Get'cher motor runnin'... and don't mind the backfire...

On the commute into our routines this morning, we listened to the radio. I'm a sucker for theme shows, and one of the local stations does a show consisting of 8 songs with a theme. Some are better than others, but this morning he decided to do one about cars, and had people talking on facebook about their firsts. There were some doozies on there, and mine was really no exception.

It had been our family car for a very long time, and was finally passed down to me when I turned 15 and got my learner's permit. A 1981 Ford Fairmount Futura. I'll let you believe that's what mine looked like, because the car in that link? Pure awesome. Mine wasn't quite that cool. It was your standard-issue 4-door, which was pretty popular in the suburbs of Los Angeles in the early 1980s. It was maroon. It had a vinyl roof, bench seats, and a hard plastic steering wheel with fake wood paneling at the edges. I think the jockey box also had fake wood paneling, and so did the interior of the doors, if I remember correctly.

Whatever happened to vinyl roofs and fake wood paneling? Seems like that's something you just don't see anymore, but to me... yeah, that's some class. Pure class. Pure class in a glass.

It also had chrome bumpers, and white wall tires from Montgomery Ward. Remember those?

I learned how to drive in that car. One of my first driving lessons taught me about cockeyed steering wheels. This particular one cocked off to the left a bit. I hadn't realized it was supposed to be that way, even when there was a slight bit of resistance... or... more resistance, because the car leaked power steering fluid, and was often quite difficult to steer, but I digress... for a minute, anyway.

See, my mom got the bright idea that taking me out on a country road with a high speed limit was a good way to teach me on the second trip out. There were deep ditches on either side of the road, and since I had no clue about the steering wheel idiosyncrasy, I kept trying to straighten the thing out, and would veer off to the right... at 55 miles per hour, since that was the road's speed limit. Whoa, mama, what a mistake! My mother freaked out, and so did I! She finally figured out what the problem was, and got me to stop doing that, but we were still pretty badly shaken, because those ditches were deep!

She finally got me to slow down... a lot. And of course, that was when other traffic decided to show up on the road. Naturally, they all honked as they passed me in the oncoming lane, shook fists, flipped me off, (one even did this Russian-style, which caused him to come close to wrecking his car.) But there was no place to pull over... for what seemed like an eternity.

I finally found a place to do so, and my mom took over. She drove us to a store, where we could chill out for a while, and bought me a sweater, and a new pair of shoes. That's how bad it was.

After that, it was back to the Waremart parking lot. (Remember Waremart?) It was a good long while before I felt confident enough to try a street again. When I finally felt up to the task, I panicked as soon as I turned out of the driveway. I hooked the curb, turned the steering wheel the wrong way, somehow sped up, took out a row of juniper bushes, then... plop! Right back into the parking lot, I went!

Lesson... over. Dad drove home.

The car had juniper branches wedged into the undercarriage for a couple of days after that... at which point, I crawled under there, removed them, and decided to try again.

Before long though, I figured out how to drive that beast, and I drove every chance I got. I loved that car. Sure, it had an exhaust leak, and I had to drive it with the windows open for a while, but I still loved it. Sure, the power steering stopped working altogether, and I had to manhandle it just to go around a corner, but I still loved it. Sure, I had to manually flash the directional lights, but hey, I still loved it.

To deal with the exhaust leak until I could get it fixed, I just got a rose-scented air freshener, and life was beautiful.

I remember once, I picked up a friend who lived across town from me. We also gave her friend a ride. When she got in, she said: "Wow. It smells like roses and gasoline in here."

"Yeah, yeah... I know. Getting that fixed soon. You may want to hang out close to the window, so's you don't asphyxiate."

Not long after I got the exhaust leak fixed, it developed an oil leak. We lived on a giant hill at the time, and I can remember driving the beast up the hill, and it just kept getting louder, and louder. By the time I got home, the car sounded like a motorcycle. I can remember seeing my dad come of the house as fast as he could. I had never seen that man move so fast in my life! He yelled at me, telling me that a car like that should NEVER sound like that, and we'd better check the oil. Sure enough, bone dry. So, until I got that fixed, I would buy motor oil by the case, and just keep it in the trunk. Got very good and checking oil, and other things.

