Beauty

A very beautiful girl lives in my neighborhood. She's so good-looking that you can't help but stare at her. She's the kind of girl where you think, "Wow, that girl is almost too attractive." In the past week someone spray painted "She broke my [heart symbol]" all over the sidewalk and road. Arrows pierced the heart symbols and pointed toward her house.

I believe it was Kermit who said, "It ain't easy being green." I suspect it isn't always easy being beautiful either.

Yeah, so Merry Christmas

If you need me I'll be sitting in the living room watching to see if our Christmas tree is going to stay up. It's tall enough to be an old-growth Sitka spruce and at the moment it is being held upright by a totally inadequate tree stand and a slender piece of pink yarn which goes from the towering tip of the tree to a a wall mounted speaker. The effect is breathtakingly precarious, not to mention makeshift and unattractive. Thank god we have very few decorations and most of them I knitted last year so at least they aren't heavy.

So have a good one. If you didn't receive a card from us this year it's because half of the ones I made are still in my purse. It's the thought that counts, right?

Anyway, Merry Christmas.

Most Amusing Response to a Post

From the Out There Inbox:

Dear Susan,

Ha! I caught you!

You wrote that review yourself didn't you? It fooled me at first but then I went to look at the other reviews Sue had written. They just screamed, "Alice, cultural critic".

She reviewed Alice I Think after reading 30 pages. She reviewed another book after reading 90 pages. She even reviewed a book she had not read at all. I thought it was cute that her best ratings were reserved for picture books and an audio tape. I don't know why there wasn't a review of the prologue to Lord of the Rings. Maybe you thought that would be too obvious.

When I got to her review of Spellfall, I began to smell a rat. Warning!! she says, she found a swear word 2/3 of the way through the book! Surely that is intended as ironic humour. What is the word for the literary device?? I am sure it was discussed back in English 11. Hyperbole?

The dead give away though was the review of Art Escapes, where she approves the clear chapter headings but finds that the pages "are sort of mushy looking." That is SO reminiscent of Alice's squishy feelings. (Though I must say that given the context, I knew exactly what Alice meant by squishy feelings whereas I have no idea what a mushy looking page is.) That being said, only a weird sick person would use adjectives like that.

Response:

Thank you, Carol, for that most entertaining analysis of Ms. Burton's reviews.

Merry Christmas!

Top Ten Year End List

I was all set to write my list of the Top Albums of 2004 when I realized, to my everlasting horror, that I barely bought ten albums this year. What happened? I used to be so musical. Well, not musical in the sense that I could play any instrument, but musical in that I bought at least one CD a week and usually more. I knew all the new stuff coming out and had half-baked, second-hand opinions about all of it. And now I've become one of those people who says, "Uh, no. I haven't heard of them. Or them. Or them." And then laughs shamefacedly.

This blows. But now that I'm... now that I am mature, I have to be careful not to become some Nick Hornby-type character who tries to be hip in her musical tastes but is really just sort of lame and would be embarrassing to her children, if I was mature enough to have any.

Perhaps I should take up classical music? Or jazz. The problem is that both of those genres give me a headache. Sad but true. It's like my futile attempts to learn to play an instrument. There was the time I rented a banjo and never once opened the case for the entire six months I had it. I just loved going into Long and McQuade and pretending I was a member of some funky little bluegrass band like the Be Good Tanyas. I also liked telling people I was renting a banjo. I liked everything about renting a banjo except the actual instrument.

Then there was the time I actually bought a bass. On credit. I'd heard somewhere that the bass is the easiest instrument to play. NOT TRUE! This is a BIG, FAT LIE as I discovered when I started taking lessons from some guy who lived just off Commercial Street and was all poor and musician-like and who quickly despaired of teaching me anything. This time I even practiced, which was not at all fun. The finger positions were uncomfortable and it was quite tricky to try and watch TV while playing bass. I eventually gave my brother the bass, partly because I owed him money but mostly to get rid of it. But still, I had a wonderful time telling people I was learning the bass and going to the music store to make my payments. It was practically as good as giving a concert. I was mingling on a professional level with musicians! Yes! So it was really worth every penny.

