There have been a lot of celebrity deaths in the last few days, but the one that has me moved to write is that of British comedienne Mollie Sugden, better known to PBS children like me as Mrs. Slocombe from Are You Being Served..
The show was concentrated kitsch punctuated by the pastel hues of Mollie’s hair, piled atop her head like cotton candy, and jokes about her pussy [cat] that flowed forth like water from a gorgeous Price Pfister faucet.
Sugden died yesterday, at the age of 86. You can read more about her in this article from the Telegraph, or, you can watch the YouTube video below, which compiles several of her best lines.
Posted by MissMeliss on Jun 29, 2009 in On Writing
I’m working in my studio today. Studio. I’m not sure I like that word. It seems pretentious in a way that makes me think people expect me to be creating cad drawings, instead of stringing words together for fun and profit.
But I don’t like referring to this space as an office, either. Fuzzy calls it my “abode of writeyness,” and I’ve flirted with calling it the Word Lounge, but then I expect an imaginary Jeeves to bring me martinis while I work, and sadly, imaginary Jeeves-types only bring imaginary alcohol, and what, I ask you, is the point of that?
But anyway, I’m up here eating yogurt with a spork, because we were out of plastic spoons and I don’t like bringing actual silverware up here, because it tends to not make it downstairs to the kitchen for disturbingly long amounts of time, and then I open the drawer and wonder where all the spoons are. In truth, Fuzzy’s far worse about bringing tableware back to the kitchen than I am, but that’s not really the point.
I’m not sure I have a point. I guess I just wanted to document that I was using my desktop (because my cute Alienware laptop is refusing to boot again), in my writing room, with a murky sky beyond my window, and an iced mocha near my hand. Homemade, but still…
When we adopted Maximus in February, everyone was guessing that his breed was Heeler mixed with some kind of Terrier – most likely Boston or Pit Bull. Almost immediately, we realized there was no pit in this dog.
However, now that he’s six months old, we’re thinking there isn’t any heeler in him either, or any terrier at all. What do we think he is? Well, the current guess is either Boxer/Hound or Boxer/Pointer. Or a blend of all three.
There isn’t any custom software that allows you to plug in your dog’s traits and spits out a likely breed combination. Or at least, if there is, I can’t find it. I do know that for roughly $60 we could have his DNA tested, but a) I don’t really NEED to know what he is and B) I don’t feel like spending $60 for information that isn’t crucial, and C) It’s kind of fun to wonder.
Here’s what I do know:
At six months old (nearly seven), Max is roughly 43 pounds of black and white dog. He knows how to SIT and go DOWN, and we’re working on a consistent COME. He likes to jump up on people and play kissy face, but we’re working hard on a four-on-the-floor policy. When chihuahuas jump up it’s either adorable, or mildly annoying. When a clumsy monster-pup does it, and has flailing paws as well, it’s dangerous, even though he doesn’t INTEND harm.
He doesn’t bark. I mean, he can bark, of course, but he’s not a barker, generally speaking. He yips and makes Thermian-language attempts when playing, and if he’s alone in his crate, he bays at his squeaky-toy.
He likes to HAVE toys, but doesn’t like to really play with them. He’s a galloping dog, and every so often he’ll do laps of the backyard at breakneck speeds, then come to me and hand me a slobbery toy. He REALLY loves to do this laps while CARRYING his toy.
He loves sticks, paper, and lava rocks. He does not yet have dog-breath. He’s good with little kids, as long as they’re quiet, and great with other dogs.
I’m sure that he’ll be a great dog when he grows up, but right now, he’s a challenge. I’m accustomed to smart little dogs who learn things really quickly, and while Max isn’t stupid, he’s a “hard” dog, and kind of ADD.
He’s really handsome though, which is good, because he has no survival skills, other than excavating things from the back yard.
“I’ve got to think that that was unethical,” Joshua said.
“Josh, faking demonic possession is like a mustard seed.”
“How is it like a mustard seed?”
“You don’t know, do you? Doesn’t seem at all like a mustard seed, does it? Now you see how we all feel when you liken things unto a mustard seed? Huh?”
— Christopher Moore (Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal)
I was never the class clown, not because I didn’t find things hysterically funny – especially things that should not have been – but because most of the time, I have a pretty strong filter.
I could say I’m a situational extrovert, and that I like to suss out a group before I start offering commentary, but the sad reality is that most of the time even serious topics provoke inappropriate thoughts. The rest of the time, I’m quiet because I think if you don’t have something relevant to offer, you shouldn’t waste people’s time.
