Friday, May 8, 2009

a new shade of lipstick for my trip

~'San Francisco' by Nancy Sinatra because it makes me want to eat at a lunch counter with Jimmy Durante and have a heart-to-heart.
~'Have Love Will Travel' by the Sonics because I've been feeling frisky of late and, well, I have love and I am traveling, so why not spread it around a little?

~“The surest aid in combating the male's disease of self-contempt is to be loved by a clever woman.” -Friedrich Nietzsche. I put this one in today because I don't really like it.
I mean, what gives, Friedrich? Women don't have enough to do that we have to be responsible for a fella who can't buck up and live a life he's not ashamed of? Nah. Besides, I tried to love a male with the self-contempt disease and it didn't work. That disease is contagious, ladies. You see a miserable man coming your way, cross the street, apply a fresh coat of lipstick and do not look back.

~Midnight Meat Train - wow! What a terrific surprise, this one. Read on.

Hi gang. Couple of topics today. I'm not going to apologize anymore for the length of time passing between posts. I'm just not. Between the full-time job, doctor appointments, the gig*, and the goings-on of a single gal in the city…things get lunar.

Tiny topic 1: I first saw the trailer for Midnight Meat Train with my pal Maurice. First of all: brilliant title. Absolutely, resolutely, indubitably brilliant. We couldn't wait for it to come out. August 1 release date -- perfect way to celebrate my birthday, right? Wrong. Sadness ensued when they permitted its release in only a few theaters cross-country, SF not being one of those cities. The reasons were political (natch, it's Hollywood). But, I finally watched it on dvd last nite and was blown away by the production value. Only a minor story snafu toward the end that left me scratching my noodle, but Vinnie Jones- woo! That man's stare could send a charging bull away whimpering.
I've sort of gotten out of the horror genre because somewhere along the way "scary" got replaced with "violent". While violence is scary, it's not clever. A truly scary movie can be such without ever spilling a drop of blood.
Meat Train was bloody, I'm not saying otherwise. With a title like that…seriously. But the story was good. Was different. Was 98% thoughtful. I don't think it's a movie for everyone; all I'm saying is that it was a refreshing alternative to the teenage slasher flicks for which I have no tolerance, interest, or respect.

Tiny topic 2: So it's official now. I go in for surgery on June 10th. The name of the surgery is about this _____________________________________long, but essentially, I'm having my ovaries plucked. What happened was just this: this old body of mine has decided to no longer react favorably to the chemo treatments I currently receive. And so, here I go.
I'm trying to figure out a couple of things:
- how much does an ovary weigh? if it's ~2lbs… 2lbs x 2 = 4 and I'm halfway down to my Greece-trip weight!
- should I ask Doc to put the little jumping lady beans in formaldehyde so I can bring them out at parties? but what if they get mistaken for onions and end up in a Gibson?
Ovartini? A dirty martini with extra ovaries?
- should I make a necklace with them?
- should I realize my dream and make an ashtray?
- should I make an ashtray necklace (tres convenient et chic, non?)
- what if there's a demand for ovary ashtray necklaces (note to self: brainstorm marketing names, collect focus group)? do I turn into a body farmer? do I loiter outside women's health clinics peddling my ware?
- or do I do the right thing and donate them to an impoverished pre-op?

O turmoil!

After the surgery/recovery, I'm mediterranean-bound. I've bought my ticket to Greece. I'm going back, because I can't not. The heat, the food, the smell, the sand, the language….I'm so excited my belly's doing cartwheels. I've been listening to language cds and am pleased to report that the cds are actually moving too slow for me. I remember more than I thought and it's lovely.

And with that I must sign off for now. Treat yourselves to something sweet this weekend, gang: a smile, a Gimlet, a smooch, a peanut butter cookie and a dark beer. Life is too damned short and sour - make a mental list of thankful-fors and I betchya you'll almost literally feel your heart bloom. Seriously, there's not that much time.

*am absolutely over the moon with this, by the way. being featured on the site as a volunteer. check for it soon.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

unfettered, unpeck'd & not missing a beat

~'Hold on, I'm comin' by Sam & Dave, a real kick. i dare you to claim this song doesn't cure what ails ya. i strongly encourage the box set which includes their public service announcement about staying in school = way cool.

