Month: December 2004 (Page 5 of 6)

It’s interesting how, when you’re sick, the most mundane, boring, everyday things are suddenly the most fascinating, riveting, captivating things you’ve EVER SEEN in your life.

Last week, I stood in the middle of our kitchen, breathing through my mouth, watching my husband fill the plastic tank for the humidifier. I was entranced. This was amazing! He’s using a siphon-like tube, I’ve seen hundreds of times before, and yet tonight it holds my interest like CSI (the Original One.)

He noticed me, slackjawed, staring at him & said, “Am I in your way?”

I replied, “No! Not at all.”

He looked at me kinda funny. He was sick, too, but that man can FOCUS. He also has the ability to get dressed in the dark and can teach fifth graders without slapping them.

As if I were underwater, I looked at his face, slo-mo and all. “I’m sick,” I said.

We did shots of Ny-Quil and went to bed.

Life in the fast lane, my friends. Life in the fast lane.

Speaking of Spanish, and Mexican people, always makes me think of a story that happened to my father. He told me the story several times as I was growing up, to teach me a life lesson that many – too many – people never get: to remember that everybody is valuable & wants to be appreciated for what they do. Regardless of what that is.

My father was working at the Montfort cattle packing plant in Colorado. He was doing this for work while my mother was in graduate school in Denver. I was all of a year old at this time. Working at a cattle plant is not a very glamorous job, lest you think it might be. It smells like cow shit, it’s labor, and “plant” is a nice word for slaughterhouse – it doesn’t matter how humanely it’s done, or how entrenched a part of our culture it is, or how far we come since the days of “The Jungle” by Upton Sinclair – it’s still death & blood and not really the environment a 22-year old college graduate with a degree in philosophy expected to find himself. My father had dreams of an Ivy League law degree, but if he couldn’t get in to Harvard or Yale, then it wasn’t worth pursuing. In any event. This was the job he had while my mother was in school. One of his main assignments was feeding. So, he was outside, shoveling corn to feed the cattle. Back-breaking work, and my father cursed and complained and bitched and moaned about it. He wasn’t alone in his work – he often worked with an older Mexican man, who never complained or said anything about his job.

On one particularly hot day, my father started up with his griping. The Mexican THREW his shovel down on the pile of corn and got in my father’s face. Pointed finger and all.

“You! You! You complain, all the time! You think you’re too good for this? College Boy? You know what? Next year, at this time, you will be someplace else, doing something different! And you know where I’ll be? I’ll be RIGHT HERE, shoveling this CORN. Because I’ve got NOWHERE ELSE to go. So SHUT UP.”

My father could do nothing but swallow his embarassment and work silently the rest of that day. And he didn’t complain for the rest of the time he was there.

Every single time I think of his experience, I am stunned out of my selfish, petty world and back into the reality of how much bigger the universe is. And when my father would tell me this story, he always made the point that I shouldn’t feel like I’m better than somebody else who works at a grocery store, or cleans up the trash, or waits tables, just because I got a college education & was born into more fortunate circumstances. Because I am fortunate, and I don’t have to work three jobs to make ends meet. I have options. I have freedoms. People out there, even in this country, don’t have that, and WhiteAmerica doesn’t want you to believe we have those kinds of flaws but it’s true. Their are Mexican illegals here in Kansas City who live in the hollow cavities of the beams in the BRIDGES so their stuff doesn’t get stolen and because they are safer from authorities there. They work 100x harder than I do, but I drive my car home to my house & husband & dogs and I don’t worry about whether or not I’ll have heat tonight or if someone else learned to climb the beams and stole my only change of clothes.

When my dad did quit Montfort, he stole the scoop shovel he used for that corn. When I moved to Minnesota, he gave it to me, and it has dug my car out of many snowfalls, notably the Halloween Blizzard of ’91 in Minneapolis (36″!) But beyond its usefulness, it’s symbolic to me of so much, of all the things that are easy to forget, especially this time of year when it’s all about consuming and measuring up and meeting other people’s expectations. So when the woman at Hobby Lobby with her thinning mullet and sullen face took the time to wrap all of my ornaments, individually, so slowly, so excruciatingly slowly, I’m on my lunch break and I’m late and you are SO SLOW, all I said was, “Thank you so much for taking such care in wrapping those for me. They’re so breakable and I really appreciate it. You did a really good job.”

