I've been wanting chickens for some time now. In the Fairmount Hotel I'd fantasize about taking over the building - growing food on the roof, grazing goats and sheep in the courtyard, and letting chickens run rampant on the wrap around porch. In our St John's home we discussed the viability of building a coop in the yard, Kenneth drew up plans, but I was pregnant and we got suckered into taking a birthing class instead of dropping two hundred bones on lumber and chicken wire. I did learn to focus on my breath when the pain of a gasping uterus got out of hand, and how to navigate through hormone and anxiety fueled storms with a carefully scripted dialogue:
"I'm hungry, let's get some dinner."
"I hear you saying that you're getting hungry, and that you would like to get some dinner. I am also hungry, and feel that we should stop at that Pho place by Fred Meyer's and eat there."
"I hear that you want to some Pho, and I agree that Pho would be a good choice, but I feel like we should order it to go and take it home so that we can watch a movie."
"It sounds like you are saying that you would like to watch a movie and eat at the same time, but I am feeling like by the time we get our food home it will be cold and we may have already murdered one another in a state of temporary insanity caused by extremely low-blood sugar..."
and so on until we forgot to use the dialogue and reverted back to yelling and pounding walls. (the throwing of things and the pounding of walls I must shamefully admit, was all mine. Those hormones, huh?)
We never got those chickens. The best time to embark on a great chicken adventure, we were informed by those better informed than we, is the springtime, and our spring was all booked up by this newborn baby adventure we had scheduled the previous spring.
Now that we are living in LA, in a room that has become completely overrun by six-legged creatures of a particular succulence to the aforementioned type of fowl, I find myself wishing once again for a small flock of chickens to clean up this mess. Dreams of motherly little birds clucking with pleasure at the bounty of ants on our floor dance through my head. These ants. They walk on us at night, crawl up the sides of coffee cups, and hunt for stray cat kibbles on the bathroom floor.
Last night Kenneth woke with a start when Emily's hand grazed his cheek - he thought it was a mouse crawling over him.
I'm getting homesick. Homesickness is crawling over me as frequently as the tiny colonists. When I change Edie's diaper, there it is again! Thoughts of the Pacific Northwest march past me, on me, running here and there. I miss Washington, and the kooky Willamette River Valley town of Portland. There's one on the screen now.
All I can do is put food away and sweep the floor often. We'll see about the rest eventually.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Thursday, August 28, 2008
wow a whole week
has elapsed and I think that is the longest since arriving here that the blog has been without update. For a while there a nice rhythm was settling into my bones...sleep in the mornings with Baby E while Kenneth gets up early to have his time...and after he and the baby go to sleep for the night, I'd sneak away to write in this blog. It was working so nicely, but then the daddy had to go and get himself hired at Whole Foods. In the meat department. Evenings. Same exact hours as before. I'm not complaining about his having a job. I'm not complaining about having whole stretches of day where Edie and I get to sit on blankets at the park or flirt with a busful of strangers on the way to the farmer's market across town. I'm complaining about that precious bit of night time that was mine, all mine, in which to write, read, knit, or read about knitting, or writing, while the rest of the house lay dormant.
Now, it seems there is no dormant time. None!
Kenneth comes home late and we hang out with a movie and leftover whatever was for dinner earlier (I always eat twice) as soon as Edie is asleep. Edie is getting to bed later and later now because she seems to be waiting up for Daddy to get home. By the time we go to sleep ourselves, Baby Early Bird is only a few hours away from getting the worm. She's fast now, too. When she's up, I'd better be too, or else bits of paper get consumed and diaper pails intimately explored. Her morning nap is my morning nap. Her afternoon nap is my lunch break. We'd better get outside at least once as well, or she and I both go a little nuts.
All I'm saying is that Kenneth and I should both be unemployed, so that we'd have time to write/knit/sew/play drums/cook delicious foods AND enjoy our precious infant child.
Right now it is piles of done and undone laundry mixing in ways that prevent their being cleaned, or hung.
It is a cascading trail of ants, an undulating puddle of ants, a carefully scripted and contagiously cheerful contingent of ants, holding their very own conference of delegates around the rubber soled shoes smelling ominously of meat. The promise of our future, they say, is that every ant will be gainfully employed, labor will not be outsourced, the crumbs in our house will be carried out by the ants under our house.
The cats are understandably upset as their litter pan has been exported to a little spot outside, by where the dog lays at night. I'm too tired to think of a practical solution. Just go somewhere. Anywhere. Jinx is gone gone gone. For some reason I haven't been dwelling on it. It is what it is. If I think too hard, I'll get sad, and there is no room for being sad about Jinx in a situation like this. Right Left Right Left. You just gotta keep walking.
But just for a second?
Jinx is the most amazing cat I've ever known. People who are devoutly Un-cat people have admitted, a little bashfully, that there is just something about that cat. Junior at the Fairmount called him Cat Dog. Every neighbor I talked to would tell me stories about Jinx. "Your son came to visit me this morning. He just walked straight past me, through the door, and into the bathroom where he drank from my toilet." Or how Tim walked up the front steps, opened the front door, and saw Jinx galloping toward him from the end of the block. Tim held the door waiting, and when Jinx got to him he stopped running, looked up as if to say thank you, and walked nonchalantly up the stairs and turned right, heading for my apartment.
Once, when he'd been missing for a whole day and I was starting to worry, I went out to look for him and ran into the former live-in building manager who'd been fired the week before and wasn't taking it very well. He was staggering down the street with a big grin, a six-pack in one hand and a paper sack in the other. "Hey I got me a new cat, man, he's the sweetest thing! He's been cuddling with me all day and now I got a sack full of cat food." I asked if it was Jinx and it was. He took the disappointment well. "No problem, man, we're gonna watch American Idol together and I'm gonna feed him some dinner. Then I'll send him up to you." I told him that that would be fine as long as Jinx was home before midnight. Jinx would spend all day visiting the neighbors, eating their fried chicken and sleeping on their couches, but he always made it back to my door around midnight. We slept like spoons in a drawer, every night. He was my cat boyfriend. When my other boyfriend started coming around, Jinx moved to the foot of the bed, and then the chair by the window, without much complaint. When we moved in with that other boyfriend and his football jock cat, Siddartha, Jinx was miffed but he still did not complain. He transferred headquarters to the attic, where he could sleep undisturbed and still be the Alpha catdog. Sid and then the kitten, Gertrude, took over the house with their busy wrestling, and Jinx took over the neighborhood.
Oh man that is simply quite enough.
