When you do a lot of yoga, live mainly on protein shakes, and work out two hours a day, three things happen:
1) You feel really really good;
2) You look a hell of a lot better;
3) You completely lose the ability to metabolize alcohol.
I haven't had anything in the nature of fun beverages for months, so last night's three glasses of Sancerre made me a very festive young lady indeed. (And a very somber and reflective young lady, when the alarm clock went off at 6 this morning. Eeep.)
After dinner at a pretentious yet overpriced restaurant staffed by waitresses who looked like they've just escaped from a Helmut Newton photograph, and decorated with taxidermy of animals that appear to be practicing yoga positions (the restaurant, that is, not the waitresses), headed off to go meet X and Y and go to a Posh Fancy Bash. The fashion alone was worth it: Y and I spent hours walking around like freelance fashion critics, critiquing as we went. Here are some things we learned:
1) Extremely-and I mean EXTREMELY- short minidresses are in. This is a difficult thing to pull off: for one thing, you have to be VERY careful when wearing something crotchlength: one wrong move and the world is your gynecologist. Also, if you're over 19, it looks less like a mini, and more like you got drunk and forgot your pants. A problem. -One short, pretty girl was wearing a VERY short skirt, which, because she spent so much time essentially doing a very showy,wildly inappropriate, VERY territorial lapdance on top of her actor/hottie boyfriend, afforded onlookers rather more than they'd bargained for. Hey, it's only a black tie gala. Don't mind us. Make yourself at home. I bet you could use the dip as lube.-No no WAIT!-I was kidding!!! -Oh no... (This might just be sour grapes on my part. That IS an absolutely surefire way to get a guy's attention. I wish I could do that sort of thing- it certainly Works- but alas, was brought up to be a Lady (in public) and alas,cannot. I am forced to rely on nonlapdance activities, some of which include: having really interesting conversations; listening intently to the people I'm with, and staying really,REALLY far away from that dip. )
2) The bubble skirt is back. And metallic silver is back. And the combination of "lots of pouffy fabric around your butt" AND "-the pouffy fabric is a light, shiny color", means that one's bottom looks preety much like the Goodyear Blimp, which I'm just going to say is not an optimum look for anybody. You very seldom hear a man saying "Yeah, she was so hot! She looked sort of like a dirigible." Bad. No. Put the pouffy skirt down and back away slowly.
3) Herve Legere bandage dresses. These are, essentially, dresses made of stretchy bandages sewn together. They take an hour to squeeze into. I saw one woman look fabulous in this dress, but unfortunately there were TEN women wearing it, and the other nine now owe me money for therapy, please. -And the only reason the other woman looked good in it was because she was Gisele Bundchen, whose face is, frankly, a little iffyy but no one notices because no one has ever actually LOOKED at her face. Her body is so fantastically good tha it's like God put her on earth to make the rest of feel bad. But man, did she rock that dress, although frankly Gisele does look a little horsey--sort of like a cross between Marilyn Monroe and Secretariat. [There will be a brief pause while the writer stops to lap from a bowl of milk and then sharpen her claws on some furniture.]
4) Sequins: No. Just don't. I don't care what your reasons are. Nothing justifies sequin use. Especially not a skin tight, iridescent sequin dress, unless you WANT to look like a rainbow trout. If the onlooker's first impulse upon seeing you is to think, "hey. I bet she'd fry up good with some almonds and butter," you have not really succeeded.
Me, i was wearing a black strapless cocktail dress. My friend was wearing something cute from France, bu not from the xpensive part of France.. The outfits we were criticizing probably started at upwards of two grand. But we looked sorta cute, in a minimalist wa, as opposed to the beautiful Asian woman who was wearing a ten thousand dollar dress that looked, quite literally, like a glazed chintz window treatment. I had to restrain the impulse to run up and put an expansion rod through her sleeves.
Wobbled home to write some illconsidered emails, the kind where you check your "sent" box the next day and say "Oh GOD no", and so, after work this afternoon, will then make arrangements to change my name and move to the forests of Borneo to work with the gentle indiginous peoples, who live in harmony with nature and also don't have any access to the Internet. Trust me-It's the only way.
Nice knowing you. Keep in touch. Simply write to me at: The Tall Blonde Broad,c/o Gentle Tribal Peoples, Big Forest, Borneo, and I will get back to you by the next available post, which is only accessible by a 12 hour dugout canoe ride up the Amazon so, frankly-- don't hold your breath.
Love
p
03 November 2010
28 October 2010
"What I've Learned" Peri Lyons, c2011, in a self help mode.
Greatest Hits: "What I’ve Learned" all rights reserved c Peri Lyons
(Author's note: this is far and away the most popular thing I've ever written. It's gained an unexpected currency: there are life coaches and therapists, friends I sent it to, who give it to their clients. (Will someone please explain to me how to make actual money off that?) At the time, I was just trying to figure some stuff out by writing it down,...
Anyway, I don't always live this list, but it's a good feeling to try. : )
'what i've learned'
running out the door to yoga school, am suddenly consumed with desire to share what i've learned in the last two years of intense change and, well, growth:
1) Appreciate and accept people for who they are. Don't try and change 'em, or want something they can't give. They're giving what they can give. Enjoy it for what it is.
2) Trust your gut. If your head is saying "no, he wouldn't do that" and your gut is saying "but this is definitely what I'm feeling...", trust your gut. If a new job seems perfect but your gut is saying "NOOOOO!!!!", listen. Etc etc. Mostly, what you feel is happening? It's actually happening. Yup.
3) EVERYthing is there to learn from. How did you contribute to a situation in which you seem to be the pure and unadulterated victim? Okay, cop to it and then don't do that anymore. Usually, the bigger the "victim" you feel like, the bigger the lesson there is to learn.-Which doesn't take away from the bloody awful thing you just went through, but it gives it a much more empowering shape.
4) Have a spiritual practice. I don't care if you worship Kermit the Frog, do SOMEthing. Pray, meditate, chant "nam myoho-renge-kyo"...
5) Don't lie. -Just don't. It hurts you and everyone around you, even if you think you're doing it to be "nice." You're not being nice: you're actually being- um, how to put this tactfully- cowardly AND self serving. Being GENUINELY "nice" is respecting other people enough to be honest with them. Not lying seems hard at first, but then your life gets exponentially better. Besides, you will always get caught (if not at the moment, then-trust me-eventually) and you'll wonder why you feel subtextually awful even if you do get away with it at the moment.
6) Don't cheat. If you are with someone and meet someone else, be honest about it, and/or end the other thing first, before acting on a romantic impulse.Otherwise you've doomed both your chance for a real relationship with the new person, and you've also diminished your own greatness, for a time. "It's easy to deceive someone who loves and believes in you" is a rueful observation, NOT an order.
7) Share your strengths, not your weaknesses. No one wants to hear your problems, not really. Maybe for a bit, but NOT all the time. Share your triumphs and joys more.
8) Don't overshare. Especially in a romantic context.
9) Learn to forgive. But don't pretend to forgive before you have. If you're nice to someone when you actually are still hurt, it just muddies the waters. Retreat until you've processed it. Or talk it through. If you can't forgive for a while, dont talk to em. You'll forgive AND forget eventually, then you can reach out. Or? not.
10) Don't make up stuff to torture yourself with. You can't know what's really going on in someone else's head or heart. If your beloved is now with someone else, and you are picturing their life together as one long feast of milk and honey, you may be right--but you are probably not. No one goes dancing down the flower laden path hand in hand singing show tunes together forever. -Unless there are serious drugs involved. -Get on with what makes YOU happy. Guessing about what's going on with HIM/HER, is a waste of time, because? you just can't know. Don't make up stuff to make yourself miserable about.- Besides, everyone turns into a human being (rather than an idealized Other) eventually, in a romantic relationship. She might be gazing at Prince Charming right now and saying "That whole crown thing? Really bugs me."
11) Get some exercise, eat good stuff, don't drink too much. Your mom was right. You'll feel better.
12) Look outward. Reach out to a friend or do some volunteer work. Amazing how good it feels to help.
13) Support your friends. lean on them too --but not too much.
14) Go to every party you're invited to.
15) Say YES. If someone says, for instance, "Do you want to go to East Harlem for the world's most amazing pastrami sandwich?", say yes, not "nooo, it's laaate.' Take reasonable precautions, but say yes to adventures. Fun is good. Pleasure is healing.
16) Keep an open mind. Not so open that things fall out of it, but open enough that you can change your thinking if new evidence presents itself.
17) Fall in love. If it doesn't work out, it hurts, but it's always, always better to love than not to love.
18) People tell you everything you need to know about them on the first date. Listen.
19) Always have fresh flowers and perfume.
20) Tell me what YOU've learned.
love
peri
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/perilyons/blog?page=3#ixzz13iD6xy9K
Read more:http://www.myspace.com/perilyons/blog?page=3#ixzz13iD6xy9K
21 October 2010
Synchronicity To The Rescue!
As I was walking to a class tonight, I wasn't in the best mood ever. Some kind soul had sent me a photo of my ex at a gala, with his date: so I was walking by the Reservoir, praying to Whomever to keep me connected to the Good, to genuinely wish them both love and happiness.-I'm not saying it worked every time, but it worked enough. So much that I asked for a sign, of any kind, that things happen -if not for a reason--then not completely randomly. Actually, I asked for a chance to be of use somehow.
On Park and 82nd St, I heard and imperious-if slightly cracked- voice say: "Young Woman! You! The Pretty One! Come here and help me across the street!"
I turned around, and there was a tiny, elderly woman, about the size and build of a capuchin monkey. She had a sort of modified shopping cart that she was using as a walker, and was very well dressed. But she was having trouble seeing over the top of her improvised walker, let alone WALKING. So I said "Of course, madam", took her arm--"not THAT way!" she growled; obviously this was a well rehearsed drill for her---and led her across the street. She issued instructions and commands the entire time. She was a little like Captain Blight in a robin's egg blue twin set. (Cashmere.)
She had stepped a little too far into traffic for my comfort, so I stopped, in order to holde her back a bit, as Buicks (ARE there still Buicks?) went whizzing past our noses, too close for comfort. She yanked at my arm.
"Young woman", she said, "I may be old, but I am not, as many young people think, a complete idiot. I would NOT walk into traffic. Not being gaga."
"Of course," I said. "It was a reflective instinctual thing."
She smiled, as though she was pleased with her ability to choose escorts. "Good vocabulary", she said, and smiled at me, just a tiny bit. Then she went back to issuing orders.
Feeling more sympathy for Fletcher Christian than I ever had previously, I tried to divert her with questions. Also, I was interested. She was a salty, upper class pirate, and I liked her.
"I have parents who are older, and they're still smarter than I am, so it's not likely that I'd assume you're bats. Or dopey. Is this slang dated?"I grinned at her.
She smiled contentedly, after making sure my arm was properly adjusted and secure for her clinging comfort. "I was the head nurse at (Rutgers?) Hospital. I was there when they did the first kidney transplant. Now THAT was a thing." She stopped and closed her eyes to remember, I pulled her out of the way of a speeding noncognizant limo. She didn't notice. She was thinking of the splendor of that moment.
"Were you a nephrology nurse? Did you know my uncle, Dr. Bricker? The famous nephrologist?"
She opened her eyes fast-and wide, as she realized we were in traffic--and skedaddled a bit as she asked,"Dr. NEAL Bricker? HE's your UNCLE?"
I smiled with pleasure. "Yup. And he's your age, and he and his amazing wife are TWICE as smart as I am, so no more prejudices about young 'uns, please."