~Thirteen Conversations about One Thing, because it has an intense quiet to its observation of the seminal meaning of in-consideration and the effects thereof (and because it stars John Turturro).

~"True remorse is never just regret over consequences; it is regret over motive."
-Mignon McLaughlin, because some people apologize too much (guilty) and others not at all when they should and i only just recently realized what a tremendous toll that takes on one's spirit > creativity > joy. it seems that some people mistake condolences with regret, then others don't regret what they should when they should, and if they do, they don't admit it which leads to what should amount to a monstrous "I AM SO FUCKING SORRY" but when you don't get a sincere one of those, it makes you tired of hanging with that sorry sad-sac of a man who is not only guilty of being an asspuck, but also guilty of the above-mentioned lack of consideration. and that, readers, is unforgivable.

welcome to K-TMI, my name is dee ann & i'll be your hostess for the rant this evening.

hiya gang! apologies for the late-ish posting. much happening in deeannland as of late and most of it qualifies as awesome.

first: vitamin D has been up and out! the weather has been positively glorious. anything above 75degrees pleases me very much indeed, and my beloved city has certainly delivered. i bring out the summer dresses & stilettos (not to mention more boys in more tank tops/wife-beaters ~ yum!) and everything just feels…lighter.

case in point: walking the embarcadero yesterday, looking out at the water, smelling the mixture of salt air, sweat and cologne from the mens who kindly remove their suit blazers and loosen their ties ~yum! a middle-age man (read: my age ~yikes. ~yay!) and i both turned our heads away from the ocean at the same time, made eye contact and within a milli-second, it seems we both realized what a perfect day it was and so, started laughing. made my day. i love it. mutual appreciation society, party of 2.

in addition, the new apartment is delightful. one evening, while enjoying the vibrant heat on my relatively sizeable balcony at 9pm in shorts (yes crowd, i'm wearing shorts again for the first time since college. gadzooks.) and a tank, i am now aware that my across-the-street neighbor is an exhibitionist.

if you're reading, Sir Hank the Yank: a little to the left, please, and lose the socks next time, eh?

Louie continues to provide me with much laughter and effortless affection; work is going very well; i'm dancing a lot; the first tan lines of the season have made a special appearance on this ol' bod of mine & the baby basil on my patio is redolent of the country i will soon visit.
don't want to jinx it so that's all i have to say about that!

as y'all know, at the end of the month, i go to The Stupid Cancer Happy Hour (, podcast with host Matthew Zachary). >>>

>>>as long as i can remember, i've been a member of so i put out a lame query in facebook to Protect's 'fans' and fellow members wondering if anyone would like to start an SF chapter to meet monthly, something like what the STCHH does, but with an occasional guest speaker and the like. concomitantly, i wrote to Protect to see if there was anymore i could do besides pay my annual 30$ membership fee.

much to my giddy and immense pleasure, the nicest lady contacted me with an answer: one thing lead to another and i will now be the writer of newsfeeds for Protect's site. it's quite a bit of work, but i absolutely LOVE it.
in a nutshell, here's how the facebook page reads in case you don't know about the organization (shame on you):

'PROTECT is a national pro-child, anti-crime membership association. We are founded on the belief that our first and most sacred obligation as parents, citizens, and members of the human species is the protection of children from harm. We are committed to building a powerful, nonpartisan force for the protection of children from abuse, exploitation and neglect. We believe that this must be done through a determined single-issue focus, a meaningful mainstream agenda and the use of proven modern political strategies.'

one area of interest, and seemingly, one of particular need of study, is the effects/results both long-term and immediate, of familial reunification on child abuse victims.
outrageous to me and anyone who has a modicum of grey matter is that the courts place traumatized, terrorized child victims back in the home with the predator.
CPS's goal is to reunite family members whenever possible - whether after therapy sessions, temporary foster care, et cetera. but there remains no, at least none that i can uncover yet, research on how the inevitable, indubitable stress and fear shape the victims' lives going forward.
what gives???
and so, i'm back to poring over texts, tests, tomes and phone lists to find some answers. all this, i love.

all this in a nutshell which i suppose makes me the nut. s'ok, gang, takes one to know one.
cheers. clink.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

tenderness of absence or vice versa

~'Sleepwalk' by Santo & Johnny because when i find a fella who thinks this song is as romantic as i do, i'll know he's worth some of my time.

