Fishbones and Milk

A different kind of Anniversary...

Today, exactly four years ago, I arrived in America. While foregoing a glimpse of the Lady herself for a direct flight to LAX, I arrived with as much eagerness and naive expectation as any pilgrim or idealistic immigrant.

Every splinter of my person was intoxicated. I was drunk on 'romance'. I had slayed dragons and traveled vast oceans to appear, at last, in propria persona before my 'Fairy Tale Prince'. Everything within me and around me sparkled with fever and heady anticipation.

Of course, as is the case in any burgeoning romance but particularly one forged through internet correspondence, my rose-colored glasses were filthy with my own greasy finger-prints and 'starry-eyed' yearnings. Knowing this, it should not be a surprise for you to read that my 'Hollywood Romance' skidded to a heart-wrenching standstill when Princess number TWO wandered onto the set. If it is possible my fairy tale ground itself even further into an ashy pyre on discovering Princess number THREE and FOUR hiding in the kitchen cabinet (Jack Daniels and Miss Martini to be exact). Not only was my beautiful Prince Charming a frog, but he played every pad in the pond!

 

Jasper Oostland "Daisies" 15 x 15 cm
acrylic on paper

Now, I know that any sane woman would, at this point in the story, drown the disappointing toad in the mucky waters of his own making and be on her way, but alas dear friends, I am not sane. Instead, I climbed into bed, drew the covers over my head and slept. And I slept for almost two years!

Yes, the enormous irony does not escape me.

Unfortunately I was not finally awakened by a kiss. I eventually dragged my sorry self out of bed because my ass ached and my muscles were atrophying and I finally felt I could not stand being inactive for one more day.

There is much to be said for dreaming expansive, feverish, tingly dreams; there is also much to be said for testing your bath water with your toes before jumping directly into its scorching depths, which I still do every time.

This year Mr. Toad and I will be celebrating our second wedding anniversary. After I'd thrown out my 'glass slippers', cajoled Princess two and three down the kitchen sink, wiped the 'rose' smudges from my glasses, and taken a good look at the surrounding landscape, it seemed that I had it as good as any - besides, have you ever tried living with a Prince; they never leave you any mirror time! 

I have spent much of the past four years wandering whether, given the opportunity to take back time, I would listen, not to the fiery pounding of my inflamed spirit but to the cautionary warnings of the many I left behind. I have to admit, with resignation and at least a small blush, that I would still disregard those who believed me a fool and fly headlong into the mucky slough. Truth be told, I'm not really a Princess and honestly, if we all put aside our childhood blinkers and unrealistic fancy, we would have to confess to the fact that at some point every chariot turns into a pumpkin.

So here I am, living each day as it comes, discovering the 'prince' in the toad the universe socked my way, and gradually realizing that perhaps 'Hollywood' does exist in some unexpectedly magical way after all.

'That's all folks'

-Alice-

...Thank goodness for the Butter in my Biological Clock...*

One of the most alluring features of Pasadena, is its beautiful turn of the century homes. Large, rambling and often ostentatious structures providing sanctuary for many of the less flamboyant and outgoing of Hollywood's rich and famous. Cross the proverbial railway-track however, and many of these late nineteenth century, early twentieth century homes have been partitioned into separate units turning what was once gorgeously staunch and upright "Queen Anne" Victorians or rambling Craftsmen and cheeky Bungalows into tightly-packed warrens housing the less economically favored and illustrious of Pasadena's people.

We live in one of these.

'Dysfunction Junction' or 'Dark Knoll' as I often refer to our home, is one of 4 separate units making up what was once a large, late C19th home. At one point in her long and stately existence this house must have been magnificent. Today, she is a moth-eaten warren, witness to the comings and goings of four very different sets of families.

Upstairs to the right lives a Hungarian/Italian couple with their Chocolate lab and Brittany Spaniel. In the apartment to the left of them, lives our two vegan students with their over-active mutt Mimi who was born and raised in the Caribbean and thinks apartment life is the 'pitts'! In the ground floor apartment to the right, lives an African American hip-hop 'artist' and his wife - I shall leave that one to the imagination, and finally to the left of them is 'dysfunction junction'; home to myself, Franklin, my paralyzed pekingese China, Mo, Henry Pinkerton Murry, and the myriad of stray cats who pop in every now and again for a snack. So you see, the place is a little crowded.

