Tag: memories

Another Tax Day

Keeping a personal tradition alive, I made my yearly trip to the downtown post office between eleven and midnight on tax day. Things were running much more efficiently than last year. I couldn’t get a REALLY good shot inside the packed post office before being told I couldn’t take pictures. Me and my camera: still antagonizing security guards wherever we go.

My current (April) banner photo was from a shot I took on April 15 last year. Here are a few of this year’s photos.

Because of long lines inside the post office, many people were first driving to other stations to use automated stamp machines to buy postage. Then they had to deal with long lines of traffic to get back.

There were at least two drive-by spots for people with already-stamped envelopes to drop off their returns to be postmarked by post office employees set up to assist them, and lots of cops directing foot and motor traffic.

But even with all that organization, there was still a long line of people inside the post office. This shot was taken at 11:42. Hope their envelopes made it before midnight!

A Tale of Appliances

Recently I flung myself back into debt like a good American when I bought a new washing machine for The Compound and a refrigerator for Tim’s apartment. I can’t really complain about these big-ticket purchases because over several decades, I received several new appliances as gifts from family members, and those I’ve had to replace put in many years of good and faithful service before they died.

Sometimes I’m questioned about why I don’t have appliances with all the bells and whistles (I see those things as more stuff that can break and honestly, I just want the basics), or why I don’t have a dishwasher (I never met a dishwasher I liked in my years of renting; I don’t have room for one; and unless I’m really tired, I enjoy washing dishes, and anyway, Tim and Tom–and often our guests–are as likely to wash dishes as I am) or a garbage disposal (not enough room under my sink and not a necessity).

However, this go-round of unexpected appliance buying was annoying because I really, really needed a new computer. Even though computers are completely affordable, I’m tired of doing battle with the firewalls and virus protections that constantly need updating for Windows systems. I have two laptops with Windows if I need to use my existing software, so I’d finally convinced myself to splurge on the iMac I really wanted.

Then the appliance crisis happened. I deliberated about this for a bit, then called to mind the old truism about having children. If you wait until you can afford them, you’ll be childless. Rather than be Mac-less, I threw caution to the wind and after picking out a ‘fridge and a washer, I brought home my new 20.5-pound baby and we’ve been getting along famously.

And then…the microwave died.

Let me back up in time to those days when my first husband and I graduated from college, moved into our tiny house, and were gifted with a brand new washer, dryer, stove, and refrigerator from my parents, his mother, and his two grandmothers. Then one night his stepfather said we ought to have one of those newfangled microwaves. Though I really had no use for a microwave, being a very traditional kind of cook, and saw it mainly as something that would take up space in an already too-small kitchen, in came the microwave.

Every time we turned that thing on, we blew a fuse in our old house. So then came the electrician. Before I could figure out any real use for the stupid thing, scandal rocked our small town. Apparently there was a big employee-theft ring at the local manufacturer of appliances–mainly those newfangled microwaves. Sheriffs were getting tips, knocking on doors, confiscating microwaves, and arresting people. Microwaves were being dumped in ravines, ditches, and creeks before they could become evidence. I called my father-in-law and said, “That microwave wasn’t by chance a little gift to you from an employee of [name redacted], was it? DID YOU GIVE ME A HOT MICROWAVE?”

The microwave was removed from my house in the dead of night amidst much jollity on the part of family members at my paranoia and righteous indignation. I maintained a grudge against microwaves from then on and wouldn’t have one in my house following my divorce and even after Tom and I got married, by which time microwaves were standard in most kitchens.

Then my mother lived with us for a while, and when she moved, she left her microwave behind. Over time, I offered it a somewhat grudging acceptance. It was good for a quick bag of popcorn and to melt butter for my baking. When Tim moved here, he saw it and said, “Where’d your mother GET that thing? From Dolly Madison?” From then on, I thought of it as the First Microwave and liked to imagine a conversation between our country’s fourth First Lady and my mother.

Dolly Madison: Dorothy, the British are coming, and I’ve only got room in my wagon for the White House silver and George Washington’s portrait. Why don’t you take this nice microwave?

Mother: Won’t you need it here in the White House after the War of 1812 ends?

Dolly Madison: Actually, we haven’t been able to use it ever since Ben died and could no longer stand on the White House roof with a kite and a key.

Mother: But most of us won’t have electricity until the 1930s. What will I do with it until then?

Dolly Madison: It makes a handy place to store your bread and BBQ-Fritos.

That dumb microwave outlived my mother, but now it’s gone. I’m not in a hurry to replace it; probably the saddest commentary on how little we use it came when Tom said, “Just make sure you replace it with one big enough for the coffeemaker and toaster to sit on top.”

RIP, microwave of Dolly Madison and Dorothy Cochrane.

