Grammar police log entry no. 32942345

I'm not even sure what to say nor do I have any fancy way of deconstructing the following, except to say that IT MAKES MY SKIN CRAWL.

Sent to me in an IM earlier today:

"...to bad...her lose"

OMG.

Tara's no good, awful, terrible no luck day

In my coversations with the world travelers I know, I am often dumbfounded at their sense of surperiority when talking about jet-lag. Recently, Tara and I have learned that 30,000 or 3,000 miles doesn't make much of a difference. Add that we visited three states, two state parks, and five national parks/monuments in six days to the recent daylight savings change, and the 4:30 am departure to the airport, and that two of the three states we visited observe daylight savings and the other doesn't (and is in a different time zone) and finally, add that we waited nearly 45 minutes for our baggage and didn't get home until 1 am on Tuesday night, and you have two very tired gals. The only thing that could make this worse is if we had a 2 year old.

Well, we don't have a two year old, but it got to the point this week that we were telling time based on when we woke up, when we ate and when we were naturally hungry. This meant sometimes that we ate dinner at 11 pm or 1 am or whenever. Needless to say, when we returned home, we were exhausted. Ask me later about the phenomenal varieties of the southwest-lack-of humidity-induced snoring. When we finally went to bed on Tuesday night (2 am), our body clocks were thoroughly confused. It only got worse when Tara had to get up at 7:30 to go to work. After she plowed through 135 emails, she had to leave for class, which went until after six when I picked her up at UMass.

We had grand plans to vegitate in front of the TV and do laundry. As I cooked dinner, Tara took care of some stuff around the house. Once dinner was on, I sorted and started the laundry, which, you should know, is something we try to do at least twice a week because of the size of our dryer. We have a stackable 3/4 size washer/dryer in our apartment. This means the loads are smaller, and it takes longer to do laundry. Well, by last night at 7 when we started laundry, we had at least ten loads. Ten Loads. Ten full loads. In fact, we had so many loads that each color got its own load. Purple. Reds and Pinks. White. Green. Blues and aquas. For some reason we have a lot of aqua colored clothes. Tara's bathingsuit is aqua. My favorite shirt is aqua. A shirt we bought new for vacation that was worn once is is aqua. Wait -- make that two shirts we bought for vacation.

After we finished dinner, cleaned up, and watched some TiVo, I went to take the fourth load out of the dryer, and put the fifth load into the dryer and the sixth load into the washer. It should be known that I hate doing laundry, though I love having clean clothes. Hate it. I find it tedious and annoying, and it never ends. It certainly never ends when you have 10 loads plus sheets and towels, and you've already had a really long day. As I opened the dryer door on the aqua/blue load, I see something strange in the back of the dryer. In fact, the strange thing I see is actually a collection of things, and then, to my horror, THE THING in the back. I load up my arms full of clothes silently gasping at their appearance, grab The Thing out of the dryer and say, "Um, honey?" Still blissfully ignorant Tara says, "Yes, honey?" and I walk into the living room and hand it to her. It. Her lovely, $9.99 ball point Dr. Grip pen, which has now exploded in the dryer, spraying ink all over the clothes, and staining the enamel on the inside of the drying unit. I drop the clothes in front of her and set to work at getting any of the ink off I can while the ink is still wet. I'm scrubbing and scrubbing, but the inside drum of the dryer looks like the outside of a dalmation, and the ink is not budging. I hear Tara say, "FUCK!" a few times, then the familiar sound of the stain remover spray bottle. The clothes are only half dry, so Tara was still holding out hope.

And so there we were, scrubbing then spraying. Spraying and scrubbing. After ten minutes, I had gotten most if not all of the wet ink off of the dryer when I heard the spray bottle stop, and a deep sigh from the living room. When I pulled my head out of the dryer, Tara was standing there, and when I looked at her she wailed, "I'M SOOOOORRRRRRRYYYYY!" and started to cry. I hugged her, then we went into the living room to assess the damage. It wasn't good. Not only did the dryer look a dalmation, we now had seven or eight blue skinned dalmations lying on the living room floor.

We spent the next hour or so spraying, rubbing, scrubbing, and finally, looking on the internet to find some miracle solution. Let it be known here and now: ink does not come out. Dry or wet, it does not come out. Tonight we're going to try rubbing alcohol, and they also suggest pure acetone. PURE ACETONE. And then what, put it in the dryer?! Blue skinned dalmations is one thing. Exploding blue skinned dalmations is something entirely different.

If I'm feeling particularly cruel or humorous, I'll post a picture of the carnage later.

I'm finding myself in a bit of a Pickler

I am learning patience. I am -- I swear, despite what I am about to type.

