‘Melon
A good watermelon found its way into the communal refrigerator. It looked good, even though only the top tenth had been cut off and covered with foil.
The color showed pink and glossy. It smelled like clean perfume. I took it into the house with me, hoping not to drip watermelon liquor on the floor. In the summer, floors can get sticky because of limeade and other juices. That watermelon looked and felt so good I wanted to crush it on my face.
Instead, I cut slices, then then sliced them into cubes. I found fresh ginger with fragile, dry skin and peeled it into the bowl that held the watermelon. I ate with a spoon, dipping it into the coolness of melon while savoring the flavors that kissed themselves in the bowl, in my spoon, and in my mouth.
Fresh ginger and watermelon - why not give it a shot?
Uncategorized | Comment (0)Too Many Naked Men (of the wrong kind)
Yesterday, I went for a walk and I think I saw far too much of a stranger than needed.
Like, the garage door was open, and the guy standing in the back froze. And his clothed friends froze. And while it’s a quiet neighborhood, and he was probably in his own house, and it was darkish, I’m pretty sure that I saw far more of his hips than I needed to see.
If I was taking a short-cut, and going through people’s yards, then I deserved an inadvertent eyeful. Because really, people get to be naked in their backyards. That’s just civilized (and yay fences). But yesterday? Him in his cluttered garage? No.
And then, driving back to the house after gelato with my girl, her young man, and her young man’s roommate who is moving to Noo Yawk after winning his PhD we passed a bearish barish guy who was in horrible shape. Dude flat out stopped his car in the street, opened his door (never mind there was plenty traffic) and bent over to check his tires.
How mad am I that I go an eyeful of his naked sit-upon *plus* crack?
My girl and I were like, “Oh, Lord, Jesus, NO!”
There was a thoroughly inappropriate, “I rebuke that in the name of Jesus.”
Some of you may be proud to know that I refrained from making olive oil jokes.
Ruthy Charlot | Comment (0)The War of Art
By Giggles Anderson
I taught a Kindergarten class today for the first time.
All boys. Eight… which is more than enough, with each of them vying for the lead role of Adam.
Or better yet, King Solomon once we reached the part of the lesson that required drawing and coloring.
Eight boys and basket of ten crayons, give or take six. Who are we kidding? The broken ones don’t count. And so the tug-of-war over resources begins in Kindergarten.
Here and everywhere in
The boys know this and bitter negotiations over four crayons began. CJ and Tommy, the school twins who share school supplies and uniform size, sing a hypnotic duet in hopes of winning shared property interests in green, yellow and red. “They aren’t real twins. They don’t ride the same bus. And they hogged the crayons yesterday.”
Having spoken his trump card, Jonathan appropriated the green crayon and purposefully colored the flora on his worksheet.
We all pretended not to notice.
Before our next inhale, CJ and Tommy rejoiced victoriously as they grabbed their favorites– blue, yellow and red. “Now we can make green, orange, and purple as well. These people are rank amateurs,” CJ muttered to me as he began coloring a large carrot red.
“That’s wrong!” Bruce accused CJ with the accusatory wave of his hand as he signaled for Jonathan to quietly pass the green crayon to Dexter.
Dexter discretely shaded the clothes and fruit on his worksheet and Jonathan deftly pirated the yellow crayon from the not-so-protective bend of Tommy’s arm.
Tommy didn’t notice. The rest of us pretended not to notice.
Go figure. The red carrot debate had captured our attention. Bruce and CJ were deadlocked in an intriguing squabble over the color of uncommitted Supervegetables. Like
Alberto and Kane would use the crayons last unless they were willing to make do with the chad-like bits and pieces left abandoned in the bottom of the box. That’s right. A dimpled chad doesn’t count any more than a broken crayon does. Incidentally, CJ doesn’t count well either, but who needs numbers when righteous indignation is so much more effective?
“I’m not wrong. It’s a beet.” said CJ with an authoritative sway of his right wing.
Shrewdly spying an opportunity for relationship building, Jonathan openly acknowledged the possibility that the rabbit on the worksheet could be holding a beet as opposed to a carrot. Grateful for the assist, CJ conceded the red crayon to Jonathan in gratitude for his stipulated service of support.
Worried that I hadn’t heard a peep out of Dante, the youngest and smallest boy, I glanced over at his worksheet in hopes of gleaning some clue as to his role in this multicolored melodrama. He smiled at me and in a strategic move that might have impressed King Solomon he wailed, “MISS! You have to take all the crayons away. Two of us are supposed to share one crayon and no one is supposed to be talking!”
And just like that, I watched the meek inherit the crayons.
Giggles Anderson | Comment (0)Good Neighbours
By Giggles Anderson
Good neighbours are much more,
than two families who live next door.
It’s about watching the lonely home,
while the neighbour’s phone is on roam.
Lending an ear for the confession of our fears,
always over a cup or two
of fresh Blue Mountain brew.
Sharing fish, veggies, fruit, and such
when we have way too much.
Through the years,
we watched our children grow.
They laughed.
They cried.
They played.