~Sexy Beast for the way Gal looks at DeeDee like she's the most precious woman on the planet. et cetera and so on.

~"Back off, I'm beautiful." -Ray Winstone as Gal. An attitude i'd like to adopt.

hi gang. on my way out, so i'll just drop a quick one.
thanks for playing! clink!


A quiet country dinner

words: table & clasp

She placed a ham on the kitchen table.

Earlier that month, you and I made love on that table. Neither of us said a word, but felt the same ache, the same thrill, the same shame curdle inside.
You filled the mason jars as I laid out mustard-oil apricots.

You opened the window and earth's golden hour filled the room.

She bid you to say grace.

I smoothed the cloth in my lap, closed my eyes, placed my clasped hands to my lips.

'Thank You for this bounty we are about to receive'

She stood with a loud push of her chair.

I could tell, the way a woman always can,

by the way she carved the ham

that she knew.

Tuesday, March 31, 2009

i know more liars than i know fish

~'Ben's Waltz' by Marcelo Zarvos because it's a meandering little piece that is at once sympathetic and mocking and, like most good things, ends too soon.
~'After Hours' by Velvet Underground because the form and content work together just about as perfectly as any i can remember. maybe Cake's 'I will survive' is a far-away second place.

~Leaving Las Vegas because it's tender, tragic, heartbreaking, frustrating, funny.

~"The moon ain't romantic, it's intimidating as hell." -Tom Waits. the most accurate, non-scientific explanation of the moon i've ever heard.

hiya gang. today was... a moody pre-teen.
i know when i wake and the sun is up full it's going to be a semi-non-disastrous day, no matter what medical results are waiting for me. i know that when i feel totally at ease bringing out the seersucker trou that 'my' seasons are on their ways and sundresses and strappy heels are sure to follow. i had a great weekend 'round the pool and i'm feeling California. but, as if to snap me back into place, as if to tell me 'don't get ahead of your happy self, hairgrove', today was a mix of sweet and weird.

sweet: fine weather, at work early and looking fab.
sweet: decent work load
sweet: time enough to hit the post office at lunch
weird: thankless bitch cut in front of me in line at said post office. very rude and on her mobile phone.
weird: i didn't tell her she was rude
sweet: fella behind me said, "i saw her cut in front of you." i said 'yea, choosin' my battles these days.' he said, "well, hey, she gets helped first, but you've got your looks."
sweet: passport is on its way to our blasted department of state
weird: when did passport photos go from costing me 5$ to 15$? yea, it's been that long since i traveled proper

sweet: only took 10 minutes at the post office
sweet: that left me the rest of the hour to walk hard along the embarcadero
sweet: with weather like this, it's a sundress, meet strangers and a BR-549 day
weird: went for a walk on the pier where any number of puckered men were fishing. i watched one man kneel over a small fish, paying it no heed as he disentangled his lure. this little silver fish quivered and plopped around for a while until the guy picked it up and tossed it into a pink take-out bag that already contained three other fish of the same type. he went back to his lure. and that bag just kept jerking. each time it stopped i felt relieved, but then the jerking would start again and startle me again and this went on until i couldn't bear to stay there anymore.
there i was amongst a dozen fishermen with my eyes welling up.
i can imagine being tossed away carelessly (from lovers to hospitals), but the persistent jerk of the bag meant such a struggle for life. i've known that, too. but never from the inside of a chinese take-out bag. knock wood. i mean, i've seen james colburn struggle for it in Charade, but that's Hollywoodweird.

thanks for hanging on, gang. more news to come as april takes on its own life.

The male Lincolnfish is solitary by design. It does not travel in schools, but, rather, in a group of no more than three. Even this is somewhat rare, however, as they are known to prefer lone travel. To see more than two together is a brilliant, flickering sight to behold.

The fish's color is so silver that it borders on white. Or perhaps, it is the other way around. In the deep, powdery recesses of the ocean, the Lincolnfish is neither predator, nor prey. As it flees to the very dark bottom, it does so in order to rejuvenate its sheen.