Rolls Royce made the Silver Cloud. My friends and I referred to my car as the Rust Cloud. But hey, it got me where I needed to go, and it played tapes!

I eventually sold that car to a friend. I remember watching her drive away in it, feeling a bit wistful, despite the newer, nicer car I'd just acquired.

Sigh... a first, is a first, is a first, 'non?

-H

OK, who threw the chair?

I have reached a point my parenting where I'm realizing my kids are... right there. And when I say that, I mean that they are right in a place that I have zero, to... uh... well, no experience with, because I was an only child. I used to crave a backseat fight, but settled for dramatic music about fighting, and a stare out the window, because reading about fighting, or, well, anything in a moving car, made me nauseous. I don't know... something about objects whizzing past when you are trying to concentrate on something that isn't, has the same effect on me as being stuck in one of those teacups at Disneyland.

Few things make me nauseous. But put me in a boat? I'll puke the entire time. Put me in a car and tell me I have to read 50 pages of a book? Hoo-boy! Tell me to ride in the rear-facing seat? Yeah, asking for trouble. I'll settle for the observation of my surroundings, in a front-facing direction, thanks. Man, I wonder what I would have been like if on-board TVs were around when I was a kid?

Hmm.

Well, anyway, because of that, I have one keen sense of direction, and rarely get lost. I have been paying attention to where I've been going since I could see, basically. But I have no clue how to go about dealing with two warring monkeys in the back seat.

I swear, driving with them is akin to watching an old episode of Geraldo at times, complete with hair pulling, scratching, screaming, talking over one another, accusations of stolen loves, (OK, this usually has to do with dolls and stuffed animals... at least for now,) and chair throwing... or at least that would be the case if they had access to chairs. But they do throw things at times.

Today, as we approached the intersection of NE 15th and Broadway, I was quite glad that we were stopped at a light, as I heard a whi-ssip! past my head, then a Bonk! The latter occurred somewhere close to the passenger seat, as whatever just flew past my head like a giant blood-thirsty mosquito, found a resting spot on the floor in a less than graceful manner.

It took me a second to register what it was. In this case, MicroSqueak's shoe was the momentary unidentified flying object.

Wow. Whoda'thunk'it? UFOs! Really big bugs! Uh... birds? No, Hedy. This isn't Roswell. It's not the set of "Them!" It's not the lorikeet exhibit at the zoo. You are in your car, and that was a child's size 11 Doc Marten Mary-Jane.

I was just glad it didn't actually hit my head. Those things are heavy!

Those girls got an earful after this. I started with: "Dude! What the? Huh? Why?"

I peered into the back seat via rear-view mirror, and saw LadyBug's face go all sheepish, with a small grain of fear. "Uh... sorry!"

"Yeah, right. Let me tell you something! You are lucky that thing didn't hit me in the head! What if I'd been knocked out? Huh? What if we had been moving?! We could have been killed! KILLED! KILLED!!!"

"I said I was sorry..."

"Well, you are... oohh! I... well? Don't do it again! Ever!!!"

"OK, Mom..."

"And when we get home, you are going to fetch that shoe, and you are going to help your sister put that shoe back on her foot. Or... there will be trouble! You hear me??"

"K, mom. Sorry."

Those who know me well, know that I don't yell at my kids all that often, but when it's important, it's important!

And... when we got home, she did find the shoe, and help her sister place it back onto her foot. You know? I think I could probably handle a crazy talk show.

-H

Upon The Ay, Whada'fuuuuu...

I swear the stupid was ubiquitous yesterday. I don't know what it is about Mondays, other than the fact that most of us stay up way too late on the weekends and really are sleep deprived to the point of stupid, come Monday mornin'. But yesterday, for some reason, it was especially bad.

Everywhere I turned, people were just... fucking up. And badly. In traffic. In the grocery store. In my own house, even.

Oh wait! That last one was me! Let's just... blow past that one. It's... not important!

Of that list, the worst offender by far, was the woman who actually ran me over with her shopping cart. I guess that's what I get for taking too long to look for yellow mustard, and the right pickles... which oddly enough, I never found either of, because the store was out of both for some reason. I have never seen that before. Every other kind of mustard but yellow. Every. Other. Kind. Really? Seriously? You are Winco, for fuck's sake! How could you not have the most ordinary condiment known to mankind? I walk into your store, and I automatically think: Milquetoast. Yes. Yes, I do.