And every now and then,
a kid to the doctor or the principal’s office would go.
Through it all,
from winter to fall,
we’ve been good friends.
And on each other,
we can always depend.
For almost twenty years,
we’ve lived a stone’s throw away,
there on Fifth ave,
on the outskirts of the south Bay.
Many a fool has asked,
“Why do we stay?”
And we always reply,
with a smile,
inside and out,
“We bought the house because we liked it,
and we stay because we found good neighbours,
and they take good care of us.”
Timely Thank You Note
By Giggles Anderson
Everyone–
It was indeed a pleasure to revisit our Prep school, dormitories and church last Sunday.
I was watching television and was SO pleased to catch the “Talking Out the Side of Your Neck” video by Dem Franchise Boyz. This song was a standard played by our high school band, the Maroon Machine. Today, it’s a standard getting heavy rotation on the music video scene.
The Video Clip: http://www.mtv.com/overdrive/?artist=1803115&vid=206362
How about I grabbed my flute and began playing along?
*Utter hotness!* G.C. Raider Pride Lives On!
Iona Forever.
Thank you for some great new memories!
PC & Giggles
Kane
By Giggles Anderson
I want to kiss you.
A thousand times,
Until the sky melts into darkness.
And rainbows strain to fly.
On the way to heaven,
with starlight as our guide.
Lucky Dog
By Giggles Anderson
Once upon a time, in a land far away, Lucky Dog and his Mistress walked through the forest, a scary place where golden bears and green gators lived and dogs were considered a delicacy. These animals have a powerful sense of smell. Fierce and hungry, they could smell that there was a tender, meaty, not yet captured dog, somewhere in their midst.
They navigated the forest for hours, walking quickly eastward often passing hunters scoured the forest looking for the materials to make alligator purses and bear slippers.
It was an odd sight. A woman clutching a furry white dog to her ample bosom as she stomped through the thicket, crushing twigs and tiny insects in her path. Back at home, Lucky Dog, a pedigree Maltese, only barked when there was a precious pool of oil buried deep beneath the dirt.
Lucky Dog was rare indeed and many evil people would pay a pretty penny to posses him.
And it was the spirit of possession that led Lucky Dog to his current predicament. Fleeing kidnappers who wanted to know the location of Lucky Dog’s latest petroleum find, his Mistress tripped and fell unconscious. Lucky leapt from her arms to avoid being crushed by her body weight and ran as quick as his little legs would take him.
After a while, Lucky Dog returned to his Mistress, only to be greeted by moss and dirt. She was gone. It was as if she had dissolved into nothingness. There were no footprints. Only a note etched in a giant oak tree.
“Meet me at the crossing, due North, 20 degrees, left at the cave, then 42 paces East”
Lucky knew it was a note from his Mistress because it was written in Maltese, the language of Lucky’s home. Only six people in America could read Maltese.
The other four were in Federal prison serving time for tax evasion.
Lucky memorized the directions and was confident he was heading in the right direction. He could smell his Mistress’ perfume. He was not too far from Huckleberry tree when he was accosted by a golden bear. Lucky, not in the mood to be eaten, told the bear that he was standing on at least eighty-seven barrels of oil. The bear happily started digging.
Lucky walked away quickly as he marveled at how greed will disinherit even the hungriest of creatures.
Soon after turning left at the cave, Lucky stumbled upon the slumbering alligator. Lucky was forty-two paces from his Mistress. He was not about to give up now. He began whispering eerily as he tip-toed passed the alligator. He whispered a hypnotic tale of untold wealth and unmitigated joy buried beneath the ground.
Lucky was ten feet away when he heard the hopeful alligator start to dig for a fortune he would never find.
Thirty-eight.
Thirty-nine.
Forty.
Lucky stopped to think about all the obstacles he had overcome in his quest to be reunited with his Mistress. He avoided kidnap. He tricked the bear and hypnotized the alligator into digging so he would not be eaten. Disciplined, he never forgot to keep moving even when his throat was parched and aching feet begged him to stop.
Lucky normally lived a life of leisure, but today Lucky had a rare chance to show his Mistress how much he honored and respected her. She found him as an abandoned pup and never left his side. She loved him before she knew he could locate black gold. She loved him unconditionally.
She loved him even when his precious discoveries turned them both into moving targets.
Forty-one.
Forty-two.
Lucky, thanked the heavens he found a caretaker and excellent friend, raised his head, and uttered a sigh of relief as his Mistress picked him up and carried him to safety.
My High School Manifesto (circa 1989)
By Giggles Anderson
I am a true lover of Benetton.
If I am ever sent to Death Row for my revolutionary crimes, I’ll order as my last meal: scrambled eggs, grape jelly, and ketchup.
I dig Forenza.
I love to read comics and novels, listen to loquacious people and 60% off sales.
I dig malls, boutiques, and plazas. I feel secure when I walk down Worth Avenue and notice that Gucci is still there.
I grove Benetton colors — even the loud ones.
I speak only if I have something funny to say.
I love big clothes.
*
I collected old coins when I was a kid and wanted to become a nun for St. Mary’s Convent, a church in my hometown.