But now I'm not even a poseur. I am that saddest of person (at least according to my 20 year-old self): someone who's not that into music. I can't even disdain the stuff I used to because I have no counterbalancing cool stuff that I'm into. It's a little early to make New Year resolutions, but I'm going to anyway. I hereby announce that I, Susan Juby, will get back into music. Maybe world music, because a lot of older, ahem, make that people in their thirties and up, are into it. Or perhaps I will finally commit to bluegrass or folk (Yeah! Utah Phillips!) But I will get into something. In the meantime, here it is, my not very comprehensive list of top albums of 2004.

Susan's Top Two Albums of 2004
Wilco, A Ghost is Born
Loretta Lynn, Van Lear Rose

Please note that I did buy a few other albums, such as The Cure, Greatest Hits but they were mostly compilations or were produced before 2004.

Santa, a word please?

Hi Santa,

It's me, Susan. I know it's not Christmas yet, but if you recall, I put in a request for a career as a DJ a little while ago. Yeah, well, the situation has become a little bit more critical. See, I went on Amazon.com this morning. I was in a mild self-hating mood and that's always the first place I turn! Anyway, as usual, the site didn't fail me. There was yet another diatribe posted by yet another non-admirer. This one was a Sue Burton from Utah. Here are some highlights from her one star review:

"The best parts of the book are the author's bio and a few sparsely scattered funny one-liners such as "our haircuts cost almost as much as our car."

"I only made it to page thirty. This slow moving book still is going nowhere and is filled with weird, sick people--not quirky people, sick ones."

"This book moves at a snail's pace and is just plain weird. I have no idea where the author is planning to go with this story and I don't care to stick around and find out."

"I hope the author realizes that there are more than two careers out there. Barring fashion design and writing, maybe she can find something else to do."

Response: Hey Sue! Thanks for not making it personal!

Well Santa, looks like it's in your court to hurry up with that DJ thing. According to Sue Burton we don't have any time to waste! Also, please put an explanation in my stocking of why it is that I get plenty of nice letters but the really hostile people feel like they have to get on Amazon to share their bile with the world. I've learned my lesson, Santa. After this I promise never to look on Amazon again. In future, I will peruse my own cellulite when I'm in the mood for self-flagellation. Finally, please send Ms. Burton a large lump of coal and credit it to my account.

Thanks S., see you on the evening of the 24th!

Myrna, or another one for me

My Fish Tank isn't listed as a Republican party donor, so I thought I'd pop down and buy myself a few new aquarium fish. Because I'm very responsible like that.

I thought I'd get a few clown loaches, but they were all out. So, because it is the season of impulse purchases and buying something is better than showing restraint, I bought 3 yoyo botias, which are black and white loaches. (Loaches are like little schooling eels. But cute eels. That's really all you need to know.) Anyway, because I haven't bought myself enough gifts this season, I decided to splurge and also buy an elephant nose, a.k.a. Gnathonemus petersi.

Elephant noses are very intriguing. The one I bought is about 4 inches long and has attractive fins and a jaunty stripe as well as a darling little flexible nose, which is actually not a nose but rather an electric probe. I won't go on about that, but even non-aquarists have to admit the possibilities for jokes and innuendo are endless! She was very expensive and it was with much pride and joy that I brought her home. Almost as much joy as if I was getting a gift for someone else.

I did all the right things. I let the fish in their bags float in the tank to get the water temperatures regulated. Then I put a bit of tank water into the bags. Then a bit more. And then, because I was on a consumer binge, I popped down the street to buy myself a reflective vest for my nightly run. I returned to find that tragedy had struck.

Elephant nose jumped out of her bag while I was away! She and her electric probe lay limply on the floor! Dead! I killed elephant nose through neglect and I only had her for half an hour.