We chatted some more. She had gone back to school and become a psychologist; written a book about breast cancer -"I wanted to call it "Renaissance", but the goddamn publisher said [here she adopted a mocking tone in sing song} "No one will KNOW what that MEANS, Yvonne!" She snorted in indignation, something I have not seen in person very often. "So they called it "You've Got A Friend." Another snort.
"You will pardon me saying so on such short acquaintance, " I said, "but that title somehow doesn't seem very...YOU."
She turned her pretty blue eyes towards me sideways, as if acknowledging reluctantly that I might be capable of cogent reasoning."No. It isn't."
We kept walking.
She said, "Okay, here's the UPS Store. We're going in here for a minute. You're coming with."
At this point, having smelled a whiff of distillery and juniper on her breath, I wasn't going to leave her by herself. I resigned myself to being late for class. "Okay," I sighed.
The men in the UPS store were more than kind to her- they were downright saintly gentleman.
While she was watching them Xerox stuff for her, she took to reminiscing. "My husband was a trombone player and a violinist, you know."
I said, startled, "Simultaneously?"
She looked at me sideways again for a moment, and then allowed herself to laugh.
:No, one at a time..." she said.
"Pity. He could been in vaudeville." I was funnin' her.
"Actually, he played for the house band at The Chase (?) Hotel, Played with Nat King Cole...Sophie Tucker..."
"NAT KING COLE?? He's my RINGTONE!" I cried, pulling out my phone and making it ring. Instantly it played King singing "Stardust."
"Sophie Tucker...now THERE was an unexpected broad." she said. "But you won't know who she is.
"Smile when you challenge me o showbiz trivia, Yvonne," said I. I then quoted some of Sophie' act to her.
She hooted with delight. "Yes! That's her! But you know, the damnedest thing..."
"What?" I asked, because she was drifting a bit.
She snapped to. "The damnedest thing is that, if you talked to her offstage, she had a very polished Back Bay accent. [She did a credible imitation of a lock-jawed Eastern pedigree girl.]
To me, Sophie was known for her thick New Yawk accent and vulgarity (funny vulgarity)--to hear that she was a tea drinking grande dame was causing me some trouble. So I said, "I'm going to sit down next to you, and process the cognitive dissonance. Oh...may I see your ring?"
She was wearing a Claddagh ring. I have one-it was the last ring my ex gave me--and I have been looking for it for days. It is two small hands holding one heart, and means "I will be faithful to you always, my one true love."
"I have a ring just like that" I said, turning her hand to examine the ring.
"Oh? You know what it means, then?" she asked. She was looking at me with sudden kindness in her face.
"Yes. Yes I do. It's a lovely sentiment."
I stood up. "Oh they're done. Shall we?"
Another series of complicated maneuvers got Yvonne, her rolling cart, me and and umbrella decanted onto the street intact. "I'm going to get a cab," she said.
"I'll help," i said. Another 20 minutes of maneuvering later, I put her into a taxi, gently. She said "Thank you , dear. You are kind. Remind me to tell you my favorite Neal story sometime." She started to close the door.
Then she opened it a bit and said "Hey! Young lady!"
I turned back for a moment. "Yes, Yvonne?"
She eyed me sharply. "What happened to your ring?"
I stood in a puddle, and thought about a photo I'd seen that day, that had changed my life a little.
"Well, young lady?"
I held up my two hands, ringless and manicured. "It's gone," I said. "It's gone." I smiled. "And I think I've just stopped looking for it. There are other rings. But yours is lovely. Goodnight."
She pulled the door to, and the cab sped away. She was going to the fire dept to complain about something, and had brought a "photo of my Daddy in his fireman's uniform in St Louis." she had confided. "That'll make em sit up and take notice. No one listens when you're old, young lady. So I bring props."
I walked a few blocks, already late to class, and already not caring. I ahd read in the Times this morning about 100 year olds and what had helped them stay alive, with joie de vivre, so long.
One woman said "Just put it behind you. Th past is the past. There's always better stuff in front of you. Never look back. Just don't." The other centenarians agreed. "Don't look back. Have fun. Don't dwell on the bad stuff. Look ahead."
I smiled, thinking about the article, and the cranky and vivacious lifeforce I had just bottled into a cab. Who showed me her ring, my same ring, and knew my uncle, who lives 3000 miles away, by first name. Who demanded my help and received it: exactly what I am trying to learn how to do in my own life, in so many ways.
Who might or might not have been "my sign", but who made me happy, as helping someone always does. As self forgetting in a good way, does. As I went off towards Sutton Place to my class, I thought "just keep looking forward...something better's coming", and thoght about the way the centanarians had repeated that, and thought about how it is what I'm going to be doing, from this step and that step on. Depite F. Scott Fitzegerald's seductively nihilistic sentnce" "And so we beat on, boats against the current, drawn back ceaselessly into the past,,"...I resolved, with each step, not to be swayed by his lyrical, liquid romntics, And to be a better boat. And go forward.
I walked on through the darkening air. And I sang "Stardust"- not softly, not loudly, but just loud enough for my own soul to hear it. Just that loud. "Sometimes I wonder, why I spend the lonely night/dreaming of a song/a melody/haunts my reverie/and I am once again with you..."
And I thought, "let's save the sadness for the singing and the songs, yes? Put drama on the stage where it belongs." Something in me lifted and flew free. I walked, and sang, and said "goodnight" to the sleepy windows I was passing, and felt my heart, at last, settle cozily back into the nest it had fled from, in June.
Goodnight, city. Goodnight, Yvonne. And Yvonne?
Thank you.
love peri
On Park and 82nd St, I heard and imperious-if slightly cracked- voice say: "Young Woman! You! The Pretty One! Come here and help me across the street!"
I turned around, and there was a tiny, elderly woman, about the size and build of a capuchin monkey. She had a sort of modified shopping cart that she was using as a walker, and was very well dressed. But she was having trouble seeing over the top of her improvised walker, let alone WALKING. So I said "Of course, madam", took her arm--"not THAT way!" she growled; obviously this was a well rehearsed drill for her---and led her across the street. She issued instructions and commands the entire time. She was a little like Captain Blight in a robin's egg blue twin set. (Cashmere.)
She had stepped a little too far into traffic for my comfort, so I stopped, in order to holde her back a bit, as Buicks (ARE there still Buicks?) went whizzing past our noses, too close for comfort. She yanked at my arm.
"Young woman", she said, "I may be old, but I am not, as many young people think, a complete idiot. I would NOT walk into traffic. Not being gaga."
"Of course," I said. "It was a reflective instinctual thing."
She smiled, as though she was pleased with her ability to choose escorts. "Good vocabulary", she said, and smiled at me, just a tiny bit. Then she went back to issuing orders.
Feeling more sympathy for Fletcher Christian than I ever had previously, I tried to divert her with questions. Also, I was interested. She was a salty, upper class pirate, and I liked her.
"I have parents who are older, and they're still smarter than I am, so it's not likely that I'd assume you're bats. Or dopey. Is this slang dated?"I grinned at her.
She smiled contentedly, after making sure my arm was properly adjusted and secure for her clinging comfort. "I was the head nurse at (Rutgers?) Hospital. I was there when they did the first kidney transplant. Now THAT was a thing." She stopped and closed her eyes to remember, I pulled her out of the way of a speeding noncognizant limo. She didn't notice. She was thinking of the splendor of that moment.
"Were you a nephrology nurse? Did you know my uncle, Dr. Bricker? The famous nephrologist?"
She opened her eyes fast-and wide, as she realized we were in traffic--and skedaddled a bit as she asked,"Dr. NEAL Bricker? HE's your UNCLE?"
I smiled with pleasure. "Yup. And he's your age, and he and his amazing wife are TWICE as smart as I am, so no more prejudices about young 'uns, please."
We chatted some more. She had gone back to school and become a psychologist; written a book about breast cancer -"I wanted to call it "Renaissance", but the goddamn publisher said [here she adopted a mocking tone in sing song} "No one will KNOW what that MEANS, Yvonne!" She snorted in indignation, something I have not seen in person very often. "So they called it "You've Got A Friend." Another snort.
"You will pardon me saying so on such short acquaintance, " I said, "but that title somehow doesn't seem very...YOU."
She turned her pretty blue eyes towards me sideways, as if acknowledging reluctantly that I might be capable of cogent reasoning."No. It isn't."
We kept walking.
She said, "Okay, here's the UPS Store. We're going in here for a minute. You're coming with."
At this point, having smelled a whiff of distillery and juniper on her breath, I wasn't going to leave her by herself. I resigned myself to being late for class. "Okay," I sighed.
The men in the UPS store were more than kind to her- they were downright saintly gentleman.
While she was watching them Xerox stuff for her, she took to reminiscing. "My husband was a trombone player and a violinist, you know."
I said, startled, "Simultaneously?"
She looked at me sideways again for a moment, and then allowed herself to laugh.
:No, one at a time..." she said.
"Pity. He could been in vaudeville." I was funnin' her.
"Actually, he played for the house band at The Chase (?) Hotel, Played with Nat King Cole...Sophie Tucker..."
"NAT KING COLE?? He's my RINGTONE!" I cried, pulling out my phone and making it ring. Instantly it played King singing "Stardust."
"Sophie Tucker...now THERE was an unexpected broad." she said. "But you won't know who she is.
"Smile when you challenge me o showbiz trivia, Yvonne," said I. I then quoted some of Sophie' act to her.
She hooted with delight. "Yes! That's her! But you know, the damnedest thing..."
"What?" I asked, because she was drifting a bit.
She snapped to. "The damnedest thing is that, if you talked to her offstage, she had a very polished Back Bay accent. [She did a credible imitation of a lock-jawed Eastern pedigree girl.]
To me, Sophie was known for her thick New Yawk accent and vulgarity (funny vulgarity)--to hear that she was a tea drinking grande dame was causing me some trouble. So I said, "I'm going to sit down next to you, and process the cognitive dissonance. Oh...may I see your ring?"
She was wearing a Claddagh ring. I have one-it was the last ring my ex gave me--and I have been looking for it for days. It is two small hands holding one heart, and means "I will be faithful to you always, my one true love."
"I have a ring just like that" I said, turning her hand to examine the ring.
"Oh? You know what it means, then?" she asked. She was looking at me with sudden kindness in her face.
"Yes. Yes I do. It's a lovely sentiment."
I stood up. "Oh they're done. Shall we?"
Another series of complicated maneuvers got Yvonne, her rolling cart, me and and umbrella decanted onto the street intact. "I'm going to get a cab," she said.
"I'll help," i said. Another 20 minutes of maneuvering later, I put her into a taxi, gently. She said "Thank you , dear. You are kind. Remind me to tell you my favorite Neal story sometime." She started to close the door.
Then she opened it a bit and said "Hey! Young lady!"
I turned back for a moment. "Yes, Yvonne?"
She eyed me sharply. "What happened to your ring?"
I stood in a puddle, and thought about a photo I'd seen that day, that had changed my life a little.
"Well, young lady?"
I held up my two hands, ringless and manicured. "It's gone," I said. "It's gone." I smiled. "And I think I've just stopped looking for it. There are other rings. But yours is lovely. Goodnight."
She pulled the door to, and the cab sped away. She was going to the fire dept to complain about something, and had brought a "photo of my Daddy in his fireman's uniform in St Louis." she had confided. "That'll make em sit up and take notice. No one listens when you're old, young lady. So I bring props."
I walked a few blocks, already late to class, and already not caring. I ahd read in the Times this morning about 100 year olds and what had helped them stay alive, with joie de vivre, so long.
