It’s April 25, 2005…and it’s snowing.
Welcome to Buffalo.
Okay, I will admit it. My patience is wearing very thin these days with this place. Those who know me well know that I have tried to be a big Buffalo booster. Despite the fact that I’ve been known to speak out rather enthusiastically against the Giambra and Masiello administrations, I have extolled the cultural virtues of the area – the art, the music, the architecture, the history, traditions, and legends. While the city comes alive in the summer months with huge events like Thursdays in the Square, Allentown Art Festival, and the Taste of Buffalo (second largest “Taste” in the country, topped only by Chicago – and that’s probably only because Buffalo’s is two days and Chicago’s is a week), I have also stressed the abundance of smaller-scale urban adventures; trawling the interesting nooks and crannies of the city, exploring the little off-the-way stuff, getting one’s fingernails caked with the dirt of the uniquely Buffalo fun stuff, attending the small events buried deep within the last few pages of ArtVoice. I have stood tall and defended this place – and my decision to move back here two years ago – by pointing out these advantages, these charms, these quirks and nuances. I’m very quick to point out that this city has a world-class art gallery, filled with treasures classic and contemporary. I’ve demanded that my listener note we have higher education on what seems like every street corner – from career training to a Ph.D, there is certainly NO shortage of educational resources here. Even the public schools here are ranked some of the best in the nation.
We live 20 minutes from one of the Seven Wonders of the World – something that we all take for granted but is pretty amazing if you think about it. We grew up thinking the Falls were just another place to go when you had nothing better to do, but there are people who fly halfway around the world just to land in our backyards. We have THE best pizza (I’m a sweet-sauce, puffy-crust, burnt pepperoni kind of girl, and you just can’t get that anywhere but here), and of course, WINGS (and try as they might, nobody outside of Buffalo can ever get it right). This is the only place on earth you can get Loganberry – and on tap at that. Most bands stop here on their tours (although I’ve yet to convince Mason Jennings or Alice Peacock to make a stop here). And then there is that art-deco behemoth love of mine, Central Terminal. The list of good things about Buffalo goes on and on and on.
Of course we also have corrupt politicians, gross departmental mismanagement, and squandered resources. Thanks to the people in charge, we can’t use our libraries half the time, we have to break into public parks if we want to enjoy them, and we have to drive thirteen miles out of the way to get a stupid driver’s license renewal. We have crime. We have drugs. We have our fair share of urban blight. You can’t fly anywhere directly from here. And on top of all of this, our weather SUCKS.
Bottom line - I can’t take it any more. May is a week away, and we’re still getting winter weather advisories. This is bullshit! The first day of spring was MORE than a month ago…where the hell is it? I want my spring! My garden should be blossoming with daffodils and crocuses and hyacinths! My grass should be greening up! My maple tree out front should be budding! My heat should not be still kicking on in the middle of the day with my thermostat set at 60 god damn degrees!! I hate that, on April 25th, I have to wear my winter coat. I hate that we get like three or four “teaser” days, where the temps get up near 70, and then just when we think we’ve made it, we go back into the 30’s. Damn it! We will continue this “Sprinter” season, this vacillation between the seasons, until Memorial Day, when the threat of any more snow has been completely eliminated. As much as that sounds like a sarcastic statement, it is sadly, unfortunately, the truth. I’ve seen in snow in May, boys and girls. Stranger things have happened.
Once we’ve eliminated all threats of snow, then we deal with the rain. Buckets of rain, all summer long. After having spent nine years in Chicago where the summers were excruciatingly (as in 90’s, 100’s) hot, my first summer back here was kind of nice. I would love a summer of high 70’s, low 80’s, and just a few spectacular thunderstorms to make it truly perfect. But here it will stay mostly in the 70’s, we will spend some time in the 80’s, and it will rain. Then it will rain. Then it will rain again. And then it will rain some more. And my neighbors and my customers and my co-workers will all say the same thing…“wet enough for ya?” Hardy har har. We’ll crack jokes about building arks and whatnot, and I will curse. Loudly. Then I’ll blow my nose, since I’ll still be fighting the cold I’ve had since Christmas.
Then once we’re finished having a semi-summer, we’ll head into fall, which is typically my favorite season but is much too short. The leaves will turn and fall before we know what’s happening, and the first fallen leaf is the cue: people, get ready. It’s going to start snowing soon. By Halloween we’ll have seen flurries, if not more, and by Thanksgiving we’ll have shoveled the driveway at least once. Then we’ll settle in for the winter and wait for May to arrive all over again. It’s sad. And for someone whose mental state is affected profoundly by the weather, it can be pretty damn depressing.