That cat is special and I hope he has found a situation that makes him happy. I don't blame him for taking off - we are crowded into somebody else's home with a dog that was here first and a cat that was here first. The one spot behind the dresser in the closet that Jinx had found for privacy got taken away when we moved some furniture. Leaving was the sensible thing to do.
I guess.
We miss him though.
Now, it seems there is no dormant time. None!
Kenneth comes home late and we hang out with a movie and leftover whatever was for dinner earlier (I always eat twice) as soon as Edie is asleep. Edie is getting to bed later and later now because she seems to be waiting up for Daddy to get home. By the time we go to sleep ourselves, Baby Early Bird is only a few hours away from getting the worm. She's fast now, too. When she's up, I'd better be too, or else bits of paper get consumed and diaper pails intimately explored. Her morning nap is my morning nap. Her afternoon nap is my lunch break. We'd better get outside at least once as well, or she and I both go a little nuts.
All I'm saying is that Kenneth and I should both be unemployed, so that we'd have time to write/knit/sew/play drums/cook delicious foods AND enjoy our precious infant child.
Right now it is piles of done and undone laundry mixing in ways that prevent their being cleaned, or hung.
It is a cascading trail of ants, an undulating puddle of ants, a carefully scripted and contagiously cheerful contingent of ants, holding their very own conference of delegates around the rubber soled shoes smelling ominously of meat. The promise of our future, they say, is that every ant will be gainfully employed, labor will not be outsourced, the crumbs in our house will be carried out by the ants under our house.
The cats are understandably upset as their litter pan has been exported to a little spot outside, by where the dog lays at night. I'm too tired to think of a practical solution. Just go somewhere. Anywhere. Jinx is gone gone gone. For some reason I haven't been dwelling on it. It is what it is. If I think too hard, I'll get sad, and there is no room for being sad about Jinx in a situation like this. Right Left Right Left. You just gotta keep walking.
But just for a second?
Jinx is the most amazing cat I've ever known. People who are devoutly Un-cat people have admitted, a little bashfully, that there is just something about that cat. Junior at the Fairmount called him Cat Dog. Every neighbor I talked to would tell me stories about Jinx. "Your son came to visit me this morning. He just walked straight past me, through the door, and into the bathroom where he drank from my toilet." Or how Tim walked up the front steps, opened the front door, and saw Jinx galloping toward him from the end of the block. Tim held the door waiting, and when Jinx got to him he stopped running, looked up as if to say thank you, and walked nonchalantly up the stairs and turned right, heading for my apartment.
Once, when he'd been missing for a whole day and I was starting to worry, I went out to look for him and ran into the former live-in building manager who'd been fired the week before and wasn't taking it very well. He was staggering down the street with a big grin, a six-pack in one hand and a paper sack in the other. "Hey I got me a new cat, man, he's the sweetest thing! He's been cuddling with me all day and now I got a sack full of cat food." I asked if it was Jinx and it was. He took the disappointment well. "No problem, man, we're gonna watch American Idol together and I'm gonna feed him some dinner. Then I'll send him up to you." I told him that that would be fine as long as Jinx was home before midnight. Jinx would spend all day visiting the neighbors, eating their fried chicken and sleeping on their couches, but he always made it back to my door around midnight. We slept like spoons in a drawer, every night. He was my cat boyfriend. When my other boyfriend started coming around, Jinx moved to the foot of the bed, and then the chair by the window, without much complaint. When we moved in with that other boyfriend and his football jock cat, Siddartha, Jinx was miffed but he still did not complain. He transferred headquarters to the attic, where he could sleep undisturbed and still be the Alpha catdog. Sid and then the kitten, Gertrude, took over the house with their busy wrestling, and Jinx took over the neighborhood.
Oh man that is simply quite enough.
That cat is special and I hope he has found a situation that makes him happy. I don't blame him for taking off - we are crowded into somebody else's home with a dog that was here first and a cat that was here first. The one spot behind the dresser in the closet that Jinx had found for privacy got taken away when we moved some furniture. Leaving was the sensible thing to do.
I guess.
We miss him though.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Things we made.
It starts out simply enough. A spur-of-the moment trip to Joann fabrics to pick up some more of that cotton yarn that lends itself so nicely to the market bag pattern I've been testing out, becomes a sudden fabric epiphany. How we got all the way across the store to the fabric swatches from Yarn Town is out of my hands. Edie was driving the cart, chubby legs all a-dangling, when we screeched to a halt before a bolt of gold, cranberry, and forest green butterflies competing for air space. One of those now-rare moments of same wavelength surfing, and not a word was exchanged before the project agreed upon.
"I'll make her a dress!"
"You should make her a dress."
Well, if Kenneth was going to make her a dress, then I would too. Never mind the thirty-odd knitting projects I've started, here was a remnant of orange, and another of zebra. While we were at it, the baby's baby has been naked for too long, since I stripped her of the flame retardant pink and purple pantsuit she came with. So, she needed a matching dress.
And while this pattern, copied from a handmade dress purchased at Lily Toad, was so incredibly easy to make and easy to put on (nothing over the head and no finger-snagging sleevery), there was that old sheet that I rescued from the donation pile in the garage. Mama Hops came home to the whole operation and said, "Um, is that my sheet?"
Not any more, Grammy.
By the way...there are no photos of the dress Kenneth made yet, which has nothing to do with the fact that it's the cutest one.Thursday, August 21, 2008
LA, this behavior's gotta stop.
Oh Los Angeles, I think you are winning.
Wearing me down to a nubbin with your evil ways, your hot sunshiney desert ways.
Your hoses bleeding good clean water into green grass lawns that never meant to grow here, bleeding water into wasted puddles in the street.
Your plastic bags, your long commutes, your angry, angry drivers.
Those infinite spots of tar on every sidewalk where aborted bits of chewing gum were flung to rest and became oily black stains in the heat.
The woman who came too close with her cigarette and touched my baby's arm, asked for change, and kept her hand on Edie when I said I had none and said "Just two quarters? Emily, your mama doesn't want to help me..." (but then I grew a voice I didn't know I had and told her she needed to Let Go. Now. The situation didn't make me nervous so much as realize that I have a grizzly bear hibernating in me. Don't touch my cub with those soiled intentions.)
LA I am tired of that nicotine stained sky you call blue every day, punctuated only by the 24-hour parade of airplanes coming in to land, so close we can reach out and draw our own logos on their smooth sides. That seaweed flavored fruit roll-up spread thickly over our heads, nibbled by the jagged teeth of those raggedy palms meant to suggest some kind of paradise. That poor battered sky getting bruised by those great black oil wells, pumping their blind fists in the air without listening to reason.
