Exhausting Weekend

I'm not feeling well at all. I am thankful for medicine and a good mattress that calls to me.

Gratitude, Day Three: Surrey's Story

I am blessed with storytellers. I am blessed by those that will take the time to sit and share a bit of their life.

I was moved to tears today by the story a friend told of her childhood in England during WWII, of her evacuation from Bristol at about my daughter's age to a farmhouse in the countryside, where she lived with a man and his wife who detested one another and never spoke and the time she spent there, seeing bombs fall on the city where her parents were, not knowing whether they were alive or dead and no one to go to for comfort or solace.

After the war, her extended family pooled their ration cards for petrol so her parents could drive out to the farm to collect her.

She spoke of that first Christmas after the war, in London, reverting to her six year old self, the American tones of her voice fading as her child-self came out to talk of the wonders she saw. The lights bright after so many years of blackout curtains. The crowds of people in the streets. People still living in tube stations who had lost everything they had. Children her own age, bedraggled and dirty, scavenging along the Thames during low tide and among the bombed out buildings for anything they could sell. Shopkeepers taking to the streets with their wares in barrows or with tables set in front of their unusable shops.

Children were back in London for the first time in years, she said, and they were greeted with joy. Class lines were erased as strangers called out to one another, wishing the best of the season to rich and poor. A fruit seller gave her a banana as a gift, her first, and she bit into it like an apple, skin and all, not knowing it first had to be peeled.

A fishmonger, selling cockles and winkles and eels, reaching into his basket and pulling out a live eel, slitting it head to tail before her very eyes and cutting off a piece of the raw flesh to give to the wide-eyed, awe struck Surrey.

"My first sushi," she said. "It was salty and sweet all at once and tasted of the sea and freedom."

Dia de los Muertos

Today is Dia de los Muertos. I have always remembered and honored those who have passed before, whose presence in my life helped shape who I am. In the past I have built ofrendas for my ancestors and fallen contemporaries. I place photos, small keepsakes, flowers, water, salt, candles, bread and anything else that strikes me as being appropriate. The house is cleaned and incense is lit. It is a welcoming, refreshing feeling, the building and cleaning, the tears and joy that come with memory.

For the second year I have made no ofrenda. For the second year this post is my ofrenda.

There are people missing from my list. There is too much in my head...or too little, I can't remember which. I write their names and bring them to me for a moment in time. And send them on their way:

Rose Rushdoony Deovlet (Grandma Rosie)
Phil Deovlet (Grandpa)
Rose (Vartoohi) Mahdesian Deovlet (Grandma Darling)
Benjamin Deovlet (Grandpa Darling)
Rose (Vartanoush) Rushdoony (Grandma Rushdoony)
Y.K. Rushdoony (Grandpa Rushdoony)
Mary Movsesian (Auntie Mim)
Spurgeon Avakian (Uncle Sparky)
Ruth Avakian (Auntie Ruthie)
Evelyn Cooper Smith (Grandma Evelyn)
Haywood Smith (Grandpa Haywood)
Auntie Margie
Bob Thomas
Dave Ricker
Robin Wadsworth
Michael Hefflin
Maxina Danner (Snookie)
Jennifer Lee
Patrick Lee
Mace Hanley
Shelly Munge
Dan O'Brien
Ricky Paul
Barbara Rose
Ronnie Geoffrion
Dave Coker
Don Mills
Wally Lockwood
Sally Schneider
Linda Underhill
Manny Suarez
Mary Jo Goss
Andrew Small
Phil Robledo
Amethyst Mariani
Theryl O'Ryan


Gratitude: Today I am grateful for my family and friends who have gone on and for those who are with me still. I am blessed by your presence in my life, your belief in me and your love.



"To absent friends, lost loves, old gods, and the season of mists; and may each and every one of us always give the devil his due."

