Age is a very high price to pay for maturity. - Tom Stoppard

This is Herby my garden gnome. He’s hiding from Kevin, as usual, because, well, you know what happened to Herby the last time Kevin was in a bad mood.

You see, yesterday was Himself’s 40th birthday. I have no pictures from the auspicious anniversary because Mr. Crankypants wouldn’t let me take any. He didn’t want a party, no presents, nada. The night before, he’d mourned, “I’ll never be a millionaire before I’m forty.” To which I replied, “Keep trying. You have an hour and a half.”

Despite Kevin’s protests, I did manage to rally some of our friends whose assisted living communities have later curfews. We ate dinner at a Mexican restaurante muy bueno by the water, siphoned off some of the excess carbs playing frisbee in the park, then drank them back again at a martini bar. We were finally at home and in bed by midnight, which is, like, the first time since college graduation.

Then today we got up and went for a run, during which was made the sobering discovery that old people should not drink and expect to be functional for the next 24 hours. This did very little to cheer up Himself, who spent the rest of the day holed up in the garage, consoling himself with his power tool. (What?)

I, much more sensibly, chose retail therapy. I went out and bought cheese, pie, magnetic paint, a pair of shorts, some stupid-expensive hair goo, a few vegetable starts, and a potted two-headed daisy. Then came home and puttered in the garden which is where I saw Herby, who’d come out to supervise.

All in all, a decent, if somewhat bleary, start to a long Memorial Day weekend at home.

By the way, thanks to everyone for the emails and Happy Birthday songs left on the voice mail. And thanks to Kevin’s parents for the five cards - we’re glad his birthday coincided with the postage increase so you could use up your old stamps. Hugs!

Photo: Herby in the lavendar and thyme, 05/26/07 3:30 pm

Got wood?

Sorry for the radio silence this weekend, but I was in Kevinsylvania playing with his power tools. Actually, just one particular tool.

Now after a couple days of playing around, I’m sore, Kevin’s wood is soft, and we’re both very satisfied.

What?

We sanded and stained the bedstead Kevin built, my arm is sore from holding the sander for hours, and we like how the bed turned out.  Obvi!

“I taught I ta a putty tat.”

Kevin woke me up this morning with a cup of coffee and a mutter: “Your cat’s out there.”

Given that I was barely awake after a rather sleepless night of heat-induced tossing and turning, it was a full minute before what he said registered. And then I smiled to myself in the darkness. Baxter.

A few minutes later, I came downstairs and, clutching my steaming cup of life, stared blearily out of the kitchen windows. “Where is he?”

“He was out there on the porch,” said Kevin. “He’s skinny. And old.”

I watched for several minutes, but Baxter did not appear and my elation turned to suspicion.

Kevin had frowned deeply when I related my scary Baxter dream, had harrumphed worriedly at my Where’s Baxter post. He had a fit on Saturday morning when he caught me watching Sylvester and Tweety cartoons and pouting.

“Do I need to turn that off?” He started to pace, which is the masculine equivalent of wringing his hands.

“What?” I asked.

“I am an engineer,” he explained. “I am paid to fix things. In fact, I am a highly-paid Fixer,” he added somewhat facetiously.

Kevinism translation: “When something is wrong, I am supposed to fix it. And when something causes you discomfort, I am supposed to fix it instantly and permanently or you will leave me for a more competant Fixer.”

So I wouldn’t put it past Kevin to try to fool me into thinking the old B is still around, all summer. “Oh, you just missed him!” he’ll say as the empty elevator doors close, like Dolly Parton in 9-to-5.

I’m reserving judgment at this time, but we will know soon enough: I’ll put a handful of food out on the porch this morning, and if it’s still there in the evening, the jig is up for The Fixer.

————————————————-

UPDATE 04/25/07: Alas, I was not able to do my cat-food experiment because I couldn’t find the bag. (Damn spring cleaning.) But I’m going to do it tomorrow morning for sure - so tune in for the verdict.

FYI, I got in a fair amount of trouble for this post. Apparently Mr. Fixer did not appreciate having his integrity questioned. He has steadfastly protested his innocence, and in fact is winning at the polls (see post Comments). Yet lack of hard evidence continues to hinder his case. This morning when Baxter failed to appear, Kevin was heard to mutter “That cat is framing me!”

Evolution, my foot.

Well, maybe our feet, but definitely not our brains.

Consider if you will these statistics I read this morning in the most recent issue of Archeaology Magazine:

49% of Americans do not believe humans evolved over millions of years

51% of Americans believe humans and dinosaurs co-existed

This before nine this morning. It was rather enraging, so I employed my usual coping strategy: take it out on the nearest person.

Uppity: [stomping in]

Kevin: What now?

Uppity: [yelling] “Fifty-one percent of Americans believe humans and dinosaurs co-existed!!”

Kevin: Well, yes. I had a dinosaur as a schoolboy. His name was Dino.

