A Daily Dose of Zen Sarcasm!

Two Hundred and Thirty-Three

AC, originally uploaded by Madame Meow.

Happy birthday, dear adoptive country. You are loved.

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Right now, as Monsieur Meow reads Herr Meow a little book about America's birthday ("Daddy, what is "tax"?), and the sirens wail throughout the city, rescuing the hapless and the possibly burned, and our local PBS affiliate gets cheesy with the background music while the sky lights up my screen periodically from all the fireworks displays around, I am happy.

Happy, because birthdays are happy (even mine, exactly two months away).

Happy, because if some fireworks are good, then MORE fireworks are just awesome.

Happy, because it was a lovely, cool, wonderful day today.

Happy, because I no longer have a raging headache.

Happy, because some gentlemen some time ago decided that stupid over-taxation from far away reeeeeeally sucked.

Happy, because this truly is the best country in the world, and there is no other place I would be as honored or happy to call my home.

I love you, United States of America, from California to the New York island.

At Least We Get To Skip The Superlatives This Time Around

Apparently, it's been fifteen years since I've graduated high school, or so the idle tongues tell me.

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Back sometime in the middle nineties, I remember cruising down a street while driving way too fast with someone who, at the time, I thought was possibly my best friend.  We were laughing and drunk on the fact that we were in our early twenties and carefree and probably filled with alcohol as well, and CAKE's "The Distance" was playing on the radio (oh, I know... the radio... how quaint, you say to yourself).

I remember wondering aloud to my friend if that song would be cool when we were older, and her reply of extreme certitude made me happy to be her friend, and happy to have that moment.

And so, when I found myself standing in the middle of the 9:30 club last Saturday and singing along with that song twelve years later or so, it was hard not to wonder if it is still cool, or if your early youth and all that is contained within it will always be cool to you, no matter how much time may have elapsed.

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I didn't think it necessary to attend my 10-year reunion. 

I wondered then, as I wonder now, if anyone with whom I have not kept in touch would really want to see me, or if it just would be a case of morbid (or even just passing) curiosity-- "Oh look, there is what's-her-name and she looks about ten pounds heavier  Yawn.  Next."

Of course, even if I'd wanted to attend, a nasty bout of food poisoning made sure I stayed put, dry-heaving in my own house and enjoying my newlywed bliss by sharing a bucket of sick with poor Monsieur Meow.

I must admit, however, that I am curious about that great, big, giant IT that is Life After High School.  And Facebook only makes things that much intriguing.

If you go spelunking for former acquaintances, what you get is a collection of microscopic snapshots and names.  Some profile pictures have children figuring prominently (as mine currently does, for instance); an intensely artistic shot graces the FB of some-- a beautiful sunset or a snowy mountaintop, or a somber profile telegraphing sharp cheekbones and perhaps some élan vital as heretofore unseen in any other profile photo; others are appropriate, straightforward shots of the person in question.   These last shots appeal to me the most, because they speak of a person who has nothing to hide and who can live with his or her own face.  If I were not so hung up on not looking at the camera, I would probably post a picture like that. 

And some, of  course, are ugly-- why sugarcoat it?   Some are grotesque poses, perhaps meant to be attractive in some other alien dimension; some show people chopped off gracelessly, causing what I have come to think of as bad chopped-up-person juju; others feature extra, odd things in the background, as a subliminal Rorschach; some are pure deception, featuring an older glammed-up version that no longer contains much of the person's truth;  and yet others show a washed out face, not only displaying a sore lack of photographic understanding (the flash washes you out and makes you look oddly featureless if it fires too close to your face, for instance) but also displaying possibly those things that the owner of the picture possibly sought most to conceal in said picture.

So as the preparations and the fanfare go on full-tilt for the reunion and I turn those virtual pages, straining to remember some names and faces and remembering others far too well, I wonder about how much we've all grown and grown apart-- after all, high school in some cases is a bit like Stockholm syndrome, where instead of falling in love with or pledging allegiance to your captor, you seem to develop these oftentimes sick bonds with people you knew for only a few years but with such a claustrophobic intensity that their relevance to your life seems heightened to the point of ridiculousness.
A friend recently went to a reunion and found it puzzling that formerly unpleasant people from her school were only too glad to see her and found themselves apologizing to her over incidents that were oh-so-dead and buried that an apology lost its relevance and found itself closer to the comedy section.