Neil Gaiman

Gratitude

Late nap, late dinner, late bath, late laundry...exhausted me. So lest I forget:

I want to start out by giving thanks to the always encouraging Boogiemum herself. I don't even remember how we found each other in the vast unchartable wasteland that is the internet, but we did and have been enjoying each other's writing and chatting in the ether for over a year. She has been unflaggingly supportive of my ups and downs, always there with a kind word when I reappear after an absence and generally being just being an amazingly wonderful and giving woman.

So, thanks to you, Boogiemum. I wish we lived closer so we could actually go sit in a cafe and chat up a storm.

Oh, No! It's National Blog Posting Month!

That's right, folks. The return of the infamous NaBloPoMo, guaranteed to kick my butt for the second year in a row.

This is not my official first post, hence no links, graphics or photos. This is merely a post to say that I have a toddler who is refusing to nap, ergo no computer time for me just yet. I'm going to scrape by tonight if I can ever get to sleep!

The dilemma now is, of course, do I keep her up in the hopes of getting her to sleep early this evening, or try to get her to sleep for a few hours of blissful solitude and writing? Hmmmmmm....both are intriguing prospects.

Artistic Expression

To the Person Who Invented Washable Crayons:

I think I love you. Really.

You have a very special place reserved for you in Paradise.

In Memorium

Maxina Danner

Born: 25 March 1987
Murdered: 27 September 2004

You are loved and missed, Snookie. You are forever in our hearts.
You are remembered.

Foreshadowing

Mojo: "Will you be a good girl for Mommy today?"

Arabis: "Noooooooooooooo."

Well. She's my kid, that's for sure!

Strike Two and a Home Run

While boiling pasta for Arabis' dinner last night I got distracted and let all the water boil out, leaving a charred mass of black sludge in the bottom of a vintage Revereware pot.

Thankfully my mother was here. She told me to put a little water in the bottom and some cleanser and let it set. Needless to say I then made new pasta while my daughter cried in the other room, telling her grandmother how much I mistreat her, scorch her food and force her to wear clothes.

Well, I may not be able to boil noodles tonight, but damn if I didn't make just about the best souboreg this side of Van! Yummy!!

(DISCLAIMER: The link is purely for identification purposes and is NOT my family's recipe.)

Two Dilemas

This afternoon we have two major problems. They work in tandem. The first is that I am having a terrible time staying awake. I feel like vultures are circling. I must keep moving. If I stop for only a minute, to sit on the sofa say, I will fall asleep. Then the vultures will descend in the form of the second problem.

Arabis will not keep her clothes on. Whenever I fall asleep, I awaken to her naked. Naked and jumping on my head. Naked and playing with her blocks. Naked and riding her wooden rocking horse like a pint-sized Lady Godiva. Then we reenact a distaff version of the infamous Undertaker vs. Mankind "Hell in a Cell" match wherein I attempt to clothe and diaper her and she resists. To anyone outside in the hallway it must sound like the Slaughter of the Innocents.

So I've finally managed to get her into a pair of Osh Kosh overall shorts, sans shirt, which she can't remove (knock on wood). I am in the kitchen drinking a coke and making her dinner.

But I can tell. This is not over. Not by a long shot.

Camping

Home from camping on Mt. Diablo this weekend, aptly named as it was hot as Hades! We saw a family of raccoons, quail, a tarantula and so many flies I wished for an Australian outback hat, despite its ridiculous nature.

Arabis had fun, although the constant vigilance was tiring for both Mojo and I. Our girl is tenacious and willful, albeit with a sweet nature, and it is coming out in droves right now. She will listen calmly to what is asked of her and then do her own thing if it doesn't suit her needs. (Expect an entry on discipline and cries for help very soon!)

I took a goodly amount of photos but am too tired to download the camera. A photo essay will be forthcoming in the next day or two. Unfortunately I didn't get a shot of the tarantula since I forgot my camera back at camp. But I did get a few spectacular shots of the sunset, tinged a brilliant orange-red by the smoke from all the wildfires.

Feh

Today my fu has the funk.

Phooey.

