Grandmothers Enlist in Oakland, CA
Well, Dick Cheney, you big schmuck. That Texas lawyer will look just great over your fireplace mantle. Good Lord, Man.
Grandmothers Against War protested today at the Broadway Army Recruitment Center in Oakland, CA today, attempting to sign up for the armed services en mass. Their motto: "Take us instead." Bless, 'em. I swear, if this country had the to opportunity to send over Olive Story and Barbara Baughman in their prime, God help Iraq. A couple of crotchety Idaho farm wives would have put that country back in line mighty quick, using only pickled green beans, jigsaw puzzles and horded rubber bands. The availability of non-dairy creamer might be an issue, but at least it could probably survive desert heat.
Today I had a bang-up yoga class. The teacher used me for a guinea pig twice and suddenly seemed inspired to encourage people to attempt the fully expressed poses. (My upper body is much longer than my legs and my family’s physiognomy gives the illusion of uncommon flexibility without much effort.) I am finding that the people of this region vigorously resist pushing their limits or trying new things. Gets them all out of their comfy warm space and they seem to hate even the idea of it. S. says he gets similar responses in discussing practice. I hope my pursuit of decent yoga instruction isn’t going to be squelched before it even really starts.
My BFF Mix is not angry with me for forgetting her birthday, despite my fear of it. Actually, she’s not a screaming, pouting, resentful type of girl at all. She does remember every goddamn occasion on the planet without fail, so when she gets here this weekend I will make amends for my stupidity and squeeze the secret to her card-sending strategy out of her.
I’ve been lugging around two huge garbage bags full of cleaned beverage containers in the trunk of my car for three months now. CA redemption is five cents for every beverage container under 24 ounces and fifteen for anything over that. (This means this amount is added to the purchase price when we buy the items, but it is rather a hassle and downright time-consuming to find a recycler to redeem the deposit.) I was coming out of Bakesale Betty’s today and found an elegant older black lady going through the recycle bins with her little metal pushcart. I got to bestow the entire lot to her. She declared it must be her lucky day; I thought it was mine. She was so perfectly lovely.
The sun has been out in earnest for weeks now. I am reduced to long sleeve tees, massive sunglasses, SPF 60 and a big fuck-off floppy white hat. I look like a big, pale, uncomfortable idiot. The parasol is still in the closet, but not for long and, no, I’m not joking.
Grandmothers Against War protested today at the Broadway Army Recruitment Center in Oakland, CA today, attempting to sign up for the armed services en mass. Their motto: "Take us instead." Bless, 'em. I swear, if this country had the to opportunity to send over Olive Story and Barbara Baughman in their prime, God help Iraq. A couple of crotchety Idaho farm wives would have put that country back in line mighty quick, using only pickled green beans, jigsaw puzzles and horded rubber bands. The availability of non-dairy creamer might be an issue, but at least it could probably survive desert heat.
Today I had a bang-up yoga class. The teacher used me for a guinea pig twice and suddenly seemed inspired to encourage people to attempt the fully expressed poses. (My upper body is much longer than my legs and my family’s physiognomy gives the illusion of uncommon flexibility without much effort.) I am finding that the people of this region vigorously resist pushing their limits or trying new things. Gets them all out of their comfy warm space and they seem to hate even the idea of it. S. says he gets similar responses in discussing practice. I hope my pursuit of decent yoga instruction isn’t going to be squelched before it even really starts.
My BFF Mix is not angry with me for forgetting her birthday, despite my fear of it. Actually, she’s not a screaming, pouting, resentful type of girl at all. She does remember every goddamn occasion on the planet without fail, so when she gets here this weekend I will make amends for my stupidity and squeeze the secret to her card-sending strategy out of her.
I’ve been lugging around two huge garbage bags full of cleaned beverage containers in the trunk of my car for three months now. CA redemption is five cents for every beverage container under 24 ounces and fifteen for anything over that. (This means this amount is added to the purchase price when we buy the items, but it is rather a hassle and downright time-consuming to find a recycler to redeem the deposit.) I was coming out of Bakesale Betty’s today and found an elegant older black lady going through the recycle bins with her little metal pushcart. I got to bestow the entire lot to her. She declared it must be her lucky day; I thought it was mine. She was so perfectly lovely.
The sun has been out in earnest for weeks now. I am reduced to long sleeve tees, massive sunglasses, SPF 60 and a big fuck-off floppy white hat. I look like a big, pale, uncomfortable idiot. The parasol is still in the closet, but not for long and, no, I’m not joking.
Comments
1) Opal? You talkin' 'bout Gramma (Olive) or am I just mixed up and cacn't remember any Opal other than Dad's former receptionist?
2) Where in the world did you find SPF 60?!? I'm sure coating yourself with an inch thick smear of zinc oxide or lead sheating would do the trick!
Anyway, love love love!
Kisses to Miss Sarah. And, yesh, it's Olive. What kind of dope am I?