Lucy's Spleen

Do lists count in this game? I hope so because it's nigh on 9:00 and I'm still at the office after moving and hauling and more moving and organizing and a couple of beers.* This is okay with me because a. the beer was on the company, and b. I'm the last guy here and the final reason I'm sticking around is to take a few moments to blog, but not too many moments, thus- a list:

Things About the New House

• It's only partly finished! There are some doors on some rooms, but not all doors on all rooms, and no knobs on any doors... yet.
• Everything is very immaculately clean and very shinily new and very inoffensively non-personal-smelling, except the closet wherein we jammed all our crap until we get a chance to organize it.
• It's neighbored by a park and a historic farm, but is also quite near the highway in a very populous suburb south of Salt Lake (we call it "South Bejeezus") which is crisscrossed with major thoroughfares and where (as far as I can tell) the only businesses are big-box stores and chain restaurants.
• It's kind of like living in the country, except not. Evidently the farm, just out our back door, is a great place for bird-watching. We heard at least three vees of geese** passing over the house this morning, which is charming. We can also hear a subtle hum of traffic all the time.
• It is deeply comfortable in every imaginable way. I woke this morning from an impressively sound rest, rolled over and said to Stan***, "Mmmm, it feels like sleeping at grandma's house." To which he replied, "Emma, it IS sleeping at grandma's house!"
• Um, so have I mentioned we've moved in with the parents? We have. Stan's mother and her husband are allowing us to take gross advantage of their hospitality and free rent in the hopes that it will advance the time line of our childbearing agenda and bolster the ranks among their steady-growing fleet of adorable grandchildren. That reason, and because we're just so damn delightful to have around all the time.
• This is an exceedingly choice situation, even if it is way out in South Bejeezus.
• For example, they've assigned us this tremendous bed we can't quite believe. Stan woke up this morning and said to me, "It's like sleeping on an aircraft carrier. They can land planes on here and you just keep on dreaming!"
• A new, more stunning view of the Wasatch Mountains- hwre!
• A commute- blech.
• A surprisingly noticeable difference in elevation/humidity- brrr.
• All those big-box stores- I have no idea how to deal with them.
• Living with moms is totally fun (I know, I've done it a lot)!

Things About the Old Apartment

• Still a huge fucking mess. Lots of work to do this weekend during the times when I am not at Werk work dealing with a huge fucking mess.

Go TEAM!
Fight A LOT!
Totally MOVE!
ALRIGHT!****

P.S. Day three. I went ahead and added the link and the seal, up on the left over there. One of these days maybe I'll even bother to register...

* I get to drink beer at we-erk! Neener, neener, nee-ner!

** Jeez.

*** For those of you who go way back with the Spleen, Stan = Asberger. I know, you're not caught up- I'm working on that.

**** (mostly) Actual cheerleading cheer I happen to know, but not from being a cheerleader because I never was one. I only changed one word in this cheer, which word used to be WIN! Actually I may have changed two because it may have originally been YAY! or HOORAY! or FUCK YEAH! instead of ALRIGHT!, I can't really remember. Except it wasn't FUCK YEAH! because I definitely would have remembered that. Anyway, believe it.

Not What I Intended to Write About When I First Sat Down to Do This Today

When I went to my grampa Lloyd's funeral in Idaho Falls a few years ago I met an old friend of his whose name was Tex. Anyway everyone called him Tex, because he was from Texas. But before he was ever called Tex, back when he was younger and actually lived in Texas, Tex had a different name. He used to be called Corn Flakes, "Because mah name's Scyril! As in breakfast cer-uhl!" Which explained why his funeral attire featured a windbreaker jacket that read Kellogg's and had a big green rooster on it.

Needless to say, anybody who's had two wacky nicknames AND pronounces cereal, "cyr-uhl,"  is automatically logged somewhere in the upper left corner of my personal Amazingness Spreadsheet, but then Tex/Corn Flakes said the thing which I am about to tell you, and which landed him solidly in Cell A-1 of Amazingness. He told us about Corn Flakes, and that it was easier to just use that or Tex because, "I gotta real long name, yuh see. Mah full name's Scyril Bervis Murgatroid Hamberlain." And that's when my jaw hit the floor and my spreadsheet, um- exploded!- or something, because can you even be kidding me the man's name is SCYRIL. BERVIS. MURGATROID(!) HAMBERLAIN. But who cares about the Hamberlain? His middle name is BERVIS MURGATROID! This is not to be under-valued or assigned the improper formula, MSExcel users!

