The Life and Times of a Bi-Level

Once, decades ago, there was raised a bi-level. This bi-level was like most other bi-levels, but he was more homely. He had some bi-level acquaintances, but no good friends, because everyone hated him. He was ugly. When his slum-lord owner finally gave up on him, he lived alone for almost a year. He was beside himself, or more properly, he was above and below himself, as that is the way of bi-levels.

When at last he was discovered by naive bi-level coveters, he thought his strife could finally be over, and that he would be loved and cared for. But the bi-level continued to be despised and looked down upon, for he was ugly. And not at all well-built. One day he got some different floors, and he thought that it might make him happy, for a while. He soon realized that it only made him want more new floors, and that he would never be happy until all his floors were new. Knowing that his owners worked slowly, if at all, he resigned himself to continued solitude.

If I Were At a Really Loud Concert Right Now

I wouldn't need to worry about earplugs. Damn cold.

Oh Crap It's Early

Spring Fever aaack.

In other news, I think Jazzy and I are done with facebook.

7/20/2009

There's something magical about this day. The sun is falling just so, in an angle that whispers fall even though it is high summer. A chunky cloud shaded the back yard, all of it except the flower garden in the back. It didn't want me to miss it. When a slight breeze came through, Jasmine lifted her head, as if to surprised at a breath of new air. A huge dragonfly unknowingly danced with a small, white butterfly exploring the daisies. Dappled sunlight. And if only I sit facing east, I have all the time in the world.

Hillbug and the Hooch

Two days ago, I spent the majority of an afternoon on the hunt. Fortified wine my quarry, I searched liquor stores near and far, large, well-lit, and well-staffed, and small, fetid, and disconcerting. I had boldly agreed to do a simultaneous tasting with Catnip and her posse (see Pulp Issue 10, "Drink Me"). After no fewer than 8 phone calls to surly liquor store managers (one of whom pretentiously informed me that his store wouldn't think of selling such things-- "we leave that to the rest of the world")-- and 12 different stops, I ended my hunt with a trifecta of hooch: MD 20/20 Red Grape Wine, Boone’s Farm, and Thunderbird T.C.. To these spoils I added a $3 bottle of red zin, a 2-liter of Coke, and (a splurge by some accounts) a bag of ice. I was set.

The first time I realized something was wrong was when the power came back on. Yes, you read that right. I had thought it a harbinger of good fortune when I lost electricity before the experiment--after all, what better way to drink fortified wine than in a cold, dark bi-level? The dogs and I both got the bejeezus scared out of us when all electrical devices in the house started whirring and humming all at once. Undeterred, I soldiered on, not yet fathoming what was to come.

Well-lit and settled in by the kitchen table, I gathered my supplies and got down to the job at hand. I decided to start with the T-Bird. Let’s just say that I wish daddy had never given me the keys in the first place. With the color of flat cherry coke, the nose of cheap spiced rum, and the distinct flavor of apple pie-flavored toothpaste, or perhaps toothpaste-apple pie, I began to question my dedication to this unpaid job. This is possibly the most foul thing to ever have passed my lips. I decide to move onwards, assuming upwards is implicit. A naive choice.

Next up was the Boone’s. I have vague high school memories of this… while it was never my underage drink of choice, I recall a multiplicity of cheerleaders carrying around bottles of Strawberry Hill at the good ol’ prairie parties for which Pueblo is so famed. However, in a pathetic act of revenge against the bubbly girlie-girls, I selected “Hawaiian Blue” instead. I pour a modest amount into my glass and survey the results. It evokes a lazy day on a beach in the Caribbean, or perhaps blue raspberry Kool-Aid under a black light. Incredible color. Beautiful, even. My heart is emboldened. I inhale. Pure island. It actually smells nice. I feel confident as I tip the glass. I should not have been so cavalier. I momentarily wonder if I had not poured myself a glass of “wine,” but instead made a concoction of Sweet-N-Low and artificial coconut flavor from the spice aisle. Either way, this ain’t no luau.