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I thumb through Facebook and some names make me cringe.  All these years later, and I still get a small uneasy pit in my stomach, and why? 

It's inexplicable.  As inexplicable as is the desire to revive friendships that had an expiration date in the nineties.

As inexplicable as realizing that, no matter how you rationalize it, those high school people --some of which you remember and some of which you rather would forget-- still somehow matter in your former-teenager zeitgeist. 

Inexplicably, somehow, that pimply and overdramatic part of yourself with the crazy bangs still matters.

Happy Day-The-Mexicans-Kicked-French-Ass Day

AvoDiptych, originally uploaded by Madame Meow.

...so you can see why "Cinco de Mayo" is a catchier cognomen.

Anyhoo, I do like Cinco de Mayo, and it's primarily because it's kind of a Western holiday, as funny as that sounds. Mexico itself doesn't celebrate the Battle of Puebla as heartily and happily as it celebrates its own independence; however, the western part of the United States --united also in the love of Mexican food-- seems to really take to the holiday.

Because, let us face it: there is nothing quite like a good Mexican feast and several good Mexican beers as an excuse to celebrate and perhaps break up the monotony of everyday with vibrant red, white and green. Much like St. Patrick's day gives everyone license to be Irish for a day, so it seems that Cinco de Mayo gives everyone a little Mexicanness-- or at least helps them drink and eat that way.

How can you not like holidays where there is no obligation other than eating and drinking, anyway?

As for me, nothing says "fiesta' quite like guacamole.

How did you (or didn't you) celebrate May fifth?

Blooming Fool, At Least Once a Year

Amaryllis (Hippeastrum) Petals, originally uploaded by Madame Meow.

If you're at all into plants, you may be lightly wondering why I'm posting a picture of an Amaryllis on April Fools' Day.

Simple: my Amaryllis bulb was planning this lovely joke all along.

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It was planning to bloom once, take a year break, and then stunningly bloom again today, laughing squarely in the face of the twelfth day of spring and as a practical joke on  Smith and Hawken; on the Target that sold me the bulb three years ago; on the year it stubbornly remained dormant and refused to rebloom; and on me, who almost gave up on the stubborn little bulb which was lovingly watered and carried around and pruned off its leaves back in August and which was placed in a cool dry place until it was brought out on Herr Meow's birthday because it's about four weeks away from the Christmastide and hey! Amaryllises are supposed to bloom around Christmas, right?

But I didn't expect that it would take it three more months to produce a flowering spike, and then another month to grace us with the gorgeous orange-red flowers it gracefully decided to unfurl today on this day of practical jokes, trickery, and many fools.

And to think I almost threw the poor bulb away.

I could not have asked for a better April Fool.

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When I was a child, I was fascinated by the Tarot.

Some of the cards were pretty --like the Sun (19) and the Moon (18) and the Star (17), of course. Some seemed exciting, like the Wheel of Fortune (10), and some seemed plain badass, like the Magician (1).

The scariest one to me was the Hanged Man (12)-- scarier even than Death (13) itself, looking so pitifully busy with that overpowering scythe. (How is it possible for Death to wield that thing about without getting it confused with one of its bones anyway?). Being hanged upside down by one foot seems to me, to this day, not only inconvenient but extremely painful.

And then there was The Fool (0), and it didn't make much sense.

After all, in most tarot decks, the poor Fool is just taking a leisurely stroll, hobo-style. What makes him a fool? What gives the tarot deck the right to insult one card and not the other 77 anyway?

But The Fool is not only a trump card-- making it one of the 22 important cards in a Tarot deck-- but it's also the grandpappy of what we know in our scrubbed-clean cards as The Joker.

It's a card without meaning until you give it meaning, in other words-- a cipher (hence its number being zero in the tarot order) waiting for you to fill in the blank or produce three other aces so you can have a chance to win it all.

The Fool is what you make of it. He is the vagabond and the nomad and the hapless naïf in your soul, waiting to be placed wherever he can be the catalyst.

We are all fools in some way or another. But maybe all we need to do is to be given a little time, space, sun and water, and just maybe we'll make fools out of those who didn't believe in what we could do.

Or maybe we can just trash the whole thing and buy a new bulb.

But then the joke is doubly on us.

It's Always February Second Somewhere In Your Mind

Today is Groundhog day.