I spend a good deal of time thinking about Tex, more time than I probably ought to, really. On our road trip this weekend I had a lot of time to do thinking in the car. I was thinking of obnoxious things I'll do when I have children that will seem fun or funny or at least not abnormal to them when they're really little, and will cause paroxysms of eye-rolling mortification when they're older. One of the things is how, at the breakfast table, we will of course ALWAYS say, "Pass the cyr-uhl, Bervis," and the other person will pass it and have to say, "Murgatroid, Hamberlain!" This routine will not be optional. If at nine or eleven or thirteen years old my children sit sullen and stony across the table and, without making eye contact, ask me to, "Please pass the cereal," it will not matter that they politely added "please" at the beginning because I will not pass it to them! And it will not matter how pissed off they are or how they try to slip it by me while I'm on the phone or something because I will be prepared- because I imagined it already in my twenties one time when I was on a road trip! I will already know how the game goes and I will win!  I will be steadfast and smiling, and I will hold the cereal above their heads or put it on top of the cupboards where they cannot reach it because they first must say, "Bervis." When my children drag chairs over to climb on to reach the top of the cupboard I will sit on the chairs! I will have known that they would try to climb chairs because I imagined it on a road trip in my twenties! I will perform this and all manner of interferences and from it I will derive genuine enjoyment because my children will be nine or eleven or thirteen years old and incredibly snotty. And at last, when they are hungry and furious and have calculated which cell on the Spreadsheet of Hatred will read "MOM" in bolded red letters, and they look at me with tortured ire and hiss, "Pass the cereal... Bervis," I will obligingly pass it and say firmly, but in my pleasantest voice, "Murgatroid, Hamberlain!" because that will be The Way We Do It in This Family.

And this will be a kind of fun torture! My children will look back on it fondly when I'm old or dead or otherwise incapacitated as being kooky and classically "me," and when they think of it they'll laugh and tear up a little. I know because I imagined it one time while on a road trip in my twenties.

Also because I'm the Mom and I said so, Bervis.

 

In Case I Die

I'm so glad to discover, upon checking in with the Internets for the first time in a week, that others have also been holiday-busy and neglectful of their blogs! Thanks for making me feel less losery, guys and gals! Since I have not written a damn thing in weeks, I thought I'd post this old thing that I wrote almost two years ago when, for some reason (Terri Schaivo?), I was thinking about dying. Specifically, about my death, and how helpful it would be if I provided some guidelines that didn't leave too much room for debate among the family on certain key issues, such as which disco anthem I want played at my funeral. I wrote this "will" at work and rediscovered it a couple of months ago when clearing out old files before leaving my job, at which time I read it aloud to Heidi and Meredith and they laffed and made fun of me so I thought I'd offer you these same pleasures. Substitute a name here and there (not my name though) and everything pretty much still applies; in case you were wondering...

Okay, Happy New Year everybody! Don't die! 

         

Something Along the Lines of a Last Will and Testament

                                                by Emily

I, Emily, being (as they say) of "sound mind" this twenty-eighth day of February, 2004, would like to, somewhat informally, lay down the specifications for the handling of my body and possessions on the occasion of my death, should it befall me before I have the chance or reason to create a more official-type will or whatever. Here goes.

As to my body:

·        First and foremost it is of great priority to me to donate any and all of my organs that are salvageable and not smashed or rotted or whatever depending on the cause of my death so please give them 100% away, except my eyes, which everyone knows can't see for the life of them. (Ha ha! For the life of them! Get it?! Okay, sorry. Sorry. Jeez.)

·        Secondly, I do not under any circumstances wish to be stuffed full of chemicals and buried in a huge expensive coffin. Don't you think that's bad for the environment? I would like to be cremated and buried in a location where folks might be able to come and visit someday if they were so desirous. I am not picky as to the place or means of this burial; a cemetery is fine if no place else is legal, or it might be nice to be mixed with some lovely compost and go in the planting spot for a tree (a fruit tree! or a fragrant shrubbery, like a lilac bush!) that is likely to hang around in it’s spot for awhile and not be ripped up to make room for a subdivision (someplace in Smith & Moorehouse Canyon or Weber Canyon where the family cabin was when I was growing up would be a meaningful location for me, if it’s convenient/not already overdeveloped). Wherever I lay, I could totally deal with having some type of simple plaque or headstone or something to mark the spot. Name, dates and places of birth and death are sufficient information for such a plaque or grave marker; please do not include poems, song lyrics, or one of those creepy photo engravings they're doing on headstones these days. Also a receptacle is totally optional, my loved ones should use their discretion as to the make and model, and are requested to please not keep me hanging morbidly around the house for too long.