So when I woke up yesterday morning and saw an inch of snow on the ground, and then drove to work in wet snow this morning, I cemented my resolve. I will be leaving again – and soon. To where, I don’t know yet, and that will depend on a lot of things, like job markets and grad school applications. But it won’t be anywhere it snows into early summer. Maybe I’ll head out west or perhaps down south where snow is a remote memory for some, an abstract concept for others. Hmm, maybe a place like North Carolina where they get those freak ½-inch snowfalls and shut everything down. I can laugh at the people freaking out as I enjoy my day off.
Or I may possibly just move back to Chicago, where the weather sucks but at least I can get a direct flight to anywhere in the world. Plus, nobody ever skips over Chicago when touring, I can get a real burrito at 4:00 in the morning, and if Richard M. Daley is still running the joint, I know I’ll at least like the mayor.
Monday, April 25, 2005
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Becoming Our Mothers
While I have no intentions of turning this into a weight loss blog (there is no way I could ever compete with Wendy), my membership in Weight Watchers deserves mention now and again. As of the date of this entry I’ve lost 4.4 pounds and let me tell you, it will be a joyous day on Planet Deedums when, in just a few short days, I’m finally able to slap that 5-lb magnet on my fridge! I’ll put it right next to the little pig with the conversation bubble that says “You want broccoli!”
Anyway, the reason I’m bringing it up this time is because a friend of mine just joined Weight Watchers this week, and upon announcing this news to me added, “I’ve officially become my mother. This is a new low for me.” And this made me laugh. I’m not laughing so much because I know her mother (who happens to be a terrific woman), but mainly because I’ve realized that at our age, becoming our mothers is quite possibly our greatest fear. Oh sure, we fear death on some level as we hurtle mercilessly toward middle age, we fear for our financial future, we fear the wrinkles that we fight and the gray hairs that we yank out of our heads, we fear (in my case) a lifetime of continued frustration at the hands of the opposite sex (and having our peaks wasted in the process), we fear missing the biggest sale ever at Kaufmann’s. But more than any of this, we fear becoming our mothers.
I’m noticing lately that certain things come out of my mouth that make me stop and say, “hey, who said that?” and I realize…it was my mother. I hear myself emitting words, goofy expressions, vocal inflections – all eerily identical to my mother. I call my sister and say, “Hello, this is your mother,” just to freak her out. While I’ve always been good at impressions and imitations, this is one that comes all too naturally. Too naturally for my own comfort. In fact, it’s effortless…and that totally bums me out.
Now truthfully, I don’t think I would mind becoming my mother if it meant I would just simply physically resemble her. (Well, as long as I didn’t have to recreate that giant anglofro she had in the 70’s). The woman is half my size! She goes to work and gets asked out more times in one shift than I have been asked out in the last decade. And if that weren’t bad enough, take into consideration that (a) she’s a cleaning lady and as such is wearing grubby clothes and little or no makeup when these hits take place and (b) most of the guys asking her out are young enough to date ME! She doesn’t go out with any of them (and truthfully I wouldn’t either, since my mother and I both have a die-hard rule about requiring our dates to possess full sets of teeth), but still, I can’t even get a flirtatious smile out of a guy, much less an offer for a movie and a drink…and here goes my 58-year-old mother fighting off men left and right with her toilet brush.
But really, if I could avoid becoming her and just look like her, I think I could accept that. But alas - I look like my father.
Anyway, the reason I’m bringing it up this time is because a friend of mine just joined Weight Watchers this week, and upon announcing this news to me added, “I’ve officially become my mother. This is a new low for me.” And this made me laugh. I’m not laughing so much because I know her mother (who happens to be a terrific woman), but mainly because I’ve realized that at our age, becoming our mothers is quite possibly our greatest fear. Oh sure, we fear death on some level as we hurtle mercilessly toward middle age, we fear for our financial future, we fear the wrinkles that we fight and the gray hairs that we yank out of our heads, we fear (in my case) a lifetime of continued frustration at the hands of the opposite sex (and having our peaks wasted in the process), we fear missing the biggest sale ever at Kaufmann’s. But more than any of this, we fear becoming our mothers.
I’m noticing lately that certain things come out of my mouth that make me stop and say, “hey, who said that?” and I realize…it was my mother. I hear myself emitting words, goofy expressions, vocal inflections – all eerily identical to my mother. I call my sister and say, “Hello, this is your mother,” just to freak her out. While I’ve always been good at impressions and imitations, this is one that comes all too naturally. Too naturally for my own comfort. In fact, it’s effortless…and that totally bums me out.