LA why do you have to clutter up every moment of space with your WORDS WORDS WORDS WORDS everywhere? Each place of business competes with each other in volume of printed material scraping my eyeballs as we drive by. It's not just Randy's Donuts. It's Try Randy's Bacon Double Cheeseburger. It's Drive Thru around Back. It's Gatorade and Pepsi Cola and Fried Chicken and everything on the menu has its own separate sign. As if nobody wants to talk to each other. Now I completely empathize with any citizen of this town who does not enjoy reading for pleasure. The visual assault of word upon word upon meaningless money-grubbing word makes me want to banish printed material from the house and watch something on tv that requires no reading. Better yet, hire a mime.
So I've undertaken many knitting projects. So many that nearly all of my needles are busy dreaming up futures free of entanglement. My hands need this variety of texture so they knit a row of each at a time. They stroke the rabbity tail of baby alpaca for a minute, then scrub with a no-nonsense string of American cotton, rough to the touch, before switching to the mysterious forest of wool in shades of Pine, Fir, Cedar, and Birch, all blending together soundlessly. Wordlessly, which is strangely enough just what I need right now.
Let Grammy teach the baby to say Apple. I am teaching her to sit contentedly in silence with nameless colors and feelings. Just kidding. She is a noisy little sprout of song, wildly tapping her egg shaker against the new tambourine, trying to clap and bowing her head irreverently with her hands clasped, not clapped. Grunting with the effort. Pulling book after book out of the basket by the bed, not to read, but to wave in the air and pass from one hand to the other while alternately chewing or studying the covers. How far will they go if scooted? How about thrown? Dropped? What sound will the egg shaker make if tapped on a piece of tupperware? The floor? A belly? Emily is busy. Yes Emily. Yes Edie too. Embrace the confusion, as we have.
Wearing me down to a nubbin with your evil ways, your hot sunshiney desert ways.
Your hoses bleeding good clean water into green grass lawns that never meant to grow here, bleeding water into wasted puddles in the street.
Your plastic bags, your long commutes, your angry, angry drivers.
Those infinite spots of tar on every sidewalk where aborted bits of chewing gum were flung to rest and became oily black stains in the heat.
The woman who came too close with her cigarette and touched my baby's arm, asked for change, and kept her hand on Edie when I said I had none and said "Just two quarters? Emily, your mama doesn't want to help me..." (but then I grew a voice I didn't know I had and told her she needed to Let Go. Now. The situation didn't make me nervous so much as realize that I have a grizzly bear hibernating in me. Don't touch my cub with those soiled intentions.)
LA I am tired of that nicotine stained sky you call blue every day, punctuated only by the 24-hour parade of airplanes coming in to land, so close we can reach out and draw our own logos on their smooth sides. That seaweed flavored fruit roll-up spread thickly over our heads, nibbled by the jagged teeth of those raggedy palms meant to suggest some kind of paradise. That poor battered sky getting bruised by those great black oil wells, pumping their blind fists in the air without listening to reason.
LA why do you have to clutter up every moment of space with your WORDS WORDS WORDS WORDS everywhere? Each place of business competes with each other in volume of printed material scraping my eyeballs as we drive by. It's not just Randy's Donuts. It's Try Randy's Bacon Double Cheeseburger. It's Drive Thru around Back. It's Gatorade and Pepsi Cola and Fried Chicken and everything on the menu has its own separate sign. As if nobody wants to talk to each other. Now I completely empathize with any citizen of this town who does not enjoy reading for pleasure. The visual assault of word upon word upon meaningless money-grubbing word makes me want to banish printed material from the house and watch something on tv that requires no reading. Better yet, hire a mime.
So I've undertaken many knitting projects. So many that nearly all of my needles are busy dreaming up futures free of entanglement. My hands need this variety of texture so they knit a row of each at a time. They stroke the rabbity tail of baby alpaca for a minute, then scrub with a no-nonsense string of American cotton, rough to the touch, before switching to the mysterious forest of wool in shades of Pine, Fir, Cedar, and Birch, all blending together soundlessly. Wordlessly, which is strangely enough just what I need right now.
Let Grammy teach the baby to say Apple. I am teaching her to sit contentedly in silence with nameless colors and feelings. Just kidding. She is a noisy little sprout of song, wildly tapping her egg shaker against the new tambourine, trying to clap and bowing her head irreverently with her hands clasped, not clapped. Grunting with the effort. Pulling book after book out of the basket by the bed, not to read, but to wave in the air and pass from one hand to the other while alternately chewing or studying the covers. How far will they go if scooted? How about thrown? Dropped? What sound will the egg shaker make if tapped on a piece of tupperware? The floor? A belly? Emily is busy. Yes Emily. Yes Edie too. Embrace the confusion, as we have.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
"This happens. This really happens."
According to Gertrude, our third and weirdest cat, there are frogs in L.A.
I know!
I didn't believe her either, but then she coughed up the proof.
Half of which is currently lying beside the other half of which, in a smear of grass on the bathroom rug.
It is too tired and I am too late to clean it up tonight.
By the way...If you can guess what movie the subject of this post is from, I'll send you a very special postcard. If it's too hard, I gave you a hint.
Good night, sleep tight, I hope we all feel better in the morning. Gertrude already does.
Edit: Turns out they were simply crickets. Three in a row, posing as a frog. It's not like I looked super closely at them...
I know!
I didn't believe her either, but then she coughed up the proof.
Half of which is currently lying beside the other half of which, in a smear of grass on the bathroom rug.
It is too tired and I am too late to clean it up tonight.
By the way...If you can guess what movie the subject of this post is from, I'll send you a very special postcard. If it's too hard, I gave you a hint.
Good night, sleep tight, I hope we all feel better in the morning. Gertrude already does.
Edit: Turns out they were simply crickets. Three in a row, posing as a frog. It's not like I looked super closely at them...
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Highlights.
Today a man with rollerskate blue highlights in his hair and a cowboy hat on his head asked Kenneth if there would be women walking the streets, later. This is a family blog and so that's all I will say. But he punctuated his question with fun little details about why he was asking.
Today Edie was given her first balloon, at the grocery store. It was a red balloon. She yanked on it like an upside down yo-yo, all the way to KC's Crepes cafe where we occasionally get our bubble tea on. In the cafe, staring at the balloon finally got her to notice the mirrored ceiling, which I've been trying to show her for a month. We both tipped our heads all the way back to make faces in the mirror, until she almost fell out of the sling.