One woman said "Just put it behind you. Th past is the past. There's always better stuff in front of you. Never look back. Just don't." The other centenarians agreed. "Don't look back. Have fun. Don't dwell on the bad stuff. Look ahead."
I smiled, thinking about the article, and the cranky and vivacious lifeforce I had just bottled into a cab. Who showed me her ring, my same ring, and knew my uncle, who lives 3000 miles away, by first name. Who demanded my help and received it: exactly what I am trying to learn how to do in my own life, in so many ways.
Who might or might not have been "my sign", but who made me happy, as helping someone always does. As self forgetting in a good way, does. As I went off towards Sutton Place to my class, I thought "just keep looking forward...something better's coming", and thoght about the way the centanarians had repeated that, and thought about how it is what I'm going to be doing, from this step and that step on. Depite F. Scott Fitzegerald's seductively nihilistic sentnce" "And so we beat on, boats against the current, drawn back ceaselessly into the past,,"...I resolved, with each step, not to be swayed by his lyrical, liquid romntics, And to be a better boat. And go forward.
I walked on through the darkening air. And I sang "Stardust"- not softly, not loudly, but just loud enough for my own soul to hear it. Just that loud. "Sometimes I wonder, why I spend the lonely night/dreaming of a song/a melody/haunts my reverie/and I am once again with you..."
And I thought, "let's save the sadness for the singing and the songs, yes? Put drama on the stage where it belongs." Something in me lifted and flew free. I walked, and sang, and said "goodnight" to the sleepy windows I was passing, and felt my heart, at last, settle cozily back into the nest it had fled from, in June.
Goodnight, city. Goodnight, Yvonne. And Yvonne?
Thank you.
love peri
19 October 2010
There Is No Title For This That Google Will Recognize, So Screw It: Random Things
Random notes from a random notemaker: or,
Brides, Princes, Laundry Rooms and Dead Union Organizers DO have a Common Denominator. So there. (read on....)
1) Read today that Martha Custis "invented" the wedding veil. Martha Washington's granddaughter, she made herself a veil of white lace, after her fiance remarked that her face looked especially lovely when she peered through the lace curtain. What he was actually saying was "You look much better when your face is mostly hidden, but you're from an extremely rich family, so what the hell. " I wonder if he spent the rest of their married life positioning her behind drapes, potted plants, shower curtains, whatever.
It's a good thing he didn't say she looked good by lamplight. Women everywhere would be walking down the aisle with lampshades on their heads.
2) The Italian Prince called this evening, inviting me for two weeks in South America. "Or maybe Barbados.", he said. His English is not good. Nor is his grasp of vacation geography. He calls like clockwork every few months, and every few months i turn him down, but damn if that boy don't keep calling. Bless his princely little heart. He wasn't born a Prince, but was made a Prince of the Holy Roman Empire for his Services to Italy: he invented a process to make olives GROW in pretty colors and thus made more money than God. Apparently the world was waiting breathlessly for a pink olive. Who knew. -I've used every excuse in the book to wriggle out of these kind offers, such as: "I can't, I'm seeing somebody," [no, I'm not];"I can't, I'm going to, um, Wauhegan"[pretty much a "no" there, too..where IS Wauhegan?]," and , "I can't, I'm awaiting canonization,"-but to no avail. --Yes, yes, i COULD just hang up, but really--is YOUR life exciting enough that you can do without a call from a prince begging to take you to exotic destinations? And neither is mine.
3) While in the laundry room of the apartment building I live in this evening, and while folding what seemed like more laundry than ANYONE could POSSIBLY have EVER, I sighed out loud, without meaning too.
The nice, elderly yet sprightly, man folding across from me, looked up inquisitively.
"You okay?" he asked, in a kindly fashion.
"Yeah, I'm fine. It's just that I just remembered, my servants are imaginary. Damn it."
He smiled. "My daughter just moved to China, for her work, and she has servants. She still can't get used to it."
I grinned back. "You know, I was in a place with servants last year for a week, and I was AMAZED how easily a girl who grew up singing folk songs about unions, could get used to it. I still occasionally forget, and snap my fingers to have someone bring me a margarita by the pool."
He looked puzzled. "There's no pool on this building."
I sighed again. "I know. Or servants. Or margaritas."
He pointed out that there might well be margaritas I was unaware of on the premises, and I realized that he'd been kidding about the pool. Then, after frowning thoughtfully for a moment, he said, "Union songs?"
I had to think back a few sentences, and then realized: "Oh. Yes. Union songs. Folk songs from the 30s and 40s about the need for unions, and the meanness of thug union busters. I was sort of a pinkdiaper baby." [Note to young 'uns: a reddiaper baby is one who was brought up in the 30's by liberal NYC Jews, who leaned to the socialist side; a pink diaper baby is a descendant of same, either literal descendant or spiritual.]
He stopped folding, put his laundry down carefully, stood up straight, and drew a deep breath.
"I dreamt I saw....Joe Hill last night...." he warbled, in a pretty sturdy baritone.
"-Alive as you and me!" I chimed in delightedly.
We sang the next part in unison: "Said I, "but Joe, you're ten years dead!" we caterwauled. In a nonetheless pleasing manner.
And I went high for the harmony:
"I never died, said he....I never died, said HEEEEEeee!"
We did the entire song.
I was about to ask him if he knew "Long Black Veil", but the laundry room was closing.
In the elevator, we talked our shared love of traditional folk music: not modern folk, which can be great and has some of the best songwriters alive committing it (Michael Peter Smith, David Massingill, Erik Frandsen) but the stuff that was written by plaintive and anonymous folk in the last five hundred years. And brought to the US in boats and planes, and then: transformed by the loved ones waiting on the new but homesick shores, into songs that were the same- only different.
Then he got out, bowed deeply and dropped his laundry basket. I giggled and waved as the doors closed.
And that, ladies and jellybeans? Is why I live in this town.
love
peri
How are YOU?
xxx
p
1) Read today that Martha Custis "invented" the wedding veil. Martha Washington's granddaughter, she made herself a veil of white lace, after her fiance remarked that her face looked especially lovely when she peered through the lace curtain. What he was actually saying was "You look much better when your face is mostly hidden, but you're from an extremely rich family, so what the hell. " I wonder if he spent the rest of their married life positioning her behind drapes, potted plants, shower curtains, whatever.
It's a good thing he didn't say she looked good by lamplight. Women everywhere would be walking down the aisle with lampshades on their heads.
2) The Italian Prince called this evening, inviting me for two weeks in South America. "Or maybe Barbados.", he said. His English is not good. Nor is his grasp of vacation geography. He calls like clockwork every few months, and every few months i turn him down, but damn if that boy don't keep calling. Bless his princely little heart. He wasn't born a Prince, but was made a Prince of the Holy Roman Empire for his Services to Italy: he invented a process to make olives GROW in pretty colors and thus made more money than God. Apparently the world was waiting breathlessly for a pink olive. Who knew. -I've used every excuse in the book to wriggle out of these kind offers, such as: "I can't, I'm seeing somebody," [no, I'm not];"I can't, I'm going to, um, Wauhegan"[pretty much a "no" there, too..where IS Wauhegan?]," and , "I can't, I'm awaiting canonization,"-but to no avail. --Yes, yes, i COULD just hang up, but really--is YOUR life exciting enough that you can do without a call from a prince begging to take you to exotic destinations? And neither is mine.
3) While in the laundry room of the apartment building I live in this evening, and while folding what seemed like more laundry than ANYONE could POSSIBLY have EVER, I sighed out loud, without meaning too.
The nice, elderly yet sprightly, man folding across from me, looked up inquisitively.
"You okay?" he asked, in a kindly fashion.
"Yeah, I'm fine. It's just that I just remembered, my servants are imaginary. Damn it."
He smiled. "My daughter just moved to China, for her work, and she has servants. She still can't get used to it."
I grinned back. "You know, I was in a place with servants last year for a week, and I was AMAZED how easily a girl who grew up singing folk songs about unions, could get used to it. I still occasionally forget, and snap my fingers to have someone bring me a margarita by the pool."
He looked puzzled. "There's no pool on this building."
I sighed again. "I know. Or servants. Or margaritas."
He pointed out that there might well be margaritas I was unaware of on the premises, and I realized that he'd been kidding about the pool. Then, after frowning thoughtfully for a moment, he said, "Union songs?"
I had to think back a few sentences, and then realized: "Oh. Yes. Union songs. Folk songs from the 30s and 40s about the need for unions, and the meanness of thug union busters. I was sort of a pinkdiaper baby." [Note to young 'uns: a reddiaper baby is one who was brought up in the 30's by liberal NYC Jews, who leaned to the socialist side; a pink diaper baby is a descendant of same, either literal descendant or spiritual.]
He stopped folding, put his laundry down carefully, stood up straight, and drew a deep breath.
"I dreamt I saw....Joe Hill last night...." he warbled, in a pretty sturdy baritone.
"-Alive as you and me!" I chimed in delightedly.
We sang the next part in unison: "Said I, "but Joe, you're ten years dead!" we caterwauled. In a nonetheless pleasing manner.
And I went high for the harmony:
"I never died, said he....I never died, said HEEEEEeee!"
We did the entire song.
I was about to ask him if he knew "Long Black Veil", but the laundry room was closing.
In the elevator, we talked our shared love of traditional folk music: not modern folk, which can be great and has some of the best songwriters alive committing it (Michael Peter Smith, David Massingill, Erik Frandsen) but the stuff that was written by plaintive and anonymous folk in the last five hundred years. And brought to the US in boats and planes, and then: transformed by the loved ones waiting on the new but homesick shores, into songs that were the same- only different.
Then he got out, bowed deeply and dropped his laundry basket. I giggled and waved as the doors closed.
And that, ladies and jellybeans? Is why I live in this town.
love
peri
How are YOU?
xxx
p
16 October 2010
Went to the Metropolitan Opera the other night to see "Boris Godunov". I love the accoutrements of opera: getting to dress to the glittering nines, getting to be with a handsome man in black tie, getting charged 32 dollars for a glass of Veuve Clicqout (Nope, didn't buy one; nor was the bartender amused when I asked him, since he didn't take credit cards, is I could trade colorful shells and beads, or perhaps liovestock, instead. He might have just have been bitter because he didn't have change for a sheep.) It's just opera itself I'm not sure about. Which is an irremediable failure on my part, but it's probably like sea urchin sushi or Justin Bieber: you either totally love it or you, well, don't.
I have written about opera before; I think it can be good for a critic to know absolutely nothing in the slightest, about the art form she's talking about. -Not good for the readers, maybe, but really- who asked them? Sheesh.
This production of "Godunov" was impressive but a little on the "hey, let's just do weird things and hope the audience thinks it's arty!" side. The sets were very, very minimal: apparently, someone walked into an empty warehouse one day and said, "Hey this reminds of me the scheming and power struglles in 18th century Russia!"- and the costumes were beautiful but a mite distracting. Partially because it appeared that the costume designer's approach was to close his eyes, open a book about "Costume Through The Ages", and simply copy whatever his eye first fell on. So there were ladies in 16th century ruffs; 19th centurey Empire costumes; and 20th century Gaultier suits; while the men cavorted in the priesthood robes of an oder that didn't exist at that time, as well as 19th century peasant, 21st century Generic Madman, and, with Boris G himself, a sort of Marilyn Manson-meets-Nine-Inch-Nails post Goth thing: he also had waistlength Cher Hair. I kept thinking: "you're Tsar, dude: you can't afford a haircut? Even washing it would be a nice gesture."