And well? Sometimes I do like mustard on my milquetoast. People have been known to enjoy stranger things. For instance? What the hell is up with chicken and waffles? Thinking it was probably brought about by someone who was ridiculously pregnant at the time, and her man thought to himself... "Hm. The lady's onto something here."

But back to Winco. Don't get me wrong. It's a fine place to shop for most things, but it offers few frills.

Mr. Hed really looks forward to Winco day, because he loves the fried fruit pies that he finds in a bag on his basement office chair when he comes home from work after a hard day of slaving for his slave-driving bosses.

He's easy to please. I like that in a man. I... do what I can.

As for the pies, I craved those once in my life. Can ya guess when? Why, yes! It happened to be when I was pregnant with my first kid. And even then, it lasted about 5 minutes before I realized how disgusting those things are, and never wanted to see one again. Why do people like those things? See? Pregnancy cravings are not always something the rest of the world should embrace. Those gross pies? No exception.

Anyway, my thought process basically ran the way it read before my rant about those gross pies that Mr. Hed loves so much. I was scratching my head when I felt it on the side of my ankle, and into my Achilles tendon. It wasn't pain. It was... akin to being electrocuted, then dropped onto the floor by a Zamboni with a loose wire somewhere. I heard myself say: "Ay, whada'fuuuuu..." and then I was on the floor.

I look up, and there is a shopping cart in my face. The woman who had been pushing it was apparently leaning on the handles, and texting with her smart phone, completely oblivious to her surroundings. She jumped from her texting post at the wheel of her death cab, and began to apologize profusely: "OH MY GOD!!! I'm so sorry! I can't believe I did that! Wow, I'm stupid! I'm so sorry! Are you OK?"

"Grryyyes..."

By this time, I get back up to prove that I am, and Microsqueak sighs with relief. She was sitting in the main part of our cart, playing with her leapster, and didn't really notice what was going on until the woman started freaking out with concern.

"Are you sure? That looked really bad. You kind of flew away when I hit you."

"Yes, I can assure you I've been through worse. I'm just glad there aren't any employees around. I hate how they completely freak out and blow stuff like this out of proportion. I'll be fine."

"K," she said, with a look that hearkened what I can only guess was a combination of disbelief, guilt, and... more disbelief.

"Well, I've got to get going. Need to pick my big kid up from school in a bit." I didn't really know what else to say, because she was just sort of standing there, awkwardly gawking, and not knowing how to end the encounter.

She finally nodded, "K. Sorry again."

"No worries..."

Seriously. Wow. That is a new one for me. I've come close to being hit by cars when people were texting while driving, and not really paying attention, but I guess I now have a new place to be more than aware of my periphery.

In summation: Winco can be a dangerous place. There is your public service announcement from me.

-H

The night that I made him laugh.

For the past few months, I have been crawling around in search of all manner of wonderfully weird things. It started with a desire to find out more about my neighbourhood in the time that my house, which now a century old, was built. I have found out all sorts of interesting things about my beautiful city, but still nothing about my house, or the neighbourhood it sits in, other than it being close to a trolley turn-around, when trolleys still rolled over the streets. I will never know why they did away with them in favour of just pavement... especially now that they are bringing street cars back to the city, and making things somewhat miserable for those of us who have to traverse the city on a reasonable timetable. Even if this was explained to me, I wouldn't be able to wrap my head around it.

One of the things that I found particularly intriguing had to do with an 1866 Plat Map of Portland. The bridges were not yet built, and people crossed the river via ferry in those days. But the most interesting thing I came across was a section of the map that just said: "Lunatic Asylum Grounds".

I wasn't able to find any more information about it at that time, other than speculation about a parking lot being built over the graveyard that served the asylum, but I decided to keep looking for a few months. Finally, I was able to find more information about it, and was glad I did. The Oregon Hospital for The Insane was built in 1862, housed over 300 inmates, (most of whom were indigent, and unable to fend for themselves,) and was founded by a Dr. Hawthorne, and a Dr. Loryea. I'm still unclear as to whether or not Hawthorne BLVD was named for this doctor, but given the location, I'd have to guess this was the case.