Students of the Lincolnfish have discovered that the particular and very specific recipe of silt and fine residual grains of coral work as a type of exfoliant which 'polishes' the fish's exterior. He performs a rather rapturous roiling in his sandy bath that disrupts the immediate area and turns it into a mess of beige and pink clouds. Once the Lincolnfish returns to the intermediary level of the ocean, his primary habitat, he does so with a newly vibrant appeal.

This brings us to the Lincolnfish mating ritual. Like many other species, it is the male Lincolnfish that pursues the female, but he does so in an almost passive/aggressive manner.
You see, the reason that the lucky Lincolnfish must rejuvenate his exterior is because in order to capture the attention of a female, the male will rub the side of its body against the rather rough coral, leaving brilliantly-colored scales behind to signify his virility and potency. He then hangs about waiting for the female to approach. So, he primps, he paints, he waits and he pounces.

As one would expect, being solitary by design, the Lincolnfish is an absentee father. Perhaps Mother Nature's method of justice comes here in to play. Shortly after mating, the male Lincolnfish is rendered paralyzed for, sometimes, nearly up to an half hour. This obviously makes him easy prey and he is quite often gobbled up by his number one enemy, the most unsightly DevilStinger Scorpionfish.

words: fish & hour
Voiceover from Great Britain

Thursday, March 26, 2009

rise & fall & rise. lie & lying.

~'Hey Cowboy' by Junior Bonner because i'm getting back into the swing of things, all hips and lips and hotpants. 
& because i couldn't choose just one song this time:

~'A cream or a lotion?' by James Newton Howard because it's a lilting little ditty that is a very smart tease.

~Let the Right One In for a few reasons: 1. any movie that includes a woman being attacked by cats clinging to her ankles, shoulders, neck, back, chest is a-ok in my funny-book (although i'm not sure the Norwegians intended it to be funny), 2. i watched the English-dubbed version and it sounded as though the voice-overs where calling it in from their couches, stoned cretins, eating Doritos, having never seen the movie before. in other words, the voice overs were a judd apatow movie, 3. i think it's quite possibly the best title, at least of the year and 4. i loved the ending. 

~"Clever men are good, but they are not the best." -Thomas Carlyle because clever in the crafty sense gets to be sometimes too much and overrated.  there is a cleverness to kindness and i'll take that over crafty any day of the week.

hiya gang. sit for a spell. bit of exciting news on the homefront: Louie and i will be moving soon into a one-bedroom apartment! This is good because i'm starting to go a little stir crazy in my studio. it's not small by any means, but i can't help but feel the walls compressing. in reality, it's most likely my state of mind that's crumbling. the really cool thing about it is a large-ish balcony. long enough for me to stretch out and summon tan lines amongst the mint and rosemary. i've started a tomato plant as well. even better is that there is ample sunlight so my skin can soak up the vitamin d as my liver soaks up the vitamin v (or rejects it, whatever the case may b).

so busy april: the move, a beer/baseball-filled visit with my sd sis and then i'm going to see the Cold War Kids at a great venue that holds a buncha memories.  big fan (thanks, prejza).  all that and i'm trying to take on another work project so i can make my future travel a smidge more comfy. as promised, more on that later. i guess i must be superstitious because i hesitate to really write about it just yet lest i jinx it. never know how this old body is going to get in the way of things (again).

i want to raise a proverbial toast to 2 close pals of mine - you know who you are.  west coast pals and east coast pals of mine have had to put down their fuzzy buddies and that ain't easy. i take such things to the heart of my hearts.  my east coast pal is a mother of three and noted how her pooch offered up to her a different type of work and how much she appreciated it.  great way to put it. i've got to say that it's the best responsibility i've had, myself.  when i feel like i want to bemoan being owned by a dog, i realize what a privilege and fortune it is to be part of this little life and help make it better, good, great even.  never will there be another relationship so rewarding and delightful.
on the flip:
my vet checked out the lump on my buddy's neck and "declared" it "potentially cancerous". have i not had enough of this bullshit around me already? 
to check for certain is $1k. so, he either has cancer, i find out and can't afford the treatments (actually, i wouldn't wish chemo on my worst ex-boyfriend, so there'd be no need for it), or i spend the thou$and+ and find out that it was just a harmless tumor.  
some medicine i trust, some doctors i trust, most i don't. 
so no matter. i keep him in check. he romps about like a 5 year old and wags his tail enough to make me scheme over how to channel the energy to keep my lights on at nite. i honestly think the dog sleeps less than i do.  everytime i wake up, there he is, staring at me, eyes as wide as the full moon.  maybe i should flip on 'keeping up appearances'.  