By way of a funeral:

·        Please no religious service of any type (but religious songs are okay)! Some music would be good, especially everybody singing a rousing gospel tune or two. Having grown up Mormon and reverent, I am not personally familiar with any rousing gospel songs, so anybody who knows one is welcome to choose whatever you like. If most everyone is too shy to sing (which is likely), please have Liz & Laura perform a duet of something pretty and not too sad.

·        I guess folks could get up (or remain seated) and talk about me a little if they felt like it. And maybe an assembly of pictures could be displayed giving hints about my life in some type of format that looks classy. Folks talking about me should not be obligatory, by the way, let it be a round table! No pressure, you know? Above all I DO NOT WANT THERE TO BE A BUNCH OF GLOOM. 

·        After the funeral or whatever I would love for all the people to come to my burial site* and throw in handfuls of dirt like in the olden days. Also folks could throw in other stuff if they're sure they can deal with never seeing it again.

·        My favorite flowers are Gerber daisies in all the colors.

·        There should definitely be food, especially chocolate cake. Try to make it like a little bit of a party! (Remember how great I was at throwing parties? I suppose it would be okay to cry a little over how there will, alas, be no more such parties now that I am dead. This will seem fitting, as you will recall that I often cried at parties! Feels like old times, man. Feels like old times...)

·        Who will do the soundtrack? Some songs I love are:

1.      “I Can’t Give You Anything But Love (bay-Bee)” 

2.      “Night On Disco Mountain ” – David Shire

3.      “Don’t Stop Me Now” – Queen

4.      “Softly As I Leave You” – Frank Sinatra Never mind. Too sad.

5.      “The Christmas Song” – No, I’m not kidding, the one about the chestnuts…

6.      “Sexy M.F.” – Prince

7.      “P-Funk (Wants To Get Funked Up)” - Parliament

As to my possessions, of which there are few:

• If [my boyfriend at the time] and I are still [living in sin] then he should have all items pertaining to our home.
• I can't imagine that I will have any money ever, but should I have been so fortunate as to have any at the time of my death I would like it to be divided evenly between [my boyfriend at the time] and my brother Jack. If [the boyfriend] is not in the picture, his half should go to my mom, Laurie. [This is the part where Meredith laffed the hardest, like, "Don't just give the rest of the money to Jack! I want that other five bucks to be for my mother!"]
• Tania gets all the yarn, Nina gets first pick of the earrings. Anybody else can duke it out over anything else (Lord knows there ain't much) as long as they are civil about it and with my mom having the final word in all cases.
• Letters, journals and photographs should be (edited for horrible spiteful things said about others, really banal, boring parts like, "what I ate today," etc. and bad french grammar and) compiled and remain in the care of my mother, to be made available to anybody who might ever feel like looking at them, though I don’t anticipate a crowd.
• Somebody please take good care of Lucy. Thank you.

Signed,

__________________                                            ___________

Emily Elizabeth (me)                                                        Date    

__________________                                           ____________

Witness  [I never bothered to print it and get one]                Date

* P.S. I guess there doesn't really have to be a burial site/grave-marker. Go ahead and scatter me if you want to. You choose where- what do I care anymore, really? I love you.

Iron Hung

There is a remnant from a long-ago party during a cold winter in a fancy house in Deer Valley that involved getting into a lot of hot water (hot tubs, hot baths, hot saunas...) and putting up with a lot of a certain rather obnoxious gay boy climbing into the beds of hetero couples and wanting to talk the night away, not taking clues that he wasn't very welcome, and narrowly avoiding having his lights punched out by the surly, burly, SOBER and sleepy fellow I was snuggling.

There was also a lot of singing, for some reason, of Black Sabbath's "Iron Man" which the next morning when the lyrics transformed to the following:

I.

Am.

O-VER-HUNG.

DA DA DA DA DA DA DA!

O-VER-HUNG.

I went home that morning and sang it to JAK! and it became a kind of code for when we were both still living at mom's house. If one of us stumbled into the kitchen wearing sunglasses and moaning the riff to "Iron Man," the other would pick right up on the signal and hurry to start scrambling some eggs.