You'll be surprised to learn that it didn't end happily. However, if I remember my history right, which is a pretty big "if, the REAL "False Dimitri" (he pretended to be the rightful Tsar, don't even ask, really) didn't stride out onto the stage proclaiming that justice peace and really good borscht-the kind you make from scratch--would now be readily available to all you smelly poor people. Nope. What ACTUALLY happened was that the peasants got fed up with him--turned out the borscht was storebought--and shot him out of a cannon, over the Russian border into Poland, a technique one almost never finds recommeneded in books called things like "How To Live A Long And Healthy Life". In fact, the number three rule, after "Stop smoking" and "don't date actors", is "Try not to get shot out of a cannon into Poland." And I don"t. or do, or have, or haven't. Or something. Damn this grammar thing.- Anyway, good night.
I have written about opera before; I think it can be good for a critic to know absolutely nothing in the slightest, about the art form she's talking about. -Not good for the readers, maybe, but really- who asked them? Sheesh.
This production of "Godunov" was impressive but a little on the "hey, let's just do weird things and hope the audience thinks it's arty!" side. The sets were very, very minimal: apparently, someone walked into an empty warehouse one day and said, "Hey this reminds of me the scheming and power struglles in 18th century Russia!"- and the costumes were beautiful but a mite distracting. Partially because it appeared that the costume designer's approach was to close his eyes, open a book about "Costume Through The Ages", and simply copy whatever his eye first fell on. So there were ladies in 16th century ruffs; 19th centurey Empire costumes; and 20th century Gaultier suits; while the men cavorted in the priesthood robes of an oder that didn't exist at that time, as well as 19th century peasant, 21st century Generic Madman, and, with Boris G himself, a sort of Marilyn Manson-meets-Nine-Inch-Nails post Goth thing: he also had waistlength Cher Hair. I kept thinking: "you're Tsar, dude: you can't afford a haircut? Even washing it would be a nice gesture."
You'll be surprised to learn that it didn't end happily. However, if I remember my history right, which is a pretty big "if, the REAL "False Dimitri" (he pretended to be the rightful Tsar, don't even ask, really) didn't stride out onto the stage proclaiming that justice peace and really good borscht-the kind you make from scratch--would now be readily available to all you smelly poor people. Nope. What ACTUALLY happened was that the peasants got fed up with him--turned out the borscht was storebought--and shot him out of a cannon, over the Russian border into Poland, a technique one almost never finds recommeneded in books called things like "How To Live A Long And Healthy Life". In fact, the number three rule, after "Stop smoking" and "don't date actors", is "Try not to get shot out of a cannon into Poland." And I don"t. or do, or have, or haven't. Or something. Damn this grammar thing.- Anyway, good night.
07 October 2010
Giving It Up
I've always held the theory that people either "expand" or "contact" as they get older.
Not literally--well, okay, sometimes literally--but I've noticed, especially after 30, that a person's reaction
to, say, a difficult life situation, comes down to the most basic of two choices: we either move towards the situation or away from it. "Moving towards" involves stuff that doesn't feel good at the moment: feeling the pain, figuring out what one's lessons are, facing whatever truth needs to be faced. It's the path of growth, and, like most things that are good for us, is not that much fun. But like exercise, and broccoli, and writing thank you notes...it makes us feel better later. MUCH better.
"Moving away" from the situation IS fun...well, it feels like fun at the time. In NYC, one can keep incredibly busy, which not only is distracting, but makes one feel important. "I'm really busy, therefore I MUST be doing something important", could be alternately the motto for either NY/LAers.,or a hamster in his wheel. I speak from experience: I have spent a lot of time as a rather glamourous hamster.
When you move away from a difficult situation--when you drink a lot, or lie to avoid "hurt feelings", or get lost in the arms of yet another Troo Luv, or do anything that distracts you while at the same time feels really good--a necessary part of you is at risk of genuinely dying. I'm not saying "never have a glass of wine after a hard day at the office". I am saying that what I've learned recently is: sometimes, you need to be quiet, do nothing, and listen.
It's HARD TO DO. -DAMN!
I've always been a "runner towards": I can't help it, it's part of my nature. I learned this in a very concrete way when, 15 years ago, a grownup was beating a child on the street, and I ran towards the situation, not away. I got my hand broken with a tire iron for my foolhardiness, but the adult got sent to jail, so that worked out as a reasonable trade. But there are nights when I can't find much good about myself--I'm not 22 anymore, or I'm not successful enough, or my nose is not currently fashionable--when just knowing I ran towards and not away, makes me think, "well at least there's that. " -More permanently, I learned that I can do that. I can face difficult truths. -Eventually. But there's always another growth step, isn't there? The next trick is to feel the bad stuff and face the hard stuff: without wallowing in 'em. As a songwriter, I can rationalize "wallowing" big time--this isn't selfpity, it's research for a song, dammit! I NEED to hang on to these emotions! They might be worth something someday!-Sheesh.
I ran into someone the other day who'd been a close friend, a long time ago. He had contracted. He didn't want to know anything knew: he had his ideas and beliefs, thank you. He had the same opinions as he had a decade before, but now they'd solidified into unshakeable dogma. When I first knew him, he was enthusiastic, curious,, and made lots of mistakes-but some of them turned out pretty well. Now he made no mistakes...well, not in his eyes, anyway. Other people made a LOT of them, according to him. His life philosophy had become "I don't want to hear it."
I've been like that. I recently had to grovel to a friend because I'd been so uncompassionate and so judgmental when she went through a breakup a few months ago. I was so busy feeling superior, that I couldn't and wouldn't feel her pain. I mean, she deserved it for making such stupid choices, right? -Well, ladies and jellybeans, the old adage is true: Karma IS a bitch. I had to get broken open, recently,to let the light shine back in. I had to look at some choices I'd made. Oooops. Not so hot.
It's been hard. It was the hardest time I've ever been through. There was a time when I was young enough to think I had the luxury, of having time to run away from the situation. I drank enough, "fell in love" enough, and ran around enough to distract myself from whatever the Universe was holding up in front of my face and saying"LOOK AT THIS", about.- But I don't have that time anymore. Never did, truth be told. Now the stakes are higher, and the world says "grow, or else." So I had to expand, to let in light, to look at what hadn't worked; I had to, essentially, choose what I wanted to be when I grew up. And this time? No backsies, as we said in childhood.
So this time? I cried. And learned when to stop crying. I had some wine. And then didn't for a while. I looked at where i'd been lazy, or selfish, or had ignored my own inner counsel; I looked at how I'd lied, or been thoughtless, or ...or...or.... But I also learned that self-flagellation is no substitute for actual CHANGE; part of grieving was learning when to stop. I started to look at the insanely painful situation with what my wise sister would call "radical acceptance" and my mom would call "emotional economy": I accepted it.
This thing happened. It can't unhappen. I wish it hadn't happened. But now i will accept it completely and move on.
The folks I know who choose growth--in ANY form--are the friends i've watched grow into wiser, finer, stronger folks. The friends I had who chose "running away"...well, I don't know what happened to them.
Every day I force myself to choose growth of SOME kind--reading, or thinking, or reaching out with hardlearned compassion--and every day it's a chore. But I look in the mirror lately and I see--well, okay, I see someone who could use a little Botox in places, but I also see a woman who has worked really hard to earn my trust and respect. I don't know if I would have met her ever, if the Terrible Thing hadn't happened.
But it did.
And weirdly?
I'm grateful.
love
peri
Not literally--well, okay, sometimes literally--but I've noticed, especially after 30, that a person's reaction
to, say, a difficult life situation, comes down to the most basic of two choices: we either move towards the situation or away from it. "Moving towards" involves stuff that doesn't feel good at the moment: feeling the pain, figuring out what one's lessons are, facing whatever truth needs to be faced. It's the path of growth, and, like most things that are good for us, is not that much fun. But like exercise, and broccoli, and writing thank you notes...it makes us feel better later. MUCH better.
"Moving away" from the situation IS fun...well, it feels like fun at the time. In NYC, one can keep incredibly busy, which not only is distracting, but makes one feel important. "I'm really busy, therefore I MUST be doing something important", could be alternately the motto for either NY/LAers.,or a hamster in his wheel. I speak from experience: I have spent a lot of time as a rather glamourous hamster.
When you move away from a difficult situation--when you drink a lot, or lie to avoid "hurt feelings", or get lost in the arms of yet another Troo Luv, or do anything that distracts you while at the same time feels really good--a necessary part of you is at risk of genuinely dying. I'm not saying "never have a glass of wine after a hard day at the office". I am saying that what I've learned recently is: sometimes, you need to be quiet, do nothing, and listen.
It's HARD TO DO. -DAMN!
I've always been a "runner towards": I can't help it, it's part of my nature. I learned this in a very concrete way when, 15 years ago, a grownup was beating a child on the street, and I ran towards the situation, not away. I got my hand broken with a tire iron for my foolhardiness, but the adult got sent to jail, so that worked out as a reasonable trade. But there are nights when I can't find much good about myself--I'm not 22 anymore, or I'm not successful enough, or my nose is not currently fashionable--when just knowing I ran towards and not away, makes me think, "well at least there's that. " -More permanently, I learned that I can do that. I can face difficult truths. -Eventually. But there's always another growth step, isn't there? The next trick is to feel the bad stuff and face the hard stuff: without wallowing in 'em. As a songwriter, I can rationalize "wallowing" big time--this isn't selfpity, it's research for a song, dammit! I NEED to hang on to these emotions! They might be worth something someday!-Sheesh.
I ran into someone the other day who'd been a close friend, a long time ago. He had contracted. He didn't want to know anything knew: he had his ideas and beliefs, thank you. He had the same opinions as he had a decade before, but now they'd solidified into unshakeable dogma. When I first knew him, he was enthusiastic, curious,, and made lots of mistakes-but some of them turned out pretty well. Now he made no mistakes...well, not in his eyes, anyway. Other people made a LOT of them, according to him. His life philosophy had become "I don't want to hear it."
I've been like that. I recently had to grovel to a friend because I'd been so uncompassionate and so judgmental when she went through a breakup a few months ago. I was so busy feeling superior, that I couldn't and wouldn't feel her pain. I mean, she deserved it for making such stupid choices, right? -Well, ladies and jellybeans, the old adage is true: Karma IS a bitch. I had to get broken open, recently,to let the light shine back in. I had to look at some choices I'd made. Oooops. Not so hot.
It's been hard. It was the hardest time I've ever been through. There was a time when I was young enough to think I had the luxury, of having time to run away from the situation. I drank enough, "fell in love" enough, and ran around enough to distract myself from whatever the Universe was holding up in front of my face and saying"LOOK AT THIS", about.- But I don't have that time anymore. Never did, truth be told. Now the stakes are higher, and the world says "grow, or else." So I had to expand, to let in light, to look at what hadn't worked; I had to, essentially, choose what I wanted to be when I grew up. And this time? No backsies, as we said in childhood.
So this time? I cried. And learned when to stop crying. I had some wine. And then didn't for a while. I looked at where i'd been lazy, or selfish, or had ignored my own inner counsel; I looked at how I'd lied, or been thoughtless, or ...or...or.... But I also learned that self-flagellation is no substitute for actual CHANGE; part of grieving was learning when to stop. I started to look at the insanely painful situation with what my wise sister would call "radical acceptance" and my mom would call "emotional economy": I accepted it.
This thing happened. It can't unhappen. I wish it hadn't happened. But now i will accept it completely and move on.
The folks I know who choose growth--in ANY form--are the friends i've watched grow into wiser, finer, stronger folks. The friends I had who chose "running away"...well, I don't know what happened to them.