Why I Hate Berkeley (S)Mothers

Arabis and I headed off to Totland early this morning, leaving Monkey Boi home in bed (he was up too late playing Starcraft on the computer). We get there and Arabis heads off running to check out all her favorite stuff. There are two older girls on the slide (about seven and five: far older than the normal Totland demographic) and they are monopolizing the slide, climbing up it the wrong way and not letting other kids get on. Arabis manages to wriggle past them and as she is on the ladder almost to the top, the older one runs around to climb up the stairs and pushes past her, almost sending her tumbling backwards down the stairs. Then both girls stand at the top of the slide and prevent Arabis from going down. Arabis looks askance for a moment before deciding that she's just going back down the stairs. There is no adult in sight supervising them.

I come over and tell her that those girls didn't want to share and we'd just go play on something else. She was fine with that and we go off and play on some other equipment. We talked to another mother and grandmother who complimented Arabis on her t-shirt ("Hello, my name is Trouble") and her rock star sunglasses. I pushed her on the baby swings and we played on the big wooden structure and drove cars around.

Then she wanted to go on the adult swing (there are two in the corner). The older of the two girls from the slide was on one so I took Arabis to the other swing and pushed her very gently for a little bit (she's just getting the hang of the how the big swing works). She got down after a little while and walked in front of the other swing. I cried out and dove to grab her but the girl sped up and kicked Arabis in the head, sending her sprawling in the sand.

She had sand in her mouth, on her teeth, streaked down her face on the tracks of tears, in her hair. I scooped her up and carried her hysterical to the bench, checking her for any obvious injury and trying to comfort her as much as possible. Got her to drink some water and eventually calm down. Scooped the sand out of her mouth and checked all her teeth for anything loose (no, thank goodness) and cleaned her up as best I could. One woman came over to see if we were okay, which was very nice.

I look over and notice an adult talking to the older girl who is still on the swing. The girl gets off the swing and follows the woman to a stroller where the woman proceeds to strap the younger girl in to. I pick up Arabis, who has stopped crying and gasping and walk over to them.

"Your daughters almost pushed my child down the steps of the slide about a half hour ago. They have been bullying other kids in this playground and now your daughter just kicked my child in the head," I tell this woman in a voice so calm I frightened myself.

"Thank you for informing me of their actions," says the woman, not looking up at me and fiddling with her bag and the stroller.

"I would like your daughter to apologize," I tell her through clenched teeth.

"Only if you apologize first for being so angry," the miserable woman replies.

I was aghast. What the fuck?!? I look down at her kids, who are also refusing to look at me. I look at her with my mouth open in shock. A thousand unutterable names course through my head but I am aware of all the toddlers around us and I manage to not call her a miserable sniveling c*nt of a camel's whore and just say, "Excuse me?"

She repeated her desire that I needed to apologize for my anger before her child would apologize to Arabis for kicking her in the head.

"You're insane," I said. And she walked away.

I took Arabis to the car and gave her some milk and held her while she got hysterical again. Then after I got her calmed down I called my friend Shemena to rant because I got hysterical.

We went home and she's fine. She's got some bruising around one temple so I gave her some Tylenol. Her pupils are fine. She and Monkey Boi played with the Duplo blocks for a while and chased each other around laughing, so I think she is fine. I'll still watch her and look for any additional bruising in the bath tonight.

On a happier note, here are a couple portraits taken this morning prior to going to the park. It's hard to take self-portraits with a wiggly todder: we never both look good in the same shot!

The Sky is Falling!

I bought a chicken today. Or more accurately, I purchased a carcass that once housed the soul of a chicken (if chickens can be said to possess souls {which is a philosophical discussion for another time}).

This is kind of a big deal for me. In no way am I the "Suzy Homemaker" type. No domestic diva, I. Martha Stewart and Rachel Ray (annoying woman who my mother adores) have nothing to fear from me. In short, I flunked Girl101.