Shame and panic fought for control, but practicality won out. I picked her up and put her back in her tank. She quickly floated belly up. No good! It was too late to perform mouth-to-gill resuscitation! I straightened her out and wiggled her back and forth, like one does when catch-and-releasing a trout or salmon. Success! Elephant nose, whom somewhere in the midst of the emergency I'd decided to call Myrna, stirred. (Something about the way she lay on the floor, so sad, yet so peaceful suggested the name. Anyway...)

She floated out of my hand and hung crookedly in the tank. She wasn't looking healthy. Not at all. But the faint whirring of her fins suggested she was a real fighter, like all Myrnas everywhere.

James and I stood back.

"You killed her," he said.

"No! Look! She's moving her eyes!"

"It's rigor mortis setting in," he said.

"Damn."

The Donnas (the neon and white cloud tetras), and the yoyo botias schooled around Myrna's listless form, concern written all over their faces. (If you looked at their faces really hard.) Then I had an idea. Turn off the aquarium light!

The second the light went out Myrna gave a great splash. She revived! She swam around the tank, probing stuff with her probe, and finally settled into the glass tube I bought her to hang out in. Myrna was saved! I don't want to be sacrilegious or anything, and I admit that the parallels might not be immediately obvious to everyone, but it seems to me that Myrna seems to have a few things common with that other great lady. I'm talking about Mary now, people.

Let's see: Myrna appears to be a virgin. She has not had an easy life, at least since I got her. She's no stranger to coming back from the dead. But the big difference is that in Myrna's case SHE came back. She's like a postmodern third wave feminist Mary/fish. She didn't sit around waiting for her son to be risen again. She just went out and did it herself! Who knows why she jumped out of her bag?! Maybe she saw a lost wise man or something. This may sound like more of an Easter theme, but keep in mind that I'm often a little out of synch.

If anyone would like to pay a visit to Mary, I mean Myrna, perhaps after paying homage to that other great Mary-likeness which was found recently in a grilled cheese sandwich in New Jersey, we will be allowing viewings in the New Year. Please note that frankincense and myrrh will be taken at the door but cash is preferred.



(The black smear-looking thing on the left is Myrna. She is quite shy and demure. She may be a third wave feminist, but that doesn't mean she has to be pushy.)

Add to Favorites Immediately

http://www.themorningnews.org

Consumer Activism

An interesting site for anyone interested in U.S. politics:

http://www.buyblue.org/bluexmas.html

Like Vanity Fair's article on the New Establishment, this list will help me make a few decisions about where I shop.

Frank's Christmas Outfit

and other crimes against canines...

Every year we dress Frank up for the Christmas card photo. But this year James had the audacity to suggest that he'd like to be in the shot. In other news, James has also announced that he would like to be called Lord Crossharbour of Woodhaven from now on and has vowed to wear a cravat for the photo.

J. is currently reading a biography of Conrad Black and it has gone to his head. He demanded that I address him as Your Lordship but I informed him that will happen as soon as I have one one hundredth as many shoes as Lady Amiel and he has secured me a permanent gig on a magazine in his media empire that pays me lavishly to write screeching diatribes on issues that concern only me. He has refused this modest request and so I have not called him Your Lordship even once and wouldn't allow him into the family Christmas card. But enough of these touching family anecdotes. We are starting to sound like characters in an early David Sedaris essay, minus the at-home surgeries and babies in the clothes dryer.

So here is Frank's photo. I'm concerned that it's too, well, not seasonal. I may try again. I was inspired by the television show Pimp My Car. Please note that I will attempt to avoid the word "bling" in the season's greeting. Some things are too obvious, even for me.

If you don't receive one of these, my apologies. I was probably busy bickering with Lord Crossharbour about whose turn it is to direct the pretend servants to do the all-too-real housework.

And One For Me

Dear Santa,

As you well know, I have been quite good this year. I have spent at least 25 hours worrying about global warming (14 pts), another ten hours feeling guilty about owning a car (7 pts), and given miniscule amounts of money to my favorite charities (12 pts) In addition, I have made over a hundred snide remarks about malls and big box stores (5 pts) but shopped at Home Depot at least 6 times (-9 pts). On the plus side, at least Home Depot Pays its staff properly, even if it won't guarantee hours. (Please note that I didn't go to Walmart even once this year (42 pts).