For example, the Sacred Texts Study Group (aka UU Bible Study) is currently reading through the Book of Matthew, which is heavily laden with long, often contradictory, speeches.
Last night, the chapter in question was the Parable of Sowing, and while I really wanted to offer something topical, something really erudite, or at least incredibly insightful, all I could think of was that Christopher Moore had it right.
Am I getting anything out of this group? Yes. Adult contact (not that way – get your minds out of the gutter), a sense of how people think and perceive, and new ways to read old words.
(I still prefer the language of King James to more modern translations, however. I have nothing against PC language. In general use, I encourage it. However, I maintain that trying to update an historical work by modernizing the language ruins the integrity of the writing. Translation: It’s Not Pretty or Poetic Anymore.)
But I digress.
I’m trying to quell my inappropriate thoughts and find something relevant to offer. It will come. Eventually.
(As an aside, as much as I dislike the politics of high church, I find that I sort of miss the concept of the trinity, and I really prefer Holy Ghost to Holy Spirit from a storytelling aspect. Words have impact. “Ghost” may be darker, and sort of magical, but, as Madeleine L’Engle reminds us, the Judeo-Christian God is a God of Story.)
In any case, I’m enjoying the experience. I’m just not sure I can offer an opinion that isn’t couched in snark, just yet.
“You’re trying to be tricky. What’s morality?”
“It’s the difference between what’s right and what you can rationalize.”
“Must be a human thing.”
“Exactly.”
— Christopher Moore (Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal)
While they are depicted in literature and media with far less frequency than stepmothers, the sad reality is that when stepfathers appear, they tend to be dark, murky, or just plain dangerous. Examples of evil stepfathers include Murdstone in Charles Dickens’ David Copperfield, the King in the movie Radio Flyer, and the titular villain in the horror movie series that began, rather ominously, with The Stepfather in 1987.
With a legacy like that, it’s not surprising that stepfathers are largely underrated. Children make the distinction between their stepfathers and their “real dads” as if these men are not truly human, and in a greeting card industry that rakes in roughly 7.5 billion dollars a year, finding a Father’s Day card for a stepfather is only slightly easier than finding that needle in the proverbial haystack.
It seems appropriate, then, for me to talk about a really wonderful stepfather: mine.
I’m not sure exactly when my mother met my stepfather, Ira, but I think it had something to do with a singles event at the UU church in Modesto, California. I do know that their first date was on Valentine’s Day, 1982. Ira was taking his son, who was about my age, to see Marcel Marceau perform in Berkeley, and he asked if my mother and I wanted to come along. His son fell asleep, I hadn’t had dinner and had to beg for a bagel from the snack bar – have you ever tried to eat a bagel and cream cheese in a theatre? – and the police pulled us over on the way home because Ira was weaving, not because he was drunk – I don’t recall there being alcohol involved at all – but because he was tired. It was not an auspicious beginning, especially when you consider that, unlike in a movie, you can’t hold a whispered conversation during a mime show.
Nevertheless, two months later, on Good Friday, my mother and Ira were married. My aunt and uncle were late, the organist – who was also hosting the wedding – was more than a little bit tipsy – and I boycotted the ceremony in protest. Well, I was only eleven.
Over the next few years, my mother and I learned to alter our Gilmore Girls-esque relationship to include a man, but it wasn’t easy. In fact, the first several months were not unlike first contact with an alien species, despite the fact that my mother had been married before. My stepbrother defected to his mother’s house, which actually eased the pressure at home, but I know it also hurt Ira more than he ever let on.
At the same time that I was adjusting to junior high school, and all that entailed, I was also watching our refrigerator turn into something that held such oddities as brewer’s yeast, sweet acidophilus, tofu, and plain yogurt. Ira, it seemed, was a health food nut. Far worse, however, was the truly frightening lack of taste buds he seemed to exhibit: the man liked mild cheddar.
He, of course, learned how to buy female sanitary products, to have all the parts of a meal ready at once, and to deal with a kid who had no compunction about yelling back when someone yelled at her.
There were screaming matches, slammed doors, and trips to family counselors. There was a three week period when my mother had moved to a new city to start a business ahead of us, and I was stuck alone with him. And eventually, there emerged a sort of truce on my part balanced by infinite patience on his.