It is over-run, the plumbing doesn't work; we share a single washer/dryer, and connecting walls with paper thin ceilings. The hip-hop artist has an insect phobia - I come from Africa and will not tolerate the mindless WD-4 torching of crickets, spiders or moths. I save orphaned opossums and feed stray cats, Mimi's favorite past-time is cat-catching. We all bicker and fight all the time, but without these people and this micro-community that I have found myself so inherently a part of I would not have survived my move to America.

Arriving in Los Angeles from Cape Town, one of the so-called 'friendliest' cities in the world, I felt extremely alienated by the fact that while walking in the streets of the city, passers-by did not look at each other, or greet each other. That neighbors who had lived alongside each other for years in the same apartment building did not know each others' name's or smile at each other in passing. A pervasive sense of loneliness was overwhelming and deeply disturbing for me. It is for this reason, that we overlooked the mountain of inconveniences that accompanied the mildewy charm of our little blue house and wallowed in the companionship it provided.

Now despite my resolutely reclusive nature I have, over time, come to champion the benefits of neighborhood and community. I would never trade the beauty of spontaneous dinner gatherings, or helping out with that last  minute cup of flour or sugar that is always needed. I would never trade knowing that if you're simply too sick to walk the dog, someone will lend you a hand and that if you've had a grisly argument, knowing that one of you will eventually have to say you're sorry because well, you're family. I would never trade sharing Thanksgivings and Christmas and errant socks and late nights chattering about nothing on the porch for any number of stray cats or crickets.

Last week, on the night of Martin Luther King's birthday; the eve of President Barak Obama's inauguration, our Oak Knoll family grew a new member. And our lives changed forever. Brooklyn Stemmons was born to our 'hip-hop' family, who are now an extremely proud mommy and daddy.

Weighing in at around 5 pounds 7 ounces and being 3 weeks pre-mature, she has yet to make much of a dent in our living arrangements. Although I do have to admit to tearing up every time I look at her. But then, I lay eyes on any child younger than 4 years and my biological clock winds itself into a frenzy. Thankfully, on hearing her squalling in the middle of the night while walking the dog, my clock unwound itself very quickly and I felt decidedly less maternal and enormously relieved in the fact that I had a dog that would be snoring peacefully in its own bed quite shortly.

That being said, Brooklyn, welcome to Oak Knoll, it's a tight squeeze and things can get a little rambunctious at times, but we are honoured to have you join us and I hope that one day you will look back on your youth here at Mildew Court and remember it with love and laughter.

I look forward to many smelly diapers.

-Alice-

*in case you were wondering this is a reference to Alice in Wonderland.

  

'So long and thanks for all the fish...'

As I lay in bed this morning listening to the radio broadcast the auspicious occasion of the inauguration of America's 44th President, I couldn't help but think on Mr Bush and how he must be feeling now that his long reign at the helm is finally over.

Being a fairly well educated and intelligent human being, I could never be a Bush supporter. That being said, any fairly well educated and intelligent human being has to have, at some point, realized that 'Oz' really messed up with that one; the puppet strings just kept showing up in the spotlights. Knowing that, it is hard not to feel some kind of sympathy for one who was obviously  'not waving, but drowning' and whose vulnerability was constantly revealed in every malaprop.

Furthermore, now that there is no threat of the man stumbling over something in the dead of night and accidentally pushing that little red button, surely we can all let out our breath and try find something to pat him on the back for. I mean come on, a man who loves his dog as much as he does must have a little goodness somewhere.

 

Okay, okay, so the fact that the man never lets go of his Scottie would make me follow him to hell and back (which is, I am sure where he will spend many, many of his days to come if karma has any thing to do with it) but for the moment, he, Barney and his conscience are very happy to be back on their ranch in Texas where they belong.

So long Barney, and Miss Beasley and take care of your Dad. Perhaps you'll get to meet the Obama's new dog sooner than you think. Everyone knows that when idols are passed around too much the patina tends to wear away and nobody likes a dull effigy.

-A-

'Dysfunction Junction', what's your malfunction...

At some point today I sat down, took a long look around me and realized that my life is a cartoon. Fun as that may sound I think it all depends on whether you end up being cast as the Wile E Coyote or the Road Runner in the never-ending 16" reel of life.

