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Archive for May, 2011

Warning: Salty language and adult themes. Or adult language and salty themes. You decide.

Last week it was bees and beekeepers. Today, something less, um, politically correct; or at least less noble.

Here it is, my newest purse:

It’s a beauty, isn’t it? It’s orange, as you can see. Orange is not generally my favorite color.

That’s another thing I love. Color. Colors. Almost all of them. I love looking over paint chips at the hardware store. I even save paint chips just for the color. I have been known to save a photo from a magazine just for the color on a wall or bedspread. I love looking at yarn at the yarn store. I hate knitting, but oh my god, those colors. So yummy. I don’t have a great memory for many things, but I do have an amazing ability to recall colors in my mind. That and I can remember names pretty well and if I don’t remember your name, I probably remember some strange, minute detail about your life. It may be very personal, like your cat died when you were 7 and in the bathtub at your grandma’s house or you and your older brother shared a room in the attic but now he’s got esophageal cancer. Stuff like that. Because I tend to ask a lot of questions when I meet someone; personal, homey questions.

Anyway, back to my purse. I am not normally attracted to orange things. I can’t really wear the color, though I did buy a fabulous v-neck, cotton shirt at Old Navy in a sort of deep tangerine last year. It almost matches my purse which means if I wear them at the same time I look like a real lunatic. Except that the orange shirt looks fabulous on me which sort of saves me from looking too crazy. I have a decent enough decolletage, and I have taken to wearing v-necks almost exclusively as I advance into middle age. Shit!

The purse has amazing fabric inside. A sort of cotton twill that’s covered in a lovely floral pattern. The purse was made in the USA. Yes. It was not made in China! But it seems Italian. The soft, buttery leather, thin but strong, with a mild crinkly texture. It’s delicious!

I love the sound of people speaking Italian.

But that’s not all about the purse. I got this purse on clearance at Marshall’s for 39 bucks. It’s huge. It holds everything. I can even use it as a temporary shopping bag for little purchases from the dime store (okay, from AJ Hastings, but they do have candy that’s less than 10 cents a piece) and if I don’t have enough bags with me when I am at the grocery store, I can throw a couple of Granny Smiths and a half-and-half in there, too.

You know what Freud said about a woman’s purse, right? Well, I’m sure I don’t really know. Maybe it’s just hearsay. But you could fit a helluva lot of sex toys in this thing. You really could. Are you listening, EOB? Orange silicone ones, purple latex ones. Blue. Stainless steel. Glass. WHATEVER you love.

There is something even more amazing about this purse. Something hidden even from me for over two months of owning it. IT HAS A SECRET POCKET! The coolest thing? The pocket is on the OUTSIDE of the purse’s huge zippered compartment. That means you don’t have to open the purse to access your secret stash of gum. Or Burt’s Bees lip balm in watermelon. It might even be able to hold a pocket vibe. Get it? Pocket, pocket vibe. Funny. As I’ve mentioned, it does hold my CHEWING GUM! Right now, there’s some Teaberry in there and the last of my Dentyne. Also, some TROPICAL-flavor LIFESAVERS. Remember those? GODDAMN IT, this purse rocks out with its cock out.

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Happy Mother’s Day, peeps (a day late).

Every year, I think it’s not only for mothers, but for all women, because it really doesn’t matter if you never had a kid. Maybe you didn’t know your mother or you lost her young. Maybe you were pregnant and then weren’t pregnant. Maybe you lost one or more. Maybe you never wanted one. So what? We’re half of the world and we all have the seeds inside.

Bow down, get low, dig deep.

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When I posted my first bunch of bits from our local weekly paper’s Police Blotter, it was quite a popular read. Mind you, I peruse the Police Blotter every week, but nothing much happens around here. Only a few drunk-driving arrests, violations of noise ordinances, and over-crowded, drunken parties needing attention.

I try to save the odd bit that deserves space on my blog, but the news has been so predictable of late that I haven’t been able to muster a Police Blotter post.

Here’s the bare minimum for now:

Saturday, April 23 Category: What did you do for the environment today?

1:45 am A man walking with a hubcap on Meadow Street told police he discovered it on the ground and was just going to properly dispose of it in celebration of Earth Day.