Every day I force myself to choose growth of SOME kind--reading, or thinking, or reaching out with hardlearned compassion--and every day it's a chore. But I look in the mirror lately and I see--well, okay, I see someone who could use a little Botox in places, but I also see a woman who has worked really hard to earn my trust and respect. I don't know if I would have met her ever, if the Terrible Thing hadn't happened.
But it did.
And weirdly?
I'm grateful.
love
peri
17 September 2010
A completely silly lyric, because just watched "Pirates of the Caribbean"
The Chick Pirate Song peri lyons 2010
in the morn I’m away
to far jamaica bay
Lad, I"m afraid I used you for my pleasure;
I’m a pirate lass
Drinks my fill and breaks the glass!
And you are just a coin in all my treasure...
The wind is in the sails--
The porpoises and whales
Will serenade us in our time together;
Bid home and heart adieu
For who will ransom you?
Yes you are now my captive lad forever
And if you do ignore me
or (much more likely) bore me...
Then I'll maroon you on a lonely cay;
Provision you-- then kiss you
And darling, I may miss you...
But by that time I'll be so far away....
Cuz Im a pirate lass
Drinks my fill and breaks the glass
And you are just a coin in all my treasure
But darling don't be blue
I used you, it is true...
But surely you would not deny the pleasure!
In the morn I’m away
to far jamaica bay
Lad, Im afraid I used you for my pleasure;
I’m a pirate lass
Drinks my fill and breaks the glass!
And you are just a coin in all my treasure...
But surely, you would ne'er deny the pleasure
peri 2010
a little old fashioned but what the hell.
16 September 2010
Anymore: song lyric (peri's)
Well, this about sums it up. Switched up the genders: actually, it should be a male/female duet when sung.=PL xx
Anymore
It's not something that is easily explained;
I don't even know what for.
We can argue who is crazy, who is sane:
I just don't want to anymore.
You want to reason with me: call me and complain
List all the good times from before...
I am sorry to be causing you this pain
I just don't want to anymore.
(bridge)
Look: Love is strange, and everybody knows that fact-
There's a helpful song for every heart that's broken;
Things rearrange: when love is leaving -and you've caught it in the act-
Then you forget every wise word ever spoken
Yes, I'm a heartless boy who's turned his back on love.
Yes, I agree now ,like before.
You throw your gauntlet down as I adjust my glove;
Demand just who and why and what I'm thinking of;
You ask me if I even know the cost of love...
Well, I don't want to anymore.
I just don't want to, anymore.
c 2010 peri lyons/valley cottage music ascap
31 August 2010
A Rather Silly Lyric In Honor of The US Open and My Recent Breakup
U.S. Open Your Heart, My Dear c 2010 Peri Lyons, who wrote it and all
Though tennis I know nothing of,
They all know nothing equals love;
And all the sports fans know the call:
Love equals nothing much at all.
The poets tell us there's no cost:
It's better to have loved and lost-
But let me tell you something, hon-
It's BETTER to have loved and WON.
Sportsfans and poets all agree
That love's a bloody mystery:
If love's a game, as seems to be:
The heart's a lousy referee.
So though I loved and lost, it's true,
And played no games at all with you:
I've cut out sobbing into gin-
Cuz next time? I will play to win.
xx pl c 2010
************************************************
One of the most annoying things about the career I seem to have fallen into by accident, is that I occasionally have to actually TAKE the damn advice I give to others, in such a blithe and breezy manner.. Like the annoyingly new-age question, "If you knew this awful situation was happening in order to teach you a very specific lesson very fast, what do you think that lesson is?" I love asking that, in a slightly pompous way. But now that it's happened to me? Jesus, I HATE answering it.
Because, let's face it, what is the fun of going through a very hard time, if you can't feel immensely, gloriously sorry for yourself, and therefore indulge in- and rationalize!- incredibly self-indulgent behaviour?
Of COURSE you're temporarily allowed to watch 5 hours of "The Tudors" until the sun comes up! (I would also do the whole "consuming a pint of Haagen Dazs" thing as well, but sadly, don't like sweets. Or lately, food.) Of COURSE you can stay up all night listening to sappy music and sobbing! -Of course, unless you can figure ut a way to get PAID for these activities, pretty soon you have to snap out of it and go be a Regular Person Without Misery Privileges again, which kind of sucks. I got a lot of free cab rides when I was being Attractively Wistful And Slightly Teary. But now I'm kinda over it, so I have to pay AND tip. Am considering hiding raw onion in hankie to bring back those pity-inducing-and-really-rather-profitable tears.
I do miss living with my guy: we really had a blast together, and I kind of perfected the half badass/half geisha thing, AND I re-learned how to cook. But it turns out I'm much shallower than I thought: six weeks and booom: all better. It"s hard to realize that while,yes, one can be deeply and poetically miserable as befits a tortured poet with a profound soul, one can ALSO be pretty much completely cheered up by finding a pair of Yves Saint Laurent shoes on eBay for 5 bucks. Damn it.
Well, am off to read 19th century Romantic poets and weep for the beautiful poignancy of it all.-Oh, hell, who are we kidding: I'm off to bid on that really cool pair of vintage Air Jordans. I'm pretty sure that Shelley and Keats kept their references to athletic footwear to a minimum. But you never know.
Those guys were deep.
love
per
Though tennis I know nothing of,
They all know nothing equals love;
And all the sports fans know the call:
Love equals nothing much at all.
The poets tell us there's no cost:
It's better to have loved and lost-
But let me tell you something, hon-
It's BETTER to have loved and WON.
Sportsfans and poets all agree
That love's a bloody mystery:
If love's a game, as seems to be:
The heart's a lousy referee.
So though I loved and lost, it's true,
And played no games at all with you:
I've cut out sobbing into gin-
Cuz next time? I will play to win.
xx pl c 2010
************************************************
One of the most annoying things about the career I seem to have fallen into by accident, is that I occasionally have to actually TAKE the damn advice I give to others, in such a blithe and breezy manner.. Like the annoyingly new-age question, "If you knew this awful situation was happening in order to teach you a very specific lesson very fast, what do you think that lesson is?" I love asking that, in a slightly pompous way. But now that it's happened to me? Jesus, I HATE answering it.
Because, let's face it, what is the fun of going through a very hard time, if you can't feel immensely, gloriously sorry for yourself, and therefore indulge in- and rationalize!- incredibly self-indulgent behaviour?
Of COURSE you're temporarily allowed to watch 5 hours of "The Tudors" until the sun comes up! (I would also do the whole "consuming a pint of Haagen Dazs" thing as well, but sadly, don't like sweets. Or lately, food.) Of COURSE you can stay up all night listening to sappy music and sobbing! -Of course, unless you can figure ut a way to get PAID for these activities, pretty soon you have to snap out of it and go be a Regular Person Without Misery Privileges again, which kind of sucks. I got a lot of free cab rides when I was being Attractively Wistful And Slightly Teary. But now I'm kinda over it, so I have to pay AND tip. Am considering hiding raw onion in hankie to bring back those pity-inducing-and-really-rather-profitable tears.
I do miss living with my guy: we really had a blast together, and I kind of perfected the half badass/half geisha thing, AND I re-learned how to cook. But it turns out I'm much shallower than I thought: six weeks and booom: all better. It"s hard to realize that while,yes, one can be deeply and poetically miserable as befits a tortured poet with a profound soul, one can ALSO be pretty much completely cheered up by finding a pair of Yves Saint Laurent shoes on eBay for 5 bucks. Damn it.
Well, am off to read 19th century Romantic poets and weep for the beautiful poignancy of it all.-Oh, hell, who are we kidding: I'm off to bid on that really cool pair of vintage Air Jordans. I'm pretty sure that Shelley and Keats kept their references to athletic footwear to a minimum. But you never know.
Those guys were deep.
love
per
02 June 2010
"The Oriental Trading Wedding Catalog" Will Lie To You And Make You Sad.
I recently discovered that, when one gets engaged,one mysteriously starts receiving bushels of wedding-related catalogs. They're really kind of amazing, in their fervent belief that NO object is too trivial to be turned into a fetishistic wedding decoration/ornament/rather doubtful gift. I spent the hours in which I should have been cleaning, today, mesmerized like a cobra by a mongoose, by the wares featured in the mysterious and possibly-not-really-Asian, bridal catalog, "Oriental Trading Wedding!Everything from "Will You" to "I do"!"" - Yikes. No, really. Yikes.
Apparently, there is an insatiable demand for items such as: custom flip flops for one's wedding guests, something I thought was pretty amazingly tacky,until I learned that Ivanka Trump had those at her recent wedding to Jared Kushner. (Wait...which is the Trump daughter? Ivanka? What's the mom's name? Why do I care? Did Heidi and Spencer really break up? Is Heidi now going to pursue a career as an inflatable pool toy? But we digress. -And how.) But I still think flip flops are tacky.
There are also slightly distressing items. Somehow, the photo of wooden chairs set up outside with customized paper fans on them, is not reassuring.
Why not go all out, and have huge monogrammed blocks of ice for the VIP guests to sit on?Or why not skip the fans altogether and have the damn thing INside? I hate outdoor weddings. My stiletto heels always sink into the grass/sand/Jello/best man, and I wobble in an unflattering manner. Not good. Also, there are always gnats in the crab dip. Between wobbling, spitting out gnat-filled crab bits unobtrusively into the shrubbery, and wrasslin' the mother in law for a seat on the monogrammed ice block, it all goes to hell in a handbasket quickly. -A tasteful, monogrammed, white satin handbasket. See catalog. Page 5.
We will quickly pass over the "Personalized Wedding Knife", on page 9. It doesn't bear thinking about. Although it will come in handy at about three AM when the bride accuses her new hubby of staring at the bridesmaids' cleavage, and he responds that she shouldn't have dressed her closest female friends like "Little Bo Peep Becomes A Prostitute: The Movie", and pretty soon the Personalized Wedding Knife's TRUE purpose becomes all too apparent.
Some of these catalog items have the reek of desperation about them, an air of "methinks the couple doth protest too much." One catalog is very big on having you, the Gentle Reader, engrave the phrase "Bruce and Carleen: Two Hearts, One Love." on everything- Well yes. Two hearts, one love: One would hope so: these people are getting married, after all. "Two Hearts, One Mutually Unspoken But Relieved Agreement To Settle" is accurate but depressing, and "Three Hearts,One Love" while amusing, would be complicated. And probably French. And finally, "Two Hearts, Four Kidneys, One Appendix, and Two Silicone Implants: One Love", while interesting and informative, would be prohibitively costly to engrave. And who, exactly,are Bruce and Carleen? Unless you are a 1950's country singer and/or own a small hair salon in Atkins, Georgia, you should not be spelling your name with two successive "ee"s.
-Bruce, you're fine. And probably gay.
Oooh, look, we're at the "Excessive Crosses" section already! Reaffirm your faith AND make your Jewish guests uncomfortable! Talk about win-win! -And here! Page 18! There are WASPy butter mints tastefully wrapped in Episcopal Cross wrappers, which say to me: 1) The food at this wedding is NOT going to be tasty, but WILL have all the crusts cut off; and 2) After this evening? This couple will never have sex again.
(I grew up Episcopal. I'm allowed to say this. Besides, it is a truth universally acknowledged, that the WASPier the wedding, the crappier the food.)