By the time I was in high school, our relationship had progressed to the point where we had a warm friendship. I think we bonded over the two things we had in common: living with my mother, and a habit of staying up into the wee hours of the night devouring books. In my case, it was fiction, and in his it was math, but when it’s one in the morning, and there’s no one else awake, you share with the person who’s there.
While my mother slept, I would finish a chapter, wander down the hall to Ira’s office, and ask, “Want some tea?” And we’d sip tea, and talk about what I was reading.
Alternatively, I’d be curled up in bed engrossed in a novel and he’d knock on the door. “Melissa,” he’d announce, “I have to tell you something new I discovered about the number eleven.” Yes, it’s true. My stepfather, in addition to swallowing enough vitamins to nearly rattle, does recreational math.
By the time I was a young adult, Ira and I had formed some traditions of our own, like going out to lunch and to a museum on Fathers’ Day. One year, it was the Rosicrucian Egyptian Museum in San Jose, which advertised their Fathers’ Day festivities with the truly painful slogan, “Take Dad to See a Mummy.” Another year we went to the San Francisco Arboretum, and after a great lunch in the Richmond District, I convinced him to take the coastal route out of the city, and we nearly got lost in the fog.
We’ve both mellowed in the twenty-seven years he and my mother have been married, and as much as I might like to pretend I am solely my mother’s daughter, the reality is that Ira did all the things a father is supposed to do, without any of the thanks he deserved. He has coached me through advanced algebra and helped me survive calculus. He has edited my papers, helped me run lines, and supported every cause I asked him to.
Together, we have planned surprise parties for my mother, shared secret stashes of chocolate-orange cookies, and watched all of Reilly: Ace of Spies, the Sherlock Holmes and Hercule Poirot mysteries, and several seasons of Planet Earth. Well, I watched Planet Earth – he was always snoring by the time the opening credits were over. He has held my hand in the emergency room, and let me rant when I was so mad at my mother I never wanted to speak to her again.
These days, when I call my parents, while I talk to my mother more frequently, the conversations I have with Ira are often more interesting, because he still offers new paths for me to explore. I don’t call him “Dad.” – Actually, more often than not, I address him by any number of affectionately insulting nicknames, of which the first was Gorilla Gams (his legs are seriously hairy) – but, however tacitly, we both acknowledge that he has been more of a father to me than anyone else in my life.
Stepfathers are special creatures. Like fathers, they are tasked with some of the messier aspects of parenting, but without the intrinsic parent-child bond, and without the same recognition. So, while the tea I’m drinking this morning is not made in Ira’s style – with a used teabag and water microwaved until it’s just beyond tepid – I raise this cardboard cup in his honor. He had to wait until I was twenty-five years old and married for me to tell him I love him. Here’s hoping other stepfathers have a shorter waiting period.
The animal shelter in Glen Rose, TX is full, and the following dogs are running out of time. Most are small, or on the small side of medium. Many are puppies under 12 weeks old. If these dogs cannot find foster or forever homes, the shelter will have to start euthanizing because they have no more space.
Please share this information with anyone you know who might have room in their home and in their heart, and if you can help, please email adoptions@shelter2rescue.org, text LIZ at (214) 616-6128 or contact KIM at (817) 233-9109.
Dogs with the word SAFE after their names have found homes or space in rescue.
Toby
TOBY is a victim of divorce. 9 years old and her former owners left her at the shelter when they divorced and poor Toby cannot understand how one day she was at home and the next day was homeless. We know, given her age, its a long shot, but she doesn’t deserve what has happened to her, and she still has lots of living to do…if she just gets the chance.
Destiny
DESTINY is very loving little girl who only weighs about 30 pound, and this is not her first time on the danger list. She was removed from it when the adoption coordinator discovered that she was pregnant, so that she could have her puppies. There are three, and they all have that “smush face” boxer look. Kim says:“If you can help Destiny and her pups, please act quickly. They are about two weeks old – Destiny is about a year…..and let me crawl around in her pen with her babies…..very trusting!”
Maggie
MAGGIE is a border collie girl and is about a year old. She is HW Negative, has been wormed, and had 5-way and Rabies vaccinations. She is a little timid, but warms up quickly. She is a precious girl. Can anyone help her?
Grant
GRANT is a big beautiful blond boy, with one partial blue eye. He is not quite sure how he ended up in the shelter and is a bit overwhelmed by it all. He’s only about a year old and weighs about 60 lbs. He looks like a lab/golden mix.