That shovel is one of my most prized possessions.

Sometimes I need to be hit over the head with it.

Well, it’s not ENTIRELY true. As this country’s Hispanic population grows, I’ve noticed that I’ve picked up a bit of the Spanish language. The other day, as I was scrawling out ‘BASURA!’ on an empty box, I jokingly said, “Hey, all I know how to say in Spanish is ‘trash’ and ‘beer’!” And then we started running through the words that I do know, and it turns out – yes – I am bilingual.

Step back. I’m going to dazzle and amaze you.

Cerveza is beer, and everyone knows that one. It’s when I have to order the pink squirrels at the poolside bar, you know we’re all in trouble.

Cuidado! Caution. I learned this from industrial mop buckets and little folding signs that warn you to exercise cuidado in a general area because otherwise you will slip & fall and it will be workman’s comp physical therapy ALLLLL over again.

Banyo. This is spelled wrong. I can’t write Spanish, only speak it. Bathroom. Essential to life. Especially if you’re having dos or cuatro cervesa.

I am of the opinion that words like “tamale” or “chorizo” don’t really count, because they are so commonplace. However, if we’re counting them? I know them. I can order just about anything on a mexican menu without fear, because I know to not get the menudo. Or go to a Menudo concert.

Donde’ Esta? This is a good starter for helping you find things. Wave your hands and arms a lot, to distract the listener enough & perhaps they will believe you actually speak the language. It is also goot to know if, for instance, you are drunk and really, really NEED the Banyo.

OK, yeah, I know the greetings, “HOLA!” “Como esta” or however it’s spelled, yes & no, and mind your manners, POR FAVOR, be nice when you ask for cerveza, GRACIAS – those are sort of a given, especially if you’ve ever gone to Mexico, because it is NON-STOP HOLA! at a resort. And I can count, up to ten, but I did NOT know “14” in ol’ Espanol until that U2 album came out. Thanks, Bono.

The next round of menudo & Dos Equis is on me.

Last night on Church of Lazlo on the Buzz, they were ripping some woman for her birthday party invitation, how she referred to herself in the third person, etcetera, etcetera. I missed most of the ripping. However, the Birthday Party Girl herself was pissed & she called in to rip on Lazlo. So – and this is why I’m blogging about it – they were saying that she was all about herself like P. Diddy (and his infamous party invitations) and they started playing this funkilicious-hip-hop groovin’ music under her ranting & raving (but SHE couldn’t hear it), and then Lazlo’s sidekick Slimfast came in at the end & did his own version of the song, also ripping on “Madame T” or whoever she was. I was BELLY LAUGHING at this skinny white kid singing, “Don’t. Disturb The. Sexy DON’T” and so on and so forth. I love when something completely hits my funny bone, and it’s even funnier when I try to explain it to you, to James, to anyone else who didn’t hear it, because it is SO NOT FUNNY in the re-telling, but I am still laughing so much it’s hard to type. And so you, my friends, can only shake your head and walk away. Because nobody, but nobody, can disturb the sexy. Or take away my laughter. DON’T.

Overheard Conversation:

Setting: him – in kitchen. me – in bathroom getting ready.

him: “Have you heard about the movie ‘Three’ on ESPN?”

me: “No. What is it?”

him: “It’s about Three!”

me: “Three what?”

him: “Three!”

me: (louder) “Three! Three what????”

him: (laughing)”Oh, my sweetie isn’t a redneck.” (more laughing)

(more chuckling as I continue applying makeup and am now growing more and more frustrated)

me: “WHAT THE HELL IS THREE? THREE WHAT? I DON’T GET IT!”

him: “Dale Earnhart’s car number! Number Three!”

me: “oh.”

me: “No.”

me: “I’m not a redneck.”

Editor’s note: James does not follow NASCAR, but on odd days does classify himself as part-redneck, and is a direct descendent of full-blooded rednecks. Therefore we have not insulted anyone in this exchange, except possibly passionate number Three fans, and certainly they aren’t reading blogs about knitting, but if they are, this is more to illustrate how I like to think of myself as really really smart, but there are things that boom right over my head & James’ enjoyment of testing how truly in-tune I am to every pop culture thing out there. I’m usually right there….. until it involves sports.