Here it is, broken down into two parts:

Part 1: You are applying to graduate school. You may want to pick up a book on American idioms and sayings. It is 'intents and purposes' not 'intensive purposes.' It never was. It never will be. Oh, and it doesn't even make sense.

Part 2: You are IN graduate school. When you are in graduate school and you are discussing fine academic topics at a leading national research university, you should try to sound like you are discussing fine academic topics at a leading national research university. Therefore, I will argue that at no point should you ever use the word 'guesstimate.' In fact, guesstimate is not a word. Guess is a word. Estimate is a word. When you combine the two you are making it up, and you sound silly, and I tune out and can't hear anything else that you say.

PS. What's a ballsy?

Now that it's over and Brokeback has lost all but two nominations, is it fair to say they were shafted?

At first I started a blog entry here that began:

It must be said: I am disappointed that Brokeback Mountain lost all but two of the nominations for Oscars last night. . .

But as I poorly crafted some sappy sentiments about my brokeback love I decided that really, this post was about the title.

So I'll leave you with that.

;)

Oy!

Damn you, Cohen, for crushing the dreams of all of America!

The Kwanny who I live with is very upset with you for not bringing home the gold.

No Keebler treats for you, elfie.

Image: The Hitchclockclick

More soon...but we went to the top of the Hancock!

Images: some pics of the flowers I got for my birthday

overhead

Image: Oh, and one ridiculous picture of Bob

Image: Tulips

Image: More Tulips

Image: My favorite one of the bunch

Hot pink

I finally got the federal government to recognize my marriage

Your National Parks Pass order was shipped on 02/09/2006

Your order id is 2####6.

Below are estimates for delivery, depending upon the shipping selected.

Regular USPS Mail: 3 - 7 business days. Estimated delivery by 2/21/2006.
FedEx 2Day: 1 - 3 business days. Estimated delivery by 2/14/2006.
International: Delivery may take up to 8 weeks. Estimated delivery by 4/7/2006.

Pass Type : Self + Spouse
Pass will be shipped to:
Valerie Hooper
## _____ St.
Northampton
MA 01060
United States

Card holders/spouse name(s) : Valerie N Hooper and Tara A Lindros

28 Years Later

Don't worry: that is not a scene from my birthday party.

Judging by the tone of some of the birthday cards I got yesterday I am supposed to feel horrible about my age -- lament the inevitable and complain every year about the newly sagging body part, laugh line, gray hair. The truth is, though, despite rapidly approaching thirty, I don't feel that way.

Yesterday was an absolute barrage of love and well-wishes, so much so that at one point the phone rang (again) and Tara quipped, "It's your hotline!" For my birthday I got a chunky handful of cards, some moola, several emails, two mixed cds, four dozen tulips, many phone calls and almost -- almost -- a message of human-imitating-dog-barking "Happy Birthday To You." Generator, I expect you to pull out all of the stops for 29. Just saying.

Tara and I went out for dinner for the second most expensive dinner we've ever had at Del Raye in Northampton. As appetizers we ate fresh mussels in garlic broth and argula salad with pears and broiled goat cheese and honey toasts. For supper Tara ate 16-spice grilled chicken with purple mashed potatoes while I enjoyed parsley crusted cod with leeks and lobster mashed potatoes. After finishing a bottle of wine, we ordered a berry-stuffed crepe with fresh whipped cream and pomagranates. Y. U. M. M. Y. If I was another woman, I might cry at tasting how good it was.

If I get all of this love and attention for my birthday, how could I possibly be angry at the new laugh line by my right eye? How could I really be angered by the stray gray hair I found a few weeks ago.

The truth is I feel overwhelmingly, wholeheartedly, and fatastically blessed and loved. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

I'm sorry. Blink. Blink Blink. What?

Few things make me want to die upon reading them, but just knowing that these things even exist in the world MAKES ME WANT TO DIE.

O. M. G.

When Hope Unborn Had Died

Today in church a woman shared during community response time a story about being in Memphis, TN on April 4, 1968 when Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated. It was the first time, she said, that she was really in touch with the rage and fear that existed in the US at the time around issues of race and racism. She cried as she told the story, her body shaking from the intensity of her tale.

In honor of Dr. King, we talked about insidious racism and other -isms that exist and are rampant today. We talked about the courage needed to stand up and fight against those things, even if they have an ever-changing face, even if the circumstances are frightening, intimidating, or overwhelming.

Dr. King was a visionary beyond his years, and perhaps even beyond any visionary alive today. He worked endlessly for peace and justice, with an eye and a heart towards the most vulnerable in our midst. Hold his vision in your heart -- let it guide you and never lose sight of it.

We will miss you, our brother. We are changed because of you.

Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.
- MLK Jr.