LJ Runway Monday: Takin’ It to the Street (PR 7:9)


On the most recent episode of Lifetime’s Project Runway, the designers were put into teams of two to visit distinct areas of Manhattan to get inspiration for two designs: a look for day and a look for night. The areas they could select from were Chinatown, East Village, Upper East Side, and Harlem.

Rather than follow them through Manhattan, I decided to pick from one of the areas I’ve been in that weren’t included in PR‘s selections. There are several, but settle back and I’ll tell you a story.

My first visit to Manhattan was in February of 1998. The weather was unseasonably mild–lucky me!–and during my first day and night in the city, I was accompanied by my friend James, who used to live in NYC. That made him a great tour guide and person to teach me how to do those things I’d never done before–like hail a cab, figure out the subway, who and how much to tip, etc. Timmy and Tim were both still living in the city, and between the three of them and Tim’s then-boyfriend, I enjoyed exploring Hell’s Kitchen, SoHo, Washington Square Park, Central Park, Columbus Circle, Fifth and Madison Avenues, Chelsea, the Lincoln Center, Times Square, Herald Square, Union Square, Macy’s, the Empire State Building, and all kinds of shops, restaurants, and galleries.

It was AMAZING, better than I’d ever anticipated. And it was exhausting! On the next-to-last day of my visit, I was on my own for the full day. Tim and Mr. Man had gone out of town, James was with his sister, and Timmy planned to come to my hotel that evening so we could go to dinner.

I woke up that morning and realized that I’d lost the camera that had most of my photos on it. After moping about that for a while, I was determined to take my other camera out and create my own adventure. When I’d been on top of the Empire State Building late one night with Tim and Mr. Man, they’d turned me in a circle and pointed out recognizable landmarks in each area of the city. Of course, there was nothing like looking downtown and seeing those majestic Twin Towers, and the little light in the harbor that was the Statue of Liberty. Since I hadn’t seen Lower Manhattan by daylight, and I had a huge crush on Battery Park thanks to the movies (including Desperately Seeking Susan), that’s where I decided to go.

I had to negotiate the subway all by myself, and I screwed up. But I also corrected my mistake, which gave me confidence. When I was standing in the sunlight again, there were so many things to look at that…I forgot to take more than a few photos. My senses were drunk on: the ferries on the river, the birds on the posts, Liberty in the distance (could NOT stop thinking of young Vito in Godfather II), the park, the towering skyscrapers of the Financial District, the grandness of the World Trade Center, the hotdog vendors, the old men playing checkers, the Rollerbladers and skateboarders, the families with children, the couples sitting close on benches, THOSE benches, that I’d seen so many times in movies. The people truly lived up to the concept of NYC as a melting pot–they were diverse in race, gender, age, language, attire, income–I stayed there for hours watching them, eating one of those hotdogs, and writing down my thoughts and impressions (some of which would later become poems).

Twelve years later, I still remember that as one of the best days of my life–and I’ve had way more good days than bad, so that’s a tribute to the architecture, people, beauty, and vibe of New York. To capture that in fashion, I wanted to share a few photos–not mine–that helped inspire this week’s designs.


Sidewalk drawing in Battery Park © Kimber.


Flowers in Battery Park © lifeandyarn.


Night view of the Financial District © travistips.

When I envisioned my daytime look, I thought of a young woman grabbing her sketchbook on a spring morning and going to Battery Park. A light drizzle or mist off the Hudson wouldn’t daunt her. She’d just put on rainboots and other proper attire, load up her backpack with her art supplies and a bottle of water, and be out the door. I thought Summer was the ideal model for this daytime look. However, security photos show her being blindfolded and dollnapped in the dead of night by mysterious, unnamed ninjas with intact ankle ligaments.

Please click here to see who’s modeling the look instead.

It’s never long enough

Rainy days and Mondays don’t always get me down, but I have to admit to feeling a little melancholy yesterday. March 8 is my lifelong friend Riley’s birthday, and no matter how silence sometimes stretched between us over the years of our friendship, we always made every effort to call each other on our birthdays. It’s been two years since he died, not enough time for me to forget my impulse to reach for the phone to say happy birthday and catch up.

When I talk about my friends who’ve died, it’s never a bid for sympathy. Sometimes I don’t talk about people because it makes me squirm that anyone might think I’m exploiting their memories for attention. In actuality, though I think of those lost all the time, it’s rarely with sadness for myself. I have too many joyful, funny, and tender memories. My regrets are that I feel they were cheated of time and the world was cheated of them.

I’ve said it on here before, and I’ve said it in person so many times to other people: It’s important to acknowledge loss. For our own mental health. To recognize and honor their lives and our feelings. I always think of the title of George Whitmore’s book Someone Was Here. We need to say that. We, and those we lose, deserve for us to say, “Someone was here.”

On behalf of two people dear to me, I want to recognize their someones who were here.