Hey, Hotmail, way to get with the twenty-first frickin’ century. Love the fact that FINALLY, finally, after all these years, you’ve taken away the damned frames when you click on a link in an email. And also, you seem to have done away with the blasted “Your window has been idle for more than ten minutes and the link cannot be clicked on you stupid stupid peon, I have more money in my left pocket than you and 800 of your closest friends earn in a year and still I trap you in this little maniacal webgame of mine MOOOHAHAHAHAH” or something to the same effect, you know what I mean.

Three cheers & crossed fingers for Twyla to win it on Survivor. She’s crusty, she’s cranky, she could totally kick my ass, but she wouldn’t have to because I’d be working & helping out. She doesn’t wear a bikini & she’s from Missouri.

Delight that hubby’s home from a four-day hunting junket. I love getting the time to myself and love how much I ache & miss him at the same time. It’s nice knowing I married the right one. :)

Must Not Forget To Program DVR For Alias & The Shield. Need. Fix. Soon. 24? Kiefer? When You Comin’ Back? Miss You. Hurry.

Bitchslap to Barbara Walter for picking PARIS HILTON as one of the Ten Most Fascinating People. COME ON. Just once, ONCE, I would like to see a really smart, but societally-deemed “unattractive” woman who is making a bleeping difference in this world get lauded and accoladed by the pop culture machine. Oprah without makeup DOES NOT COUNT. Instead, we get a vapid air head who wants to trademark “her” saying: “That’s HOT”. Paris, here’s a new version of HOTmail. Enjoy, you skank. I hear there’s a video of you out on this crazy thing called “the internet”. You should put some clothes on and do something worthwhile with your time.

Hrmph. Enough slapping and praising for one evening.

It’s funny when you find yourself in, well, the funnies. James & I have long established that, for the most part, I am Bucky Katt, and he is Satchel Pootch. Last year for Xmas, I got us mugs with funny strips on them relating to each of us……. Satchel is distraught because they don’t make crullers anymore (James’ favorite)…….mine, Bucky ends up breaking the wishbone & falling through the door – SWEET CRACKER SANDWICH, I got my wish, I’m out.

Anyway. I’m Bucky.



Not the most flattering character, but hang on, I’m also Eric Cartman. Kinda. Like when he gets mad at others and yells, that’s when we sound the most alike. Especially with the “Screw you guys, I’m goin’ hoooome.”



…and we’re both “big boned”, dammit.

The saving grace of it all, the cartoon element that makes me somewhat redeemable and offsets all my selfishness is probably one of the most altruistic cartoon characters out there. She’s bright, she’s tender-hearted, and most of all, she has a rigid iron core backbone when it comes to discerning right from wrong. Neither of us can accept injustices and rail against the world when something’s not fair. Yes, I’m talking about Lisa Simpson:

Fortunately, I’m not jaundice yellow, but I do like her hair. And I know, FOR SURE, Lisa Simpson would be a knitter, if given some ecologically sound wool & handmade free trade wooden knitting needles. But she would make everything for charity, probably. And here comes Bucky Katt rearing his scrawny selfish head and reminding me, once again, that I’m more Bucky and less Lisa……

My nickname (among many) growing up was “Ferg”, because apparently my father had to read esoteric history books to me as a baby, and was reading something about General Ferdinand, and the name evolved into Fergendorfer, shortened to Ferg. The Ferdinand was a theme, because “Ferdinand the Bull” was one of the very first books I learned to read as a child, and was definitely one of my most favorite books – to this day. My very first book I learned to read, at the ripe old age of 3, was “Father Bear Comes Home” and I loved the illustrations – especially with the mermaid & Little Bear.

I still remember the moment in time when I read something new, and comprehended it. It was truly the proverbial light bulb going off. I was still 3, we were living in Knoxville, Iowa, and I woke up to the sun shining in my room. I called for my dad, and I remember it was SO QUIET. I saw there was something on the chalkboard in my room, and I went over and looked at it. It said “I have gone down the road. I will be back soon. -Dad” and I read it, there was this “Kablooey!” in my mind, and I walked over to the window and looked out, and saw my father riding his bicycle back up the hill. I wasn’t afraid by the quiet, I understood where he had gone. And I felt very, very wise.