Image: Sunset in Canada

Peace

Change

Before I came out to my parents, three years ago this May, I was the most defensive person I knew. I was always afraid of the next thing out of their mouths. What if they asked me about Tara? What if they asked me if I was gay? What would I tell them? Could I lie?

The answer to the last question is both what scared me the most but also what set me free; the answer was no. In a way, every time I'd feel those feelings of anxiety well up inside me, I'd wish with the mightiest, heartiest silent wish they would just ask me. "Val, are you gay?" I could say, 'Yes! YeS! YES!" and years of sadness and being shut off would be over. I couldn't have those years back, those hours crying myself to sleep, fighting with Tara because I hated myself, the weeks in therapy -- but I could have that moment, and every moment from then on.

I learned to trust and honor what people would choose to do, and before coming out to my parents I didn't allow them the room to be accepting of me. My own fear caused me to react despite what I knew was true: they love me, and nothing else matters. Given the option, they chose to love me. And now, they choose to love Tara, and have accepted her into our family as they would anyone else.

I've been thinking a lot lately about what that question is for me now. What question is it that feels most personal, and touches me most deeply? Since my spiritual revolution began circa July 2004, I have been asked that very question almost weekly -- "Will you pray with me?" At a moment when a person is most vulnerable, at their most sad or distraught, or possibly their most joyous, "Will you pray with me?" opens their hearts to you in way that is missing from the larger world. It is a time when you can ask for forgiveness, blessings, prayer, thoughts, and celebration. For me, prayer is the time when you allow yourself to be present in the exact moment, communing with God and goodness and hope, and trusting those around, those who support, love, and sometimes question, you for thoughtfulness. It is the single most beautiful and trusting moment I've ever experienced.

I used to fear the word pray. I always thought those who are deeply religious to be frightening, mindless souls. Hearing myself now talk about God and love and church sometimes surprises even me. But the mindfulness I am allowed by practicing prayer has changed me. It has allowed me to be present, more compassionate, more patient, and as full of love as I can possibly get. It was allowed me to vulnerability to ask someone to pray with me or for me. It has allowed me to empathy to pray with someone when they ask me. In a way, it has freed me from all of the time I wasted fearing the most personal of questions.

Every morning, either when I wake up, or I get to my office and I'm awake and ready to start my day, I recite the following from Mary Oliver:

Why I Wake Early

Hello, sun in my face. Hello, you who made the morning and spread it over the fields and into the faces of the tulips and the nodding morning glories, and into the windows of, even, the miserable and the crotchety – best preacher that ever was, dear star, that just happens to be where you are in the universe to keep us from ever-darkness, to ease us with warm touching, to hold us in the great hands of light – good morning, good morning, good morning. Watch, now, how I start the day in happiness, in kindness.

Try reciting this poem (prayer?) every morning when you wake up for one week. Tell me how it affects your day. Tell me what you think about prayer. And maybe next time we see each other I might ask you, in earnest, "Will you pray with me?"

Image: Meowwy Christmas!

Ghost kitties.

Hello, sun in my face. Hello, you who made the morning.

With the turn of the weather two weeks ago, the end of the semester last week, and the impending Christmas break, I am reminded at every turn of Christmas breaks from my childhood. It is this time that I miss my grandmother the most -- the time when her absence, and growing dimentia and cancer become realities. She is here but missing. In the room but not present. She is ever dissolving, hanging onto less and less each day.

I think about my grandmother on most days, and on the days I don't I remind myself in a guilty huff of her reality. My sister and I spent a lot of childhoods with her, and she has certainly shaped us in unimaginable, endless ways. Yesterday I received a Christmas package from my Aunt Marty, which contained some lovely presents, the best of which was the note she included. In it, she referred to Gram's frustration that she can't remember anything anymore, though Gram still loves hearing the stories of our family and the holidays, birthdays, and vacations we spent together. I imagine her listening to Aunt Marty tell stories while Gram listens, where she herself is a character, experiencing all of the memories being made in the story. I am comforted thinking of Gram picturing the memory being made, it becoming the character's memory, and then becoming her own.

I find peace thinking of Gram's inner most heart -- that place that is still untouched by disease, age, forgetfulness, and pain. In that heart is the grandmother of my memory, where I am a little girl building mudpies, baking, laughing, crafting, and she is wise-cracking, teaching, and laughing with me. I have to believe that this inner heart is where gram's comfort lies, and while her body blisters, and grows tumors, and punishes her with unimaginable pain and discomfort, she is able to return to her heart's sacred playground, where we are together again, and she is free.

Making the Dork

If in some alternate reality Tara and I watched P. Diddy's Making the Band on MTV, I would probably boast that five minutes before the band was announced we would have been able to pick out exactly who would have made the band. But to do so I would need to admit that we watched it, and that would just be silly.

Come on, folks!