I got put in jail when I was twelve for standing on a street corner in Brooklyn. It wasn’t my fault; I didn’t know I could get arrested for pretending to be a prostitute on Halloween night.
I went to a high school where the principal walked around with a bullhorn and embarrassed people.
I graduated in the top 5% of my class.
My classmates voted me Class Clown, Most Likely to Succeed, and the Chief Editor of the Underground Newspaper.
I had a cool haircut.
I didn’t have a day without fun.
I dug cool, intelligent classmates.
*
I became one of the best neurosurgeons in the United States. One of my patients said to me, “You are out of your mind if you think you are going to give me a lobotomy.”
I loved radicalism.
My father drove me crazy and I still hate him. He gave me a nightgown (the same kind and color) every Christmas. He dug Benetton blue. So did I.
My mother had lots of money and created hairdos. She gave me $900,000 for graduation and said it was a head start for my bright future.
I took care of pet fish until I was 26.
I dodged Hercules for years.
I went to Notre Dame for 4 years, graduated, and giggled my way through medical school.
*
I became a doctor.
I became a crazy doctor who hated small children.
I like my life.
I own a BMW and a black Lamborghini.
I live for money and a monogamous relationship.
I am a yuppie.
I am an orphan of Benetton.
*
Fawn Hall, Do-It!!!!!
Soaps that please: Young Family Surfactants
While visiting with friends, I went by the Sunday Eola Market and had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of Jenni Young of Young Family Surfactants. I’ve tried two of her many varieties of hand-crafted soaps: the hemp soap (which she–and my nose–tell me is mostly hemp oil) and the chamomile peppermint castille soap. I’ve been using them for several weeks and can share with confidence that after two weeks of use my skin has ‘come lisse. I tend to baby my limbs as a matter of course, but there’s a delicacy to it that I’m choosing to attribute to Jenni’s dense hemp oil soap and chamomile peppermint castille soap.
I’ve been a fan of handmilled soaps for a good while now which is good since there are so many people and companies crafting soap. I’m told making soap is easy. I’ve found making good soap is an art. Creating soap I wish to continue using even after I run out? That’s a neat trick. Now, for a long while have been a fan of the Key West Soap Factory (goat milk soaps are amazing!). But the two bars of soap I got from Young Family Surfactants’ soaps distinguish themselves with their density and lather. Jenni (and Jay) craft heavy soaps considering the size of the bar. They tend to last. On top of that, they produce a remarkable lather: tiny, numerous, near-uniform bubbles that yield a silky, delicate, clingy foam.
I’ve found that the hemp oil soap, when played with water and between my hands, can be worked into a near-gel consistency which lends itself perfectly to grooming that involves razors. I’d like to hear from other Young Family Surfactant users to know if they’ve observed similar. I heartily recommend the hemp oil soap for that use specifically.
Additionally, both soaps have been used on my face and have left it soft, smooth, and feeling moist (but in a good way. Not in a ‘did someone lick that?!’ way).
Slurping to Better Health
Sunday, while shopping for veggies at a farmer’s market, I met a remarkable woman who understands that skin tells on a person more than anything else. She, Michelle O’Shaugnessy, founder of Healing Herbal Soups, has created a line of herbal soups that are good for and to you. I didn’t pick any up at the time, but we did get deep into conversation. Someone once told me that it’s really important to spend time with people who’ve or who’re accomplishing what you admire. O’Shaugnessy had this elegant ease and the woman accompanying her advertised good health, great beauty, and fine balance. As they were healthy, glowing, and elegant, I wanted whatever those two were having.
Turned out it was soup.
Michelle O’Shaugnessy was there with her client to promote Michelle’s line of healing soups. With a radiant smile, that woman attributed her good looks and health to Michelle’s experience and skill. As is my wont (not a mis-spelling, btw), I said my hi’s and grabbed one of the packets so’s to read the ingredients. I chose the green packet because in my world green=good (unless it’s ketchup or flesh). Listed on the nutritional information panel were things I knew were good for me from stories told me by my mom, her mom, their surrogate moms, all our relations (who cook/are opinionated), and play-Family hailing from Korea, several Chinas, the subcontinent, and west Africa. There were mung beans, and bitter melon (which, really, is nearly as bitter as surprise-tin-foil in tuna salad’ AND grapefruit seed), and leeks, and zucchini, and watercress (my favorite salad green!) and all manner of other the-USDA-says-eat-this-now-five-servings-a-day-or-else. Not only that, but it turns out that those ingredients had far more goodness in them than I’d known before tracking the soups down on the web. See?
I tried a sample of the Detox Soup and found it goodbitter in the best way leafy greens are plus a mildly zinging note of that telltale melon.
We chatted for a bit, cracked jokes, and I discovered that in addition to being a food creator, Michelle is also an acupuncturist who owns a clinic that specializes in aesthetics, women’s health, and beauty.
I was Soooooo excited. But, eventually, I went on my merry shopping way. But I resolved to look more into Michelle O’Shaugnessy, her business, and her soups.
I’ll gush more about that later. 