Friday, April 29 Category: There’s a kink in your alibi, sir

2:09 am A man who was given a courtesy escort inside a police cruiser after allegedly being the victim of an assault was arrested a short time later when police determined he had stolen a pair of handcuffs from inside the vehicle. Police discovered the theft after a woman called for assistance when the man placed the handcuffs on her and then had no way of getting them off.

That’s all folks. I suppose I should be grateful to live in a small and safe town.

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I’ve already gushed about this on Facebook, but I’ll repeat:

This was a fantastic movie and it is where my gratitude goes today. I suppose I can be silly and say thanks to the bees. Thanks, bees. Thanks filmmakers, thanks women, thanks men, thanks beekeepers, thanks organic farmers, thanks to those who refuse to use pesticides on anything whatsoever, thanks to brave, stouthearted folks who are willing to defy the odds and understand complexity and interdependence.

Wow, Thankful Thursday just began to feel suspiciously like a rant in reverse. Sorry. I really did love the movie and it really made me happy. I am blessed, too, to live in Western, MA, the “Happy Valley,” next door to “Paradise City,” first state to legalize same-sex marriage, some of the most fertile soil in the US along the Connecticut River, and home to many small, organic farms, fruits, vegetables, and livestock included. Raw milk, local honey, local maple syrup, local eggs from my neighbor. HUZZAH!

Happy that my kids learn beekeeping at their school. A new calf was born 3 weeks ago to Heatherbell. He has a white heart on his forehead. It reminds me of the Cat Stevens’ song “Boy with the Moon and Star on his Head.” Remember that one, flower children?

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This is a date I never forget.

I went to Kent State University, several years after May 4. Kent was my home for 19 years, from 1981 to 2000. If there was a person who belonged to Kent, I did, not as much as the fac brats and natives, but close.

I belonged to Kent and Kent belonged to me.

Kent’s charms were well-known to me. I had a favorite bar (or two), a massive number of connections to people high and low. I did my time there, all of it. Drugs and boys, smoking, walking barefoot on the sidewalks in the rain, music and bars, art openings, poetry readings, Brady’s, film-making, Filmworks, parties where the porches nearly collapsed from the weight of people on them, professors, Kent Fest, May 4 Rally Day, Halloween.

Swimming naked at the quarry all summer long and getting a “quarry buzz” (we still don’t know what was in the water that gave us this). I got my first dog at a house in Brady Lake, with a “free puppy” sign; really trashy, the bitch mom was tied up and god knows how many litters they kept letting her have. Four puppies ran toward me and I chose the one who “got there first.” She was the best dog in the world, too, Kent born and bred. Towner’s Woods was ours. Mountain biking behind the railroad tracks where there is now a huge McMansion development.

I moved on to home-ownership, a house I used to walk by and dream about living in “if it ever goes up for sale, I hope it will be mine.” Dreams were manifest.

I got sober in Mogadore, right near Akron, OH, home of Dr. Bob. Let me tell you, those were some hardcore Big Book Thumpers. Had my home group two blocks from my house.

I ran a successful local business, got married. People I loved died when I lived in Kent.

My babies were born in that house, 1920s Craftsman-style, built-in oak bookshelves and flooring, high ceilings on the first floor, fireplace, solarium, glass door knobs, pulleys on the windows, plaster-and-lath construction, butterfly hinges. Not like this 1965-ranch I live in with hollow doors, low ceilings and not a lick of heart, imagination, or love.

I wrote this poem a couple of years ago when I visited Kent after several years of being away. It’s really more of a summer poem, but today is May 4 and all, so why not?

Pilgrimage

for Maj, Sheila, and Megan

Along I-86 in New York, I see more deer carcasses beside the road
than on the interstate in Massachusetts.

Roadkill in varying states of decay
all the way to Ohio.

I am a pilgrim and a stranger and I have forgotten the names of the streets that bore me

If I could dig my fingers deep into the flesh of a soft fruit,
I would find what I came for

I came to your door but you weren’t home

I was so shaken that I couldn’t leave a note, my hand uncooperative in the sharp July heat

I tried for a word or something more fundamental
like a rock or feather

But I left without a trace

Still, there are trails and cross-hatchings that mark my way

And in that place, before the life I know now,
you are the family that held me

My life is full enough, but I am grateful for how you shaped me

I carry it always, only maybe sometimes I forget the names of the streets

July 31, 2009

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Just Tim today. No reason, really. Just the pain of the world and music is often a respite.

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