I decide to cut my losses. I rinse out my mouth with a refreshing Dale’s Pale Ale, get some fresh air, and assure the kids that their momma still loves them, even as I eye the Mad Dog. Red Grape Wine flavor… I’ve never before entertained the idea of wine needing to be wine-flavored. I keep the faith. Color is fine. Grapey. I swirl and sniff. Hmmm… like grape juice and yet… and yet… there’s something I just can’t put my finger on. Perhaps just a swallow? I have the distinct impression that I’m suddenly in a shower scene of a Hitchcock movie, and John Woo is waiting in the wings to supply the gratuitous violence. Wait. That’s not quite it. I am in the dentist’s office. Post-wisdom teeth removal. That’s it. The craters in my lonely gums are filled with some sort of anti-bacterial salve that will leach into my saliva for days, thus cementing my resolve to not eat solid foods. I long for the days when cheap wine tasted like novelty toothpaste. I shed a tear for the grapes who gave their juice for this atrocity. It’s a shame. A damn shame. I consider vomiting, even though I swallowed mere tablespoons of the stuff, but persevere.

Canyon Oaks California Zinfandel seems a fair choice to match my other finds, but this time I’m bringing back-up. Coke. Ice. Coca-Cola and water ice, that is. I am overwhelmingly underwhelmed, which at this point in the night is a great relief. I defer to Riley, who claims that “Really, it is perfection in a glass; it is the warmth of Jesus and the grace of god; it is Love in liquid form and the delight of a thousand singing angels. It is red wine and coke” (http://loriley.blogspot.com/2006/10/my-new-favorite-drink.html).

The tasting drawn to a close, I appraise the table. 4-nearly whole bottles of "wine," some coke, a few glasses, still mostly full, and a couple of empty beer cans (side note: the beer pimp for DPA once informed me that cans get a bad rap, but are in fact the best way to keep beers fresh, as they are like little tiny kegs with little to no air to which the beer is exposed. Not to mention that they're better for the environment, as the shipments are lighter. I resolve to drink more canned beer to save the world). I find myself surprised at how fast it all happened. And then it hits me, that is, possibly the first true stroke of genius I've had since my discovery of the theory of re-cleaning. I very slowly and deliberately lift one glass at a time and dump each into the largest glass. I deem it "jungle juice." I congratulate myself on my cleverness. Thank god the beer cans were empty.

My glass now looks like a bottle of that one football player guy from high school with the huge neck and facial hair who could get away with anything's spit-out tobacco juice. I circle the table, keeping a close eye on it, as it would not surprise me in the least if I have somehow created a singularity which will open a porthole to alternate universes in which this mixture is considered a delicacy. It moves, and I jump, only to realize my dog is sitting under the table scratching himself. I slowly exhale, tell myself this will all be over soon, and close my eyes. I drink. Let me rephrase: I sip the most minute drop of this hooch-concoction humanly possible. My eyes water, and I immediately get that salty taste in my mouth that alerts me to impending disaster.

But I have a stomach of steel. I will not let the hooch beat me. I breathe out heavily, shudder, and maintain composure. The feeling passes. I fought the hooch, and I won. But here, my little cupcakes, is the strangest part of the story. I cap each bottle tightly, and put them back in my fridge. And now, they're still there, pushed to the back, waiting for the day on which their powers will be needed once again.

Whoa Who Broke My Toe?

Methinks 'twas you. Toes don't break themselves. Even my toes, who might want to mutiny against my feet. For some reason unbeknownst to the rest of my appendages. Obviously. Do you wonder how many eyes have seen this before yours? Do you ever think that I'm writing this as you read it? That it didn't exist until you read it? You can only assume it did. My toe hurt one morning. It didn't hurt the night before. Are there toe gnomes under my blankets, patiently waiting until such a time that they can break it completely off? That would get you off the hook.

Dear March, come in!

How glad I am!
I looked for you before.
Put down your hat—
You must have walked—
How out of breath you are!
Dear March, how are you?
And the rest?
Did you leave Nature well?
Oh, March, come right upstairs with me,
I have so much to tell!

I got your letter, and the bird’s;
The maples never knew
That you were coming,—I declare,
How red their faces grew!
But, March, forgive me—
And all those hills
You left for me to hue;
There was no purple suitable,
You took it all with you.

Who knocks? That April!
Lock the door!
I will not be pursued!
He stayed away a year, to call
When I am occupied.
But trifles look so trivial
As soon as you have come,
That blame is just as dear as praise
And praise as mere as blame.

--Emily Dickinson