Category Archive

My new thing is to download the most recent This American Life onto my IPod and listen to it during my commutes to and from work. This new trend started because 1. I am sick of every single song I own and 2. It’s just a great show and the stories make my ride to work so very enjoyable.

So, last week’s show was titled “A Little Bit of Knowledge” and the theme was how people (everyone, at some point) will talk like experts about things they don’t know much, if anything about. The prologue covers several people’s stories of what and how they found out too late in life that they had false information about something they had been spouting about all of their lives.

  One woman, in her twenties, learns from a crowd at a party that unicorns aren’t real after wondering out loud whether they were endangered or extinct.

 Another woman had always thought that the X-ing signs were pronounced “Zing” and also learned the truth in an embarrassing manner way too late in life.

 One guy lived his life thinking that the Nielson ratings were only conducted by families with the last name Nielson. Again, lesson learned too late and out loud.  

Listening to this show this morning had me laughing hard enough to look like that crazy person on the bus and have mentioned it to several people since - who then offered up their own examples, which have been hilarious.

Mine you ask? Two have come to mind today:

1. When I was little my dad told me that the foam in the ocean was whale pee and it seemed more than believable at the time and so I never questioned this until my early twenties, while at the beach, running away from a very foamy wave, yelling to my friends ”AAAAH, WATCH OUT FOR THE WHALE PEE!”

2. Until two years ago I thought it was “for all intensive purposes” (rather than intents and purposes)

Two of the best I’ve heard so far today:

“Flash in the pants” (instead of pan, of course)

“Cufflings” (as in little baby cuffs, instead of cuff links)

Now it’s your turn.

The weekend with my mom and my grandma, and then the unexpected guest(s), Violet’s brother and eventually his girlfriend too, went well. Good actually. Nice. And at times, fun. And, in a general sense, I feel closer to my grandma in ways. She was, as expected, difficult at times, but nothing major, nothing over the top.

I watched my mom deal with her during those few moments when she was being a PIA (pain in ass) and I watched my mom be remarkably patient. I could tell that she was annoyed but she was so flawless in remaining calm and kind that I realized I had always just assumed this was a natural characteristic of my mom, when in fact her sincere, “It’s ok, no problem” is an intentionally practiced skill-turned talent. I observed (and admired) this in hopes of learning something, as patience is not free and my mom has always been bottomless.

After I dropped the two of them off at the train station my mind started to replay the last few days. I started to realize how much I don’t know about my grandma – and want to- and probably never will. There were moments where I wondered if she was apologizing for what she had said the weekend before, in her own way - or if she had just moved on and softened up that quickly? I couldn’t stop wondering about a lot.

I’ve talked to my mom about this before, and I wonder if my grandma would have been/ would be a lesbian if that was an ‘option’ for her? Despite several husbands, a few of us were never convinced. Is she a feminist? Has she ever had an orgasm? Has she ever kissed another woman? I started to see her as a whole person who has had a really big life… and I don’t know any of the internal stuff to ANY of it. I want to know but I have no idea how to know. I just can’t see her opening up that way and I also can’t see myself asking my grandma if she’s ever gotten off.

She was born in West Virginia and now in her 70’s, has ended up a fairly well off, twice widowed, retired woman living in Hawaii. How in the world did that happen? Did she MAKE that life happen or did it just go that way? She was in love with my mom’s dad, but ever again? I’m not sure. I’m not sure if she’s sure. I’m not sure that mattered.

I’m not sure how she came to think the way she does about anything. Is she a republican because of her money? Or does she really believe it that political philosophy? Does she really think gay people shouldn’t marry? Or is that just an unchecked opinion? What in the world does she really believe in? What in the world really matters to her? I don’t know. And I don’t know if I ever will.

On Saturday, while walking through Pike Place Market, my grandma asked a woman to take our picture, “This is going to be my Christmas card so sunglasses off and smile” she said to mom and me through her already ready camera smile.

The woman held the camera to her face and asked, “How do y’all know each other anyway?”

My grandma responded, “We’re three generation right here, out on the town together.” And it was right then, arm in arm in arm, that I realized I was in some pretty incredible company… and damn lucky.