This morning, after going to the bar last night to hear Smashy Smashy and The Tremula (and dance like a banshee with Alexa) I dragged myself out of bed feeling well below par, found I missed living with my brother, and was very tempted to call him up and yell "Da da da da da da da!" into the phone. Instead I'll just wait til tomorrow when both of us roll into the bakery after an hour or so of sleep apiece and we'll sing it to each other.

The Lately

Yes I know this is a BLOG, and that what I am supposed to do is UPDATE it by, you know, WRITING shit, but I'm afraid that just doesn't seem to be working out for the Spleen these days. I feel slightly absolved by the fact that a number of bloggers I love have been similarly lax lately, posting less often or at less length or even less colorfully. Could the reason be that spring has sprung here in the northern hemisphere and folks want to spend their hours in the sun instead of the glare of the monitor? Yeah, right. That would be especially untrue of Spleenland, as we've seen nothing but rain for days and days and days and... Well, you get the idea. I'm about to begin plotting a move to sunny Seattle! Anyway I think I can handle the rain a little while longer; one advantage to all that staying indoors is how much sex you can have there! Yep, you read it right, and on that note, here are the headlines:

• Spleen and Date Guy Rekindle Romance Just in Time to Belt Out Swan Song.
• Coffee Shop Job to Phase Out. Employment at Bakery Practically Official.
• Move to New Apartment Scheduled, Postponed Due to Painting.
• Date Guy Moving Out of State. Swan Song Headline Explained.
• Medical Troubs in Family. Major Pynch.*
• Did We Mention the Part About Painting?
• Area Man Acquires Girlfriend Whose Nickname is "Christ." Relatives Approve.

In other news- hey! It was Mother's Day! Also it was my mother's Birthday- better known in our family as her Bidet! I felt like we under-celebrated you, mom! I wish less shit had been going on while it was your time! I would celebrate you all the days of the year! I hope you make some good money from your wagers on whether I'd get back together with Date Guy! Thank you for having faith in me and pointing out my abilities when I'm too scared to look for them! Thank you for giving me a love of language and playing with words! Thanks for the sense of humor- mainly the raunchy bits! And, to quote my brother**, "That whole birth thing? THANKS- I couldn't have done it without you."

I love you mom, Happy Daze.

Okay we're all caught up then folks, and it's clear I'm living in a fast lane of nothin' but Sex, Paint and Moms (oh yeah, and Christ). Moms, since we're talking about MY mom, is really just another word for Rock 'N Roll, and the Christ part makes it totally hardcore, though I admit it doesn't have quite the same ring without Drugs... but didn't we get enough Drugs in my last post?

Here two final headlines for today:

Rooms Still Being Painted. Fucking Unbelievable.

Weblog Updated. If You Could Call it That.

*To read about medical troubs, click here. Click here to figure out "pynch."

**Can you believe he's dating Christ? Awesome.

Family Singalong

In my family, we sing. This is not to say we are necessarily GOOD at singing, nor that we really take an over-the-top pleasure in song. I mean, we like singing, but mostly we just can't help (annoying others by) doing it. A lot.

Mom, brother JAK! (aka Johnson) and I joke that if two of us are hanging out together there will be (swearing, obviously, and) singing. If all three of us are in the same place at the same time onlookers are virtually guaranteed a show of swearing, singing and DANCING, especially if we're at a venue where such antics may not be appropriate, such as church or a funeral. Yep folks, members of my family are always happy to step up and fill the role of That Guy, only in our case it's more frequently THOSE GUYS.

This singing/dancing/swearing routine can take place anytime, but we're at our best when we're (tired and loopy and) in our own home, and, for some reason, we're at our very best in the morning, in the kitchen. This is where Johnson and I meet to prepare elaborate, eggy breakfasts and sing odes extolling the many fine attributes of my dog, Lucy. She listens, enraptured, as I perform the high, drawn-out cadenza over JAK!'s syncopated jungle beats, and always loves our fine flattering lyrics,

"Lucy! You are so black and so wise/ and let's not forget FAT!/ Black, wise and fat Lucy!/ You are a dog!/ And you're no good at sledding..."

Johnson and I also share the habit, inherited from our dad, of running to the piano the morning after a late night in a noisy, smoky club to find the lowest note we can hit with our sultry day-after voices. My brother ALWAYS wins this game.

