Presbyfruit

Farrah

In between early reports on Michael Jackson's death, I heard Shephard Smith of Fox say a few words about Farrah Fawcett.  He said something about her having been loved by lots of little boys in the 70's. 

And this little girl.  

I was a huge fan of "Charlie's Angels" when it aired in the late 70's.  And I

loved, loved, loved Farrah Fawcett-Majors. 

For Christmas in 1977 (or maybe it was '78), I got a shirt emblazoned 

with the iconic photo of Farrah in the red bathing suit.  

If my mother was suspicious about why her daughter wanted a shirt with a woman in a revealing swimsuit on it, she didn't say. I was obviously not out of the closet (being 10 or 11 years old) and just coming to terms with my realization that I might possibly be gay.  I hadn't yet realized it was something I needed to be ashamed of and suppress.  Otherwise, I would have admired the shirt on someone else and definitely not asked Santa Claus for it.

I remember my mother asking why I was interested in such a bimbo.  She said that when she was my age, she had idolized Elizabeth Taylor who was much classier than Farrah, in her estimation.  

I didn't care about her low opinion of Farrah.  I wore the shirt until the image was faded and barely recognizable.  When I was older and "Charlie's Angels" aired at midnight, I sneaked downstairs and took photos of the TV, trying to capture scenes (this was before home video, screen caps and youtube).  

When I think back to myself as a young, closeted baby dyke, Farrah Fawcett is there too.  RIP...

Pay it forward challenge

I just saw this on Angela's blog.  Since I'm currently struggling a bit with my ongoing spiritual dead zone and trying real hard not to panic about whether or not I'll still have a job in 2010, I'm going to do this.  I'll feel better doing something for someone else and not obsessing about bad economic news and existential angst.  Here are the rules:

"I will send a handmade gift to the first 3 people who leave a comment on this post requesting to join this Pay It Forward exchange. I don’t know what that gift will be yet and you may not receive it tomorrow or next week, but you will receive it within 365 days; that is my promise! The only thing you have to do in return is pay it forward by making the same promise on your blog."

Okay, here's the thing.  I'm not such a great knitter, and that's pretty much all I can do.  Squares and rectangles.  I do have a sewing machine that I want to learn to use, so perhaps I could do a simple square or rectangle on that. Whatever, let me do it for you.

What the ??

I recently bought a pair of Sony earbuds for my iPod.  I've gone through countless pairs of earphones and headphones ever since, oh about 1982 when I got my first Walkman knockoff.  The headphones never last because I wear the crap out of them.  

These were an upgrade from my iPod earbuds (which hurt my ears and kept falling out).  The new ones were perfect, the best I've ever owned.  

And this morning, when I woke up, they were on the floor looking like this:

Gone.  Totally eaten by what I assume was a mouse.  That is, I hope it was a mouse. Although all that rubber and plastic and electrical bits can't be good for such a little thing.  

I suppose we'll be smelling something really bad in the house soon.

Losing my mind

I've always been worried about the state of my poor little pea brain.  I protein-load and have since high school.  My breakfasts then were ham and eggs and cheese.  I hang upside down to increase the blood flow to my noggin.  I take vitamins and supplements that purportedly enhance memory.  Still, I worry about early onset Alzheimer's or just plain garden variety dementia.  

I'm not putting my car keys in the freezer yet, but I find myself zoning out more often and doing dopey things.  I mean, dopier than usual.

I call Kari on each of my federally-mandated breaks at work (we're a tad bit co-dependent, or perhaps we just like each other a lot).  Last week I called her and the line was busy.  I decided to take a quick walk around the block, which is in a residential area.  I put my phone in my back pocket and set off.  My ringtone is "Dancing Queen."  No more than 5 minutes later, I hear "Dancing Queen" behind me.  

My first thought:  wow, those people sure are playing their radio loud this morning. After other thoughts, such as "I like that song" and "maybe that's a CD and not the radio," I realized it was my phone.

Strange reaction to "Star Trek"

Kari and I went to see the new "Star Trek" movie this past week.  Kari grew up watching the original TV show.  I watched the first season or two several years ago, to see what all the fuss was about.  I liked them, and can easily see why people (i.e. Trekkies, or Trekkers) are obsessed with the show.

Leonard Nimoy appears in this new movie, looking his age.  At the end of the film, there's a shot of the USS Enterprise and he narrates the opening credits that were used in the original series. Here's a link to those credits:  Star Trek 1966 opening .

After the movie, Kari was bummed out for awhile.  She said she was really bothered by Nimoy's age and that it underscored for her the loss of her childhood.  I haven't told her, and she wasn't aware of it at the time, but I had to hold back the tears when Nimoy's narration came on the screen.  I felt the same way and may have been influenced by that rather sappy, but totally sad, Farrah Fawcett documentary the previous week.  These things that were so much a part of my childhood, they're gone, or going, or being replaced by newer, younger models.

