hot shower

8:50 Poking at turkey with furrowed brow. Oh god, is it still frozen?

9:30 Traditional Holiday Morning Mimosas. Because now that I'm a mature and responsible adult, I can have alcohol whenever I want. Even before ten! And also the state of the Bird is somewhat worrisome.

10:00 Celebration over at Midnight Margaritas. Everyone's welcome. Bring your own private jokes.

10:05 Forgot I was supposed to be watching Thanksgiving Day parades.

10:07 Forgot I was supposed to be making the biscuits.

10:08-1:29 Free time! Perhaps some swimming in the lake, napping in the cabin, running underwear up the flagpole...it's totally up to me!

1:30 As long as the Bird gets done by

2:30

2:31 when the neighbor comes over to help eat it

2:32 ...assuming she's not actually (though we are nursing a suspician that she is) a vegetarian.

2:33 Well, by

2:35 we'll know for sure.


* Although, having a plan doesn't always help, I suppose.

Elegy for a Blue Rat

The color of your fur is so brilliant,
So chemical,
So...very...blue,
Where you lie like a strange, furry Krishna
(Although that is perhaps a wildly innapropriate analogy)
Sprawled atop your den,
That messy pile of plant debris
That you worked so hard to build
In the middle of a prickly pear
Pehaps killing the plant through your labors
Or perhaps having chosen a dying plant to begin with -
We are not sure.

This shade of blue seems most likely unnatural,
Though perhaps you boast a gene
Or two
That have run amuck?
I fear not.

For your blue, gentle rat, is not the soothing shade of gentle skies
Or that of waters upon which people like to paddleboat
In tiny boats shaped like swans or exotic fish,
Nor is it the blue of wildflowers or even of monkeys
With weird stripes on their faces.
Your blue, Blue Rat, is that of
Frost Glacier Freeze Gatorade,
Which was introduced in 1997,
Or perhaps Fierce Wild Berry which came
Later.
It is the blue of those freezer pops we ate as kids
That stained our lips and tongues
The same blue as your fur
And probably did not contain actual
Blueberries
Although to be fair,
I'm not sure they ever claimed to do so on the labels.

Blue Rat, you appear to have been liberally doused
With Original Scent Liquid Tide.

Blue Rat, I do not know
How you came to meet your fate
In the more-or-less sealed (or so we thought) confines of the
Porta-John
While we were away from the excavation site
We were working on
(We were having fun - perhaps you were too,
Up to a certain point).
Perhaps more vexing,
I do not pretend to understand
How you climbed out.
But the nature of your chemically induced death
I grasp.

Blue Rat, with your fur so very...very blue,
like an unnatural star winking in the depths
Of an open Porta-John,
It is true,
I am making fun,
But really I do not feel that anyone,
Including rats and extremely dangerous gangsters,
Deserves to die
In a Porta-John,
And I hope you are in a better place.

I think you'd have to be.

Wedding

Wedding pictures are here*









*I have to apologize to Aunt Linda - I took more pictures of you, but they all came out blurry. You may have simply been moving too fast!

mouse in the house

Raphael trapped a mouse behind the stove last night. When we both got home from our respective schools, we took Lila for a walk around the corner to let it go in a vacant lot.

I have no entertaining stories about the mouse. I'm pretty happy about that.

Actually, I have very little to say at all. But I wanted to write something so that you would know I am still here. I am still working on the wedding pictures. And I am still at work. So I should go.

the wedding day

...not actually the wedding. You'll find, if you click here, that we were primarily focused on the things Jack was doing, which were, of course, completely governed by us. So, mainly we stood around a lot and took pictures of the baby held captive in our loving arms.

all souls procession

Tucson's annual All Souls Procession is a far cry from Fairborn's annual July Fourth parade. I did not see a single clarinet. Oh, and also, it was led by the Angel of Death, face painted white with hollow black eyes, dripping red roses and white feathers. Instead of candy and pencils, they passed out glow-in-the-dark skull rings and political flyers. Throbbing drums and clanging bells and wailing bagpipes; masses of people dressed as the dead, draped in flowers and beads, in masks and white paint, in old lace and velvet and feathers, in top hats and body glitter and spandex; bellydancers and corpse brides, drummers and children in decorated carriages; paper mache puppets and floats in the shapes of spiders and skeletons; stiltwalkers wearing enormous costumes of Buddha and pirates and ogres; people bearing signs and carrying candles for the deceased - relatives, friends, heroes, soldiers, monks, beloved pets. Next year we're dressing up and joining the parade. Click here for pictures.

the rehearsal dinner

here's the first batch of pictures

of monkeys and muertos

Feliz Dia de los Muertos! If I wake up super-motivated on Sunday, I'm going to try to make Raphael come to the All Souls Procession with me that evening. Why have your Sunday on a Monday if you don't take advantage of all the late-night ("6 o'clock-ish") events? In six years, I've never been. That makes me some loser of an anthropologist, I guess.

I haven't gone through the wedding pictures yet, so, to tide the Jackfans over (you know who you are, you crazy Jackfans), here's a picture of a monkey:
I mean the baby, of course.