I could go on and on. The "Save the Date" wedding magnet, which OSTENSIBLY shows a cartoon couple "taking the plunge" in snorkels (?), but ACTUALLY looks like they are hanging themselves simultaneously. (Image to come...it's awesome.) There are other "Save The Date" magnets, that seem to read "Eric and David Are Getting Married!", which I LOVED, but which seemed unexpectedly enlightened in this particular context...sadly, it was "Erin", not Eric. Sigh.-I also read one as "Dawn and Marie:Gettin Hitched!" but it turned out to be "Dawn and Marc", much to my disappointment.
On page 23, there is a white, wedding themed birdcage, to symbolize your coming entrapment, despair, and your ultimate fate of, metaphorically, winding up ,feet in the air, on a seed strewn page of last week's newspaper. Fun! -The "cartoon bride and groom" themed toilet paper, page 29, makes the "Personalized Knife" seem both optimistic AND tasteful. The "Round Silver Cardboard Dinner Plates" (page 32) look -by accident or design- EXACTLY like the tinware found in prison mess halls; page 46 features, grimly, THREE MORE personalized Wedding Knives; and this Trilogy Of Resignation And Doom is rounded off, on page 72, with the suggestion that you gift your bridesmaids with--wait for it--engraved flasks. Because they will crave the sweet embrace of that one special man on this romantic day: yes, we mean Johnny Walker Black.
On page 23, there is a white, wedding themed birdcage, to symbolize your coming entrapment, despair, and your ultimate fate of, metaphorically, winding up ,feet in the air, on a seed strewn page of last week's newspaper. Fun! -The "cartoon bride and groom" themed toilet paper, page 29, makes the "Personalized Knife" seem both optimistic AND tasteful. The "Round Silver Cardboard Dinner Plates" (page 32) look -by accident or design- EXACTLY like the tinware found in prison mess halls; page 46 features, grimly, THREE MORE personalized Wedding Knives; and this Trilogy Of Resignation And Doom is rounded off, on page 72, with the suggestion that you gift your bridesmaids with--wait for it--engraved flasks. Because they will crave the sweet embrace of that one special man on this romantic day: yes, we mean Johnny Walker Black.
{An upbeat note here: the Jordan Almonds in your wedding colors are cool. I love Jordan Almonds. You can never go wrong with Jordan Almonds. And the personalized candy corn is cool too, although it might confuse your guests into thinking it's actually Halloween, and your "bride and groom" outfits are costumes. But only if you've already given them their flasks.}
To sum up: In the words of one satisfied customer, under "Advice From The Bride", are these golden gems of helpful wisdom:
1) Put a SPECIAL centerpiece on the table of the bride and groom! [Um, yes. DUH. The "Dixie Cup with a daisy in it",while sweet, won't really do it.]
2) Have plenty of champagne and wine glasses on hand for the adult guests! {Because everyone lying under the wine box spigot and gulping, just TAKES too damn long.}
3) Polyester flowers make EVERYTHING more elegant! [Well, no. No,they don't. Truly not. Please,God.No.}
and, this final, enigmatic gem:
4) When it comes to your Wedding Day, skimping on the special details shouldn't be optional. {Well, of course not! Or, of course! Or...wait, what does this MEAN?" Not not skimping on the details should not be not optional?" Or, "Skimp away?" What???]
So pull up a block of monogrammed ice, sharpen your Wedding Knife, and call yourself Bruce And Carleen. Remind guests that you are getting married because you are in LOVE, with two hearts and one love and a vestigial appendix, and not because you're almost thirty and let's face it, the dating pool is dwindling. Put on your flip flops, fill up your flask and relax! , secure in the knowledge that: The divorce rate is 53 %, your BRIDESmaids, at the end of the day, will -unlike YOU- still be single; and really: Jordan Almonds are SO TASTY!! Especially in Your Colors.
And polyester flowers go with everything.
************
Peri Lyons c 6/1/2010 all rights reserved
24 May 2010
How to Tell The A List from The A Train.
"You NEVER say "private jet"!" My friend C. rolled her huge green eyes.
I was being a smartass, almost never a very good plan.
"Never? Even if someone asks what P-R-I-V-A-T-E J-E-T spells?" I asked. Sometimes I like to wind her up by being a Stroppy Cow. -But not very often.
She blew out Gauloise smoke impatiently. I remembered,privately,that she was born in the Chinese Year of Dragon,so smoke from her nostrils was both Chinesely appropriate AND a warning sign. I also decided not to mention to her, that I'd thought this.
"No! You say, at most, something about "landing at Teterboro." Or...let me see...I heard someone do this AMAZING thing,where she complained that her ride home from France was SO turbulent that next time she was flying commercial." She swiveled her chair back to the computer to catch up on emails. Problem solved.
I LOVE this stuff. I love mastery in ANY subject,and my friend has mastery in a few: but one of the things she's kind of genius at is How To Act And Talk Like An A-Lister, or as my russian pal Anya always put it, a "TopTop". -(When asked about this coinage, Anya blthely explained that when she first came here from Moscow,she'd heard people say "He's a top,top [designer, curator, fill in blank here]" and thought that was the actual word for those people.)
My friend C is not very patient, does not suffer those she deems fools gladly-or at all--but DAMN, that girl knows her stuff. So I listen. And learn. The thing is? It works.
I am not a natural A Lister. I am a talker; also? A blurter. And I can't lie now that I've figured out I truly suck at it (my "tells include: breaking out in hives, blushing vermilion, and having my voice go up so many octaves I sound like a BeeGee); and my idea of a social grace is that: I didn't hit you. I dream of being the woman about whom people whisper, "She's fluent in French,Mandarin,Portugues and Swahili,", but the fact is, when I do speak French in France, French people laugh and laugh. And then answer me in English. (They do this rather kindly. I think, for them, it was like watching a duck try and explain particle physics:not very good, but I did get points for "effort".) In Cannes last week I'm pretty sure I told a nice woman,in French, that she was a species of eggplant. I meant it as a compliment,is the awful thing.
Some other non-A-list qualities have included talking too much; name dropping (out of exuberance and disbelief, but, hey,it's still pretty lame); the ability to trip over dust motes as I'm trying to glide elegantly across a room and instead wind up doing do a faceplant in the hummus dip; and an insane insistence on doing my makeup in the cab without a mirror,guaranteeing I arrive looking like a five year old girl who REALLY wants to be Diana Vreeland.
Backstory/Digression:
Two years ago, I saw the handsomest and most amazing man (ever) (truly!) (hot, brilliant, funny, honest, loyal, kind, faithful, utterly trustworthy and a beautiful, noble soul)- across a crowded room, and fell ass-over-teakettle in love with him. Because miracles actually DO occur, he reciprocated the feeling. and we wound up talking till 2, and then calling each other and talking on the phone till dawn. And now, God willin' and the creek don't rise, we're engaged. There's "lucky" and there's : "luckier than any woman has ever been", also known as: "being engaged to John Buffalo Mailer". Honestly, it's like winning the spiritual lottery ...only much, MUCH better. -Anyway:
Because my fella's mom is a charismatic Southern born beauty, and his genius Dad had friends from every walk of life (boxing promoters, A list movie stars, former Army buddies), my guy is that rarest of creatures, a natural gentleman. He is the same guy all the time, whether at a glittery Peggy Siegal hoedown or in our kitchen, having beer with our neighbors and helping me fry chicken. So he's taught me a lot of social graces (don't spit on the floor, don't ask "what do YOU do" but instead "how do you spend your time?", don't hit no one almost ever) , but his politeness is not just politesse: he genuinely likes people and is really interested in them. Which,as it turns out, seems to be the Big Secret. Because, after I informed the nice lady in France that she was a garden vegetable, I ALSO asked if she had photos of her kids, and I really meant it because I really like people's photos of their families. So she warmed up, and we wound up having a really nice time, and she forgave me for suggesting she should probably be breaded and covered with marinara sauce and cheese, and it all wound up great.
I love my friend C--the one from the opening paragraph--and, awestruck, admire her social acumen, all of which I've listened to and all of which has worked. And, although her manner of teaching is a little more abrupt than my fiance's, it actually springs from the same sweet wellspring: empathy, love and interest. Because manners, au fond (that's French! And I'm an eggplant!) --are about the OTHER PERSON. Not making them feel small cuz you're bragging without meaning to; not making them feel like you're faking your smile; but stepping back and respectfully listening. Because everybody has a story that can stop your heart. You just have to give them a little time, and if you can, a little bubble of safety to shine in. If you can reflect back to them even a little of the beauty they're sharing with you, it's pretty much the definition of a win-win situation.
I like those. "win-win" GOOD.
My friend, despite her occasional abruptness, taught me a HUGE amount about civility. She also lent/gave (that's "lending" without asking for it back ever) a Gucci dress for me to wear in Cannes, and a Prada bag because "look, it's time you had a big girl purse." She thought about my wellbeing and acted on it,without making me feel "less than": instead, I felt seen and protected.
And darlings?
THAT'S A-list.
love
Miss Peri Lyons
Next installment: Cannes, or, I WOULD have "social proof", except the waiter stole my camera.
I was being a smartass, almost never a very good plan.
"Never? Even if someone asks what P-R-I-V-A-T-E J-E-T spells?" I asked. Sometimes I like to wind her up by being a Stroppy Cow. -But not very often.
She blew out Gauloise smoke impatiently. I remembered,privately,that she was born in the Chinese Year of Dragon,so smoke from her nostrils was both Chinesely appropriate AND a warning sign. I also decided not to mention to her, that I'd thought this.
"No! You say, at most, something about "landing at Teterboro." Or...let me see...I heard someone do this AMAZING thing,where she complained that her ride home from France was SO turbulent that next time she was flying commercial." She swiveled her chair back to the computer to catch up on emails. Problem solved.
I LOVE this stuff. I love mastery in ANY subject,and my friend has mastery in a few: but one of the things she's kind of genius at is How To Act And Talk Like An A-Lister, or as my russian pal Anya always put it, a "TopTop". -(When asked about this coinage, Anya blthely explained that when she first came here from Moscow,she'd heard people say "He's a top,top [designer, curator, fill in blank here]" and thought that was the actual word for those people.)
My friend C is not very patient, does not suffer those she deems fools gladly-or at all--but DAMN, that girl knows her stuff. So I listen. And learn. The thing is? It works.
I am not a natural A Lister. I am a talker; also? A blurter. And I can't lie now that I've figured out I truly suck at it (my "tells include: breaking out in hives, blushing vermilion, and having my voice go up so many octaves I sound like a BeeGee); and my idea of a social grace is that: I didn't hit you. I dream of being the woman about whom people whisper, "She's fluent in French,Mandarin,Portugues and Swahili,", but the fact is, when I do speak French in France, French people laugh and laugh. And then answer me in English. (They do this rather kindly. I think, for them, it was like watching a duck try and explain particle physics:not very good, but I did get points for "effort".) In Cannes last week I'm pretty sure I told a nice woman,in French, that she was a species of eggplant. I meant it as a compliment,is the awful thing.
Some other non-A-list qualities have included talking too much; name dropping (out of exuberance and disbelief, but, hey,it's still pretty lame); the ability to trip over dust motes as I'm trying to glide elegantly across a room and instead wind up doing do a faceplant in the hummus dip; and an insane insistence on doing my makeup in the cab without a mirror,guaranteeing I arrive looking like a five year old girl who REALLY wants to be Diana Vreeland.