And, if all biological cues are any indication, it could also be the day --or the day before-- I meet my second child.

Punxsutawney Phil apparently saw his shadow this year, which means that there will be six more weeks of winter.

Funny enough, February second is at a junction in time where technically there are six more weeks of winter any way you look at it: March 20th, the first day of actual spring is 46 days away-- which is about six weeks no matter what.

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Reading The Happiness Project's reflection on the day earlier today, I realized that I'm not the only one who thinks of the movie Groundhog Day on this day, let alone on its deep philosophical implications.  What if I had to live one day over and over again?  What would I do for a perfect day?

Perfect day aside, as I don't think that ideal can ever truly be achieved, I think it would be rather wicked yet fascinating if you had to relive the day you are to give birth over and over again: watching the arc of decisions and the cascade of symptoms and wondering if anything or everything you do could make the birth any more speedy or painless would be by turns abject torture and yet it would mean reliving one of the most important days in the lives of many people, which is a very tall and dramatic (and inspirational) order.

Or, conversely, seeing how a birth can devolve from a normal occurrence into highly-medically invasive, and possibly even tragic, territory would also be fascinating in the way a trainwreck is fascinating.  It only takes one or a few decisions to turn a smooth process into something that becomes far more complicated than the sum of its parts.

After all, "Groundhog Day" while being a comedy did not shy away from the main character's urges to explore his suicidal, homicidal, megalomaniacal and criminal tendencies before he realizes that the day that torments him can also be the single best or most meaningful day of his life.

And isn't that what is at the core of life itself?  That we, even those of us who are most flawed and humbled by our own actions, still hold on to the belief that we all have the potential to have the best day of our lives within us, whatever that may be.

May you live one day worth repeating over and over again. 

Wishing You Many Upside-Down Bats, Too!

So on a day like today -- and today would be Chinese or Lunar New Year-- I can imagine the Buddha waiting patiently for the animals to show up to bid him farewell before he departs his earthly coil, and so far, only Clever Rat has shown up.  And Rat, being all about impatience and beginnings and perhaps a little overly proud of being first, is sitting there with the Buddha, talking his ear off and just kind of gloating inwardly a little bit.

And then out of the snowy mists, hardworking and dependable Ox appears, its lovely horns decked with ribbons and peach blossoms.  And Rat would be pleased to have company and yet a little sad and dejected because it's not Rat's year anymore.

And the Buddha would smile and welcome Ox to sit and relax and take a load off and perhaps to feast on some tender grass that would just happen to be growing there by his foot under a small patch of snow.

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There is a little Earthen Ox  inside of me waiting to be born, and I wonder what lessons he or she will teach me, stubborn old Fire Dragon lady that I am. 

Between you and me and the Interwebs, I am scared poopless.

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恭喜發財!!
Gung Hei Fat Choy, dear Interwebs!  May this year of the Ox bring happiness to you and all of yours.  I leave you with some resources should you want to read up and celebrate a little on your own.

Chinese New Year basic info
Resources for kids and crafts at kaboose
Food/menu ideas at allrecipes
Wikipedia article on Chinese New Year
Wikipedia article on Lunar Astrology (because you shouldn't limit yourself to Western bullhonky astrology, mes chers)

It's Never Too Late to Have a Happy Childhood

Sweetie Belle, With 'Do, originally uploaded by Madame Meow.

I always wanted a My Little Pony.

Yes, the tv episode plots were thin and the ponies were high maintenance and kind of dumb. But there was a magical moment when a friend would lend you her pony and it was just you and that little silky plastic shiny mane and a tiny little comb communing.

It seems some twenty-five years later, I've finally gotten my wish to have my own little silly plastic figurine of my own.

And you know what?

It was worth the wait.

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I hope you've had a very Merry Christmas, if you should celebrate it, and that somewhere along the line you had a magical moment all your own.

Not Much Hallow'd about 'Ween

The festivities started early for some..., originally uploaded by Madame Meow.

Yes. That's a puddle of vomit in that picture.

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Halloween is a funny holiday. As we are all aware by now, it's not just a holiday in which kids dress up and ask for candy and people decorate their homes with spooky themes in some vague reminiscence of a Druid New Year Festival.

Oh no.

It's also

1. an opportunity for adult women to tap into their inner Raging Sluts and make even the most subdued outfit choice (garbage bag?