Edie hit her head twice in one hour, first backward then forward. She's toughening up.
Did I mention she pulls herself up on things now?
Did I mention she likes to dance?
Did I mention she is trying to talk?
Today Edie was given her first balloon, at the grocery store. It was a red balloon. She yanked on it like an upside down yo-yo, all the way to KC's Crepes cafe where we occasionally get our bubble tea on. In the cafe, staring at the balloon finally got her to notice the mirrored ceiling, which I've been trying to show her for a month. We both tipped our heads all the way back to make faces in the mirror, until she almost fell out of the sling.
Edie hit her head twice in one hour, first backward then forward. She's toughening up.
Did I mention she pulls herself up on things now?
Did I mention she likes to dance?
Did I mention she is trying to talk?
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Blog under Construction
Things are getting a bit ugly around here. Please forgive the mess as I stumble through basic page design issues. It's a step at a time, so until then....chaos!
Lost cat busybody society
Did you know there are people who browse the lost pet ads on Craigslist.com, not because they have found a lost animal and want to return it, but because they have a message to share, and don't you know the people who need to hear it the most are those who have just lost a beloved pet?
I placed a second ad on craigslist for Jinx. Maybe I shouldn't have admitted it was the second time he's run away, but I just wanted to head off those (above-mentioned) who might be keeping track. Maybe I shouldn't have made a feeble joke about the reason for Jinx's disappearance being the eternal, infernal, sunny weather. Maybe I shouldn't have posted the ad last night in a fit of guilt after reading the chapter in The Amber Spyglass wherein Lyra is separated from her beloved Pan for the first time in her life, and I realized I hadn't taken any measures to increase the chances of Jinx's safe return home. I wasn't really thinking straight. I meant to type "neutered male" but instead I wrote "intact." I was probably thinking that I hope Jinx is intact, wherever he is. Not that his Special Purpose is intact, because it's not.
This morning when I checked my email there were two responses to the ad. Hallelujah! Have they seen Jinx? Have they adopted him and renamed him Fluffy, and their children will be very sad to lose their new sticky lollipop holder but they'll manage, maybe they'll get a kitten after seeing how well Jinx fit into the family?
NO.
One email contained the "kind advice" that if I really love and cherish my cat, I should keep him indoors only. It's the responsible thing to do. Oh, and this woman's vet says that cats that aren't fixed are more likely to be hit by cars because all that mating ritual stuff is distracting.
I responded thanking her for the friendly advice but admitting that I had really hoped for some actual information about my actual cat, not vague advice about the right way to have a cat. Jinx is simply not an indoor cat. To keep him indoors would be like trying to force Edie to become a dental hygienist when her dream is to be a cowgirl. I know, because I did try. It just wasn't possible. Glasses broke, blinds were ruined, and he outmeowed my determination. That is why I love him so much, he's not nobody's cat but his OWN. He does what he wants. (I'm just a little perturbed that he wanted to run away again)
Next email told me that it was my own fault he ran away, for not getting him fixed. The author hoped that I would learn a lesson from this, and called me stupid for thinking it was the weather that drove Jinx to a life of vagrancy. I responded appropriately, and then fixed the ad.
Lost neutered male....please respond ONLY if you have actually seen Jinx, or know where he might be found.
I remember when Jinx was fixed. He sat on my lap, stone still, purr silenced, for hours and hours. I canceled my plans for that night so I could sit with him by the window while he recovered from the drugs, and the snip. They all say it's the best thing but it will never feel quite right to me, to interfere with another creatures ability to reproduce. I'll bet there are a number of animal creatures who'd like to spay and neuter the humans, if they could. I did it, though, I did the "responsible" thing and fixed Jinx so he wouldn't be a frustrated kitty. I kept him inside, too, until he showed me that he could handle himself outside without the leash that he wore as a kitten chasing leaves and climbing trees.
I placed a second ad on craigslist for Jinx. Maybe I shouldn't have admitted it was the second time he's run away, but I just wanted to head off those (above-mentioned) who might be keeping track. Maybe I shouldn't have made a feeble joke about the reason for Jinx's disappearance being the eternal, infernal, sunny weather. Maybe I shouldn't have posted the ad last night in a fit of guilt after reading the chapter in The Amber Spyglass wherein Lyra is separated from her beloved Pan for the first time in her life, and I realized I hadn't taken any measures to increase the chances of Jinx's safe return home. I wasn't really thinking straight. I meant to type "neutered male" but instead I wrote "intact." I was probably thinking that I hope Jinx is intact, wherever he is. Not that his Special Purpose is intact, because it's not.
This morning when I checked my email there were two responses to the ad. Hallelujah! Have they seen Jinx? Have they adopted him and renamed him Fluffy, and their children will be very sad to lose their new sticky lollipop holder but they'll manage, maybe they'll get a kitten after seeing how well Jinx fit into the family?
NO.
One email contained the "kind advice" that if I really love and cherish my cat, I should keep him indoors only. It's the responsible thing to do. Oh, and this woman's vet says that cats that aren't fixed are more likely to be hit by cars because all that mating ritual stuff is distracting.
I responded thanking her for the friendly advice but admitting that I had really hoped for some actual information about my actual cat, not vague advice about the right way to have a cat. Jinx is simply not an indoor cat. To keep him indoors would be like trying to force Edie to become a dental hygienist when her dream is to be a cowgirl. I know, because I did try. It just wasn't possible. Glasses broke, blinds were ruined, and he outmeowed my determination. That is why I love him so much, he's not nobody's cat but his OWN. He does what he wants. (I'm just a little perturbed that he wanted to run away again)
Next email told me that it was my own fault he ran away, for not getting him fixed. The author hoped that I would learn a lesson from this, and called me stupid for thinking it was the weather that drove Jinx to a life of vagrancy. I responded appropriately, and then fixed the ad.
Lost neutered male....please respond ONLY if you have actually seen Jinx, or know where he might be found.
I remember when Jinx was fixed. He sat on my lap, stone still, purr silenced, for hours and hours. I canceled my plans for that night so I could sit with him by the window while he recovered from the drugs, and the snip. They all say it's the best thing but it will never feel quite right to me, to interfere with another creatures ability to reproduce. I'll bet there are a number of animal creatures who'd like to spay and neuter the humans, if they could. I did it, though, I did the "responsible" thing and fixed Jinx so he wouldn't be a frustrated kitty. I kept him inside, too, until he showed me that he could handle himself outside without the leash that he wore as a kitten chasing leaves and climbing trees.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
My Birthday in the Hood.
Psssssst.
Hey. Hey you.