Now truthfully, I don’t think I would mind becoming my mother if it meant I would just simply physically resemble her. (Well, as long as I didn’t have to recreate that giant anglofro she had in the 70’s). The woman is half my size! She goes to work and gets asked out more times in one shift than I have been asked out in the last decade. And if that weren’t bad enough, take into consideration that (a) she’s a cleaning lady and as such is wearing grubby clothes and little or no makeup when these hits take place and (b) most of the guys asking her out are young enough to date ME! She doesn’t go out with any of them (and truthfully I wouldn’t either, since my mother and I both have a die-hard rule about requiring our dates to possess full sets of teeth), but still, I can’t even get a flirtatious smile out of a guy, much less an offer for a movie and a drink…and here goes my 58-year-old mother fighting off men left and right with her toilet brush.
But really, if I could avoid becoming her and just look like her, I think I could accept that. But alas - I look like my father.
Friday, April 08, 2005
Hey, Pizza Face!
For a while I went through a period where it seemed the older I got, the younger I looked, but then somewhere around 31 or 32, I started showing my age. Wrinkles. Sagging eyelids. Funky skin tone. The inevitable descent of my jowls (thanks to my mom’s side). Pores so big you could drive a truck through them, that sort of thing. All the usual signs of aging, compounded by years of horrific eating habits, harsh climates, excess makeup, and cigarette smoke (my own and that of just about everyone I’ve ever lived with). Although I still live in a harsh climate, something that isn’t going to change for a while, I’ve gotten rid of the smoke (I’ll be quit for 6 months next week, yay me), I don’t wear foundation anymore, and I’ve started eating better - I just started Weight Watchers, and I drink enough water on a daily basis to float a small armada.
So then, would someone PLEASE explain why my face looks like it belongs inside a Papa John’s box? Look, when I said I wanted to look younger, I did NOT mean I wanted to look like a greasy, hormone-laden 16-year-old. That actually might not be SO bad, but I look like a greasy, hormone-laden 16-year-old with WRINKLES. I thought that when you started getting wrinkles, you stopped getting zits. I now have more of both than I’ve ever had in my whole life!
This is beyond the “oh, no, I have a pimple!” mini-crises of my yesteryears. This is seriousacne. On my forehead is an archipelago of zits, all different shapes and sizes in all different stages of development. There’s a small cluster camping out on my right cheek. There’s a colony forming on the side of my nose. For every one that clears up, two more rise to the surface. Most of them are relatively normal-sized, as pimples go, but now and then I get a monster. I recently had one directly between my eyes that was so big I could see out of it. Right now I’m sporting a volcanic growth on the side of my chin that has its own zip code. Or would that be a ZIT code? *ba-dum-CRASH!*
Anyway, I really never had this problem when I was younger. I would get a pimple, maybe two, usually at the most inopportune times, leading to drastic measures to execute their removal on occasion - like the time I burned a dime-sized hole in the middle of my forehead with Compound-W two nights before the prom. (Hey, come on, it was worth a try…I figured if it could remove a wart in three days, then surely it would remove a zit overnight)! But most times I’d get a pimple, I’d lament my cruel fate, dab on the Clearasil, and away I’d go.
So what is an aging thirty-something to do these days? I’m in constant battle, armed with little experience in the world of blemish-fighting. I go to the store and am overwhelmed by the number of cleansers, toners, scrubs, masks, moisturizers, astringents, anti-wrinkle this, oxygen-boosting that, pro-vitamins, alpha-hydroxy, beta-byproxy, free-radical-blockers, and so on and so on. My shower is now littered with half-empty (yes, I’m a pessimist) tubes of various cleansers and scrubs, the back of the toilet cluttered with lotions and potions, all claiming various miracles. I even ordered that stuff off the infomercial on television, you know, the stuff hawked over the years by such peaches-and-creamy-complected celebs as Vanessa L. Williams, Judith Light, Valerie Bertinelli, Britney Spears, and Jessica Simpson. I thought, “hey, this stuff works for everyone – young, old, white, black, models, actresses, rock-star wives, pop-stars, has-beens, wanna-bes, tabloid mega-fodder…surely it will work for ME!” Well, it didn’t. In fact it made the situation worse. Turns out I’ve got some sensitivity to the active ingredient and after two days I looked like someone had set my face on fire and put it out with a rake. Not exactly what I was going for there. So much for that idea.
So for now I just walk around with my hand in front of my face a lot, avoid talking to nice-looking guys, and complain to my girlfriends while pointing at the offending face invaders. I’ll blame it on stress and hormones, two things I can do little about at the moment. Then maybe once I get through this phase I’ll begin my war on the wrinkles.