Tanya
TANYA is a little girl….15 or so lbs….we think she might be a terrier/heeler mix. She is only about 8 months old and has a lovely temperament. She loves to cuddle!
Blue
BLUE is a little boy, maybe 25 lbs, and just a year old. He has had all of his shots, including rabies. He is precious and look at those stunning blue eyes. Very sweet boy.
Boxer-Pointer Puppies
These Boxer/Pointer Puppies are beyond precious. There are four of these boxer pointer mix pups…..3 girls and 1 boy…..and one of them has the most beautiful green eyes. At only 10 weeks old, they sure do need to get out of the shelter fast. Can you help them?
Husky-Lab Puppies
These 9 Little Husky/Lab Pups are 9-week-old, tiny little fluff balls that need to get out soon. Please help them.
Diana
Diana is a roughly 5-month-old little shepherd mix girl. She is a little timid at first, but she does warm up when she’s given a bit of time. She cuddles and hugs you when you hold her. So sweet…
Susie
Susie is a little 12-week old-shepherd mix pup. Precious little face…..with a tan body.
DAISY MAY
Daisy May (SAFE!) is a purebred german shepherd. She’s about 7 years old but looks and acts much, much younger. She is SPAYED, UTD to vaccinations, including rabies, and has been on heartguard. She is very gentle, and a smart girl.
FRECKLES
Freckles (SAFE!) is such a character and a shelter favorite! Fluffy and friendly, she loves people, kids, and other dogs. She’s about 3 years old; is spayed and has had her 5 way vaccination. Her pictures do not do her justice – she is really beautiful. She is also a small girl as well.
OSCAR
Oscar (SAFE!) is an 18-month-old Chi-weenie…sweet temperament…weighs about 12-15 lbs.
* * * * *
If you can save even one of these precious lives, please call or text Liz at (214) 616-6128, or Kim at (817) 233-9109. Transport help is available.
I’ve been sort of hermit-ish, lately, cocooning myself in my private world of books and dogs and happy music, but this week has seen a re-emergence. Some highlights:
Sunday: Fuzzy and I went to church, and for the first time in about a month, even though I felt kind of blechy, I also felt like participating. We were both supposed to be song-leaders, a role I’m never entirely comfortable with since 95% of the songs in the UU hymnal are unfamiliar to me (I don’t remember there being much of a choir in Modesto. I’m probably wrong. Or kids weren’t in the main service. Or both), and my sight-reading skills are rusty. I wasn’t feeling confident, told G, and she recruited a partner for me since Fuzzy was stuck on THE WORK ISSUE THAT WOULD NOT DIE, which ate the entire weekend.
Afterward, I came home and did some cathartic cleaning. At the time, I didn’t realize it would set the tone for the week.
Sunday evening: We were graced with the delightful company of M, who is the director of religious education (and associate minister, I think, but I’m not entirely certain which is her official title, or if it’s both), but who has become a friend. She’s the sort of person who is both entertaining and restful at once, and our conversations always leave me energized, inspired, and full of new things to think about. She’s a brilliant cook, and she’s adopting my old glass-top desk. I know she’ll appreciate it.
Tuesday: Checked out the monthly coordinating council meeting at church, learned a lot. These are some amazingly giving, talented, intelligent people. I feel smarter just being around them.
Wednesday: Now, don’t faint if you read this, Mom, but I went to Bible Study. Mind you this is a UU take on study that’s really shared reading and shared impressions with a touch of critical analysis. NO INDOCTRINATION. Part “Bible as Myth” and part “Getting to Know You.” I liked that there was no judgement, that everyone’s contribution to the table was accepted with respect. I also liked that there were many versions of the Bible in use – the language differences were fascinating. Even mild intellectual pursuits like this invigorate me so much that when I got home, I took out all the trash, even though it’s really Fuzzy’s job.
Thursday: Slept later than I planned but I felt blechy and decided rest was in order, especially since the dogs expressed zero interest in being at all conscious. Even Max, who is typically waking us at 6:30 A.M., slept well past nine. Not sure if the summer heat is exhausting him, or if it’s just that he’s out of his crate more and therefore burning more energy. Probably both. Made lunch. Went grocery shopping. Did some laundry. Made dinner. Watched Disc 2 of Season 2 of Big Love while doing final edit on my last work pieces of the week. Cleaned out my inbox, popped in a new blog theme, and – oh, dear, it’s 5:30 in the morning. Oh, well, the house is still clean, and I’ve got nowhere to be.