Reading about their model of care was a trip! They recommended a healthy diet, and lots of time outdoors as a means of promoting a soothing effect on the mind. The hospital also had running water so inmates could bathe and be kept comfortable. The interior of the building was meticulously kept, and well ventilated. Pretty radical, given the time frame.

In 1883, when the Oregon State Hospital was completed, They closed that hospital, and sent over 300 inmates by rail to the newly constructed asylum in Salem. Not sure when they leveled it, or even of exactly where it sat, since many things have gone up in that area since that time, but I am still fascinated by it. I wouldn't mind taking a trip to the archives for a little more insight on this bizarre piece of history that for some reason, is not well-documented for public perusal at this time.

In the past week, I had an interesting conversation with my shrink about this discovery, when our appointment had ended. I was her last client for the evening, so she had a little time to talk.

She said that she also recently learned more about it, and by the description of the model of care, concluded that it was built around the time that most doctors were still naturopaths.

She told me about her time working at Dammasch, and how different their model of care was from this antiquated one. They did have access to some meds in the mid-to-late 19th century, but that model of care was obviously not nearly as heavily reliant on them as the model of care we see today, where institutions just load 'em up with meds. Very interesting, to be sure, especially considering that she went from working in an institution like that, to promoting amino acid and talk therapies in a private practice. I'm glad she did, because I feel like I am finally in recovery from the nightmare that has been my emotional state of the past few years.

With institutions on the brain, I went and saw one of my favourite actors in a performance art/film presentation/discussion forum/cinematique setting this past week.

Crispin Glover, a man who definitely appeals to my bizarre, depraved side, came to town for a few shows at Cinema 21. He did his big slide show, reading from books he had written, with fabulously random old photographs and creepy penmanship, as well as a few others he hadn't written.

Then, he promoted and showed the second film in his trilogy that he is currently producing titled: "It Is Fine! Everything Is Fine!"

If I had to give an honest first impression; to say that film placed me on a rollercoaster of conflict would be quite an understatement.

This film; the screenplay for which, was written by Steven C. Stewart, a man with Cerebral Palsy, which while debilitating, is not degenerative, or mentally disfiguring in any way. I can't even begin to imagine how frustrating that must be for people who carry this particular handicap.

Steven also starred in the movie.

Steven is severely handicapped and when he speaks, he is quite difficult to understand. The film; though demented, is pretty brilliant and funny. Crispin purposely did not add subtitles to this movie because he felt that it would condescend to our sensibilities too much, and you would not get the feel of what it is like to communicate with someone in this condition. I thought that was smart, and a good choice. It was easy enough to pick up on the context of what Steven would say while he acted out his part, and the actions he took in his role were certainly bold enough to understand. He wrote himself into the role of serial killer, with the theme of the movie being that of a 1970's murder mystery movie of the week.

He played a man who lived in an institution. This is not too far from the life he was forced to live for a decade, in which he had been institutionalized, and treated like someone with mental retardation, which I could see being an honest mistake, given our culture, and historic lack of exposure to people with these differences, thanks to... institutions.

In the story, he... does a lot of killing, but manages to be seen in a sympathetic, protagonistic light; especially when the end leads back to the whole thing being pure fantasy on his part.

There are elements in the movie that I wasn't expecting, such as graphic, explicit sex scenes, bordering on pornographic. Crispin said that had the movie been produced the way the screenplay was written, it would have been rated XXX. He did say that he didn't really have a problem with that, but worried he would not be able to find actresses of the right caliber to perform in such a way, so a lot of that was edited out. Someone just happening upon the movie without knowing any background could easily be disturbed for this reason. One would have to wonder if Steven was being exploited, or molested.

Obviously, he wasn't, and the film was so important to him, that despite being gravely ill during the last month of filming with a collapsed lung due to pneumonia complications, he was on set when they needed him, and gave everything he could to the production. He died shortly after filming had been completed, and even called Crispin to see if there was anything else he needed from him, because he was otherwise ready to be taken off of the ventilator.

This was something that had been in the making for a long time. Crispin read the screenplay in the late '80s, and decided he wanted to make the picture. He used the money that he made from the first "Charlie's Angels" movie to fund this film, and it has taken quite a few years to get it out to an audience. I'm glad he did though, and I think the message I took away from it was Steven's desire to be treated and recognized as the brilliant person he was after so many years of that not being the case.