So, with a total of 79 pts, I am basically in a strong "B" position. Since that is the case, I would like the following for Christmas.

1. A pair of riding boots and full seat breeches.
(I just happen to know that James has taken care of that for you, Santa.)

2. The MC Panjabi CD.
(I actually took care of that one for you. Don't mention it!)

3. My long dreamed-of career as a radio DJ.
I don't want to be one of those announcers who pretends to be about 15 years younger than he actually is and makes a lot of stupid, sexist jokes about beer and his buddies like you find on most classic rock stations.

I want to be like the DJ from Warriors. You remember that movie, don't you Santa? It's about this huge gang summit in New York. The main gang leader guy gets killed and the real killer accuses the Warriors of committing the crime. The story is about the Warriors trying to get back to Coney Island from Manhattan, mostly via the subway system. Along the way they are attacked by gangs who wear cool outfits, like baseball uniforms or roller skates, girl gangs and gangs who drive around in an old bus, and other gangs that I can't quite remember.

The movie is kind of narrated by this excellent DJ woman who has a sultry voice and says cool, sexy stuff and is obviously in the know about underground activities, such as gang warfare etc. I realize that my lips will never rival hers. I'm also aware, Santa, that I'm in my thirties now and this DJ fantasy is a little immature, perhaps even a smidge pathetic. I know that I live in Nanaimo, which doesn't really have any gangs or a subway system (although we do have good Go Carts here). Even so, if you could hook me up with the voice and the excellent patter I promise I will stop being so bitter and disappointed about Christmas and all its unfulfilled promise of a better life. I will even stop calling it Capitalistmas.

Thanks, Santa. Do this for me and I'll have your back, Christmas-spirit-wise.

Now I am going to go practice my DJing in case I wake up to a sound studio on Christmas morning. Okay, here goes: "Warriors, come out to plaaaaaay...." Oops, the cool DJ never said those lines. They were from the bad guy with the small chin! Wait, I've got it. She actually said: "To that real live bunch from Coney Island, The Warriors..."

Cue Nowhere to Hide! I am so ready, Santa!

The List

Undershirt for Edward: check.



Overcoat for Edward: check.

Christmas Chronicles 2

Accomplished so far in the season of gluttony and avarice and misguided crafts:

One wreath of holly.



Please notice that it is hung over our woodpecker doorknocker. This is not because the red of the bird brings out the red of the berries. It's because I'm trying to disguise the knocker. Because, as noted in an earlier post, I think it sends the flickers in the neighborhood the wrong message. In other words, the f*#%! flicker is back.

Recently I've heard pecking noises on the studio walls in the morning as I am attempting to summon the muse (AKA Dressage Delaney: see below).



Each time I hear the noise I leap up, scream some profanities (that's right, Eileen, profanities) and begin banging on the roof and walls with a large stick. Pecking ceases, story over. Or so you would think.

Yesterday morning the pecking was more insistent than usual so I raced outside to try and catch Flicker the F*#!r in the act. I saw the white underside of his tail flash as he skedaddled (can a creature with wings skedaddle?) into the nearby trees.
At first there didn't seem to be any damage to the walls. But then I noticed the little tufts of something pink clinging to the siding. Insulation! I looked down and saw a massive pile of insulation at the base of the studio. FLICKER! YOU F#@!*#!r You've excavated a studio apartment in my writing studio!

So now we're stuck. Do we evict Flick in the dead of winter and cover the entire studio with bird netting, as we did the house? We are starting to look like one of Christo's art installations. Or do we try and see what will happen if we let Flick stay? Will that be an open invitation for bats (whom I can live with), rats (whom I cannot) and god knows what else?

How can a person concentrate on making hideous Christmas crafts when a bird is taking apart her house?? How I ask you?