Backstory/Digression:
Two years ago, I saw the handsomest and most amazing man (ever) (truly!) (hot, brilliant, funny, honest, loyal, kind, faithful, utterly trustworthy and a beautiful, noble soul)- across a crowded room, and fell ass-over-teakettle in love with him. Because miracles actually DO occur, he reciprocated the feeling. and we wound up talking till 2, and then calling each other and talking on the phone till dawn. And now, God willin' and the creek don't rise, we're engaged. There's "lucky" and there's : "luckier than any woman has ever been", also known as: "being engaged to John Buffalo Mailer". Honestly, it's like winning the spiritual lottery ...only much, MUCH better. -Anyway:
Because my fella's mom is a charismatic Southern born beauty, and his genius Dad had friends from every walk of life (boxing promoters, A list movie stars, former Army buddies), my guy is that rarest of creatures, a natural gentleman. He is the same guy all the time, whether at a glittery Peggy Siegal hoedown or in our kitchen, having beer with our neighbors and helping me fry chicken. So he's taught me a lot of social graces (don't spit on the floor, don't ask "what do YOU do" but instead "how do you spend your time?", don't hit no one almost ever) , but his politeness is not just politesse: he genuinely likes people and is really interested in them. Which,as it turns out, seems to be the Big Secret. Because, after I informed the nice lady in France that she was a garden vegetable, I ALSO asked if she had photos of her kids, and I really meant it because I really like people's photos of their families. So she warmed up, and we wound up having a really nice time, and she forgave me for suggesting she should probably be breaded and covered with marinara sauce and cheese, and it all wound up great.
I love my friend C--the one from the opening paragraph--and, awestruck, admire her social acumen, all of which I've listened to and all of which has worked. And, although her manner of teaching is a little more abrupt than my fiance's, it actually springs from the same sweet wellspring: empathy, love and interest. Because manners, au fond (that's French! And I'm an eggplant!) --are about the OTHER PERSON. Not making them feel small cuz you're bragging without meaning to; not making them feel like you're faking your smile; but stepping back and respectfully listening. Because everybody has a story that can stop your heart. You just have to give them a little time, and if you can, a little bubble of safety to shine in. If you can reflect back to them even a little of the beauty they're sharing with you, it's pretty much the definition of a win-win situation.
I like those. "win-win" GOOD.
My friend, despite her occasional abruptness, taught me a HUGE amount about civility. She also lent/gave (that's "lending" without asking for it back ever) a Gucci dress for me to wear in Cannes, and a Prada bag because "look, it's time you had a big girl purse." She thought about my wellbeing and acted on it,without making me feel "less than": instead, I felt seen and protected.
And darlings?
THAT'S A-list.
love
Miss Peri Lyons
Next installment: Cannes, or, I WOULD have "social proof", except the waiter stole my camera.
13 March 2010
How To Kill Your Friends
If you truly love your friends, gather them together, ask them to get their affairs in order, and make them the fried chicken I made last night, which, after being soaked in buttermilk for 24 hours, was then fried in a mixture of lard, butter, and bacon. Listen to them moan in appreciation of how delicious it is, and then watch as, one by one, their cholestrol goes through the roof, their arteries clang shut and they topple backwards out of their chairs. Then pile them in a corner and finish their desserts for them. They won't need dessert where they are now.
As the banks topple and the economy goes into a nosedive, it's good to start entertaining at home. It's also good to start economizing in other ways. You can make a lovely evening dress out of Bounty and duct tape, and a pair of spraypainted shoeboxes make lovely dress shoes, sure to be a conversation starter in any situation.There are also simple ways t make extra money in any situation. When dining in a fine restaurant, bring a large waterbug with you, and at an opportune moment, slip it into the foie gras. You will certainly enoy a free meal. Be sure and take the cutlery with you when you go: restaurants love the free advertising that comes when you use their monogrammed silver to entertain your own guests. Also, I find, when hobnobbing with rich people, a good thing to do is to ask them how much money they have, and then ask for some. They love that. You can also keep up appearances in many small, easy ways: a chandelier perks up any small cardboard dwelling, and when cooking for guests, there are many delicious casseroles that can be whipped up in a minute using Little Friskies canned food as a delicious and economical base. A quaint 18th century French custom saves on water: rather than washing, use copious amounts of perfume, and if someone complains, you can denounce them as decadent aristocrats and have them beheaded. Economizing! It's easy and fun!
I hope you enjoy these helpful hints, because I could use new friends, now that the last ones I had are now piled like cordwood in a corner of my cozy one-bedroom apartment.
Chicken, anyone?
Love,
Peri, who might need to adjust her meds.
15 February 2010
A Reprise In Honor of Valentine's Day
The Lilies Of The Field Are Trying To Tell You Something
http://tinyurl.com/ycfw5gr
Got sent some anonymous flowers recently.-Well, the flowers weren't anonymous (they were roses, their actual names a mystery to me, although the one on the left did look like a bit like a Charlie)but the sender was. It was nice, in a slightly creepy way. So, because of this:
I have been researching the Victorian Language of Flowers. A Victorian suitor would send his beloved flowers, each of which had a very specific meaning, in order to communicate what his true feelings were.-Perhaps a wee bit passive-aggressive, but I'd rather get a bouquet of hollyhocks than an email ANY day, thank you.
So here's a selection of the Language of Flowers circa 1885, and afterwards, my own 2009 version.
Language Of The Flowers, 1885 version
1) Camellia: I live in gratitude of your perfected loveliness
2) Chrysanthemum: I admire your cheerfulness through adversity
3) Damask Rose: I worship your brilliant complexion
4) Fuschia: The ambition of my love thus plagues myself [Note:- What??]
5) Peach/or Peach Blossom: Your qualities, like your charms, are unequalled.
6) White Rosebud: You are too young to understand love [Note:I get that one a LOT.]
(Here is the website to learn more: http://www.victorianbazaar.com/meanings.html)
And...Here is The Language of the Flowers, 2010 Version:
1) Dandelions: You're okay, considering. I guess.
2) Poppies: I love you, but not more than I love prescription medications.
3) Carnations:My God, you're beautiful. My God, I'm cheap.
4) Rare Orchids: Aren't these exquisite? I'm sleeping with your sister.
5) Daffodils: Your optimism is touching. If delusional.
6)Asters: These are asters. -No, that's it, that's the message. Sorry.
7) Peach colored sunset roses: Your skin is like a flower petal at sunrise, and I think i might be gay.
8) Red roses: I think you're swell, I think you're aces, and I think it's 1947.
To sum up? Flowers are a beautiful means of communication, but I wouldn't try to leave a note for your cleaning woman with them. "Lobelias, canterbury bells and ferns...that means VERY CLEARLY to empty the dishwasher, Magda!! For pete's sake!"
love,Peri
Got sent some anonymous flowers recently.-Well, the flowers weren't anonymous (they were roses, their actual names a mystery to me, although the one on the left did look like a bit like a Charlie)but the sender was. It was nice, in a slightly creepy way. So, because of this:
I have been researching the Victorian Language of Flowers. A Victorian suitor would send his beloved flowers, each of which had a very specific meaning, in order to communicate what his true feelings were.-Perhaps a wee bit passive-aggressive, but I'd rather get a bouquet of hollyhocks than an email ANY day, thank you.
So here's a selection of the Language of Flowers circa 1885, and afterwards, my own 2009 version.
Language Of The Flowers, 1885 version
1) Camellia: I live in gratitude of your perfected loveliness
2) Chrysanthemum: I admire your cheerfulness through adversity
3) Damask Rose: I worship your brilliant complexion
4) Fuschia: The ambition of my love thus plagues myself [Note:- What??]
5) Peach/or Peach Blossom: Your qualities, like your charms, are unequalled.
6) White Rosebud: You are too young to understand love [Note:I get that one a LOT.]
(Here is the website to learn more: http://www.victorianbazaar.com/meanings.html)
And...Here is The Language of the Flowers, 2010 Version:
1) Dandelions: You're okay, considering. I guess.
2) Poppies: I love you, but not more than I love prescription medications.
3) Carnations:My God, you're beautiful. My God, I'm cheap.
4) Rare Orchids: Aren't these exquisite? I'm sleeping with your sister.
5) Daffodils: Your optimism is touching. If delusional.
6)Asters: These are asters. -No, that's it, that's the message. Sorry.
7) Peach colored sunset roses: Your skin is like a flower petal at sunrise, and I think i might be gay.
8) Red roses: I think you're swell, I think you're aces, and I think it's 1947.
To sum up? Flowers are a beautiful means of communication, but I wouldn't try to leave a note for your cleaning woman with them. "Lobelias, canterbury bells and ferns...that means VERY CLEARLY to empty the dishwasher, Magda!! For pete's sake!"
love,Peri
27 January 2010
The True,Real,No-Kidding This Time Meaning of Love
Note: The National Enquirer recently printed an incredibly true story, giving the details of a lawsuit filed by a disbruntled magician,against the Rev. Jim Bakker. The magician had implored his young wife and assistant, "Bambi", to attend marriage counseling with the (sort of)Reverend Jim Bakker was incensed because Mr. Bakker assigned the case to his pastor, "Bob", a former soap star who DID help the couple achieve closure. -Unfortunately, Bob did that by running off with Bambi. -But, according to a source "close to the people involved" [would you actually ADMIT it if you knew ANY of these people?],what galled the magician/plaintiff MOST, was that Bob and Bambi had taken with them-
(without permission)
his "specially trained Kangaroo".
The magician's heartfelt cri de couer, awoke the Muse in my soul. [She naps a lot, my Muse.]
Herewith, a Pome:
kangaroo doggerel: a plea
How could you do
(without permission)
his "specially trained Kangaroo".
The magician's heartfelt cri de couer, awoke the Muse in my soul. [She naps a lot, my Muse.]
Herewith, a Pome:
kangaroo doggerel: a plea
How could you do
This to me, who
Has loved you so long!
Oh the disaster!
You ran off with our pastor
And that’s not all too!
When you ran,
you took my heart
you took my heart
My money; most expensive art;
But
What
turned my heart deep blue
Was that you took-
You awful crook-
You took
You took
My Specially Trained
Kangaroo.
I see you now, you three (-or two-
Just two without the kangaroo)
(Or three ,if you include him too);
(Or four:my poor heart makes one more);
All of us-I mean all of you-
Are riding into a sunset, ooh.
Just you and him
And me and you
And a wellworn
didgereedoo
And of course
That’s not a horse
It’s way too cool
it’s our specially trained but
-who knew? so cruel!-
Kangaroo
Now I am not a bitter man
But dear it does seem cruel
After all that I looked past
To do this last thing too
[spoken:]
I forgave you
When you strayed with my best friend
My catchers’ mitt
A vat of organic peanut butter
Some Filipino acrobats
And a cockatoo-
Hey,
I thought it was just an amour fou!
But now I know better
Since I got your letter:
With a picture of You
And him,
that swine with whom you flew,
that swine with whom you flew,
And worst of all
What hurts of all
It’s true
In the middle of the two
of you
is him!
Is Jim:
My Extremely
Specially Trained
And Ungrateful
HardHearted
Kangaroo!
By Peri Lyons, The Poet Who Understands. -Sort of. 2011
17 January 2010
Sherlock Holmes, Red Wine,and Heidi Montag's Breasts
Started the day--and by "started" I mean "not started at all"--by waking up and immediately praying for a swift,painless death. -Oddly, I don't do that most mornings.
Why?
Well. Had a singing gig last night, doing songs such as my own "Mrs. DeSade Explains" (written from the point of view of the wife of the Marquis); "Mr. Harris", Aimee Mann's beautiful ode to unconventional love; "Last Day Of Pompeii", an upbeat swing tune by the great Michael Peter Smith, in which several about-to-be-covered-in-lava Pompeiians reflect cheerfully on what they might have done differently in life; and my own "Touch", about why women (well, okay, me) tend to like the Unavailable Bad Boys,rather the Devoted Ones Who Are Good To Us. (-Luckily, my own fella combines both archetypes, so I don't have to choose, but it hath not always been so.)