For that reason, I think this really was a very important work, and I really admire Crispin for what he did.

After the movie, there was a discussion forum. For the most part, it was respectful, although there was one heckler that the audience got pretty annoyed with. Crispin handled him with about as much respect as one could be expected to extend in that situation, and the man finally left. He did admit though, that he was glad those questions were asked, because there probably were a few others with the same thoughts, who may have been afraid to ask. That was part of the purpose of taking on such a project; doing something that makes people think, and have questions is an important task. As long as it's handled in such a way that is respectful, it can be a beautiful thing.

And really, where would we be without that?

I was glad the discussion forum took place, because he did answer a lot of other questions people had about the film, gave lots of pertinent background, and it all made sense by the time it was over.

It was so nice to finally meet this man I've had a bit of a crush on for the past 26 years. I of course, didn't tell him that part, but I did let him know that I thought he was one brilliant freak, which he got a laugh out of. I made Crispin Hellion Glover laugh. Yes. Yes, I did.

And to think, I never would have even known he was in town had it not been for a couple of friends who clued me in! What a great night!

-H

Magic carpet ride...

Last night didn't go the way I had hoped it would. I had a great, productive day. Got everything done. Early, even. I was cooking dinner, and dancing at the stove in my apron, (which I do a little more often than I'm comfortable sharing, because... hey, it's twirly!) when Mr. Hed breezed in. Wait. Scratch that. Mr. Hed lumbered... in, and he was beat. His coat was... covered in rain, and while he wasn't exactly snarly, I knew he needed to spend time in his man cave. This disappointed me, since I was finally ready to spend some time on the music he wanted me to work on, and was all set to record at least one of the songs he's been after me to record for months. But that's OK. I can certainly understand days like this.

And last night? Well, unfortunately, it was no exception to the past few months. We have since resigned ourselves to the fact that weekends are really the only time that I can give a little undivided attention to anything. These kids keep me pretty busy.

Did I mention I'm tired? I am. I feel like Lilly Von Schtupp lately. And... let's face it, I'm nearing 35, and while everything below the waist is far from kaput, (just being honest...) I'm am still tired.

I thought... well, maybe after the girls' bedtime we could do this. It's just a voice part, and doesn't require loud amplification, (not to mention the fact that we'd be two full floors below the sleeping children,) this shouldn't have been a problem. But well? MicroSqueak decided she wanted to be with me, and she was going to be with me if it was the last thing she'd do. So she was... with me.

After about an hour and a half of hanging out, she finally curled up next to me and went to sleep. Mr. Hed took her upstairs, and I felt that the only things I had left in my energy stores were a few stitches on the scarf I'd been working on while watching CopDrama, and allowing Todd the privilege of rubbing the back of my neck.

By the time the show was over, I was... out -- see you tomorrow style. But as I walked past the kitchen, I remembered there were still dishes to do. So, I did them. As I pulled the rubber gloves off my hands and untied my apron, I could hear Mr. Hed's feet on the stairs. I could hear him calling me, and saying something, but damn if I knew what it was. I was groggy. Seriously so. I reach the bathroom door, and he's standing there, holding his toothbrush, with a sad expression on his face. "Hed, uh... we're out of toothpaste. Did you buy more?"

"Yeah, yeah... it's on top of the fridge." I keep things I don't want MicroSqueak getting into up there, because if I don't, I usually end up scrubbing a wall or two of whatever it happened to be that I failed to keep her out of.

With puppy dog eyes, he looked at me, "Uh... could you get it?"

"No. I'm ridin' the magic carpet of half-asleep, and if you make me go back down there, it will wake me up. Don't do that. Don't be cruel."

"OK, fine, I'll look for it.

A few minutes later, I hear: "Uh... Hed? Uh... Hedro? Uh... baby? Uh... sweetie darlin'?"

I bend over the retaining wall at the top of the stairs to better hear him, because, damn it, I'm serious about not going back down there.

"I can't find the toothpaste."

"Shit. Fine. I'll come back down. Farrrgh."

I arrive at the bottom of the stairs, go into the kitchen, and he's got his hand on top of the fridge, trying to find it that way, without really looking. I go to the other side of the fridge, and leap up in the air, trying to see what I can see for the half second I'm airborne. By this time, I'm fully awake again. Damn!

