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••• Sunday, January 04, 2004

Catchin' a Draft
I've been taking stock of what I have, what I need and what I can do without. I've done this with my yarn stash, my clothes closet and now my Blogger Draft Bins.

In my Draft Bins, I've found several unfinished posts. Most of them were discontinued because, once started, they seemed to require more time and energy (for contextual history) than I was willing or able to expend. One of them was unpublished because it was simply too boring.

At one time, however, I believed the topics were worthy of mention. Because of that, I hereby honor my original inclinations with a (hopefully) brief summary of each post unposted. Context provided only as needed (and maybe not then, even). Reader is free to fill in the rest with imagination.

Draft Bin 1: Angels in Underwear
I take no issue with beautiful women dressed as angels, modeling underwear on the catwalk. Fashion shows are traditionally displays of drama and fantasy.

I do, however, have a problem with the idea of a TV commercial showing angels trapped in a house, in their grundies.

Why do I have a problem with it? Because it doesn't make any sense.

First of all why/how are they trapped in the house? (I assume they are trapped, on account of the restless pacing.) I have always been under the impression that angels don't recognize earthly entrapments or physical boundaries. If that's true, why can't they just leave? Did someone steal their clothes? Is it the work of Satan?

Finally, do angels actually need underwear? I don't think they get cold, and I can't imagine them having hygienic needs (i.e. needing a clean change...etc.).

Draft Bin 2: Straight From the Donkey's Butt
This was one of the posts that once started, seemed to require too much thinking, writing and/or family history. It still seems a daunting task, so bear with me.

A bit o' background: My mother was raised in a tiny town in Northern Michigan. This town is in the poorest county in the state. It's loggin' country. Years ago The Grand Rapids Press wrote a lengthy article about this town. It was referred to as the "Dodge City of the North." Some of my kin are responsible for this reputation.

In my search for links relevant to the "Drinking Bird" post I came upon this. My grandfather had one of these. While I'd like to say I have fond memories of fun and giggles with my dearly departed grandpa, I don't. I don't have bad memories either, just memories. Kind of flat and kind of strange.

Following is an outline of the thoughts I tried to organize in a meaningful manner in the original post:
1. Grandpa was a drinker.
2. Grandpa had only one eye. He "lost" the other one in a fight.
3. When I was a little girl, I pictured grandpa getting punched in the eye and afterwards everybody looking on the ground for the one that got "lost." I later learned it didn't exactly go that way.
4. Grandpa did not get a prosthetic eye. He just had this sunken, shriveled slit.
5. When grandpa was awake, we were frightened that we'd stare at "it" so we hardly made eye contact.
6. When grandpa was passed out on the couch, my sister and I would take turns creeping up on him to look at "it." "It" was very crusty and "it" appeared to have eaten most of his eyelashes but a few sprouty tufts.
7. Grandpa had a Cocker Spaniel named "Skeeter." Skeeter also had only one eye. He lost his eye in a dog fight. This is a true story.
8. As a child, I didn't think the dog/man eyeball serendipity was all that weird. It actually made some sort of childlike sense. Is that an example of assimiliation or accomodation? I forget. But as an adult, the dog/man eyeball serendipity is downright spooky.

Draft Bin 3: I voted for Chevy
Back in November, a special education teacher asked if I could help chaperone a field trip to Gerald R. Ford Museum.

I said "yes", but regretted it immediately. Not that I'm stingy of spirit (pissy sometimes, but never stingy) but because I'd recently been slammed with more evaluation requests and was still catching up from being out sick two days. Besides, I had been to the Ford Museum once before and found it to be an incredible yawner.

I'm glad I went. It was quite a treat. Not only was it fun interacting with my charges in a different environment, I found the museum to be quite interesting, from my middle-aged perspective.

Following is an outline of the thoughts I tried to organize in a meaningful and interesting manner (and have yet to achieve) in the original post:
1. In the summer of 1974, I was heading into my junior year of high school and working at a fish-n-chips-n-fried chicken take-out. This place was an annex of a Big Boy restaurant next door and employed only high school students. While we were supposed to be under the management of the Brother Ship, they hardly ever checked on us, so baby, did we party.
2. Every night, at closing time, I mopped the dining room floor to a cranked radio (we never had customers after dinner hour).
3. Three distinct mopping memories of the summer of '74 include daydreaming about my boyfriend getting his driver's license in August, boogying to Rock the Boat (by musical giants Hues Corporation) and Nixon's resignation speech .
4. From the adolescent perspective, the Nixon debaucle fit into my view of adults as being powerful, hypocritical, suspect and "other worldly."
5. I'm now one of those adults.
6. Oh yeah, Betty Ford is a fellow high school alumnus. She gave a speech at my high school graduation (1976). It was just prior to her going into rehab. We were thrilled to have her, but I remember kids remarking on her slurpy speech. Of course, we had no idea.

Draft Bin 4: The Girl with Gum in Her Hair
The Girl with Gum in Her Hair
Spent the day
Plucking, Polishing and
Politely Piling Buckeyes
Into a borrowed wagon
Pulled up and down the block.

Mrs. Schnell wouldn't open.
Mrs. Tunning wouldn't buy.
Mr. Gray yelled for cutting across
On account of the wheels and all.
Plus he was crazy drunk, again.
Then he looked real close and smiled stinky nice.

But nobody was buying Buckeyes
From the Girl with Gum in Her Hair.
Nobody would know
How much she cared.
How she loved the way they felt.
And they smelt like dirt.

The Girl with Gum in Her Hair
Met the Boy With the Ugly Finger.
He loved her Buckeyes
All brown and shiny.
How she loved the way he felt.
And he smelt like dirt.

True Story.
# posted by Marcia @ 10:49 AM


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