In my last post I mention that after all had gone to hell at the James house I eventually gave in and up and went with the ol’ When in Rome idea and decided to drown the family dysfunction in cheap Chardonnay. So, I drank… too much that night. And I now remember, having just got off the phone with my grandma, that my drinking that night revitalized my affection for her and the whole family. It also caused me to not only come up with a brilliant idea but to spout it off right as it was developing in my drunk little head, “Grandma, you know what you should do?!? You should change your flight to later and spend next weekend with Violet and me up in Seattle!”

Yes, I said that. Yes she remembered. Yes she considered my invitation and changed her flight. And yes she is coming up here with my mom this weekend.

I have decided not to give in to the anxiety and just go with it. What’s done is done and if all else fails I will send them to the Olympic Sculpture Park with a map to Pike Place Market and pick them up before it gets too dark. Chances are we’ll have a fine, if not great time, but man, I could really use a weekend.

“Happy Independence Day”, I said to Dog as soon as I unlocked the front door to our house Sunday evening, “you hear me, don’t you girl.” She and I both plopped down in the back outside and stared at Fraidy swim around and around… and around for a while. It was warm and quiet. It was nice.

Violet, dog and I took a lovely long weekend away, travelling and camping around and on near by islands. The weather was increadible and the three of us had nothing short of a fabulous time. The whole adventure was quite wonderful (there just might be pictures to follow). And as rude as the work-morning was this morning, it wasn’t Monday, which I took as a peace offering.

So, just a few minutes ago I get to work, check my email while chatting with Sinclair and I get this offer to take a “What L-Word character are you?” from a myfacespacebook friend. I have never done one of these but it beats trying to catch up on last weeks work. So I take it. It was quick and painless until… the results:

The L Word: Which Character Are You?

You are JENNY

Did someone say drama queen? Your troubled past has left you emotionally fragile and prone to being self-absorbed. You can count the people you trust on one hand, but you’re extremely loyal to those people.

AaaaaaaaAAAaaAaAaAaaAaAAaaaaaaaaaaa… AAAAAAaaaaaaaaAAHhhHhHHhHhHhh!… NooOOoOOooOoooooOOoOoOOOOOOOOOOoooooOoOOOoOoooOooOOO! How can this be? I am my own worst L-Word nightmare!!!

The scariest part was my inability to disagree… minus the drama king part, of course.

As a kid, my animistic behavior and attitude towards everything was rather active. I invented a personality for everything and could empathize with anything: frustration for trees trying to grow through cement sidewalks, burning muscle aches for cars going faster than they wanted to, stomach aches listening to baby birds squawk and squawk because they didn’t know exactly where their mom was, and disdain for the doorway that bumped my funny bone.

As a kid, after seeing The Red Balloon, I made it my duty to rescue all less than fully inflated helium balloons from restaurants. When the server would ask me if I wanted a balloon I would say, of course, and then deny the big healthy one being offered and ask if I could have all of the sagging, drooping, or nearly dead ones, please. I would take them home and put them in our hall bathroom. The hall bathroom was the warmest room in the house and usually the sagging balloons would perk back up again for a day or two. This was enough for me to feel as though they were getting a fair second chance at life.

I had way too many stuffed animals as a kid. They all had names, of course, a family history and an awesome adventure story as to how they became a part of my life (I got busted for “lying” in Kindergarten over one of these stories… another post for a different day). At one point I had so many stuffed animals that I started sleeping on the floor so that they could all fit on the bed at night. Eventually my dad caught me, asked me what the hell I was doing sleeping on the floor and I explained. Our compromise was that either some of the animals had to go (not an option!) or that I had to find a way to make room for myself in my own bed. I worked out a pretty simple rotation for my animals and not one of them got any more time than any other. Teddy Ruxpin carried no priority over the Gremlin or that little Red Bear I got from my grandma on Valentine ’s Day. They were all loved and equally important to me, and this was obvious to them, I was sure.

And then there was the time I screamed bloody murder so loudly that the neighbors came running over and busted the door in to see if they should call the police when I caught my dad carving my 2 week old Halloween pumpkin.

I remember the night my dad finally drew the line with my affection towards everything. That night he came to tuck me in only to find a four foot tall two-by-four under the covers with his daughter. The wood’s name was Charlie and he was cool because he was just as tall as me. Charlie had 3 big knots: one was an eye (the other was closed so you couldn’t see it), one was a belly button, and one was a bruise on his knee. Dad found me in bed with Charlie only a few weeks after he had caught me sleeping on the floor next to a pile of teddy bears sleeping soundly all over my bed. He stayed pretty calm and simply asked, “Jesse, sweetie, why is there a large piece of lumber in your bed?”

I said, “Dad, it’s Charlie! He’s as tall as me! He’s fine, he fits. Pleeeease let me keep him. We all fit, see.”

The next morning I woke up and Charlie was gone, never to be seen again. I wasn’t terribly invested in Charlie and never really dwelled on his disappearance. Plus, with my new rock, Sylvester, weighing in at 16 pounds, covered in little petrified shells, I was all, Charlie who?

I mention all of this because I was thinking about it on Sunday while I was watching my fish swim around and around… and around, waiting for my raccoon to show up, and worrying about my avocado plant’s loss of leaves lately. I realized how much of that part of me I still carry around. With my head hanging over the pond, all of a sudden it dawned on me that Fraidy probably doesn’t even care about me. And this is most likely BECAUSE HE IS A FISH. And for a moment Fraidy became just a gold fish and that’s it. Chances are he doesn’t even have enough conscious ability to have feelings about anything, let alone me in particular. It didn’t really hurt to realize this, it was just a bummer. Like when you think you’ve made a new friend in a college class and then the class ends and you never hang out again. Well, no, it’s not really like that at all, but that sucks too. I guess the bummer is that I’m too old now to be able to re-convince myself that everything matters and that everything knows that everything matters, like I believed as a kid. Fraidy matters to me but besides the fish flakes I have to offer, it’s likely that I’m just another big object that blocks his sunlight every now and then.

Or maybe not. Maybe when he sees me his little fish heart flutters and his fish face smiles and his little fish brain thinks, “Jesse! Damn, it’s good to see you again.”

A general, choppy, update on life:

Violet has a ton of work stuff going on, my job has been slammed with real work to do and Violet’s parents are coming into town this weekend. So, I have been spending my time doing actual work stuff (instead of blogging), helping Violet with some of her work stuff, and preparing the house for parents, which we all know means hiding some things and digging out other things to put on display as if they are always there.

Spring is very springy and I am ready for summer.

I haven’t seen Marcus and am assuming it’s because he is a healthy raccoon with hurt feelings and has a grudge against our lack of edible garbage (we compost almost everything worth scavenging. He’s smart enough, he’ll catch on eventually.)

Fraidy is the raddest fish that has ever lived and we have developed a cool little routine that goes:

I go out to see him as soon as I get home every evening. I scoop out the never ending fallen cherry blossoms with a net. He gets all flippy-floppy trying to dodge the net, inevitably working up an appetite.  I sprinkle in some fish food flakes in the same place every time, wiggle my finger in the water where the food is, which is his food-cue that he quickly caught on to. He dives to the bottom and acts all coy (yes, bad pun, and he is actually just a remarkably beautiful goldfish). At first he is very methodical, like a hungry shark, attacking one piece of food and then diving back to the bottom. Eventually, he starts swimming around more furiously, striking at several pieces in a row until he just starts striking at anything and everything. Every once in a while he gets a cherry blossom or a little piece of moss and then shoots it back out with force and with this grumpy fish face like I tricked him or something. I watch, laugh, and then go inside to recount the whole scene to Violet.

She’s not terribly willing to have long conversations about our goldfish but she is sweet about it and listens.

I will up my blogness frequency again soon. But for today, that’s the news from lake Woebegone… or Washington, I guess… where the women are strong, the raccoons are good looking, and the fish are above average.

Also, as we all know, Thursday is Cherday. If you have any great Cher-ness, do cher. You can send anything and everything Cher to jessejamesblog@gmail.com
Thanks.
jj

This morning was an especially rude Monday. I was having an absolutely wonderful weekend, fell asleep Sunday night and the next thing I knew I was wearing a collared shirt and sitting at a desk in downtown Seattle.

I was chatting with Jup on the beloved gmail this morning, as she also woke up on the wrong day, and was going through old, old… old emails of ours instead of letting this Monday thing happen. I forgot so much of what I use to write about, how I use to write. I was telling her my (not so much anymore) secret fear that college ruined my ability to write. I think I’m too structured now, inside and out, to think that openly. I can’t say I miss feeling so all over the place but I do miss writing that way.

One of my old favorites was to take the world out of context and quote it at the end of every email. It was a different quote every email, which isn’t very hard if you spend more than ten minutes a day even slightly aware. Anyway, here are a few I ran into while stealing Jup’s idea of reading old emails instead of doing anything I should/need to be doing:

“I don’t care what anyone says dude, that’s sex with robots.” (an old friend, 2003) 

“Growing up, every one said I should have a dream. I had to find out on my own that if I say this dream out loud it could kill me.” (a woman on a bus on Martin Luther King Day, 2002)

“It’s real easy to follow an avalanche. Tricky part is when you change your mind and your direction. Lotta pushin’, that’s how I got here anyway” (an old guy on the bus, Jack, he liked my hair, we started talking, 2002)

At my job, for the most part, I do good things. But, for the most part, I sit at a desk and stare at a computer, which is why I have a blog. Which is what a blog is for.

So when it’s not pouring rain and I’ve already posted something I do what i can to get out of the office for a little while. Today’s excuse was a stack of mail that needed to be somewhere immediately! At 3:45 I stood up and very quietly mentioned to one person that i was going to the post office. I left the building, turned the corner, turned on my ipod and starting walking on any street that had sun shining.  

I spent the first 4 blocks walking along the waterfront, eventually turning up towards 1st. This is when I walked by the first one. I saw the photo paper out of the corner of my eye. It was upside down and so completely uninteresting. I kept walking. A few steps later I saw another photo, also upside down, in the middle of the sidewalk. This time I couldn’t resist. I pulled my sweater over my hands and reached for what was most likely going to be totally pointless and sticky-gross with gawd-knows-what, but instead, to my utter delight, it was this:

I gasped aloud and stuffed it into my pocket like I had just found money on the ground. I then looked around to see if anyone had seen my physical reaction to my internal dialogue of “Why me? Why am I so lucky!?!” and immediatly turned around to go get the other one.

This was just. too. good. In a world of digital cameras, I was not only lucky enough to have stumbled upon an incredibly strange and fascinating paper photo, but two incredibly strange and fascinating paper photos!

The second one was just as fulfilling:

They all look a little more prepared for this shot. And who is that woman? And WHO IS THE LITTLE GUY IN THE PIRATE STRIPED SHIRT AND CAP’NS HAT!?! I’m assuming his name is Oliver and that he is a Leo, but we might never know. 

Oh, just in case you are waiting or wondering, there is no point to this post. No witty ending, no story, no conclusion or deep question for your soul to suck on. This is just life that happened and still life that i just happened to stumble upon while ditching work- and that’s it. But really, how great are these shots?

(p.s. if you know who these people are PLEASE let me know)

Saturday: I lazily lounged around the back yard watching Fraidy swim around and around… and around. I kept my eye out, hoping Marcus might come marching through the yard like he owns the place, like he does- no luck.  I hadn’t seen him in two weeks and the last time I saw him he looked terrible. He usually made his appearances on Sundays, but at this point I wasn’t holding my breath.

Sunday evening: I had just gotten back from the grocery store. More excited about making something to eat than putting the groceries away, I left the bags in front of the fridge and began to chop up vegetables. As the onions began to cook I opened both the front and back door for some air. The phone rang. It was my mom.  We started talking while I chopped vegetables. With the phone tucked under my shoulder, I picked up the cutting board and turned around to throw the garlic in the pan when, to my utter surprise and fleeting disbelief, I nearly tripped over a very large, tailless, raccoon.

Neither of us saw the other until we were just too close to not totally freak out. As far as Marcus could tell there was a wide open door leading to a bag full of glistening beet tops, kale and rainbow chard. Makes sense now, but at that moment he scared the shit out of me.  

“AaahaAAhahHhHHahHHAHAHAHAHHHH!” I gasped.

“What is it!?!” my mom asked.

“There’s (gasp) a (gasp)….”

He froze. I froze.

“Get ooooooouuuuuut of here, Marcus!” I eventually shouted while backing away.

He looked totally surprised and rejected by my yelling. His head and shoulders slumped down and he gave me this talk-to-the-hand gesture as he turned away to leave. I was caught so off guard that I reacted quite dramatically but the simple fact was, there was a raccoon in my kitchen. I did notice how much better he looked. I hadn’t realized just how big he was until he was standing at my feet… in my kitchen- Big. Raccoon.

“Who the hell is Marcus, honey? Get out of your house! Call the police!” my mom ordered.

I flew out the back door barefoot and explained to my mom that this Marcus guy was just my raccoon. My concern was that I didn’t know for sure if he had found his way out or if he was hiding somewhere in the house, shocked and insulted, trying to gather himself before he had to face the world again. I got off the phone, grabbed my neighbor and a big stick and we scoped the place out together. As far as we could tell, Marcus had left.

As the neighbor and I were discussing what to do about my overly cordial, tailess guy the phone rang. Violet was calling from the airport in Baltimore, about to catch her flight home. She asked what I was up to and I told her that I had just had an unexpected guest stop by but that I kicked him out and that  I felt kind of bad about it.

She said, “Oh no. Who? Why?”

I said, “Because I only made enough pasta for one, really, and I’m assuming Marcus is not allowed inside, yes?”

Violet is out of town visiting family and doing business stuff on the east coast for the week. This means I’m home alone for 9 days. This means I am partaking in all of the things that don’t fly when Violet is home. My favorites: leaving not just my boxers, but all of my clothes on the bathroom floor. On the fourth day alone the pile grew tall enough that I now have to hop over the mound to get to the toilet, which makes me smile every time.

Dinners have consisted of prepackaged and/or frozen goodness that require a maximum of 5 minutes to prepare. A few favorites: mac n’ cheese (obviously), frozen potato perogies (boil, fry, eat), and frosted mini wheats.

*just to note: I have had at least one salad a day. For some reason, I know this makes Violet less anxious about my eating mac n’ cheese right out of the pan, over the sink, a few dinners in a row.)

I have been staying up too late, for no good reason, watching old episodes of the Golden Girls, but this is nothing new.

Oh, and last night I learned something important. Something I feel obligated to share in hopes of potentially saving others.

Lesson of the week: Do not spend thousands of dollars over the internet while high.

Last night, I spent over a thousand dollars on the internet while I was high. This was not a good idea. I don’t regret the purchase; it’s just that I purchased my purchase wrong.

My 86 year old godmother, Ruth, and I are taking a trip together in Nova Scotia this summer. I’ve already booked the tour and so last night I spent some time looking for plane tickets. All of a sudden this great deal appeared on my screen and I realized I better just buy them right that very second! I got out my credit card and started entering the needed information.

I entered in all of my info with ease because it is my name and address and so I know it well, even when I’m a little stoned.

Next, I entered Ruth’s name and address, again, with ease because even when a little stoned, I have known her for 31 years, and so, I know her name and address as well as I know my own. 

I entered in all of my credit card info and clicked ‘accept’.

A second later a confirmation email was sent to my inbox for my review.

I reviewed.

Looked fine… except, wait…  I jerked forward, squinted at the screen and looked it over very, very closely.

Passenger 1: (first name) jesse (last name) james

Passenger 2: (first name) Ruth (last name) Hanson

Wait a second. Uh oh. Hanson? That’s not her name! Ah! Did I seriously put her maiden name instead of the only last name she’s ever had since 1943? Yes. Yes I did.

To keep the boring part of weaving my way through the customer’s-have-no-rights-bureaucracy of airline companies and entities like CheapTicket (who has the shittiest policies and customer service ever!) as painless for the reader as possible, all I’ll say is that 3 hours, 8 phone calls, 11 robot operators, and 9 painful hold-music songs later, a real human at Continental calmly listened to my panicked ramble and changed Ruth’s last name from Hanson, which it is not, to Mori, which will now match her passport.

• 2 tickets to Halifax: $1300
• 1 typo on Cheaptickets: $9 and 3 hours on the phone
• Recognizing, through the haze of my stoned, one man, nine day bachelor party, that I would much rather pick up my dirty clothes off the bathroom floor, spend three hours cooking real food, and get nagged to stop watching the Golden Girls and come to bed at a reasonable hour any time over all of this glorious freedom: Priceless.

I don’t know why. I don’t know what happened. I don’t understand what changed. And I will never ask for an explanation… ever.

Saturday, while I was out with my out-of-town friend Violet called. I excused myself, answered the phone and she said, “Hey, do you have a second?” I said, “of course”, of course. Violet said, “Today at my gardening class i had a revelation.” I said, “mm hmm, and what was it?” Violet said, “We should get a dog. How about in June? Lets get a dog together in June.”

I had nothing to say because:

1. I was in the bathroom peeing and someone walked in, which is awkward and 2. Oh.My.Gawd.

So, now the conversation has moved from: “Can we please get a dog? Please! Pleeeeeease? Pleeeeeeeease!!!”

-to-

“What kind of dog should we look into getting?”

We have both agreed that a mutt is the only option, but Violet would prefer one mixed with Australian Shepherd and i would prefer one mixed with Boxer. The only reason i mention this is because of the uncanny resemblance that we each have with our prefered breed. Vain or good taste?… Probably a mix of the two.

8:45 a.m. Sunday morning:

Violet hollers upstairs: “Jesse! Come here! Guess who’s finally back!” I knew. I ran.

It was my guy, our raccoon, Marcus. I hadn’t seen him in a week and had started to worry. But there he was, on our pouch just sitting there, kickin’ it like a lazy cat, scratching himself and licking our compost container clean when Violet noticed he was hurt - really hurt. I didn’t actually see it because she warned me not to look. But from what she said his tail was pretty much no more. Yuck and Ouch.

He’s a big ol’ guy, fat and cute as all get out. I’ve gotten use to seeing him every day or so around dusk. Last weekend he was limping a little but still managed to strut through our open back yard in plain day, like he was our little dog, like he does, and toughed out whatever was ailing him to climb our tree to the tippy top.

Yesterday I watched him from a distance, as our back door is all glass, as he sat there scratching and biting at his ex-tail. My heart fell.

I got on the phone to get him some help. After calling several wild animal institutions, shelters, vets and emergency clinics it turns out that Marcus totally fucked up by getting hurt on a sunday… and with no insurance to boot.

At one point I talked an emergency wildlife clinic, three counties away, into coming to help us by offering to pay for the animal ambulance. (I am well aware of the fact that this could all sound ridiculous. None the less, Marcus is my raccoon and damn if it doesn’t take a village). As soon as I hung up the phone, having finally convinced this woman to get someone to drive for an hour and a half to pick up a pissed off, bleeding raccoon, Marcus just stood up and wandered off. I didn’t follow. I could tell he was in no mood.

Violet made a few more calls to see if we could find anyone to come and help us with this guy. One of the several underfunded nonprofit animal rescue places in Seattle said they would help Marcus if and when we caught him ourselves and brought him to them, “like, with a cardboard box or something”. White tall femme!?! Are you kidding me?!? He is hurt and pissed and scared… and a raccoon!

Several phone calls later we finally got a competent, knows-everything-about-raccoons woman on the phone from the fish and wildlife department who said that he probably had distemper, which can cause sores, and that raccoons were pretty remarkable at dramatic recoveries. She said it might look really bad but that he could fully recover.

So, that’s what i told myself all day as i paced around, peering out our windows, waiting for him to reappear, and that’s what i told myself before i went to bed… that, and that sometimes all you can do is throw your hands up because even the simplest of relationships get really hard sometimes. But so long as Marcus is in our trees I got his back. And I’m sure if his tennis-ball sized brain completed thoughts like that he’d say the same.