Uppity: [sigh]

Kevin: Later, I had a car that I had to move with my feet.

Uppity: [stomping out]

Kevin: [calling after me] My wife’s name was Wilma!

Technorati Tags: evolution, creationism, religious batshit, dinosaurs

There’s nothing like a Dame

Uppity: What do you want to do tonight?

Kevin: I don’t know…what do you want to do?

Uppity: I don’t know. We could go see a movie. There’s a couple out I want to see.

Kevin: Like what?

Uppity: Well, there’s that movie with Cate Blanchett and…oh yeah, it has Judi Dench in it too. You like—

Kevin: Is it Judy Dench Gets Her Tits Out? I don’t want to see that.

Uppity: [cough gasp snort splutter]

Kevin: What?

Uppity: What [cough] made you think of that? [cough]

Kevin: I don’t know. [Ponders silently.] That alarms me. That alarms me.

That makes two of us.

I guess it’s not so unthinkable that Dame Judi might get the girls out on film. She did all but show her hoohaa in The Shipping News when she peed on her rapist brother’s ashes.

Already repected for the diversity of her acting roles on stage and screen, she continues to show her versatility by branching out into other artistic mediums:

A true artist never lets agism, sexism or personal dignity keep them from expressing themselves.

And besides, I’m sure the Hustler, uh, spread is very classy. (Now that would be a Scandal.)

Technorati Tags: Dame Judi Dench, movies

Welcome to Weirdsville — Population: Me

I’m sure the previous photo capturing my ingenuity in times of crisis inspires my readers to want to get to know me better.

Never one to disappoint, I asked the person who knows me best to come up with a few Uppity Highlights: things about me you might not know and might never know unless you demand Kevin stop his Christmas putterings (wrappus interruptus) and help write a blog post.

Thus we bring you Six Weird Things About Uppity (based on a concept stolen from my friend and fellow odd-ball blogger Lachlan, who in turn stole it from someone I suspect is infinitely less weird).

1. “Uppity has an inexplicable yet intense bear phobia.” This is true. It makes things like hiking and camping a little difficult. I even take bear mace with me when I have to go to the University District in Seattle.

2. “Uppity is a shiny crow.” C’est moi. All that glitters is too gold, at least to me. In fact, I thought about naming my card-making business Shiny Crow Designs, but Lachlan talked me out of it in one swell foop by saying “‘Shiny Crow’ sounds like old people.” (SCD was thus reluctantly rejected, lest my art become synonymous with grey hair and Depends.)

3. “Uppity is a fanatical organizer.” True, though I prefer to think of myself as “dedicated.” Even my sock drawer is tidy, with thick, warm socks on one side and thinner dress socks on the other, all in neat, horizontal rows. Stop looking at me like that.

4. “Uppity yowls when she cleans.” What Kevin means by this flattering description is that I sing while I clean the house. Cleaning is a boring yet necessary task, so I liven it up by singing along to my iPod, usually at the top of my lungs due to my headphones. I realize this can be a little startling to a certain someone who also happens to be doing chores, but if they don’t like it, they can do mine.

5. “Uppity has an X Files Cycle.” No, this is not a brand of indoor exercise bike. Somewhat to my chagrin, I have developed a curious pattern of watching my X Files DVDs. For some reason, every May, I feel the urge to watch them, and because I am organized (see #3), I must do so from the first episode of season 1 all the way through to the last episode of season 9. This cycle generally takes four or five months to complete. I consider this compulsion to be one of the darker aspects of my psyche with which some day I will bore some poor bewildered therapist.

6. “Uppity has a pointed head.” The sides of my skull meet at the top, forming a kind of ridge. You could also call it a point, if you were a dickface. My point ridge is not visible to the eye, but you can feel it; indeed, Kevin has the annoying habit of rubbing it, as if he’s trying to coax a genie out of my head. Now you know why I like Santa hats so much.

Technorati Tags: six weird things, shiny crow, organizing, singing, X Files, pointed head

“The True Meaning of Christmas”: poetry from Kevinsylvania

Our terrible ordeal was over some time during the wee hours of Monday morning, when the power came back, the heater kicked in, and the tip of my nose, which was the only part of me outside the covers, began to tingle in its journey back from frostbite.

Overall, Kevin and I survived with everything but our Christmas spirit intact. I must confess our holiday cheer was eroded quite a bit once the novelty of living like they did in the olden days wore off (about 24 hours). By the end of it, we were even cursing the nice neighbors next door.

“Who’d you sleep with to get power, bastards!?” I muttered, glaring out of my dark window at their warm and glowing one as I warmed my hands over the open flame of my gas range. I turned to Kevin, “I’m going to go over there and warm my hands by the light of their anal-retentively straight Christmas lights.”

“Fuck that,” said Kevin. “I’m going to get an extension cord and plug it into their outdoor outlet.”