We never found it on top of the fridge, but during the last leap, my hand was partially on the top of the refrigerator as I came back down. I inadvertently opened the freezer, and spotted the tube on the door shelf.

A-ha!

I felt the tube, and it was, of course, frozen solid. Shit! "Well, I guess baking soda, it is!"

"Wait. I bet if I squeeze it for a few minutes, I can melt it well enough that we can get some out."

"K."

We walk back up the stairs, but something catches Mr. Hed's attention at the landing. I just wanted to get to bed, for the love of Pete, God, Sheep, Inflatable Sheep, et al., so I keep going until...


"Hed! You've got to come check this out! We've got three Possums of the Grotto now!"

For those of you just joining us, we have a resident possum in our backyard. He's been the source of entertainment for quite some time. Ruby started calling him "The Possum of the Grotto", after a Rasputina song which gets a fair amount of play around here. So, anyway, now you know.


Apparently the delicious sleep I craved at that moment just wasn't to be. I also realized he was still clutching the tube of toothpaste, and I wasn't going to be able to brush my teeth yet, anyway.

I walk back down to the landing, and sure... then there were three. We named them: Linda, Lou, and Stella. Linda looked mighty pregnant, and the other two? Not so much. We decided this must have been some bizarre love triangle between the possums, due to the fact that Lou and Stella were all over each other, and Linda was off on the other side of the yard, eating for twelve.

Poor Linda.

Every once in a while, Lou would walk over to Linda and try to be affectionate, but she would just hiss at him.

Hm. Poor Lou.

Still, methinks as a quiet observer, Lou should probably be more understanding... hm. Linda is going through some crazy changes that would make anyone snarly.

The toothpaste, while thawed, was quite cold on my teeth, making me jump back, with the toothbrush still in my mouth. Yes, I did get laughed at.

Whatever.

Though I went to bed amused, I was still tired, and slept like a baby. I love it when the magic carpet lets me climb right back onto it.

The end.

-H

That's what it's all about? No. This is what it's all about.

So, I've seen the question posed a few times: "What if the hokey pokey really is what it's all about?" Yeah, no. It's not. Trust me. I got sucked into all that rhetoric once. I'm back. Don't be fooled. The mountain didn't come to Mohammed, and it's not going to come to you. And a dance that makes you shake your foot isn't anything but a dance that makes you shake your stupid foot.

It's a nice thought, though.

My best advice, after being sucked in? Leap when you gotta. Stay put when you gotta. It is a dance, sure, but this thing called life? Sometimes it takes the skill and grace of a fucking gazelle, and well? Gazelles don't do the hokey pokey. Gazelles think the hokey pokey is a waste of time; a distraction if you will. They laugh when they see humans caught up in a dance that takes them nowhere, and they keep going.

You! Keep going!

Try to stay calm, keep on keepin' on, and look good doin' it. And that, my friends... is what it's really all about.


-H

When it hits the fan...

And this time, I'm not actually referring to what the cliche represents, which is usually figurative drama. And yes. If shit were to hit a fan, that would be bad, and it does paint quite a picture.

The other night, we were with friends. All of our kids were playing together, and having a great time. Ruby was playing with a little boy about her age, and as they ran around the kitchen, they stopped for a second. Ruby and this little boy wanted to tell me a joke. Now, I know... at least with her, that a joke could really be anything. Really, and truly. She has told me some doozies.

But what came next was completely unexpected, and made me think that this little boy could be no one else's son but our friend, who is quite awesomely random.

"Hey! We have a joke for you!"

"OK, go for it!"

"Have you ever... pooped on a fan?"

That, of course, was the whole thing, but good lord, he's got a good start. I haven't laughed that hard in a while.

The next morning, Todd and I were pondering the instance in which shit would literally hit a fan. Seemed like kind of a rare instance. Who comes up with this stuff? I mean, you'd have to be sitting above a fan... or, I suppose throwing said shit at the fan, and well? Why would you ever do that? That's how you get flies. Gross.

But... well? Monkeys do fling the poo. Perhaps the person who coined the phrase was a zoologist, working in the monkey house, in unfortunate proximity to a fan of some sort?

Hm. I bet it was!

-H