I’ve given my father new versions of “Father Bear Comes Home”, “Ferdinand the Bull”, “Ferdinand the Bull ” – in Latin – and still thank him for teaching me to read. I wish I read more, of course, and that might be the one New Year’s resolution I actually keep.

Meanwhile, I’m frenetic & making lists & being a highly organized systematic freak in my approach to work, holiday things, shopping, and life in general. Don’t be surprised if I start walking around with a stopwatch & a whistle soon.

Yesterday morning, I did my usual weekend home-alone routine upon waking up: go to the bathroom, admire how insanely-styled my stick-straight hair has become overnight, go unclick Polly from her pillow (she’s leashed up at night to prevent mischief), and let her out so she can go pee, too. Often, it’s out the back, but yesterday morning, I let her out the front door. Our Saturday paper was smack-dab in the middle of the driveway, and I thought I’d see if Polly would retrieve it after she’d gone pee.

Much to my amazement, she bounded straight for the paper, picked it up, made a small detour pit stop on her way back (to pee, but never dropped the paper) and brought the bagged paper right to me! I didn’t even have to say “Paper”! (The command we’ve used with Suzy.) Well, I was astounded, delighted, ecstatic, and Polly was pretty happy, too, what with all the praise and then a Woof-a-roni treat. I called James on his cell, just to leave him a message, about how exciting this was, what a great job she’d done, and how proud of Miss Polly I was! Later he left me a message back, and I could hear the smile in his voice…… turns out he’d been working with her all week and having her retrieve the paper instead of Suzy, as a surprise for me when he was gone. Awwwww. Honestly, it was more romantic than a dozen roses, and I’m a selfish material girl who likes her roses.

Polly had a bit more difficulty with today’s paper, understandably: the Sunday paper, especially in December, is unwieldy even for Suzy. But we were able to get the paper inside without flashing the neighbors too much butt cheek, I think. They’re really old, and their vision has to be bad. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. It’s nice in my world and the sky is all sorts of pretty blues.

I feel spastic! It’s like being sick left all these -oh what the fuck are those things that bounce around under microscopes, not ions, atoms? microns? nucleuses? dust motes? I enjoyed science in a reserved sort of way, I’m sorry, anyway, like all these things that normally jitter & jive on a daily basis but they just got stuck in suspended motion while I was playing Woman Hacking Lung for my next Oscar. Good god, I am watching SKATING on tv. SKATING. I am a middle-aged woman. This has got to go. TRIPLE LUTZ THIS CBS! Forensic Files, you are my long-lost friend.

Anyway.

I was sayin’.

Right now I feel all supercalifragilistic freakadoo hepped up like I’ve done coffee, shots of espresso, and snorted a big ol’ snout of cocaine, not that I know what that’s like, but I can imagine, and there was that time in college when this guy Martin did some and he was all Muhammed-Ali-esque and couldn’t stop bouncing around on the balls of his feet. Like, right now, if I started talking, I wouldn’t stop! And all the atoms and ions and nuclei and molecules – MOLECULES – that was the word we were searching for – have been unfrozen & they’re making up for lost time. And it’s all because the EVIL FOG OF COUGH and COLD has been lifted! I think! Other people seem to think, in an encouraging way, that it’s a cold that lingers for months. Well, that’s because they choose to believe it. I choose to believe I’m cured. OH Dear it’s a wounded dog on Forensic Files who saw his owners get killed. And the dog just died. This is too much in the other direction. PRINCESS BRIDE! You killed my father, prepare to die. I tell ya. Bruce, it’s more like THREE HUNDRED-57 channels and nothin’s on. This is why the DVR is the awesomest thing EVER because it records what I want to watch, and it’s like having my own personal cable channel, right there, accessible.

Now, if only I could get Polly to retrieve me some chinese take-out, we’d be cookin’ with gas.

Back to knitting. The Holiday Shardigan WILL be done – maybe tonight! I expect I will topple forward like a wind-up robot on its last key-click in about an hour, and all of this manic energy will be a distant memory. But it’s the weekend, and life is improving. Minute by minute, channel by channel. Stitch. By. Stitch.