Up next: Frank's Christmas Outfit and Other Crimes Against Humanity

Flicker the F#*!r

(First posted in March 2004)

Our doorknocker is made of iron, painted red and shaped like a woodpecker. It requires a bit of effort to move but produces a resonant knock. I have concerns that it may be sending the wrong message.

When we first moved into our house, we were thrilled to discover woodpeckers visited frequently. I spotted several pileated woodpeckers making their way up and down nearby trees. And when James and I saw a Northern Flicker alight on one of the beams extending out the front of our house we were so excited we rushed out and bought some binoculars.

Turns out we didn’t need them. Flick, as we began to call him, moved into the snug area between a ceiling beam and the roof. Every night we got a close-up of his rather large butt as it hung over the edge. He left copious droppings on the deck, but this was okay with us. After all, we’d moved from the city to this wooded area so we could get closer to nature.

Unfortunately, Flick wasn’t content with simply perching on the beam. He decided to excavate a hole, perhaps because his bum was getting cold hanging out there all night. We awoke every morning to find wood chips joining the droppings all over the chairs and deck. Oh well, we thought. At least no one can see the hole because it’s on top of the beam, which extends from the highest point of the roof, at least 16 feet above the deck.

Then Flick's sex drive began to stir. This led him to fly to the top of the house each morning at around 6:00 a.m. where he perched on top of the metal chimney and began to drum. The sound reverberated through the house, as though that one-armed drummer from Def Leppard was up there practicing solos. This racket was meant to get girls.

It worked. Soon there were overheated flickers everywhere.

We tried to support the happy couples. Risking life and limb and a fight, we put up a flicker house. When we saw our main man Flick checking it out, James and I hugged like proud parents. But for some reason the new house was found wanting and Flick ended up living on the beam again.

His excavating took on new seriousness and the quantities of wood chips and flicker poop flying from overhead began to worry us. What if Flick drilled right through the beam and our roof caved in? (Our grasp of engineering is obviously tenuous at best. It’s really a miracle that we managed to get that birdhouse into the tree, even crooked as it is). Worse, Flick, kept up his bloody drumming every morning.

Then it happened. I’d been writing and hadn’t really noticed the sound of Flick’s drilling had changed and become less metallic. I went outside to find that Flick had decided it might be easier to drill into that expanse of wood out front, also known as our cedar siding. Our house probably sounded nice and hollow, like a temptingly rotten tree. But there was something wrong with this big tree. Flick could only get so far before hitting the frame of the house. Ever the optimist, Flick just moved to a fresh spot. By the time I got outside, Flick had made about ten holes in the front of the house. Deep holes. Holes that probably dropped the value of our house by half. Our Friend Flicker instantly became Flicker the F#*!r.

From bird loving amateur naturalist, I was transformed into the crazy lady who ran outside every few minutes each morning in her pajamas screaming “Flick! Stop it. Get away! Damn you Flick!” at the top of her voice. James bought a water machine gun and we soaked ourselves several times but never came anywhere near scaring Flick away from the chimney. James installed an exceedingly unattractive piece of ragged blue tarp over the holes in an effort to keep Flick from returning to the job site. But our entire house is made of wood and we were one big tarp-covered, hole studded, target.

Flick moved out of the beam. But he came back every day for some drumming and to peer assessingly at our increasingly ramshackle looking house from nearby trees.

We borrowed a scuba diving suit, stuffed it full of old sweaters, dressed it in old clothes, put a hat on the head and the water machine gun on its lap and left it in a deck chair to frighten him. We replaced the hideous tarp with hung bird netting, a slightly more respectable looking deterrent, over all the exposed areas of the house. And eventually Flick got the message and moved on.

But recently, Flick returned. He’s apparently got a new place, somewhere nearby, but he still finds our chimney irresistable. So every morning I race out of bed to scream up the chimney: “Flick! Damn you!” And every morning he pokes his long-billed head over the edge of the chimney pipe as if to say, “Dude, you should really learn to relax.”