And red wine was consumed.And I forgot to eat.And I woke up to find that some prankster had inserted red hot curried marbles where my eyeballs used to be,and also my hair hurt.
However, had to be at the Algonquin Hotel at 9:45 AM to go to a Sherlockian fest with a writer pal. Which would have been fine,and generally WAS fine, except that,in my hurry to get out the door, I threw on a dress that was actually more like, say, a shirt. And put on the shoes that were immediately visible, which had four inch heels. And showed up at a dignified, canonical gathering looking like The Blonde Who Lost Her Pants.- The six foot three blonde who lost her pants. That's a lot of pants to lose.
My writer friend,the lovely,talented and newly-engaged-to-Amanda-Palmer Neil Gaiman (Miss Palmer is also lovely and talented) winced slightly when he saw me, but was otherwise the soul of tact,and almost never said "My that's a short-to-nonexistent skirt you're almost wearing,Miss Lyons."
He introduced me to some lovely people. One very nice gentleman was the former head of The Royal Academy Of Art. -I applied for that job, but I think they were put off when I mentioned "Dogs Playing Poker" as my favorite Old Master painting. I also met a very very nice Norwegian gentleman,and I have to say this: Norwegians always wind up talking about being Norwegian. No one knows why.Science is baffled.
I knew Neil when he was just a simple New York Times multiple bestselling author, but now he has achieved the kind of megastardom that makes other multiple NY Times bestselling authors look like pikers,slackers and unproductive wastrels. He's won every award I can think of, including "Tupperware Distributor Of The Month", but I think that last one was an accident. Anyway, he's one of the world's kindest humans, and a lovely human,and it's just lagniappe that, he's kind of a walking Golden Ticket: when one hangs out with him, random people walk up and offer you nice things,like membership to cool Sherlockian societies,and Maseratis,and stuff. It's a wee bit taking-abacking,in a nice way.And one has to be very nice to the people he's chatting to, becaause the person you're introduced to as,say, "my friend Bob", later turns out to be the,say, King of Sweden,so maybe asking him to get you a cup of coffee wasn't the best idea. -I'm just sayin', Anyway, I spent my last 20 bucks on "The Sherlock Holmes Illustrated Cyclopedia of Nautical References", because the nice elderly gent who wrote it was sitting by himself at a table,where his books were selling like whatever is the exact opposite of hotcakes. He inscribed it to me with much enthusiasm and many letters after his name, and I felt quite nice about it.
Mr. Gaiman and I then wobbled over to a coffee shop (wait-he walked.I wobbled) and I stared bemusedly at eggs. It was quite nice. Except for the part where my brain kept turning on and off and little flashing bits kept falling out of it. -But he was quite nice about that,and tried to be less of a genius for a bit until I could pretend to be sentient.-It didn't work--he was still a genius and I still wasn't sentient--but I appreciated the effort.
As he strolled off to a photo shoot with the glamourous Miss Palmer, I relaized that I was getting a migraine and went home to put a cat on my head and lie down. First I had to walk,in my large blonde pants-free way,through Times Square. I don't recommend this. As my pal Jim said,"Hey,ten years ago you could have made good money."-I am going to assume that he MEANT that,ten years ago, Times Square was seedier, NOT that ten years ago I was considerably more salable.-But whatever.
After resting until midnight, I got up and read the People magazine John had very sweetly brought as my Saturday guilty pleasure,and saw that Hedi Montag was on the cover,crowing about her ten plastic surgery procedures in one action packed day. She does look very pretty now, in an inhuman,plastic Nordic alien way,and has quite a career ahead of her as a very high priced callgirl. I liked how honest she was about it, in a body-dysmorphic-disfunction,narcisisstic,addictive way...if someone says that having breasts so large that she can't stand upright unassisted,is going to make her feel more "feminine", well, bully for her. She could also go for the multiple breasted, "Romulus and Remus's mother" look: that's feminine. -However, as every celebity has had huge amounts of plastic surgery and DOESN'T talk about it--Angelina, dear,I am talking to YOU--I think being honest about the expense,suffering and souldestroying vanity, is kind of admirable. Although I don't think she actually mentioned the "soul-destroying vanity at the expense of one's inner integrity" part. I might have just made that up.
But really-Nicole Ritchie's jowls disappear from one day to the next, Madonna has what look to be small steel girders implanted in her cheeks, Angelina Jolie's nose gets smaller every week,and Nicole Kidman has not moved a facial muscle since the 90's--and everyone lets them get away with it? Please. Sure,Miss Montag is going to be facing some obstacles in her future--she can no longer stand near a radiator or she'll melt, for one thing--but she seems fine with trading future grotesquerie for present money. I might too, if anyone offered. -Actually, that's not true--Ford Models asked me to have my nose done whn I was 16, and I flatly refused. And me a Jewish Doctor's Daughter! Imagine. I've got a ski jump nose,and thought "Sure it looks funny NOW,, but if there is ever a demand for female Bob Hope impersonators,I've got to be ready!!"-No. Actually, I thought I looked fine. And I wasn't very good at modeling. I would walk off runways (no depth perception); break out in huge hives before a go-see; and try to talk to the other models about the James Joyce book I was reading. That was not a huge success.
Well, thanks for hanging out. You should probably go to bed now: it's almost 3 AM. Get some sleep. If getting to sleep is a problem for you, I have a copy of "A Sherlock Holmes Illustrated Cyclopedia of Nautical Referenes" that works better than Seconal.
love
Peri
Why?
Well. Had a singing gig last night, doing songs such as my own "Mrs. DeSade Explains" (written from the point of view of the wife of the Marquis); "Mr. Harris", Aimee Mann's beautiful ode to unconventional love; "Last Day Of Pompeii", an upbeat swing tune by the great Michael Peter Smith, in which several about-to-be-covered-in-lava Pompeiians reflect cheerfully on what they might have done differently in life; and my own "Touch", about why women (well, okay, me) tend to like the Unavailable Bad Boys,rather the Devoted Ones Who Are Good To Us. (-Luckily, my own fella combines both archetypes, so I don't have to choose, but it hath not always been so.)
And red wine was consumed.And I forgot to eat.And I woke up to find that some prankster had inserted red hot curried marbles where my eyeballs used to be,and also my hair hurt.
However, had to be at the Algonquin Hotel at 9:45 AM to go to a Sherlockian fest with a writer pal. Which would have been fine,and generally WAS fine, except that,in my hurry to get out the door, I threw on a dress that was actually more like, say, a shirt. And put on the shoes that were immediately visible, which had four inch heels. And showed up at a dignified, canonical gathering looking like The Blonde Who Lost Her Pants.- The six foot three blonde who lost her pants. That's a lot of pants to lose.
My writer friend,the lovely,talented and newly-engaged-to-Amanda-Palmer Neil Gaiman (Miss Palmer is also lovely and talented) winced slightly when he saw me, but was otherwise the soul of tact,and almost never said "My that's a short-to-nonexistent skirt you're almost wearing,Miss Lyons."
He introduced me to some lovely people. One very nice gentleman was the former head of The Royal Academy Of Art. -I applied for that job, but I think they were put off when I mentioned "Dogs Playing Poker" as my favorite Old Master painting. I also met a very very nice Norwegian gentleman,and I have to say this: Norwegians always wind up talking about being Norwegian. No one knows why.Science is baffled.
I knew Neil when he was just a simple New York Times multiple bestselling author, but now he has achieved the kind of megastardom that makes other multiple NY Times bestselling authors look like pikers,slackers and unproductive wastrels. He's won every award I can think of, including "Tupperware Distributor Of The Month", but I think that last one was an accident. Anyway, he's one of the world's kindest humans, and a lovely human,and it's just lagniappe that, he's kind of a walking Golden Ticket: when one hangs out with him, random people walk up and offer you nice things,like membership to cool Sherlockian societies,and Maseratis,and stuff. It's a wee bit taking-abacking,in a nice way.And one has to be very nice to the people he's chatting to, becaause the person you're introduced to as,say, "my friend Bob", later turns out to be the,say, King of Sweden,so maybe asking him to get you a cup of coffee wasn't the best idea. -I'm just sayin', Anyway, I spent my last 20 bucks on "The Sherlock Holmes Illustrated Cyclopedia of Nautical References", because the nice elderly gent who wrote it was sitting by himself at a table,where his books were selling like whatever is the exact opposite of hotcakes. He inscribed it to me with much enthusiasm and many letters after his name, and I felt quite nice about it.
Mr. Gaiman and I then wobbled over to a coffee shop (wait-he walked.I wobbled) and I stared bemusedly at eggs. It was quite nice. Except for the part where my brain kept turning on and off and little flashing bits kept falling out of it. -But he was quite nice about that,and tried to be less of a genius for a bit until I could pretend to be sentient.-It didn't work--he was still a genius and I still wasn't sentient--but I appreciated the effort.
As he strolled off to a photo shoot with the glamourous Miss Palmer, I relaized that I was getting a migraine and went home to put a cat on my head and lie down. First I had to walk,in my large blonde pants-free way,through Times Square. I don't recommend this. As my pal Jim said,"Hey,ten years ago you could have made good money."-I am going to assume that he MEANT that,ten years ago, Times Square was seedier, NOT that ten years ago I was considerably more salable.-But whatever.
After resting until midnight, I got up and read the People magazine John had very sweetly brought as my Saturday guilty pleasure,and saw that Hedi Montag was on the cover,crowing about her ten plastic surgery procedures in one action packed day. She does look very pretty now, in an inhuman,plastic Nordic alien way,and has quite a career ahead of her as a very high priced callgirl. I liked how honest she was about it, in a body-dysmorphic-disfunction,narcisisstic,addictive way...if someone says that having breasts so large that she can't stand upright unassisted,is going to make her feel more "feminine", well, bully for her. She could also go for the multiple breasted, "Romulus and Remus's mother" look: that's feminine. -However, as every celebity has had huge amounts of plastic surgery and DOESN'T talk about it--Angelina, dear,I am talking to YOU--I think being honest about the expense,suffering and souldestroying vanity, is kind of admirable. Although I don't think she actually mentioned the "soul-destroying vanity at the expense of one's inner integrity" part. I might have just made that up.
But really-Nicole Ritchie's jowls disappear from one day to the next, Madonna has what look to be small steel girders implanted in her cheeks, Angelina Jolie's nose gets smaller every week,and Nicole Kidman has not moved a facial muscle since the 90's--and everyone lets them get away with it? Please. Sure,Miss Montag is going to be facing some obstacles in her future--she can no longer stand near a radiator or she'll melt, for one thing--but she seems fine with trading future grotesquerie for present money. I might too, if anyone offered. -Actually, that's not true--Ford Models asked me to have my nose done whn I was 16, and I flatly refused. And me a Jewish Doctor's Daughter! Imagine. I've got a ski jump nose,and thought "Sure it looks funny NOW,, but if there is ever a demand for female Bob Hope impersonators,I've got to be ready!!"-No. Actually, I thought I looked fine. And I wasn't very good at modeling. I would walk off runways (no depth perception); break out in huge hives before a go-see; and try to talk to the other models about the James Joyce book I was reading. That was not a huge success.
Well, thanks for hanging out. You should probably go to bed now: it's almost 3 AM. Get some sleep. If getting to sleep is a problem for you, I have a copy of "A Sherlock Holmes Illustrated Cyclopedia of Nautical Referenes" that works better than Seconal.
love
Peri
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