Friend and cousin Ron contacted me on Friday to let me know that it was time to say goodbye to Kipper. I never got to meet Kipper. I only knew him through Ron’s stories and photos, and I understood their profound friendship. Ron wrote to me about him:

…he had more personality than any other dog or human I’ve ever known. A definite character, I could always tell how he was feeling.


Forever clicking across the kitchen floor, wiping his cold nose juice on me and stealing kisses at every turn. He was supposed to leave me two years ago when he was diagnosed with bladder cancer…coincidentally at the same time I was dealing with my own cancer. But he stuck around…I truly believe it was because he knew how much I needed him. Toward the end, his bladder cancer had progressed, previous nerve damage had become worse causing him trouble when he walked, his eyesight was awful, he was nearly deaf, he had some arthritis, and was starting to have some anxiety issues. And yet, he was happy. I know he was, I could always tell. Not in serious pain. I don’t think it ever even crossed his mind to give up. He definitely taught me more than I ever taught him. He made it seventeen years…he had a good run. And I never knew I could love anyone as much as I love him.

Thank you for sharing Kipper and his funny ways with me over the years, Ron. You two were so fortunate to have been in each other’s lives.

On Sunday, another dog slipped gently away as he rested next to his best friend. I got to see Bailey many times over the seventeen years he spent with my brother David. David’s an outdoorsman, happiest when he’s somewhere camping and hiking in remote mountains and the high desert. He used to joke that if it weren’t for Bailey, he’d never find his way back to his truck. Bailey was always game to hit the road, and if my brother was visiting and left in the truck without him, Bailey was not the kind of dog who’d curl up and sleep. He waited and kept watch, knowing his place was in the seat next to his fellow traveler. He tolerated the rest of us and even our dogs, but he didn’t play and he didn’t cuddle. He was a one-person dog and he never let you forget it. That’s why it meant all the more to me one Thanksgiving when we all converged at my mother’s in Utah. Bailey actually lay down on the floor nestled against my legs while my mother, sister, and I sewed on the AIDS Quilt panel we made for my friend Tim R. Bailey was there when it counted.

Our family will miss him very much. Thank you, David, for bringing him into our lives.

Shuffle Poetry–plus one

I yanked this meme from Cari ’cause hers cracked me up. Emo poets, watch out!

Take the first line of the first twenty songs that play on your shuffled music (wherever your shuffled music originates). The first line of the twenty-first song becomes your title. Here’s my poem–apparently I’m having girl trouble.

I’m Free to Do What I Want Any Old Time
by Becky and her iTunes

Green-eyed girl
Give me one more chance
What good is the dawn
Oh, it’s been such a long, long time
At night it hits me cold

You want to give your love away
Walked out, goodbye
I give her all my love
Girls can wear jeans
It’s quarter to three

All I know is the way that I feel
So you think you’re a Romeo
Cain slew Abel
Moon River, wider than a mile
Trudging slowly over wet sand

Know it sounds funny
She’ll let you in her house
Am I real?
Let me in here
When the night has come

And since I’m being poetic, occasionally (okay, twice, whatever, this is my LJ and I’ll say what I want to) Mark G. Harris assigns poetry writing tasks to his friends. He finds a past blog entry we wrote and asks us to rewrite it–in verse. He last did this on November 2, assigning me this old post of mine from May 2008. November 2…which is…uh….three months ago today and…um…er….GREAT WRITING TAKES TIME, PEOPLE!

So without further ado–and note, Internet, that’s ado, not adieu, but let me not interfere with your massacre of the language so that I can commence my own.

That Day You Got Your Nails Did


Lucy and Marilyn watched from the wall
That day you got your nails did
Madonna was hanging out, too,
But was all into herself
And couldn’t be bothered with you

Each twitch from you became sound
In the nail tech’s giggles
She clipped and filed and buffed
Around your nervous cuticles
Good theater, but you didn’t let me pay

I drove your manicure to Starbucks
To wrap itself around a frappuccino and a Camel
We kept an eye out for handsome men
But got dirty dogs and a rainbow
We’re soaking in it, Hardhat Boy

Rest in peace

Love Story author Erich Segal died of a heart attack at age 72, his health complicated by his long battle with Parkinson’s disease. The portion of his daughter’s eulogy for him that I’ve read is quite moving.

That he fought to breathe, fought to live, every second of the last thirty years of illness with such mind-blowing obduracy, is a testament to the core of who he was – a blind obsessionality that saw him pursue his teaching, his writing, his running and my mother, with just the same tenacity. He was the most dogged man any of us will ever know.

Love Story was one of those novels that went from my mother to my sister to me, all of us weeping over poor, doomed Jenny and her beloved Oliver. The movie gave Ryan O’Neal something to do after he left the TV series Peyton Place and introduced us to the nostril-flaring Ali MacGraw. I’m sure if I saw it now, my eyes would be rolling non-stop, but I loved it as a youngster–and of course, love means never having to say you’re sorry.