I Put a Spell on You! Happy Halloween!

Ever since my brother and I retired our haunted trail/haunted garage parties back in junior high, I haven't been too big on Halloween, I will admit. It's just not my thing (with the exception of last year, clearly). In fact, this year I traded shifts at work in an effort to avoid having to wear a costume while I waited tables.

Of course, that backfired. Wednesday we were informed we would be expected to be in costume Friday night as well. Luckily my lifesaver Beth loaned me her black beret, I tied a red scarf around my neck, put on a black and white shirt, et, voila! Je suis francais. OR, a pirate, which is what one of our creepy regulars called me. I almost wish I had left him believing that, because when I told him I was a french bohemian, he began following me around, calling me mademoiselle and trying to kiss my hand.

The only highlight of last night was when a chubby guy in a monkey costume joined one of my tables, asked me for Jack on the rocks and said, "Is that a banana in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"

Before I could think of a witty reply, monkey boy reached in his pocket, pulled out a banana, and slammed it on the table.

"MINE'S A BANANA!"

When I came back to the table with his whiskey, he grinned and said, "You really are a cute lil' artist!"

I hope he washed down the banana with his Jack Daniels.

I'll leave you with some of my Halloween favorites:





"You didn't tell me you were gonna kill it!"





Happy Halloween, kiddos! Be safe. Eat candy. Drink pumpkin ale. Watch Hocus Pocus.

Love,
The Blogger formerly known as Thing 2

The 29th of October

I’ve been debating whether or not to blog today, about today, all week. Because after all, today is just a day: It’s two days before Halloween. It’s my day off. It’s Thursday.

But it’s also October 29th. And for the last seven years, I’ve cringed when I heard this date. My brow furrows when I see it on the calendar.

October 29th.

Seven years ago today, my mother died. So, yeah, it’s Thursday, it’s two days before Halloween. But for me, it is now and always will be the day my mother died.

Am I being a little dramatic? Maybe. I don’t know. Is it okay to be dramatic? Maybe. I don’t know.

The fact is, I think about my mom every day. I miss her every day. But on October 29th, each year, I think about her and I miss her more. This year marks the seventh year of missing my mother, and it brings up a lot of questions.

We should meet in another life, we should meet in air, me and you.

Isn't it fantastic how Sylvia Plath was completely bat shit nuts and completely genius, all at the same time?

I mean, come on.






From "Lesbos":

I should sit on a rock off Cornwall and comb my hair.
I should wear tiger pants, I should have an affair.
We should meet in another life, we should meet in air,
Me and you

Meanwhile there’s a stink of fat and baby crap.
I’m doped and thick from my last sleeping pill.
The smog of cooking, the smog of hell
Floats our heads, two venemous opposites,
Our bones, our hair.
I call you Orphan, orphan. You are ill.
The sun gives you ulcers, the wind gives you T.B.
Once you were beautiful.
In New York, in Hollywood, the men said: 'Through?
Gee baby, you are rare.'
You acted, acted for the thrill.
The impotent husband slumps out for a coffee.
I try to keep him in,
An old pole for the lightning,
The acid baths, the skyfuls off of you.
He lumps it down the plastic cobbled hill,
Flogged trolley. The sparks are blue.
The blue sparks spill,
Splitting like quartz into a million bits.

I get it, I don't get it, I suddenly feel like my day is going much better than it first seemed. Seriously. Read the rest of that poem and you'll know what I mean. Even if you don't know what the eff she's really talking about, the utter craziness/loveliness of it is comforting.

Or, maybe that's just me. I think I need to quit blogging when I'm tired. 

"Gee baby, you are rare."

Dear Brandi, I love you, and your new album.

Here's why:




She's talking about sex dreams! Hello!

A walk with my dad.

This weekend I took a walk with my dad. Normally, we take our walks at the cemetery where my mother is buried. That might sound a little weird, but it’s actually a great place to walk. It’s peaceful, somehow.

Every time we go to the cemetery for a walk, we have an unspoken ritual. Dad parks the car in the same spot, by the same tree. We walk over to the grave, sometimes with flowers from the yard to put next to it, more often, not. We stand there for a minute. Nothing is said. I look over at him. Then he says, “Ready?”

And we walk.

This past weekend, we didn’t walk in the cemetery—there’s a new trail along the old railroad lines that he wanted to show me, so we took our walk there—but it still felt like our old ritual.

When we take our walks, sometimes, it’s just a walk. But sometimes I get out all the things I want or need to tell my dad, but can’t seem to otherwise.

In December, drinking horchata!

"Here comes a feeling you thought you'd forgotten!"

What's that? It's the bliss that ensues from listening to the beautiful pop sounds of Vampire Weekend!



1.12.10

I'll be doing the white girl dance all down Logan Boulevard on that day. I don't care how cold it is. If I'm lucky, I'll find some horchata.

They're playing at King's College tonight. Sigh. Don't even get me started.

Poo-tee-weet? Poll Results are In!

With a whopping 13 total votes...

And we've got an even amount of Swayze and Twitter lovers. The Twitter naysayers led, but I'm still undecided. I think I'm going to have to, just for the sake of my future as a journalist and blogger.

Your thoughts?

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