So then, would someone PLEASE explain why my face looks like it belongs inside a Papa John’s box? Look, when I said I wanted to look younger, I did NOT mean I wanted to look like a greasy, hormone-laden 16-year-old. That actually might not be SO bad, but I look like a greasy, hormone-laden 16-year-old with WRINKLES. I thought that when you started getting wrinkles, you stopped getting zits. I now have more of both than I’ve ever had in my whole life!
This is beyond the “oh, no, I have a pimple!” mini-crises of my yesteryears. This is serious
Anyway, I really never had this problem when I was younger. I would get a pimple, maybe two, usually at the most inopportune times, leading to drastic measures to execute their removal on occasion - like the time I burned a dime-sized hole in the middle of my forehead with Compound-W two nights before the prom. (Hey, come on, it was worth a try…I figured if it could remove a wart in three days, then surely it would remove a zit overnight)! But most times I’d get a pimple, I’d lament my cruel fate, dab on the Clearasil, and away I’d go.
So what is an aging thirty-something to do these days? I’m in constant battle, armed with little experience in the world of blemish-fighting. I go to the store and am overwhelmed by the number of cleansers, toners, scrubs, masks, moisturizers, astringents, anti-wrinkle this, oxygen-boosting that, pro-vitamins, alpha-hydroxy, beta-byproxy, free-radical-blockers, and so on and so on. My shower is now littered with half-empty (yes, I’m a pessimist) tubes of various cleansers and scrubs, the back of the toilet cluttered with lotions and potions, all claiming various miracles. I even ordered that stuff off the infomercial on television, you know, the stuff hawked over the years by such peaches-and-creamy-complected celebs as Vanessa L. Williams, Judith Light, Valerie Bertinelli, Britney Spears, and Jessica Simpson. I thought, “hey, this stuff works for everyone – young, old, white, black, models, actresses, rock-star wives, pop-stars, has-beens, wanna-bes, tabloid mega-fodder…surely it will work for ME!” Well, it didn’t. In fact it made the situation worse. Turns out I’ve got some sensitivity to the active ingredient and after two days I looked like someone had set my face on fire and put it out with a rake. Not exactly what I was going for there. So much for that idea.
So for now I just walk around with my hand in front of my face a lot, avoid talking to nice-looking guys, and complain to my girlfriends while pointing at the offending face invaders. I’ll blame it on stress and hormones, two things I can do little about at the moment. Then maybe once I get through this phase I’ll begin my war on the wrinkles.
Friday, April 01, 2005
Oh Look! Another Schiavo Blog!
Terri Schiavo is dead. After 13 days without food or water, the shell has finally expired. Thank God. Thank God for having the mercy, finally, to put her out of misery. That’s not to mention putting those of us who have endured the media circus out of ours. Unfortunately I don’t think we’ve heard the last of it, but at least Terri has some peace.
Right now Terri’s having a grand old party up there in Heaven with a lot of people, I would imagine; her grandparents, aunts, uncles, her childhood pets, perhaps a friend or two. I bet she’s mighty pissed at her parents, though. I know I would be.
See, I’ve made it clear to my family that they are not, under any circumstances, to keep me alive by artificial means. Maybe I’ll put it in writing, but I don’t really think I need to, since everyone in my family pretty much feels the same way. None of us want to be kept alive or to keep each other alive if it involves permanent confinement to mechanics, tubes, or wires. Maybe it’s because we’re vain or proud and have a problem with someone else feeding us or wiping our asses. Maybe it’s because we’re all chatterboxes and live in fear of not being able to talk. Maybe we’re cheap and don’t want to spend the money on all that hospital/hospice/home health/nursing home care on someone who can’t appreciate it. Maybe we don’t really like each other very much and are looking for any excuse to bump each other off. But seriously, maybe it’s because we have a security about death, security in our faith that helps us understand that the body is a vessel, leased from God, within which our souls reside – and when God decides it’s time to terminate the lease, there is no clause for renewal.
I’m not talking about paralysis or amputation or disfigurement. I’m not saying that if I should suddenly lose the ability to walk that I should be shot and sent to the glue factory, or if I lose my sight I want to be guided off the nearest cliff. What I mean is that if I cease to be me, if I am nothing but an incoherent body in a bed, my involuntary functions being artificially performed by external means, then I have no business taking up space. And who is anybody to tell me I have to stay like that?
Oh wait a second – those are the same people that can tell me whether or not I may reproduce and can tell my gay friends that their commitments to their partners aren’t “real.” Sorry, I forgot. *rolls eyes*
But I digress.