.
So that’s where I am now. Today (Friday), I hope to pop out to the salon and finish writing something for church on Sunday while having a mani/pedi. I also have a blog post to write for ATG, a book review to write for Bibliotica, and friends coming to swim and eat and play games in the evening.
Next week, my writing partner and I have a script to finish, and I also have interviews to do, and a voice acting audition to record, and I’ve been a lump this month, with swimming my only exercise, and I’m anxious to get back to the weights.
So, yeah. I’m emerging. Or…re-emerging. As you like.
“Are you alright? I haven’t seen any blog updates recently,” a friend said to me at church the other morning. I assured her that I was, just busy, and not feeling bloggish.
In truth, I’ve been cutting way back on computer time lately. My eyes and brain need the break, I’m still very tired, and my days have become a pattern: Sleep, write, swim, read, eat.
Wash, rinse, repeat.
SLEEP: It’s not normal for me to sleep this much, but my body is being quite adamant that I NEED this extra rest. It’s not just me being lazy, and, indeed, I feel guilty for spending so much time abed. Fuzzy, in some weird schedule reversal, is actually logging more, and more normal, waking hours than I am right now.
WRITE: Work isn’t that demanding, but I’m so unmotivated by it right now that I dread every word from MainGig, and OtherGig is much more fun and MyOwnProjects are noodling along, but I’m not ready to share yet.
SWIM: The water refreshes me almost as much as sleeping does, and in some ways, more.
READ: I’ve been on an escapist trend lately, lots of mystery and happy chick-lit. See Bibliotica for details.
EAT: Actually, I keep forgetting to eat. I get distracted by a project, a story, a thought, and all of a sudden I realize I’m TOO hungry. Yesterday M. came to dinner – actually she brought all the ingredients and assembled an amazing dinner, and of course, was excellent company, and that whole experience was incredibly healing.
Today was one of those days that my friend Deb calls a “hungry day,” when even the most stringent diet and most effective diet pills are ignored, and you just want food.
I don’t have such days very often, but I was craving chocolate, so yes, I did have a scoop of thin mint ice cream after dinner – but dinner was a salad with tuna flaked into it, and lunch had been leftover homemade sloppy joes and potato salad, and breakfast was a protein shake.
And really a single scoop of ice cream isn’t that bad, but I was still noshy, so I broke out the thing that is the food I crave more than ANYTHING – more than CHOCOLATE, even: sharp, white, crumbly-because-it’s-so-dry cheddar cheese. Served with low-fat Triscuits. Seriously, they need to make those with less salt, although, they do combine well with the white cheddar to assuage that salty-crunchy craving women get at certain times.
I’ve finally learned, by the way, not to feel guilty when I have a Hungry Day, because we all have them from time to time. I’m already marinating chicken breasts for tomorrow’s salad, and I’ve been guzzling water all day as well.
But I still wish we had some chocolate covered peanuts in the house.
We met her yesterday. I ran into Petsmart to buy food for Max and treats for everyone, and asked the folks from Shelter 2 Rescue how a recent urgent pull (10 dogs from the shelter in Joshua were on the euth list), and they mentioned they still needed short-term fosters for Missy (a chi mix baby) and Mickey (a shih-tzu/poodle boy). I’d originally not even bothered Fuzzy about these two, thinking they had to be fostered together.
Then I found out they weren’t. I was concerned, of course, about Miss Cleo’s reaction to another girl, but since Missy has to be crated (she hasn’t had all her shots yet, and anyway, she’s only 4 months old), and Cleo had been fine with my parents’ female chihuahua Abigail, we decided to chance it.
So Missy, a black and tan chihuahua mix (I suspect toy Manchester terrier), is with us til June 25th. She’s cute and sweet, spunky and silly, and I think she’ll be a great pet for someone. Despite this being a short term foster, however, she does NOT have a forever-home yet. On the 25th she heads to New Hampshire, to another rescue.
If you live in or near Arlington, TX, and are looking for a female chihuahua mix (she’ll be spayed on Thursday), please contact Shelter 2 Rescue, or leave a comment here.
Writing, I think, is not apart from living. Writing is a kind of double living. The writer experiences everything twice. Once in reality and once in that mirror which waits always before or behind. — Catherine Drinker Bowen, Atlantic