Mom and I also like to do kitchen singing together. In fact, we do it every morning when we get up and tell each other our Song of the Day. My mother and I are both afflicted with a little-known chronic condition that causes an individual to wake up with a song stuck in her head; EVERY DAY. Often the song is a funk track, very often it is nastay. If the song is neither funky nor nastay, Mom and I will pervert the lyrics until it is. We did this a few months ago when one of us woke up singing "Matchmaker" from Fiddler on the Roof; by the time we left the house it was to a rousing chorus of our evolved version which went:

"Muff-Licker, Muff-Licker nuzzle my muff!/ Fondle my fronds! Twiddle my tufts..."

Most often, though, Mom and I start the morning with our Songs of the Day in their original form, and we sing and shake It together as we grind the coffee and dry our hair. Here's an example of our typical 7a.m. routine:

Mom: Good morning, Sweetie!

Em: [mumbling] Morning mom.

Mom: Do you want coffee?

Em: Please. C'MON GIRL! GIVE IT TO ME BABY! GIVE IT TO ME BABY! MAKE YOU HOT TILL YOU'VE HAD ENU-UFF! GIMME THE SEX! *

Mom: Can I shower before you, since I'm faster? U DON'T HAVE TO BE BEAUTIFUL! TO TURN ME O-ON! I JUST WANT YOUR BODY BAY-BAY! FROM DUSK TIL DA-AWN! **

Em: Of course, just yell when you're done- GIVE IT TO ME WHATCHA SAY! GIVE IT TO ME RIGHT AWAY! GIVE IT TO ME!-- GIVE IT TO ME!

Mom: I'll save you some hot water- U DON'T HAVE TO BE COO-OOL TO RULE MY WORLD! AIN'T NO PARTICULAR SIGN I'M MORE COMPATIBLE WITH! I JUST WANT YOUR EXTRA TIME AND YOUR--

Em: [guitar sounds]

Mom: KISS!

* Rick James

** Prince

"Way Wird Celebrities"

"Need action, love, sex?.. whatever it is, thes women giv it-- contact themnow, Warrant Scopic!"

That bitch Paris wasn't nearly as hot as me and my incredible tireless Maman, taking a moment to have the same chin and to not whip out our Inner Hollywood Bitch for eachother at the Queer Lounge closing party, Homos Away From Home.

Title: Damn Them Kids Iz Cute or: Asberger, If You Didn't Care You Should Have So This One's Mostly For You

One of the hardest things about breaking up with Asberger has been also breaking up with his family, who I adore and wanted as my in-laws. I haven't spent much time with them since he left, partly to avoid shit-talking A to their faces, and partly because I can't be near them for long without weeping. Still, I call pretty regularly and have been checking in a lot on the progress of A's sister's seemingly interminable pregnancy. Not-so-little Katie Hope was (finally) born last Tuesday; I didn't get the call until THURSDAY. I cried, because what this tells me is that I am officially Out of the Family.

But the KIDS don't know that! Josh and Lydia were very happy to see me when I stopped in to check out the baby, and of course the first thing they did was empty every single item out of my purse and wallet. Their favorite game is to take out all my makeup and ask what each thing is and where to apply it: they hold up the lip gloss, I say "on your lips," they show me the blush, I say "on your cheeks," they hold up the- condoms! Shit, the condoms!

"DON'T PUT THAT ON YOUR FACE!"

Devious Lydia took all the change out of my wallet and made it disappear. When I asked her to put it back she told me gleefuly,"I threw it away! That was SO FUNNY!" She says she likes being a "Big Scissor," but I got the feeling she's missing being the baby herself. "Take us with you!" she commanded, I asked her where we would go, "Outside." Where outside? "In your car." And where will we go in my car? "We'll go to the mall!" 

Why, naturally.

After the purse-rape, we decided it'd be best to play a different game. Josh took out the game board for Candyland, opened it up like a very tall book, and began "reading" me a story to go with the pictures, "It was a spoooky night. And then... that guy comes!" He is very proud to be going to pre-school, and very aware that he is seriously the Big Brother now.

As for the baby, she is quite stupendous. She weighed in at 10 lbs. 8 oz. and was born with a shock of wavy black hair and one giant finger.

Josh wants to hold her a lot, but is a little apprehensive about all the regulations; wash your hands, sit back, hold her head... 

Here he is,feeling the weight of the responsibility.

See how long her fingers are?

I so love those kids. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed them. There was a point a while back when I would have been ready to adopt them, back before circumstances improved. Of course I'm glad it didn't work out that way, right? But can you imagine? I'd have adopted them.

They'll never get to know that I loved them that much.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Anyhow here are a few more pics of the baby, because babies (even if the photos you took make them look sort of dead) are beautiful. Sleep on, little Katie.