Thank you for generously donating to the Send Kendal to Online Literary Star School fund.
I made roll call!
I waved some kizzash in the aiyer (like I simply did not care, though I did) and Ms. Gore did declayer, "you're in."
Sah-weeet!
And now...remedial English skillz, yo, LA has gotten all stuck in my grillz
like a superfly stuck under the hood.
I am so sorry. It is Two in the Morning.
The baby is asleep.
The babydaddy is asleep.
The babydaddy's mama and daddy are asleep.
The cats (minus my favorite one) are even not peeing on towels, not biting or licking the baby or my feet, and not singing the blues by the door, they are, indeed, asleep.
This is MY time.
Me, Myself, and Sleep Deprived I time.
I had a wonderful birthday.
Kenneth made a chocolate cake with mixed berry filling and blackberries placed like soccer players on a snowy field of frosting.
We ate spaghetti for dinner.
We had bubble tea and witnessed an LA moment, wherein one tall, lean, tan, rushity rush rush lady parked, rolled windows down, got out, went in, came back, checked locks, looked around, went back in, Edie fussed, the lady came back, looked in car windows, and explained, "Oh, I heard a baby crying, and I thought it was mine!" before returning to the doorway of the shop to stand in line. We shared aforementioned LA moment with another couple of customers sitting at a table across from us in the parking lot sunbrella alcove. "Did she just say..." Sure 'nuf, an infant seat reclined away from us in the backseat of her car. I thought it might be fun to pretend to kidnap the baby, just to teach her a lesson, but then I had my hands full with my very own baby already.
We went swimming at the YMCA, where they let us swim for free because Edith Emily is just the cutest little thing! She is also the most enthusiastic swimmer I've ever seen, but then again, it's in her genes. It's in all our genes, get it? Because you gotta be a good swimmer just to get here? Really, we weren't going to have her in the pool, we were going to take turns holding her and playing in the water, but she was so into it. It's basically a GIGANTIC bathtub full of salty tasting (?) water and people. Water and people are Edie's two favorite things besides breasts and plastic bags. So we dipped her in a few times and she howled with glee, and splashed, and waved, and charmed everybody out of the pool. Actually the session was over.
On the way home we were so jazzed about life that we risked ours to satisfy a sudden craving for soft serve ice cream. The only place to get the fix was at Foster's Freeze.....in the ghetto.
"Oh boy let's go there!"
So we did. Quickly, and with locked car doors. They had no drive thru window, so we held the baby close and ran, hunched over to avoid possible crossfire from gang warfare, and made it to the front counter. The signs advertising various sundry delights were overwhelming in their sun-faded commotion of flavors. Peach Parfait! Banana Twirl! Whipped cream cup! We both opted for simplicity, for safety's sake. One small chocolate shake and one medium chocolate-dipped twist cone that immediately commenced avalanching before I could savor it properly. "Cup, please," and a styrofoam cup and plastic spoon were shoved promptly through the small window, the only window not protected by iron bars. We hustled back to the car and the doors were powerlocked before I could shut mine behind me.
"That girl who made your shake."
"Yeah?"
"You think she was a Blood or a Crip?"
"Just eat your ice cream."
By the way.
It was a great birthday.
Thank you for contributing to my writerly aspirations by reading this here blog.
Hey. Hey you.
Thank you for generously donating to the Send Kendal to Online Literary Star School fund.
I made roll call!
I waved some kizzash in the aiyer (like I simply did not care, though I did) and Ms. Gore did declayer, "you're in."
Sah-weeet!
And now...remedial English skillz, yo, LA has gotten all stuck in my grillz
like a superfly stuck under the hood.
I am so sorry. It is Two in the Morning.
The baby is asleep.
The babydaddy is asleep.
The babydaddy's mama and daddy are asleep.
The cats (minus my favorite one) are even not peeing on towels, not biting or licking the baby or my feet, and not singing the blues by the door, they are, indeed, asleep.
This is MY time.
Me, Myself, and Sleep Deprived I time.
I had a wonderful birthday.
Kenneth made a chocolate cake with mixed berry filling and blackberries placed like soccer players on a snowy field of frosting.
We ate spaghetti for dinner.
We had bubble tea and witnessed an LA moment, wherein one tall, lean, tan, rushity rush rush lady parked, rolled windows down, got out, went in, came back, checked locks, looked around, went back in, Edie fussed, the lady came back, looked in car windows, and explained, "Oh, I heard a baby crying, and I thought it was mine!" before returning to the doorway of the shop to stand in line. We shared aforementioned LA moment with another couple of customers sitting at a table across from us in the parking lot sunbrella alcove. "Did she just say..." Sure 'nuf, an infant seat reclined away from us in the backseat of her car. I thought it might be fun to pretend to kidnap the baby, just to teach her a lesson, but then I had my hands full with my very own baby already.
We went swimming at the YMCA, where they let us swim for free because Edith Emily is just the cutest little thing! She is also the most enthusiastic swimmer I've ever seen, but then again, it's in her genes. It's in all our genes, get it? Because you gotta be a good swimmer just to get here? Really, we weren't going to have her in the pool, we were going to take turns holding her and playing in the water, but she was so into it. It's basically a GIGANTIC bathtub full of salty tasting (?) water and people. Water and people are Edie's two favorite things besides breasts and plastic bags. So we dipped her in a few times and she howled with glee, and splashed, and waved, and charmed everybody out of the pool. Actually the session was over.
On the way home we were so jazzed about life that we risked ours to satisfy a sudden craving for soft serve ice cream. The only place to get the fix was at Foster's Freeze.....in the ghetto.
"Oh boy let's go there!"
So we did. Quickly, and with locked car doors. They had no drive thru window, so we held the baby close and ran, hunched over to avoid possible crossfire from gang warfare, and made it to the front counter. The signs advertising various sundry delights were overwhelming in their sun-faded commotion of flavors. Peach Parfait! Banana Twirl! Whipped cream cup! We both opted for simplicity, for safety's sake. One small chocolate shake and one medium chocolate-dipped twist cone that immediately commenced avalanching before I could savor it properly. "Cup, please," and a styrofoam cup and plastic spoon were shoved promptly through the small window, the only window not protected by iron bars. We hustled back to the car and the doors were powerlocked before I could shut mine behind me.
"That girl who made your shake."
"Yeah?"
"You think she was a Blood or a Crip?"
"Just eat your ice cream."
By the way.
It was a great birthday.