I hate to cook. (Disclaimer: this does not apply to Armenian food. I am an awesome Armenian cook.) I love to bake and am quite good at that, but just the thought of cooking can still send shudders of horror and anxiety through me. I've gotten better over the years and especially in these last two and half years that have found me out of the workplace. Dare I say it, I've gotten almost adventuresome. I've cooked steaks. I've tried recipes from cookbooks. I've even deviated from them and branched out on my own. Now, I face the final frontier: the chicken.

I have a "thing" about chickens. It's not really a phobia. It's more of an extreme dislike and lack of respect. I even have trouble eating chicken. It stems from my childhood and spending time in Fresno during the summers. When I was younger, Fresno was the "New Old Country" for Armenians on the West Coast (I think that distinction has moved to Glendale now). And 35 to 40 years ago it was not the urban sprawl in the Central Valley that it is today. There were still orchards and farms quite close to town.

We would go visit my Auntie Zaroohi on her farm. Sometimes we kids would get sent into the fields to pick grape leaves and the old ladies would can them to use later for dolma and yalanchi. Afterwards, we would sit on her porch, drink lemonade and eat pomegranates. Auntie kept chickens. Chickens are disgusting animals. They are dirty and mean with cannibalistic tendencies. Occasionally we had to gather eggs or feed them. I never liked walking through the pen, being that close to them. They would peck at your feet and argue and harass you. The sensation of chicken shit squishing between my bare toes as I walked is one that instills a sense of stomach churning disgust in me to this day.

I have never baked a chicken. Or roasted. Or whatever you call it when you stuff it with dried bread and lay it nicely in a pan with potatoes and carrots and onions around it. But I am going to tonight. I am obviously possessed of a trickster djinn who is going to be greatly amused by the spectacle, but I'm going to give it my best shot. I've got a Joy of Cooking and Mojo has his Betty Crocker Cookbook around here somewhere, and damn it if I'm not going to feed this nasty bird to my loved ones! Just see if I don't!

I'll let you know tomorrow how it goes. Wish me luck!

Housekeeping

My goodness, it's dusty in here! With cobwebs hanging from all the corners. No one has been here for a long time. That's going to have to change.

Let's do a little housekeeping and see what we can come up with.

Is anyone still out there?

It Runs in the Family

It's Saturday night and I am frantically getting ready to head to the art center for the final performance of "Macbeth." My mother has agreed to babysit Arabis for the night and is sitting at the table with my daughter, eating dinner.

From in the bathroom, I hear the following conversation:

Grandma: "Arabis, do you know how to scare a bee?"

Arabis: "Bee!"

Grandma: "You sneak up behind it very quietly and a great big voice yell, BOO BEE!"

Arabis: (giggling) "Boo-bee! Boobie! BOOBIE!!!!!!!!"

(Thanks, Mom.)


In other news: I promise a full post with updates very soon. My life has been crazed these past few months what with moving into a bigger live/work space (in the same building), rehearsing for and performing in a 13-show run of "Macbeth" in Berkeley (just closed this weekend), another possibly big thing in the works that I can't talk about right now and Arabis's second birthday. A lot has been going on. But I miss this forum and I miss everyone (Hi, Boogiemum!) and look forward to being a regular presence on the Interschnitzel once again.

Conversations With My Daughter

Me: Are you my evil minion?

Arabis: Yeah!

Me: Are we going to take over the world?

Arabis: Yeah, yeah!!

Me: Is Mama a benevolent dictator?

Arabis: Eh (shrugs shoulders).

Living on the Freeway

Some of you local San Francisco Bay Area types may have heard of an accident recently involving a tanker loaded with gasoline and a particularly grueling stretch of freeway. What you may not know is that I live, oh, less than half a mile from the section of freeway in question. And now, thanks to the powers that be, all freeway traffic that would normally be bypassing my lonely stretch of industrial West Oakland is hurtling down the major thoroughfare in front of my house at freeway-like speeds.