2. an opportunity for all parents to see their kids at their very worst --with a raging sugar high and in a mob mentality-- in one of their cutest phases (young, adorably decked, fawned over by others), all at the same time.

3. an occasion to encourage raging Evangelical Christians to decry the horror and devil worship and debauchery that is Halloween. (I'm thinking they don't like candy corn)

4. an opportunity to see which of your neighbors are the fun ones, and which ones are just no fun at all. (Raging fun?)

5. and finally, an opportunity to see vomit upon a city sidewalk. The raging part is optional here, I think.

I realize that people throw up on sidewalks with some frequency. I still remember a girl I used to know in high school, who was complaining that her stomach hurt and she felt woozy all during the ride to school. As soon as the buses arrived and we started going up the hill, she turned a violent shade of green and a few seconds later, we were treated to seeing her projectile vomit onto the corner of a building in an apotheosis of retroperistaltic power.

I can close my eyes and see her vomiting prowess, fifteen years later.

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But vomit is sometimes all that remains, isn't it?

All those 75% off decorations and must-sell signs and half-opened polyester wonders bear a stark resemblance to vomit, just as much as this candy-overload picture does.

Vomit: it's what remains.

Thinking Crisp Thoughts

I find it a little happy, sad, and anticlimactic that it's finally autumn. 

In the thickest of the summer heat there is always that carrot dangled in front of us  --that mythical and ephemeral Xanadu of crisp mornings and windows wide open and falling leaves.  We are fortified by thoughts of mulled wine and cider and giant orange orbs greeting passers-by from our doorstep and the first whiffs or wood-burning stoves and the first tickles of our sweaters (which in our mind never pill and are always cashmere) as we pull them over our eager-to-be-cold bodies.

Well, okay, and when I say "we" I definitely mean me-- because while I have grown very fond of warm weather, I always long to return to that which I know growing up high up in the mountains.

But then the reality of those days hits, and one day is too cold and the next is too warm, and the mosquitoes haven't died yet and seek bloody revenge to protect their doomed spawn, and the trees look more dead or dying than actually going through their beautiful change; somewhat like the man who might have imagined his hair would turn a dashing Mark Harmon salt-and-pepper luxuriant mane but instead either ended up staring at a Jason Alexander-esque pate or  --even worse-- into the Grecian formula'ed tresses of a Pat O'Brien (sorry about getting fired, buddy). 

The reality always lies somewhere in between, which is comforting but unsettling all the same: we want change but we fear it and sometimes that change for which we long and which we idolize or idealize does not quite live up to those imaginary, perfect expectations.

The mornings have been brilliant blue and clear, mosquitoes be damned.  I'm sure these cold-resistant mosquitoes are self-congratulatory in their extended survival --their happy development after 30 million years of getting killed off unceremoniously, no doubt.  And despite the haze, there is still a crisp bite.  Apples and pumpkin pie in the event horizon make these days even more cheerful, even if in their ordinariness sometimes they fall flat, just because they are all "today."

But truly, the most important part of this metamorphosis is to make it out the other side alive.  Happiness, health, or picture-perfect sweaters optional. 

Mental note: take lots of vitamin C.

The Seven-Year Botch

A helicopter just went by the cloudy DC airspace, and I didn't fear it.  I didn't wonder what nefarious mission it might be accomplishing.  I didn't wonder about the emptiness in the sky or about the sirens of the fire truck that went by a little earlier.

But this morning, taking a walk, I saw the flags at half-mast and I noticed the din was less dinny.  The city is a little less vibrant, having chosen to pull out the grays for this seventh anniversary.

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In the vein of the seven-year itch --or the belief that a monogamous relationship can become stagnant and foster straying after seven years--  and of that oft-cited urban legend about every cell in your body being replaced after seven years (which makes some sense until you realize that neurons aren't really replaced), perhaps we as a country are going through some sort of seven-year itch.

A seven-year itch in which we seem to be forgetting the raw pain and the horror and the feelings of true unity.  In which we're forgetting that everyday people were heroes and victims and fearless leaders.

In which we forget the fact that war is not an alien intangibility, but a daily reality: one that is fought every day by those of us who are part of the armed forces, and by emergency personnel of all kinds.

The war is now within, as we become complacent and jaded and think we're safe once again.