Month: November 2011

Proof of Hat. Because Dad Said So.

And so, I’m friends with my Dad.  On Facebook and in real life.  After I posted my post yesterday, he posted this on Facebook:   It pays to be friends with your Dad, people.  It means a lot.  It means, amongst many other things, that any baby picture of you he decides to share will be of the non-embarrassing sort.  You hope. I love you,...

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My Head Is Too Big For Hats

Let’s say, just for laughs, that your boiler is busted today. Here’s a list of stuff you might do while waiting for the repairman/contemplating said repairman’s actual existence: You may decide that it is colder in your flat than it is outside.  And, not only is the water cold, it also tastes weird, making your coffee, for lack of a better word, funky. You may then ask your PA, if you have one, to go to Starbucks and get you a latte that’s warm and does not taste funky, at least not to you.  You feel bad, but then you consider that her hair isn’t a mess and she isn’t wearing two sweaters and socks with cocktails and umbrellas on them, to give the illusion of a more tropical climate.  She has heat and hot water in her house and therefore looks more presentable and less scary than you do.  You send her out on this solo coffee mission for the good of humanity. You might turn on some music.  Maybe bluegrass. Because at least the fiddle is hot.  You may dance around your living room.  For warmth. You may pick up the phone when your Dad calls and have to explain that no, the boiler will not explode and yes, a repairman (or woman, you don’t care at this point) is on the way. You may pick up...

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The Thanksgiving Duck

And so, last weekend I started a healthy eating kick.  For me, this meant leaving the lettuce and onions and one or two peppers on Saturday’s burger, and not having sour sweets while watching Tin Tin at the cinema.  I took fruit-bars to work and came home to rice-cakes and grapes.  I may have asked Sarge to boil spinach pasta and then left the tomato chucks in the sauce.  I was doing pretty well. And then Thursday happened.  I’ve told my mother several times that Thanksgiving is not a holiday in Scotland.  There are no turkeys ‘til Christmas, and you must hunt The Great Canned Pumpkin in specialty shops and then come home to your Actually American Girlfriend with Empty Scottish Hands.  Just ask Sarge.  I wanted him to make pumpkin pie, and then pumpkin pancakes, but there was no canned pumpkin.  I couldn’t even console myself with a Pumpkin Spice Latte.  But the Chinese duck on Thursday night was pretty good.  So much for the healthy eating, then.  But I can always pretend the holiday season has already started. See, this time of year, nostalgia is a physical ache that I live with and indulge.  The tears start in early November and don’t dry up until January.  I don’t miss America, I miss what my America was.  Around the holidays it was the smell of Nana’s cooking and...

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Open To Interpretation

What follows could either be a. a snippet from my NaNo novel or, 2.  a recent conversation between Sarge and me: I need to write. Then write. How do I get out of the way? Write in the bathroom, on the toilet, in the tub. Write in bare feet, using a pencil with no eraser. Stick your head out the window, shut your eyes and breathe. And don’t take breaks to talk to your mother about goat wool. That wasn’t my fault. She called me. Whatever. And it’s rabbit wool. What? Angora. It’s rabbit wool. Not goat wool. Who gives a shit?  Just...

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