It's part of the cycle, but it still sucks.

LIttle dog with little green boots

Rosie wearing little green dog Wellies after I mowed the grass:

I'll do another post real quick and maybe she won't notice

We went to see "Wolverine" this afternoon;  I'm trying to cultivate an interest in sci-fi so Kari and I can share movies together.  I overwhelmingly prefer British period movies to sci-fi, but I can appreciate a good story. 

The problem is, I can barely follow most sci-fi story lines.  I try really hard to concentrate, but I never understand what the heck is going on.  Even when I stay awake.

Several things I noticed at the theater.  We were there for a 5:20 show and practically had the whole place to ourselves (there were 9 people in a giant theater, including us).  There were a preponderance of men, most of them by themselves.  

And, finally, those popcorn bags were never intended to have long, loving squirts of that nasty, artery-clogging "butter."  I run in horror from that stuff;  Kari made two separate trips for countless squirts.  I know the bags were not constructed to hold so much liquid because as soon as we sat down, Kari's bag started leaking the crap all over the place. 

At least her heart was spared.

She'll make me take this post down when she reads it...

...but I'm doing it anyway.

Fine Woodworking Magazine is running a handtool storage cabinet contest.  Kari reluctantly submitted her very own tool cabinet.  If you like her chest (and I sure do), please vote for it.  Do it, Minions!  (all 2 of you):

Vote here for the Hanging Tool Cabinet

10 Happy Years

I just got back from our Wednesday night Taize service at church.  I've been taking a break and only showing up when I have to "work" (e.g. usher, work in the nursery, library, whatever).  I realized, while I was journaling during the service, that this is probably not such a good idea if I ever want to transcend my burnout and spiritual deadness.  But that's another post.

Tonight, I lit the candles, balancing the very expensive hurricane shades on my prodigious bosom while my hair--and the flame--were being blown around by the full force AC vents.  As per usual, when I was done, I had candle wax all over the chest area of my shirt. 

Besides my journaling, I was fully focused on waiting for something to happen. Anything to knock me out of my Spirit-less stupor.  

Two of the songs played tonight were songs that Kari and I chose for our commitment ceremony 5 years ago.  We decided to have this ceremony on our 5th anniversary and hastily planned something that approximates a Presbyterian wedding.  We sang two old stalwarts, "Come Thou Font of Every Blessing" and "Be Thou My Vision," and one of the Taize songs from tonight ushered us to the front of the church, escorted by Kari's dad.  

I was cracking up tonight (inwardly--Taize is a quiet, meditative service) thinking how bizarre our ceremony was for two lesbians. 

We couldn't do it in our church, which still breaks my heart a little.  We had to do it in the Unitarian Church, where such things would not compromise jobs or risk the judicial wrath of the Presbyterian Church.  Bummer.

Anyway, the ceremony's not the thing.  I've been with this woman for 10 years. TEN YEARS!!!  I'm constantly surprised by how much I still actually like her and want to spend time with her.  We rarely, if ever, fight.  When we're together we laugh like ninnies.  I might be able to name one or two other couples I know who seem as happy as we are.  

I'm not gloating.  Okay, maybe I am.  While I didn't get the spiritual slap-upside-the- head that I was hoping for, I got to think really good thoughts about my perfect wife.

Happy Anniversary, Baby!!!  

Beautiful historical stuff and annoying old guys

Kari and I spent part of Saturday at the Fort Frederick Market Fair in western Maryland. There were tradespeople and hardcore French & Indian War re-enactors. The day was beautiful and the costumes were outstanding. I'd love to do historical reenactment, but not in flouncy dresses. I really dig the men's outfits. Breeches and vests and military suits. It's strange for me, because I'm somewhat of a girly girl, or at least I used to be, to want to dress like the dudes.  But there it is.  

The most annoying thing about our time at Fort Frederick came when Kari's mom chose an occupied picnic table to sit down.  The empty ones were too far away. There were three old guys sitting there, one of them a re-enactor.  Mom-in-law sat her stuff down and walked away to get some napkins or something.  As soon as I sat down, these old farts were off and running about Viagra and how long an old guy needs to, um, finish.  With me sitting right there!   I was totally disgusted by this kind of talk.  

Not that I'm a prude.  I just don't want to hear that kind of stuff from dirty old assholes while I'm trying to eat.  Or anytime, really. I think part of it is generational; men in their 60's and 70's, I've noticed, do tell sexist off-color jokes to women.   

The guy sitting beside me noticed my sour look and lack of amusement and said, "You just have to have a sense of humor. HA HA HA HA."  He was a too-long, too-intense laugh-er.  

Just then, Kari called me (she had been jacking her jaws with the woodworkers) and I made my getaway, grateful to leave Viagra talk back where it belongs---away from me.