all in all, all is well. 
i know snow is beautiful and quiet, i know we need the rain, but this sunshine calms me like an arm around my shoulders.

here's another 15 minuter: i need to pull away from using pronouns so much.

words: basket & route

sweet lemons

I fill my basket full with meyer lemons to give my lover.
He hasn't spoken to me since it was said that I'd kissed Manoli by the well.
It was he who kissed me and tasted of salted onions and beer. He tricked me by saying that my hem was unraveled, though I'd only just mended it.
But everyone knows that Manoli takes what he wants and is too strong for me to resist.
He is too strong even for Carmella to cast a lasting spell.
She says the best I can pray for is to get my lover to admit that he believes me. She says this with laughter for, in our village, to take the side of a woman makes you just as weak as one.

I have rubbed it so often that my St. Lazarus charm has tarnished please don't give me a broken heart please don't give me a broken heart
I kiss each lemon, place it in the basket and walk to his shed.

No one walks this route because it is overgrown with the spiny berberis but it is the shortest and I take it because I miss him.

Halfway there, a flash of silver catches my eye and I hear Manoli whistle.

headed out, folks.  thanks for playing. here's to firsts and new memories.  cheers.

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

the physical / metaphorical properties of bubbles, or: how to keep others at bay without really trying

~'Full Moon, Empty Heart' by Belly because for some reason it makes me want to take up ballet again. wtf?

~Duplicity, because it was better than i thought it would be and totally worth it for the slow-motion beginning. and the soundtrack was fair. and my pal christian worked on it and it makes me proud of him. i love to see my friends' names in lights. maternal, i suppose.

~"Change or fail." -Don Fischer. not often i quote a sartorial tycoon, but i just love the simplicity and ultimatum-isness of this. how nice it would be if it were that cut/dry.

hiya kids.
yesterday a dear pal of mine sent a brief article titled 'when do i tell her?'. i wish the article had been longer and...just more, but i'm not altogether sure how it could have been.
the fella who was asking the question had various scars around his neck area which begged questions from girls he dated. he has a history of cancer. what type in this particular instance doesn't matter. it's a question we (singles) ask ourselves, maybe daily, but definitely when we meet people we might be interested in intimately.
do you wait until the other person divulges something personal? if you wait for that, then tell them, does it seem like you're trying to match them or 'one-up' them, or just trying to share? do you show your cards before you even have a date?
do you tell them ON your date? how much do you tell them?
just once i'd like to meet someone who doesn't freak out (correct me if i'm wrong, fellow survivors, but when you start to talk about it, do you not see the wheels turning, the eyes lower and dart...?),
meet someone who doesn't say 'i'm just not good with illness, but you can talk about it if you want' (been there)

or someone who says, 'it's not that you HAD cancer, it's that you could get it again and i don't really want to be around for that' (good riddance, steve. comments like that make me hope cancer hits you in the part of your pants where you do most of your thinking).
i don't know, gang. it's a pressing question. essentially, that's what the author wrote. he doesn't know. there's no answer. you'll just know when you meet the right person. or you won't. and then you'll adopt old dogs and write ridiculous blog entries.

today's 15 minute exercise:

words: black-bearded & lemon jade


My black-bearded papa and I boarded when I was 7. Clement weather saw us out of the slip and into the Atlantic.
I was too young to know exactly how many days we were out or why. I lost count after 14 nights.
There were others wealthier than my papa, but his straight back, mediterranean skin and finely-trimmed beard made him the most elegant man I'd ever seen. I could tell the moneyed women on board agreed. So it was odd when he turned his attentions to a squat, rather swarthy woman.
Her wiry black hair was piled high and without any reason to it. As a pair they looked like opposites in the same family. Perhaps she reminded him of someone.

When we docked at dawn in Cartagena, my papa ordered me to stay on ship. When I fussed, he promised to return with a basket of sugar-apples and an aluminum model submarine. He locked me in the room with a book on Francis Drake, a blood-thirsty fright of a man.

As I peered out the porthole at the glassy stars, I heard the key in the door and ran for him.
It was not my papa there, but the woman I'd secretly named Hair Pile.

