We have a dog with blocked nasal passages who snores quite loudly; and she likes to sleep under my bed. Yesterday evening when I rolled over to get more comfortable, it sounded like I had rolled onto a whoopie cushion. It startled me a little bit, but I’m surprised it didn’t bother Osker more — he was on top of the bed with me, and he doesn’t like snoring — there’s a commercial about sleep apnea that comes on overnight, and he growls in rhythm with the snoring man.
I don’t feel good. My feet are killing me. The pain meds aren’t really helping. So I’ve been stuck in bed all day without my costume (Mom and I had been planning on dressing up as Poppy and Bonkers from a popular local TV program when I was little.
Getting to watch “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown” on TV isn’t much of a consolation prize for missing trick-or-treating and the neighborhood party. At least nobody had the chance to fill my trick-or-treat bag with rocks.
Yesterday I gave a speech about the therapeutic benefits of scrapbooking for cancer patients and their caregivers. I made several demonstration pages to show the different options available for those who take more or fewer pictures and those who feel like spending more or less money and time on their projects. Here they are:
This is for people who feel too overwhelmed to make all the decisions necessary for making a scrapbook, or who are on a strict budget or who don’t take very many pictures. It’s a 6×8 slide-in photo album that holds two standard 4×6 photos per page.
This is a picture of me in the hospital in Geneva, wearing the monkey slippers that the nurses loved. I’ve added a 4×6 piece of cardstock, upon which I wrote the story behind the slippers and the date, and added a few stickers for decorative purposes. This helps people understand what’s going on in the picture, as well as providing them with a date so they know when the events in the picture occurred. (I could have added one or two more related photos had I wanted to, as you can tell from the empty photo sleeves.)
For people who do want to do a scrapbook, but who don’t take very many pictures, a 5×7 page with some journaling, a date, decorative photo mats and a decorative border:
For those who would like to put more elements on their pages (either two photos, or a photo, a title, and a journaling box), an 8×8 page:
Or, for people like me who take tons of pictures and like a lot of creative liberty, the most popular and versatile page size (12×12):
(I don’t usually incorporate blurry photos in my pages, but that picture of me and my halo is the only one that was taken.)
And when you have a whole bunch of photos, a 2-page 12×12 spread:
A cover page made with a Xyron sticker machine:
And, finally, a page that I made with the girls who live around the corner (ages 9 and 11):
The card that they wrote for the page:
This is a party idea that my friends came up with — a memory book. You hold a party for your friends and family, and all the invitees bring one (or more) photos of you or of something that reminds them of you, and on a 4×6 piece of paper upon which they can tell the story behind the picture and (if desired) add some relevant decoration. This is a photo my friend Lizzie sent in for the project my friends made for me — it’s a picture of us in costume for one of the Russian choir performances during our time at Middlebury.
When I lived in Geneva, the preschool beneath my window had a pet rooster. It never knew when to stop crowing, and I was often tempted to throw water balloons down on it.
The Complaint against Roney Laswell’s Rooster
Attention, Mister Roney Laswell–Roney,
short for Tyrone, I hear–
the hour your rooster blows,
four, is two too early.
Another two would do. Go,
speak to your rooster, Roney.
You can quit paying for advertising now. Early voting started today, and I’ve already cast my ballot. Quit wasting my airtime, okay?
I loved that show when I was in elementary school. I was sort of a geography buff back then.
So, a puzzle for you: today Mom and I left from San Antonio and made a 5 1/2-hour-long trip. We drove through Samaria and Trinidad, passed Maine and Palestine, saw a bus full of teenagers from Italy, and ended up in a world capital near London and Paris.
Where are we now?
but I do love this commercial.
This afternoon I was watching Ellen on TV, and she was interviewing Octavia Spencer about her new movie role. Apparently, both Ellen and Octavia are afraid of spiders. Well, a person dressed in a spider costume snuck onto the stage behind Octavia and tapped her on the shoulder, causing her to jump and scream.
It made me think back to last night. Scene: It is after 11 pm. I am in the front part of the house working on demo pages for my upcoming speech on scrapbooking, quite absorbed in my work. Mom had retired to bed some time earlier, having had a very busy week with very little down time and sleep. Suddenly:
Female voice: Hi, Sugar.
Me: You’re supposed to be asleep!
Mom: I said hi because I didn’t want to scare you.
Me: I think that had the opposite of the desired effect…
This past week I picked up The Best American Poetry 2011 from the library. Today I read the poem “Dead Ass” by Michael Cirelli, and despite all the reasons why it shouldn’t be so, I loved it and it cracked me up.
In the bodega, a young girl wearing
jeans so tight she has to use turpentine
to get them off, says to her friends,
Damn, it’s dead ass raining out!
I was enamored. Instead of cats and dogs,
I pictured donkey corpses falling from
the sky, clogging the gutters.
That’s some serious rain.
The song on the radio said that the po-po was:
“tryna to catch me ridin’ dirty.” I imagined
Chamillionaire wearing a 20-lb. gold chain
with mud dripping off Jesus’s shiny toes,
Krazie Bone in four-hundred-dollar jeans,
with grass stains on the knees.
In Oakland, the sound there is “hyphy.”
To me, that alien word means gooney-goo-goo.
To me, that word is my dead father’s kiss.
But to thousands of youngsters whose trousers sink
below the Plimsoll line of their asses, hyphy
music makes their bodies dip up and down
like an oil drill.
These words make me feel old, and alabaster.
When I hear something new, it’s like I discovered it
for the first time, like I excavated it from the mouth
of a teenager. So I dust it off with my fossil brush
and try to jam it into the keyhole of academia.
I am not afraid of dope lyrics, not dope meaning weed
but dope meaning good. My kind uses scrilla to board
up the windows of shook.
Fo’shizzle, crunk, hella: I place in glass jars like rare moths.
I want to hang them on the doors of sonnets
like a welcome sign to an apartment
I don’t live in.
And I still love them now: