But Call Me Betsy

Having realized that I still am motivated by the very same systems I learned in kindergarten, I recently made myself a weekly chore chart, breaking down all of the cleaning necessities into manageable days of the week so that I do a little something every day. It's fine as none of it involves real cleaning. I am excellent and putting my clothes away and picking up after myself; not so excellent at mopping the floor or cleaning the refrigerator. I gave myself a reprieve for Wednesdays b/c that's garbage day, my most hated day of the week as it involves me going down into the basement and cleaning the litter boxes. I am hoping this dread will dissipate somewhat now that I've added other times on the c.c. where I am supposed to clean the box. Today, I believe I have vacuuming and...something else. That will take no time at all as I have almost exclusively hard wood floors. At work, I have a similar system going where I get a gold star every time I go to the gym. I guess after ...

His name is Paul Simms. He occassionally writes for the "Shouts and Murmurs" section of The New Yorker. No images of him to be found, but I picked up a NY magazine this weekend and read his faux campaign speech which you can read here. The best paragraph by far is the following (though it's funnier if you read the whole article): What I’m really trying to talk about on this great occasion is women like your mother, whose decades-long struggle with morbid obesity has earned her much renown in the urban folklore of our great land. That’s right—your mother: a woman who is said to be so fat that, when she sat down on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday got bounced into the middle of next week. If I could, I would give her a medal, even though she would probably eat it, thinking there’s chocolate inside. And here's another one he wrote that I love called " Four Short Crushes." I've been there. We belong together.

Had yet another altercation with a South Philly "dude"this morning;a minor one, but again, I was Miss Sensitiva about it. As you know, I like to take photos of funny or interesting windows. I try never to have the house number in the picture either, to project the anonymity and pride of the person. Today, I spotted a window with two strange rabbit pieces in them and crossed the street to take a picture. Just when I snapped it, the front door opened and a shaved head guy covered in blue tattoos and multiple piercings stepped out and said, Why you taking pictures of my house? Of course, he has every right to ask that question because it is a weird thing to do. I was startled. I said, Oh, I just like to take photos of windows. Sorry. His little dog came out on the stoop and I petted it. He said, Oh, okay. I said, Sorry about that. I just like your bunnies. He said, No, that's okay. I still felt like a jerk and like I had to be really nonchalant walking the rest of the way do...

This morning, I was happily walking out of Black & Brew with my coffee when I saw a girl on a bicycle tipped over on 10th Street, just past the Pub on Passyunk. Apparently, this guy parked on the side of the street, opened his car door without looking and knocked her off her bike. He jumped out of the car, this fat old guy with a pot belly and white hair, and the first thing he did was to examine his car door to make sure it wasn't scratched. This is while the girl is still lying on the road. She stood up. The girl had on her bike helmet and was wearing hospital scrubs, obviously on her way to work. She wasn't bleeding or anything, but she was scraped up. He pointed his finger at her, yelling, "I wouldn't care if I killed you! I wouldn't care if you were dead! Watch where your going, you fuck!" I said, "Dude, are you serious? Are you seriously saying that out loud? I saw what happened. It's not her fault." (I actually didn't see what happ...

Still reading this Margaret Atwood collection and the two stories I read yesterday were about the character, Nell, trying to adjust to living on a dilapidated farm. Her boyfriend, Tig, keeps bringing more and more animals to their place. First, it's chickens. Then a peacock and his mate. Then four cows and three lambs and a blue-tick bloodhound named Howl and a cat who multiplies into many many other cats and the last story I read was called "White Horse;" about a stumpy, asthmatic white horse who coughs when Nell rides her. The thing about farm animals is that they serve a purpose and the purpose is not to be pets or companions. Mostly, the purpose is for food. Nell has to accept this and in the meantime, there are all sorts of gruesome deaths and mishaps. The peahen accidentally hangs herself on the clothes line and her mate goes mad with grief, killing off a bunch of hapless chickens. Tig and Nell try to hatch chicks using warm light bulbs but something is off and when...

Somewhere along the line, I got signed up to Victoria's Secret mailing list and so pretty much every day, I receive an email or a postcard that tells me how I can go purchase a super sonic bra and matching panties for a mere $75 plus 4% off. It's tempting, especially since it was only about a year ago that I learned my actual bra size and so now know what to look for. The problem is that most bras in my size are unflattering; look like something you imagine a professional wet nurse wearing. And since I should be trying to save my money to buy a house and pay off my credit card bills, I really don't need to be distracted by today's missive, an offer to buy the new "Biofit Uplift...Now in 20 sizes and 10 colors." If I do happen to buy this amazing bra, praised by InStyle magazine, I will also receive a free pair of panties. This particular bra offers the following: "padded uplift, lightly padded uplift, shaping uplift, contouring uplift, subtle uplift....

First, we have the creche combined with a stuffed bunny and stuffed dog. Kitty in a store. She was more interested in the white Scottie dog walking by then she was in me. Sad black cat. No eye contact here either. Sleeping ginger cat who I woke up. Another ginger. This is the nervous dog I pet every morning when he's out. The owner never leaves him water, but he seems well-adjusted though skittish. Suspicious of me. The fabulous Emma Carol putting her fur on my clean dishes. Henri has five good minutes a day when he jumps on the bed while I'm reading and gets petted until Ernesto comes in and scares him off.

Had a dream last night that I had a short story published in some obscure literary journal, something like North Dakota Journal of Literature and Kitty Cats and the story I submitted was called, "I Am Snowing." Can't exactly remember what it was about; a sister/brother story maybe? I do remember that I liked it and was happy that it got published. I know I stole that phrase from something I read once. I keep thinking it's from Smilla's Sense of Snow but probably only because of the title of the story. I also have this idea that it's related to a Milan Kundera story somehow. Anyway, somewhere I have read a story where the characters talk about how they're feeling in terms of the weather. I've also been reading Margaret Atwood's collection of related short stories, Moral Disorder and she writes a lot about what it's like to forget about being a child. One story is titled something like "The Headless Horseman" and is about the narrator ...

Sat next to a woman today who was reading one of the Harry Potter books. I wondered if she was reading it b/c she has kids or if she was reading it because she likes the make-believe aspect. I've gotten through maybe two of the Harry Potter books, but didn't become hooked and haven't seen any of the movies. I like magic as much as the next thinking person, but I've never really been into the fantasy/sci fi genre beyond junior high (possibly up to 10th grade). Last week, I saw a woman reading the Bible on the train and had much the same reaction except it's disconcerting to think that she really believes the stuff that goes on in there such as the parting of the Red Sea and resurrections and virgin births and Jonah surviving in the belly of the whale and all the holy saints and angels and demons, etc. I've been reading the Dawkin's book at lunch and he makes the point that it's a logical fallacy to claim that the argument for and against there being a God...

I’ve been walking around with ice cubes in my pants in order to keep cool or lying prone on the floor ala Emma Carol. Thank God for the air conditioner in my bedroom otherwise, I’d have to start shooting up. But, no, there’s no such thing as global warming. Or economic distress. In response to a reporter’s question about the declining economy, our President said, “Well, heck-fire, I’m not an economist! I don’t know!” I’m reading this nonfiction book called The Sociopath Next Door. The author keeps emphasizing how statistics prove that one in every 24 people is a sociopath. Consequently, I’ve now diagnosed about ten people as sociopaths including Shawn, Angela, other exes from Chicago, my neighbor, the guy working at H & M, Coffee Shop Boy, and Ernesto. Padhraig let me borrow about twenty of his CDs to add music to my i-pod. I’ve never been a groupie. Don’t know why except it seems like a lot of work to like a guy in a band. They travel all the time, they keep late hours, they’re on...

First, a window that competes with mine for Virgin Mary bling. Next, a cat who resembles Ernesto so much that I thought maybe he had escaped under my nose and been recaptured. My favorite part of 10th Street. Two stone lions plus flowers. Sometimes, I touch the tops of the heads of the lions for good luck. It hasn't yet become a compulsion, but you never know. This cat then pressed himself so hard against the glass that I could almost feel the thrum of his purr from the other side. Two more Ernesto look-a-likes, and good friends.

I've been doing this thing in the morning where I get up early and write for a tiny, tiny fraction of time (like 15 minutes) and then walk up 10th to get on at the South Street subway stop. That's how I'm adding exercise and music to my day. The song I'm currently re-in-love-with on my i-pod is Rilo Kiley's "The Good That Won't Come Out," from The Execution of All Things . Julie and Danny and I went to see them in Philadelphia years and years and years ago in this small church basement place where everyone was sweating and swaying and you could just feel the retro-Jesus vibes from Sunday school bouncing off the walls in time to the drum beat. You cannot help but love this song. Look it up. You will like it. I promise. Anyway, today I spotted a piece of lined notebook paper with writing on it lying on the ground and since I have a history of picking up trash and adding it to my decor combined with an intense curiosity, I picked it up to read. I thought ...

That's a joke Jodie and I used to have about a title for a story I was trying to write, or maybe it was my thesis. "Disorderly" would be a double play on words like the guy's job was as an orderly in a hospital, but he was bad at it and his life was in shambles, but it was also a reference to an accidental comment J once made to like the only black guy in the PhD program. She said, "Gee, Verne, your shoes sho is shiny!" I don't think he even noticed, but she felt like dying as soon as the words were out of her mouth. So the title of the story would also be racist as if someone were saying "dis orderly, not dat one." I only thought of that conversation with Jodie because I was recently trying to figure out why I watch so much Law and Order: SVU ( I have to qualify b/c of the many versions. Not a big fan of Criminal Intent or the other one, uh, Law and Order: Judgement Day or whatever it is ) . I must like it, right? Even though it follows the sa...

We saw many animals on our adventures to State College, including a white-tailed bunny rabbit that hopped around Carrie's mom's yard, numerous Holstein cows chewing in the mud next to a rickety fence, horses flicking their tails or pulling the Amish to and fro down the roads, goats doing goaty things, a sheep, and a swooping bat who appeared at twilight two nights in a row to dip into the pool. I miss trees and I miss the hard dark rocks along the sides of 322 and I miss the sound of not-traffic or hollering or car horns at 6 a.m. However, I also remembered how hard it can be there too because it's so insulated and shut off and full of nineteen year old white boys with side-slung baseball hats and low denim jeans. We spent much of the time out by the pool--I bought a new black one-piece from TJ Maxx that has a little skirt and makes me feel like I'm Esther Williams sans the flowered bathing cap. I didn't in fact forget how to swim, and there are fewer things tha...

I swear I saw her today on the subway--same, highly-piled, pitch black dyed hair, pointy face and darkly rimmed eyes. She was wearing a black and white checked suit with a pink blouse that had a ruffle down the front and headphones. Lots of make-up, painted fingernails, and a tag on the belt of her skirt for Jefferson Hospital. No discernible drug paraphernalia that I could spot from my seat. A man also brought a tiny dog on in a cage and this one little boy on the train could not stop talking to it and getting on his hands and knees on the floor to stick his fingers in the cage. I couldn't really see what kind of dog it was, but it's had on a pink collar tag that flashed across the car. I like taking the subway except I still don't understand why people bum rush at the City Hall stop--like, they always try to get onto the car before others have exited. But you can't. So, just stand back and let people off first. I try to be the example. Going to State College tonight ...

Though my own writing impulse is lost in some psychic abyss, I still find it quite easy to identify the things I don't like in writing or the mistakes you can make in a story. Here's a short list: 1. Having a first person narrator who turns out to be dead at the end. Like, the last line is: "And then he shot me dead..." Or, "And that's how I died that day." Because, really, how are you telling the story then? 2. Cramming 15 characters into a ten page story like this: "Tommy opened the door. 'Hi, Timmy,' he said. Tony was in the kitchen, blending the drinks with Rich. 'Come on in,' called Joe from the living room where he was playing cards with Jack, Jim, Todd, and Dan. 'Sam called,' announced the man with the blue suit from the top of the stairs. The dog, Jeff, barked. 'We're in for it now,' said a familiar voice." 3. Anything that's too directly derivative, like the fake writing exercise I did the othe...

Both men are completely in love with Deeyawna and yet she’s still in love with Graham Cracker. She will most certainly pick Jason or else run off with the host, Chris Harrison. Jason stands in the doorway naked, showing us his chest and his ab muscles and photos of his son. See, he’s weird. He’s also super tan. He reminds me of someone—can’t think of who…Maybe every guy I ever dated in high school who I thought was really sweet but who made me instantly sleepy. We will have to deal with recap after recap—that’s the first ninety seven minutes of the show and then the last three minutes will stretch out into Now Jesse is being coached and told not to say “dawg” right away. His hair drives me insane—it flips up at the end like a little boy in a commercial for oatmeal. “I’m so into you, that I just am like so radically charged right now, so much so that I’m not even thinking about taking a crap or snowboarding or nothing right now—wait, hold, I might have to—no, it passed. High five, D!” F...

Okay, so I guess I'll just move to Brooklyn and start over again for the 4th time. I love the wide sidewalks and the old walk-ups and the people-watching is unbelievable; like, duh, no duh, but it amazes me every time. While waiting for L & L to meet me at Port Authority, I saw at least ten people in a row that I wanted to take pictures of (though that's rude, I'm sure and touristy). And I heart the bodegas where you can buy everything from organic white vinegar to Virgin de Guadalupe candles. I got lucky too because L & L's neighbor were out of town and they were watching the cat (Samson, a big fat gray cat with a skinny tall and skinny legs. He slept with me and bit me on the nose in the morning, very gently) and so I got to sleep in their huge comfortable bed. On Friday, Liz and I went shopping for sneakers for me and some Hispanic old man grabbed my hand on the escalator, us going up, him going on the down side, and he said, Boo! I said, Never, ever, ever do...

Here's my newest article for Philadelphia Maven. It's called " If Dorothy Parker Were on Facebook." I wrote it after recently reading Parker's short story, " The Telephone Call" which is great and wonderful and so sadly true of my experiences. My deadline for the next issue was Tuesday. Whoops! Guess I better get cracking on that. I've started it, but it needs to be wrapped. Okay, I will do that today, cause I'm going to see L & L in Park Slope for the firecracker weekend.