I've watched the news the last few days (those of you can be as aghast as you want to find that this is not a normal occurrence for me) and listened to traffic reporters gratefully relating how traffic has been lighter than normal. There was even a mobile news van set up on the corner for about six hours on Monday with a reporter going on camera every hour or so. Had I known what kind of hogwash they'd be spilling, I'd have run out there with Arabis in tow and given them what for.

"How's this traffic affecting the neighborhood?" Ross McGowan of KTVU asks the anonymous reporter hanging out at the Arco station up the street.

"Oh, it's no big deal. It's great for small businesses," our clueless correspondent replied.

There is, wait let me count, *ONE* small business between the two points on the detour and that is (da-da-da-DAH, you guessed it!) the ARCO Station (known in the neighborhood as Crackhead Central).

The reality is that between the cars racing down the street, the exhaust that has easily trebled (if not more), the noise pollution of horns, engines and screeching brakes (not to mention the almost constant drone of the helicopters overhead) have made this a nightmare. The irony of the entire situation is there are other routes one could take that go through less populated areas and shorter distances. One news report does have the decency to urge drivers to "Please use extreme caution while driving this detour route as it makes it way through neighborhoods with children playing and going to school." But judging from the behavior of the drivers outside my window, that is not happening.

I inadvertently drove above the site early Sunday morning (probably less than six hours after it occurred) while going to breakfast, having heard nothing about it previously (other than the incessant helicopters {which in my 'hood could just signify a big drug bust}). It was the most frightening thing I have ever seen. Instant flashbacks to the Loma Prieta earthquake. Especially since I live right in front of the site of the old Cypress Freeway structure that collapsed in that disaster.

Who knows how long this will take to fix, especially with a purported shortage of steel (most of which is going into the new Bay Bridge currently being built). Estimates range from six weeks to months.

Free public transit on Monday was a good start, but it seems it's going to take more than a little freeway collapse to get folks out of their cars. Until then, can anyone recommend a good air filter?

Armenian Martyrs' Day

"If evil of this magnitude can be ignored, if our own children forget, then we deserve oblivion and earn the world's scorn."

Avedis Aharonian (writer and educator, 1866-1948), English translation by Diana Der-Hovanessian

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Armenian Genocide Commemoration
Tuesday, April 24th, San Francisco CA

5:00 pm - Rally at San Francisco Civic Center, across from City Hall

7:00 pm - Commemoration Program, Herbst Theater, in the Veterans Building, 401 Van Ness Avenue at McAllister, S.F.
The 70 piece Oakland Youth Orchestra will perform Gomidas, Khatcaturian and other Armenian works. This evening will be dedicated to victims of the current genocide in Darfur, Sudan. There will be also be a special dedication to the memory of the recently assassinated Armenian journalist Hrant Dink. Donations may be made at the door.

The Mt. Davidson Cross will be lit on April 24th

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"I should like to see any power of the world destroy this race, this small tribe of unimportant people, whose history is ended, whose wars have all been fought and lost, whose structures have crumbled, whose literature is unread, whose music is unheard, whose prayers are no longer uttered. Go ahead, destroy this race. Let us say that it is again 1915. There is war in the world. Destroy Armenia. See if you can do it. Send them from their homes into the desert. Let them have neither bread nor water. Burn their houses and their churches. See if the race will not live again when two of them meet in a beer parlor, twenty years after, and laugh, and speak in their tongue. Go ahead, see if you can do anything about it. See if you can stop them from mocking the big ideas of the world, you sons of bitches, a couple of Armenians talking in the world, go ahead and try to destroy them....for when two of them meet anywhere in the world, see if they will not create a new Armenia!"

William Saroyan "The Armenian and the Armenian"

Richard of York Gave Battle in Vain

When I put away the dishes, I find myself now stacking my brightly coloured Fiestaware by their order in the colour spectrum. I am doing this with Arabis' plasticware from Ikea as well. This is new behaviour.

Am I turning into a hausfrau or just an obsessive/compulsive?