Thank you for contributing to my writerly aspirations by reading this here blog.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Good things about Friday
First visit to the Inglewood Public Library. It is one of those old-fashioned sort of libraries that has more books than computers. Three floors of books. The non-fiction section is divided in half and the dewey decimels are also arranged alphabetically, somehow. A-P or Q is on one floor, and the rest is upstairs. Also, it is walking distance from the house, hallelujah. Being able to walk to a library is basically my first criteria in judging whether a city is livable. Inglewood is, surprisingly, livable. Jinx doesn't think so, though, as he is still MIAWOL and that is not my favorite thing to have happened since we got here. I was just thinking Jinx might be with me for a long time, I was imagining a future where Jinx gets old, cantankerous, and grayer than now, while Edie grows up beside him, all of us taking near daily walks around the neighborhood to watch insects and chase birds. Que Cera, Cera, maybe.
On the way home from the library, we set out to find a vegan restaurant rumoured to be hidden somewhere on Market Street, between abandoned storefront number one and abandoned storefront number two. Almost gave up, but then a door swung open and we were inside a cool, swank room, posh with stuffed chairs resembling thrones for a fairy court, shoe and purse strap sculpture on the wall, exotic plants, and jazz piped through a couple of well placed speakers. There were, to our surprise, people in there...eating. Up until then I had only seen Bruno's Chicken, Randy's Donuts, and GG's Soul Kitchen (WOOOO YOU ALMOST PASSED GG'S! SO DON'T COOK TONIGHT, COME ON IN! reads the sign), aside from the IHOP, Quizno's, and McDonald's right by our house. Kenneth and I had both figured Inglewood to be a vegan-business unfriendly place.
We approached the counter and noticed the sign saying that only cash would be accepted. We were still greeted warmly by the owner, Danielle, who gave us each a miniature sample taco. It was a perfect business maneuver, to give hungry newcomers a taste of vegan food, a taste of the restaurant, and a tiny feeling of owing her some business for the free tacos. Aside from the ease we slipped into from being out of the sun, fed for free, and delighted to find a nice place to eat in a down-and-out part of town, the food itself was completely mood-altering. The tiny housemade tortillas carried five times their weight in kale, carrots, almond cheese, wild whole grain rice, fresh corn salsa and guacamole, as well as some spicy orange dressing crawling over the top of the whole thing like the Very Hungry Caterpillar. Only three inches from end to end, and we waxed nostalgic about those tacos the whole way home.
"Remember how good those tacos were?"
"That was an amazing taco."
"Yeah, but remember?"
"Let's go back soon."
"Yeah we should go back there."
"Those tacos were really good."
"Seriously good."
Good tacos.
On the way home from the library, we set out to find a vegan restaurant rumoured to be hidden somewhere on Market Street, between abandoned storefront number one and abandoned storefront number two. Almost gave up, but then a door swung open and we were inside a cool, swank room, posh with stuffed chairs resembling thrones for a fairy court, shoe and purse strap sculpture on the wall, exotic plants, and jazz piped through a couple of well placed speakers. There were, to our surprise, people in there...eating. Up until then I had only seen Bruno's Chicken, Randy's Donuts, and GG's Soul Kitchen (WOOOO YOU ALMOST PASSED GG'S! SO DON'T COOK TONIGHT, COME ON IN! reads the sign), aside from the IHOP, Quizno's, and McDonald's right by our house. Kenneth and I had both figured Inglewood to be a vegan-business unfriendly place.
We approached the counter and noticed the sign saying that only cash would be accepted. We were still greeted warmly by the owner, Danielle, who gave us each a miniature sample taco. It was a perfect business maneuver, to give hungry newcomers a taste of vegan food, a taste of the restaurant, and a tiny feeling of owing her some business for the free tacos. Aside from the ease we slipped into from being out of the sun, fed for free, and delighted to find a nice place to eat in a down-and-out part of town, the food itself was completely mood-altering. The tiny housemade tortillas carried five times their weight in kale, carrots, almond cheese, wild whole grain rice, fresh corn salsa and guacamole, as well as some spicy orange dressing crawling over the top of the whole thing like the Very Hungry Caterpillar. Only three inches from end to end, and we waxed nostalgic about those tacos the whole way home.
"Remember how good those tacos were?"
"That was an amazing taco."
"Yeah, but remember?"
"Let's go back soon."
"Yeah we should go back there."
"Those tacos were really good."
"Seriously good."
Good tacos.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
National Night Out 2008
Our first whiff of it came bobbing past in the form of a balloon, clinging statically to the head of a little girl, a sticky princess' sausage crown. Under one arm, LA style, she held a pink balloon poodle. Her parents folded her sleepy form into a minivan and rolled the heavy door shut.
Kenneth and I looked at each other.
"Oh yeah, there's that thing tonight..."
We had just stepped out for some fresh air, but it was getting dark fast. We would have turned back at that point, but up ahead - Lights! Banners! Glow sticks and blinky buttons!
"Let's go!" I said, but Kenneth didn't feel quite safe about it. This is a don't-go-out-after-dark neighborhood, but there were little kids shuffling past us in sandals, smelling of hot dogs and danger.
I dragged him down the block to a police barricade, where 3 or 4 officers stood upon podiums of shiny white Segway, and then we saw the banner announcing National Night Out, presented by the neighborhood crime watch. There was a child seat safety information booth, people handing out glow sticks, raffle ticket hawkers, and a stand selling pina colada in the empty pineapple shell! I'm pretty sure those hot dogs were bacon wrapped, as well. Edie immediately began to claw her way out of the babyhawk carrier, using my hair for leverage (my hair is starting to have some weird layering effects from all the havoc she wreaks), and looked around in utter amazement at this sudden crowd of people, flashing lights, noises and smells.
The event was scheduled to run from six until nine pm, and we got there at eight thirty. Just in time to feast eyes on some shiny lowrider cars, and see a performance by four female dancers.
Aztec dancers. A little bit like this:
They were shiny and flashy and ranged widely in age. A little girl, a medium-sized girl, an almost-woman, and a mother-woman. They were like Vegas showgirls who had gone back in time to start an ancient tradition with big feathers.
Edie.
Was.
Riveted.
Watching her face open in amazement, slack jawed and bug eyed, brought tears to my eyes and a lump in my throat. Holding her above my head for a good view, I could feel her tiny heart beat faster between my fingers, keeping perfect time with the relentless drum. She soaked it all in, delighted and terrified, turning occasionally to look at the people in the crowd - "Are you guys catching this?" Every so often a cheer escaped her to soar in the air - she just couldn't keep it caged. The dancers were running, and their feet were singing like rain! They were spinning in circles, with ribbons of flame streaming out from their heads like the sun. Their gold and silver costumes flashed and sparkled like a late afternoon stream, and the drummer made earthquakes in our skin.