Frank returned late Saturday night after a week-long absence. He had been attending a work conference in San Fransisco and while I had been very anxious at the thought of an entire week on my own I settled into the brief 'alone-time' with more ease than I shall openly admit. A staple diet of chocolate cake and coffee for breakfast, lunch and supper no doubt helped.

I have always wondered however, why pharmaceutical companies do not add to warning labels alongside all the other common do's and don't's: DO NOT TAKE WITH ALCOHOL, DO NOT OPERATE HEAVY MACHINERY, DO NOT DRIVE WHILE TAKING THIS MEDICATION, the most important one;

DO NOT TAKE WITH COPIOUS AMOUNTS OF SUGAR?

As most of you know I survive (by the skin of my teeth) on a daily cocktail of  meds without which I would be living in a padded cell wearing one of those divine white Gothic shirts with all the buckles, gaily chattering to myself. Instead I take my meds, try and keep a regular schedule and claw my way through the day. Large doses of sugar and caffeine certainly do not help.

Neither do large tracks of 'alone-time'.

As a result I spent the week upending the entire house. Every stick of furniture, unsuspectingly minding its own business, found itself rudely uprooted and displaced from its comfortable dust nest. Long forgotten kibbles and dried up peas that had quietly slipped off while no one was watching were roused from their quietude and a graveyard of kitten's chewed-up and laid-to-rest Q-tips were unearthed. This was no ordinary sugar high. When all had been wiped down and kitten had retrieved all manner of lost treasures, it was time to put everything back. Of course putting things back the way they had been would have been to deny all sugar induced mania and so my darling husband arrived back to 'Wonderland' in all its glory.

All I can hope is that somehow his system will one day become immune to 'Alice' and that when he gets home to his wife wearing a kitten for a stole and walking her paralysed pekingese in a baby stroller, he'll simply doff his hat and good-naturedly remark to the neighbors: "Gracious, she simply never ceases to amaze me!"

A.

Happy 'Year of the Cow'

                         

 I am back from my credit card induced hiatus. I had hoped my absence might slide by unnoticed what with all the Christmas and New Year's festivities but it appears not.  I have been taken in hand and thoroughly chastised by more than one person for being so utterly inattentive and inconsiderate to my small but highly dedicated following so, I apologize to all and promise never to default on my credit card again! Now, if you'll all just pop over to my little store and buy yourselves an arm-load of T-shirts or greeting cards I'll be sure to keep that promise.

No such thing as a free lunch, baby!

The holiday season passed us by as it usually does - quietly and without incident. (Well, no more incident than usual at 'Dysfunction Junction'). If this year was a little lean for you and yours and Santa failed to make his regular stop under your Christmas tree I have a confession and an apology - that is probably because my Henry Cat accidentally swallowed him. Henry has gone from being a 9 pound lean machine to a post-op, 24 pound 'wild-boar' (still believing himself to be a 9 pound lean machine). I swear I saw him burp a bit of red, fur-lined hood the other day. So,  just blame it on my cat, I always do.

Mo is growing like a weed and the dog, well, her world has exploded into life once more what with schools starting up and gobs of sticky six year-old's littering the walkway in front of our house again. Once a day, for a brief moment, there is an explosion of light and color and sound as if someone has opened a musical box. The experience is kaleidoscopic. Children shouting and running and laughing and parent's honking horns, school trolleys clacking on the sidewalk, car doors slamming while the little dog on the porch watches wide-eyed with excitement and anticipation; feeding off the frenzied energy. Perhaps one of them will step out of the kaleidoscope turrarium and pet her for a second or two. As quickly as it has begun the lid closes on the musical box and all sound and color and excitement dies down in an instant leaving only the cold grey street and its unremiting drone of traffic. The dog's eyes glaze over with that look that only dogs have managed to perfect as she settles herself down with fortitude and languor ready to face the rest of the interminable day.

It's a dog's life. In a cow's year. Yep, get ready for the year of the 'Brown Cow' folks. According to chinese astrology 2009 is to be the year of the 'Brown Cow'. With its concomitant affiliations to the earth, immoveablility, stability, strong energy forces, and luck, it appears that with a little 'staying power', this year should settle itself down into a good, well-behaved, self-disciplined state leaving the rest of us some time to pick up last year's unmanaged detritus. To be honest, all I know about 'Brown Cows' is that they are made of half milk, half coca cola and that as a child, they tasted delicious!

The rest I leave to the gods.

A.