The battle continues now with what to do with Terri’s remains. Michael, the husband, wants the autopsy done one way. The parents want it another way. Both want to prove that they were right; Michael wants to remove the vilification branded upon him, the parents want to prove that her death was wrongful. The husband wants to cremate her. The parents want to bury her. For the love of God, please, someone make it STOP! Enough already! We DON'T CARE ANYMORE!
And now, as if I didn’t already dislike the Schindlers enough, we find out that they have authorized a conservative direct-mailing firm to sell a list of names of all the kind (albeit foolish) folks who sent them money during the years of their legal battle. These people can now brace for a steady stream of junk mail, solicitations, and propaganda from every right-wing nutbag group out there. Of all the underhanded, selfish things to do…what in the HELL is wrong with you, Bob and Mary Schindler?! First you keep your daughter alive, bleeding your own bank account, then you bleed the system, and then you accept financial help from strangers for your court case to continue bleeding Medicaid for all it is worth, then you lose your case, your daughter dies the merciful, peaceful death you denied her for over a decade, and now you are SELLING YOUR SUPPORTERS’ NAMES TO A MAILING LIST?!?!?! And who wants to take bets that these media whores appear on the cover of “People” magazine within a month? They probably already have interviews lined up with supermarket rags and talk show hosts from here to next century. And I haven’t even touched on the fact that the Schindlers were willing pawns in a frightening, convoluted effort by the Moral Majority to take over the country. *shudders*
So Terri’s dead, but the battle for her "legacy" continues. At least until the Pope dies.
Right now Terri’s having a grand old party up there in Heaven with a lot of people, I would imagine; her grandparents, aunts, uncles, her childhood pets, perhaps a friend or two. I bet she’s mighty pissed at her parents, though. I know I would be.
See, I’ve made it clear to my family that they are not, under any circumstances, to keep me alive by artificial means. Maybe I’ll put it in writing, but I don’t really think I need to, since everyone in my family pretty much feels the same way. None of us want to be kept alive or to keep each other alive if it involves permanent confinement to mechanics, tubes, or wires. Maybe it’s because we’re vain or proud and have a problem with someone else feeding us or wiping our asses. Maybe it’s because we’re all chatterboxes and live in fear of not being able to talk. Maybe we’re cheap and don’t want to spend the money on all that hospital/hospice/home health/nursing home care on someone who can’t appreciate it. Maybe we don’t really like each other very much and are looking for any excuse to bump each other off. But seriously, maybe it’s because we have a security about death, security in our faith that helps us understand that the body is a vessel, leased from God, within which our souls reside – and when God decides it’s time to terminate the lease, there is no clause for renewal.
I’m not talking about paralysis or amputation or disfigurement. I’m not saying that if I should suddenly lose the ability to walk that I should be shot and sent to the glue factory, or if I lose my sight I want to be guided off the nearest cliff. What I mean is that if I cease to be me, if I am nothing but an incoherent body in a bed, my involuntary functions being artificially performed by external means, then I have no business taking up space. And who is anybody to tell me I have to stay like that?
Oh wait a second – those are the same people that can tell me whether or not I may reproduce and can tell my gay friends that their commitments to their partners aren’t “real.” Sorry, I forgot. *rolls eyes*
But I digress.
The battle continues now with what to do with Terri’s remains. Michael, the husband, wants the autopsy done one way. The parents want it another way. Both want to prove that they were right; Michael wants to remove the vilification branded upon him, the parents want to prove that her death was wrongful. The husband wants to cremate her. The parents want to bury her. For the love of God, please, someone make it STOP! Enough already! We DON'T CARE ANYMORE!
And now, as if I didn’t already dislike the Schindlers enough, we find out that they have authorized a conservative direct-mailing firm to sell a list of names of all the kind (albeit foolish) folks who sent them money during the years of their legal battle. These people can now brace for a steady stream of junk mail, solicitations, and propaganda from every right-wing nutbag group out there. Of all the underhanded, selfish things to do…what in the HELL is wrong with you, Bob and Mary Schindler?! First you keep your daughter alive, bleeding your own bank account, then you bleed the system, and then you accept financial help from strangers for your court case to continue bleeding Medicaid for all it is worth, then you lose your case, your daughter dies the merciful, peaceful death you denied her for over a decade, and now you are SELLING YOUR SUPPORTERS’ NAMES TO A MAILING LIST?!?!?! And who wants to take bets that these media whores appear on the cover of “People” magazine within a month? They probably already have interviews lined up with supermarket rags and talk show hosts from here to next century. And I haven’t even touched on the fact that the Schindlers were willing pawns in a frightening, convoluted effort by the Moral Majority to take over the country. *shudders*
So Terri’s dead, but the battle for her "legacy" continues. At least until the Pope dies.
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