We left awestruck, with glow sticks.
Kenneth's right hand dueled Kenneth's left hand in a light saber battle of miniature proportions.
And Jinx is missing again.
Kenneth and I looked at each other.
"Oh yeah, there's that thing tonight..."
We had just stepped out for some fresh air, but it was getting dark fast. We would have turned back at that point, but up ahead - Lights! Banners! Glow sticks and blinky buttons!
"Let's go!" I said, but Kenneth didn't feel quite safe about it. This is a don't-go-out-after-dark neighborhood, but there were little kids shuffling past us in sandals, smelling of hot dogs and danger.
I dragged him down the block to a police barricade, where 3 or 4 officers stood upon podiums of shiny white Segway, and then we saw the banner announcing National Night Out, presented by the neighborhood crime watch. There was a child seat safety information booth, people handing out glow sticks, raffle ticket hawkers, and a stand selling pina colada in the empty pineapple shell! I'm pretty sure those hot dogs were bacon wrapped, as well. Edie immediately began to claw her way out of the babyhawk carrier, using my hair for leverage (my hair is starting to have some weird layering effects from all the havoc she wreaks), and looked around in utter amazement at this sudden crowd of people, flashing lights, noises and smells.
The event was scheduled to run from six until nine pm, and we got there at eight thirty. Just in time to feast eyes on some shiny lowrider cars, and see a performance by four female dancers.
Aztec dancers. A little bit like this:
They were shiny and flashy and ranged widely in age. A little girl, a medium-sized girl, an almost-woman, and a mother-woman. They were like Vegas showgirls who had gone back in time to start an ancient tradition with big feathers.
Edie.
Was.
Riveted.
Watching her face open in amazement, slack jawed and bug eyed, brought tears to my eyes and a lump in my throat. Holding her above my head for a good view, I could feel her tiny heart beat faster between my fingers, keeping perfect time with the relentless drum. She soaked it all in, delighted and terrified, turning occasionally to look at the people in the crowd - "Are you guys catching this?" Every so often a cheer escaped her to soar in the air - she just couldn't keep it caged. The dancers were running, and their feet were singing like rain! They were spinning in circles, with ribbons of flame streaming out from their heads like the sun. Their gold and silver costumes flashed and sparkled like a late afternoon stream, and the drummer made earthquakes in our skin.
We left awestruck, with glow sticks.
Kenneth's right hand dueled Kenneth's left hand in a light saber battle of miniature proportions.
And Jinx is missing again.
trial run
Oh man.
We are practicing for when I am at work for part of the day and Kenneth is in charge of Edie.
So I am supposed to pretend not to be here.
While she cries.
And every cell in my body is telling me to go get her.
Now.
I know it's inevitable, that when I do go back to work and have to be away from her, she will cry and cry. My body will leak milk and I will feel hopelessly adrift from my purpose, which is, right now, to respond to that particular crying infant with whatever she needs.
But I actually am home right now.
She knows I am home, so why the heck has Mama been ignoring her cries this whole time!?
This is dumb.
We are practicing for when I am at work for part of the day and Kenneth is in charge of Edie.
So I am supposed to pretend not to be here.
While she cries.
And every cell in my body is telling me to go get her.
Now.
I know it's inevitable, that when I do go back to work and have to be away from her, she will cry and cry. My body will leak milk and I will feel hopelessly adrift from my purpose, which is, right now, to respond to that particular crying infant with whatever she needs.
But I actually am home right now.
She knows I am home, so why the heck has Mama been ignoring her cries this whole time!?
This is dumb.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Birthday Wish. (Paypal button enclosed)
Well, it's that special time of year again. That time when, everywhere I go, I hear the same thing from everyone I meet.
"Kendal, what do you want for your birthday?"
And usually the answer is Nothing. Your existence on this earth is Gift Enough for me.
Okay, it's not completely true. I am too old to be asked that, and I can usually think up one or two things that would be just nifty to have at any given moment. This year, though, it's not just a thing. It's an opportunity.
Lemme asplane.
When I grew up I wanted to be a writer, or maybe an artist. In college that was the main topic of most of my personal essays. How I want to be a writer but all my neuroses and hangups are getting in the way, because all I ever write about is me, myself, and I. I showed one such essay to my dad, who read it and asked me, "Well, if you want to be a writer, why don't you write?"
Yeah. Hmm. Good question.
Because even though I loved to write, I didn't. Not often. Whenever one of those essays was due, I let the deadline loom over me like a thundercloud, and fretted and whined and complained about how I SHOULD be working on it. This happened over and over and over again. It happened with every writing project I came across. Emails, letters, thank-you notes, journal entries.
So, in order to write more, I began to read more. Self-help creativity boosting writer's block breaking books.
Zen and the Art of Writing, by Ray Bradbury.
On Writing, by Stephen King.
Writing Down the Bones; Thunder and Lightning - Cracking Open the Writer's Craft; and Wild Mind, by Natalie Goldberg.
Steering the Craft, by Ursela K. Le Guin.
The Creative Habit, by Twyla Tharp.
Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamott.
and with each new book purchase was a renewed belief that maybe this book will write a book for me. A ridiculous and unshakable notion that once I'd read what this writer had to say about the craft, there'd suddenly be a masterpiece flowing from my fingertips, money in the bank, and a deal in the works. Inevitably the time would come when the writing book would say, okay, I've told you all you need to know, given you tools, tips, and exercises, now go. fly. put pen to paper and create.
I'd say, "Okay, next!" and find myself another pretty paperback full of inspiration and writerly wisdom to read on the bus. Until I took Ariel Gore's book, How to Become a Famous Writer Before You're Dead, out of the library. Immediately my bluff was called. Chapter One: Write. Gore brought up every argument a person can make to excuse themselves from having to try, and reading her words did a magical thing for me. I started to write. I wrote while nursing Edie, while going to the bathroom, while taking a bath. I wrote in the car and wrote longer and longer emails. Her advice led me to actually try to get something published, and I was surprised at how easy it was to complete a story in one day. All I had to do was banish the idea of perfection. Not too easy, but doable.
So getting to the point of all this, it so happens that Ariel Gore is hosting an online writer's workshop in September. The class costs 275 dollars, which is about 275 dollars more than I can afford, but that important little voice everybody's got told me I have to enroll. Ariel Gore has already proven herself able to karate chop a three foot stack of writer's blocks, and now I'm betting she can help me send my writing in a direction it wants to go. Can you help me help her help me? This economy has been tough on everybody I know, but if there is any chance you can and want to spare 10 dollars to send me to virtual writing school this fall, I will appreciate it forever!