In the end, we didn’t try to shame the neighbors or steal their electricity. I resigned myself to pouting really hard and taking two-hour showers. But Kevin actually found it within himself to rise above the calamity, quietly penning his thoughts by the light of a candle.

“Can I read it?” I asked when he had finished.

“You can try,” he said.

I took up the manuscript and read aloud:

“‘T’was the week before Xmas
And the northwest was dark
Except for the Christmas trees
Down in the pack–’”

“The park.”

“Oops, sorry. ‘Down in the park.
All of the food in the freezer
Had gone to hell.’ You know, the meter on this poem doesn’t really wor–’”

“Do you want to read it or not?”

“Ok, sorry. ‘All of the food in the freezer
Had gone to hell,
We dared not to eat it
We were soaked—’”

“Scared!”

“‘–scared by the smell.
With we in our long-johns, coats and our caps
We tried to warm up for our lure—’”

“Little!”

“‘—little naps.
By candle, by dentist–’”

“By dentist?! That says ‘by Christ’!”

“‘—By candles, by Christ, we tried to make heat
But nothing was warm, not even our feet.
We were not alone,
Not by a long shot.
Seven hundred thousand
All pined for the hot.’”

I paused. “Pined for the hot?”

“Read it, woman.”

“‘We said ‘What the fuck!’
We started to drink.
In the dark, the cold and the stink.’”

[Aside: I think this is a reference to the garbage pail under the kitchen sink but I’m not sure. In any case, it had nothing to do with the power outage. - Editor]

“‘Sometimes we forget how spoiled we are
By heaters and movies and stupid, big cars.
But a handful of Harrys–’”

“Hours!!”

“‘—hours without all of our toys
Makes us very grateful for life’s bountiful joys.”

Just, er, warms your heart, now doesn’t it?

Technorati Tags: pacific northwest storm, Christmas cheer, amateur poetry, don’t quit your day job

#23-25 Celebrate the season, damn it

Thanksgiving Day is the Official Beginning of the Holiday Season, and I will confess right here: I love it.  I couldn’t be a Scrooge if you paid me (though I am taking bids).  No, I’m pretty much one of those annoying people who truly love the holidays, and here are just a few of my favorite things about it:

• I’m actually not much of a foodie, my palat being only a few degrees more discerning than that of your average cockerspaniel. But I know what I like. And it wouldn’t be the holidays without holiday food - turkey, potatoes, cornbread stuffing, roasted vegetables, pumpkin pie, wine. I look forward to the tryptophan high of Turkey Day and Christmas, as well as the endless Left-over Lunches. I will gladly jog a country mile for that country sourdough roll. And if you don’t want to draw back a bloody stump, getcher mitt offa my pie.
• One of Kevin’s (repeatable) nicknames for me is Shiny Crow, so called for my inexplicable and uncontrollable gravitation toward all things shiny and sparkly. The holiday season is, therefore, Shiny Crow crack. A dead tree in the living room comes alive with colorful glass balls, that wierd stretchy silver shit “tinsel,” and lights that flash like to give you epilepsy. Hang more o’ them lights on the porch, the garage, and the cubicle at work - make ‘em a veritable fire hazard. Wear the glittery earrings, the rhinestone-accented party dress, the gold dust in your hair. Light the candles - make your spirit bright.
• Only blah-blah-blah shopping days left. I love to shop, but not being independently wealthy, I try to reign it in 10 months of the year. Even as the holiday season descends upon me, visions of Christmas lists dancing in my head, I try to curb my enthusiasm: come Black Friday, I recite my vow: “I’m not buying anything for anyone. We all have too damn much as it is. I shall not contribute to the rampant consumerism poisoning our culture.” And then before I know it, it’s a New Year and I’ve blown a good sized wad on various friends, family, a street kid, and a low-income family. This year’s mantra: Don’t fight it.

Technorati Tags: holiday shopping, comfort food, tryptophan, Shiny Crow, Christmas spirit, Black Friday, consumerism, street kids, low-income, giving

Kevinism of the Day

the answer to one of the most mysterious natural phenomenons…

Crop circles are … crop squares with the corners rounded off.

Metamorphosissssss

“My preciousssssss….”

I hear the hiss and turn slightly in my chair, straightening with difficulty from my rather hunched position. Squinting into the darkness, I whisper, “What?”

“We sits in the dark and we types it…” says the voice. “We types and we learns and we reads, don’t we, my preciousssss…”

In the blue of the computer screen, can just make out Kevin standing in the doorway. “My little Gollum,” he says, shaking his head, “with her paddy little fingers and big, round nocturnal eyes.”

His voice becomes reedy again. “‘We sits in the dark. We sits and we types.’”

I stifle a convulsion in my throat and turn back to the computer. Stupid fat Hobbitt.

Technorati Tags: Gollum, hobbit, blogging, addiction