During the days Hair Pile would keep me in the ship's sizable kitchen while she prepared heavy cream sauces and fish encrusted with Jerusalem spices. She soon broke me of my crying, but not of missing my papa.

When I had 9 years old she fashioned for me a hammock above her bunk so she could spend her nights with crew. My clothes came carefully pilfered from passengers' trunks and bartered fabrics from ports. I was landless and kin-less and I looked the part.

At 11 years I was allowed to roam the ship a tad more freely if I promised to wear shoes. I always watched the bearded men thinking that, even if not my papa, they would see me and want to take me home with them.

At first I picked out little girls because they smelled of marshmallow creme and soap. But they cried too quickly and one bit my arm after the telling.
So I chose little boys with whom to share my tale. I pulled them aside and told them the stories of their fathers and what could happen at the next port.

I promised to convince their fathers to keep them if the boys brought me things: a coin with a Greek silhouette, a lemon jade ring, a yellow scarf, a submarine model, a wooden flute and a pair of high-heel satin slippers.

At first the boys didn't believe me because who could believe that such a heartless father could exist? But who better to convince them than I?
need a refill, gang. thanks for your continued support/feedback. your emails make my day(s).
take a load off and make the most of your hump-day.
also take a look around and see if you can detect one single solitary person who couldn't benefit from a simple smile.

Monday, March 23, 2009

vena cava footprints

~'Fuck was I?' by Jenny Owen Youngs  because today was full of the question 'what the fuck was i thinking?' and i just always love a string instrument opening.  it's a strolling cynic song that best fits on a soundtrack, but sometimes, a stroll needs a soundtrack.

~Forty Shades of Blue because it's in my top 10.  may not be in 10 years, but it has been for a lot of years.  i almost very nearly hope that it doesn't resonate with me forever.

~"Everything I touch turns to shit. Everyone I try to love won't hear of it. Now my hands are over full of things I'd like to give." -the same, Jenny Owen Youngs, from her song 'Drinking Song'. bah that sounds ultra-dramatic.  i think what i really like about it is the phrase 'won't hear of it'.  you just don't hear anyone say that anymore.  'let me give you gas money.' *actually, THAT is something you don't hear anymore either* 'no please, i won't hear of it.'  it's dismissive and polite at the same time. ? also, i'm getting ready to start a book titled 'Drinking: a love story'. so there's that.

hi gang. pull up a.

i was just doing the numbers today: 35 years old.  35.  that makes my mom 69 years old.  my dad, 71. most of my schooltime pals have families of some sort or another. i'm nowhere near marriage and kids are completely outta the question for me.
in theory, the idea of marriage appeals to me so much. in reality, it's so crazy it's funny and it's so funny it's not even a joke.   don't get me wrong.  i really like married couples.  they fascinate me and, if i'm being honest here, i envy them. but i look around and, jesus, it's just me here.
not only am i not bothered by that, but i'm not bothered by the fact that i'm not bothered by that. sure, i have bouts, but in the long run...if you don't have anyone around, you don't have to shave when you don't want to, you can sleep on your own cracker/cookie crumbs in bed, you can laugh and cry whenever you want without offering explanation...i'm not going to go on about the perks of solitude.  that's the cowboy junkies' job.  i'm just letting my fingers do the thinking as i'm doing the drinking.

when i was a young girl, pre-pre-teen, i was cleaning house and my older sister said, "you're going to be a great wife." knew she meant it as a compliment. didn't think much of that until i got a little older when i thought i wanted to be either a cigarette girl (still do, kinda) or a stewardess.  those gals are on the go! i thought husbands are too heavy! (still do, kinda).
on the flip.
when i was young young college-young and having a fling with an older fella, he said to me, "you're not the marrying kind, Red." (he flew me to vegas. he asked me what to bet and i said, " 7 red", hence the name).
 it felt like a slap, but he meant it as a compliment.
i had a visual flash when he said that:
fast forward to years gone by and ______ (enter multiple names there) is sitting and staring, spacey-eyed thinking, just briefly, about our time together (could be hours, nites, years). his wife walks in.  dkny robe and good hair.  she sees him with his twilight zone eyes and asks, in passing, not really meaning it, 'what're thinking about?'  and he answers, truthfully,