(My birthday is next week)
:)
Polliwog Park, or The Time a Little Turtle Head Really Did Poke Out
Today is Barack Obama's birthday. You can send him a card if you want, or you can just give him your vote. Either way.
Okay anyways, yesterday we Got Out of the House.
And it was a durn good thing we did, because the stagnant, thick, roast-in-hell kind of air we were breathing in the house was doing strange things to all our spirits. Tempers and temperatures ran side-by-side, in a steady race to the top of the hills. As for me, I was content to lay on the bed in an inert stupor, half-heartedly trying to nurse Edie so as not to have to actually play with her, while Kenneth locked himself inside Grand Theft Auto Land with the windows shut and the fan becalmed. Grampa was oblivious behind his studio quality headphones, playing Unreal on his computer, while Grammy made up for us all - washing, ironing, treadmill walking, "The Walton's" watching, baby jiggling, picnic packing, and finally, mercifully, family herding.
"Get in the car, we're going to the park. It'll be GOOD for us."
One by one we dragged our sweaty bodies outside and hefted ourselves into the car. Buckled seatbelts, and waited for the AC to kick in.
Once there, we found shade. There were hundreds of people gathered for a free reggae concert in the park. There were trees here, and they resembled Evergreens. Evergreens. Evergreens. Mmmmmmm.
Okay anyways, yesterday we Got Out of the House.
And it was a durn good thing we did, because the stagnant, thick, roast-in-hell kind of air we were breathing in the house was doing strange things to all our spirits. Tempers and temperatures ran side-by-side, in a steady race to the top of the hills. As for me, I was content to lay on the bed in an inert stupor, half-heartedly trying to nurse Edie so as not to have to actually play with her, while Kenneth locked himself inside Grand Theft Auto Land with the windows shut and the fan becalmed. Grampa was oblivious behind his studio quality headphones, playing Unreal on his computer, while Grammy made up for us all - washing, ironing, treadmill walking, "The Walton's" watching, baby jiggling, picnic packing, and finally, mercifully, family herding.
"Get in the car, we're going to the park. It'll be GOOD for us."
One by one we dragged our sweaty bodies outside and hefted ourselves into the car. Buckled seatbelts, and waited for the AC to kick in.
Once there, we found shade. There were hundreds of people gathered for a free reggae concert in the park. There were trees here, and they resembled Evergreens. Evergreens. Evergreens. Mmmmmmm.
Evergreens, with their large, triangular patches of shade.
(Let me tell you about the other time we were at an other park, resting in a spiky, palm-tree shaped patch of shade that wouldn't quit sliding away, one jagged tooth at a time, some other time.)
We saw kids and kids and kids. Families celebrating birthdays, weddings, bar mitzvahs, but mostly Sunday. The wedding crowd slinked around wearing long silk dresses and six inch silver heels, carrying plastic wine glasses. Maybe we'll just call them wine plastics. Carrying wine plastics full of ...guess what? Wine.
See what heat does to a brain?
We walked down the hill to the playground/duck pond area, and found children dancing over what looked like steaming sewer grates. We discovered they were misters. By the pond, a gaggle of small boys were dipping a net in the water and pulling out turtles. They mistook our curiosity as Adult Concern.
"Are you guys catching turtles?" (as in "Cool! Turtles!")
The first boy we asked just shrugged and pointed at their spokesboy, taller, tanner, and more serious than the rest. "He is, ask him."
Spokesboy strode over with the confidence of one who is used to diffusing Concerned Adults.
"We're catching turtles, and then we release them. We just catch them and give them names, and then put them back."
Meanwhile Kenneth whispered that if we ever need a pet turtle, this would be the place to find one.
I pulled Edie out of her sling, so she could get a closer look at the turtle crawling out of the net that Spokesboy was holding. He held it closer to her. "You wanna see the turtle?"
What a great kid.
Across the surface of the pond there were dozens upon dozens of little turtle heads poking out of the water, opening their mouths like baby birds, and flipping under the water. There were hundreds. I have never dared to dream that a person could go to the duck pond to feed the turtles. Life is a magical place.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Amargosa
I realized a couple of nights ago that we are 5 hours from the Amargosa Opera House and Hotel. It's been a dream of mine to visit and meet Marta Becket for ten years now, since I first heard of her. So sometime this year, crappy economy, gas prices, and personal finances allowing, we just might make the trip. This is the email I received when I inquired about performances. It's a shame we won't be able to see Marta dance, but the lady deserves a rest. She's been busy her whole life.
Dear Kendal,
Marta's performance season runs from the first Saturday in October thru the second Saturday in May.
She no longer is dancing (she will be 84 years old next month) however, she does what she calls her "Sitting Down" show. During this, she speaks about her life, how she came to live in Death Valley Junction, tells about the murals painted inside the Opera House and then sings original songs of hers. It is about a 45 minute show and is quite entertaining. After the show she sits on stage to give autographs and answer questions.
The tickets are $15 per adult, the doors open at 7:45pm and the show begins at 8:15pm.
If you would be interested or able to make a performance it is suggested that you make reservations as more often than not, her shows sell out. In order to reserve a seat we will need a credit card number, expiration date, cvv code, and a telephone number. It may interest you to stay at the hotel on show night, if so, you would want to book a room in advance (we fill up quickly on show night) and if you are a hotel guest you get preferred seating.
We look forward to hearing from you.
Thank you,
Mary-Lee
Amargosa Opera House & Hotel
Dear Kendal,
Marta's performance season runs from the first Saturday in October thru the second Saturday in May.
She no longer is dancing (she will be 84 years old next month) however, she does what she calls her "Sitting Down" show. During this, she speaks about her life, how she came to live in Death Valley Junction, tells about the murals painted inside the Opera House and then sings original songs of hers. It is about a 45 minute show and is quite entertaining. After the show she sits on stage to give autographs and answer questions.
The tickets are $15 per adult, the doors open at 7:45pm and the show begins at 8:15pm.
If you would be interested or able to make a performance it is suggested that you make reservations as more often than not, her shows sell out. In order to reserve a seat we will need a credit card number, expiration date, cvv code, and a telephone number. It may interest you to stay at the hotel on show night, if so, you would want to book a room in advance (we fill up quickly on show night) and if you are a hotel guest you get preferred seating.
We look forward to hearing from you.
Thank you,
Mary-Lee
Amargosa Opera House & Hotel
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