Is the amount of time I spent listening to our neighbors make love early this morning. “Make love” is possibly the most inaccurate description I have ever come up with. “Hot monkey screwing”, “swinging from the chandelier” and “fucking” are far better choices to describe the sounds emitting from the condo next door between the hours of 3:00 and 5:00 AM.
Because of some weirdness with the acoustics, we could not determine where the action was taking place and had no recourse for the traditional bang-on-the-wall, please-put-a-sock-in-her-mouth response two tired people who had to get up early for the ten hour drive home would normally have as a method for coping with such a situation.
First there was the initial moaning, which woke both J and myself from a sound sleep. Once we determined that a murder was not taking place, we both tried to mentally block out the sound until we heard the woman cry OH BAAABY in a slightly strangled tone of voice.
J: “Did she just say “Oh Baby?”
Me: “Yes...”
We start laughing. Quietly. In retrospect, if I had allowed myself to laugh at my normal volume, it may have cut short the evening's festivities, but at three in the morning I try to be polite.
J (with a sleepy leer): “Maybe we should show them how it is done?”
Me: “There is no way I am competing with that.”
Next there was more moaning, increasing in volume until the woman screamed out YES! YES! YES! Then blissful silence. Thinking that the amateur porn radio hour was over, I begin to drift off into sleep.
And the woman starts moaning again. Another twenty minutes of noise, another loud orgasm, more silence.
I am at the edge of sleep when round three begins. Hoping to figure out the which side the noise is coming from I get up out of bed and pace from one side of the room to the other. I contemplate going downstairs to sleep on the couch and realize that this woman is so loud that peace without earplugs is not possible. I get a drink of water.
By round four the woman is sobbing. I accidentally wake J up when I hiss “They're at it again”.
By round five the woman is finally quieter, almost whimpering. So am I.
Oddly enough, her partner never makes a sound the entire two hours.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Ottawa
Ottawa, located on the border of Ontario/Quebec, is a city with a European feel. Parliament is built on the cliffs near the river and is made up of grand stone buildings laid out in a manner resembling a campus. The street and shops signs are written in English and French and we heard both languages equally represented by store employees, gallery guards and people on the street.
J and I drove to Ottawa on Tuesday to visit the National Gallery and were greeted by a giant sculpture of a spider, “Maman”.
The museum is a modern structure with a wall of glass on one side to allow light to flood the long ramp leading up to the galleries. My original intent was to see the collection of Impressionist paintings but I ended up spending more time with the special exhibits and native collections, including paintings and sculptures done by Canadian artists.
While walking through the Canadian galleries I found myself trying to remember the artist depicted in Susan Veerland's novel The Forest Lover. I stopped in front of a written introduction to the Group of Seven, seven male artists who worked to bring the various art forms to the native tribes to the general population in Canada. At the bottom was a reference to Emily Carr, the subject of Veerland's book.
Excited, I exclaimed something (or other) out loud that caught the attention of one the museum's guards. He asked if I was enjoying my visit to the museum and if there was anything specific I had come to see. When I explained that I had been trying to remember Carr's name, he escorted me to the corner where two of her paintings hung, one from the period of time she spent in France. I was surprised to see that both were in oil (Veerland depicted her as mostly a watercolor artist) and very impressed at how familiar the guard was with the location of various works in the museum.
The two special exhibits we walked through were of works by Ron Mueck and Robert Davidson.
Ron Mueck creates incredibly realistic sculptures of humans, all scaled greater or lesser than life sized. J was enthralled by one of a giant man, sitting in a corner in a poise reminiscent of Rodin's “The Thinker”. My favorite was of an exhausted mother with a newborn infant on her deflated stomach, still attached together by the baby's umbilical cord.
Robert Davidson is a Haida artist and sculptor. Feeling that his work was becoming stale and recycled, he turned to studying tribal designs on bowls and other objects as inspiration to create a series of stylized, abstract paintings, carvings and sculptures.
Burned out on great art we decided to have a meal and walk around the city. I was unable to capture my favorite moment on film as the feeling of squeamishness at taking a photograph of a homeless man's possessions outweighed the sense of irony at reading his handwritten sign “On a break, back in fifteen minutes”. To earn money he would write a poem on any subject and I had no money for poetry that day.
J and I drove to Ottawa on Tuesday to visit the National Gallery and were greeted by a giant sculpture of a spider, “Maman”.
The museum is a modern structure with a wall of glass on one side to allow light to flood the long ramp leading up to the galleries. My original intent was to see the collection of Impressionist paintings but I ended up spending more time with the special exhibits and native collections, including paintings and sculptures done by Canadian artists.
While walking through the Canadian galleries I found myself trying to remember the artist depicted in Susan Veerland's novel The Forest Lover. I stopped in front of a written introduction to the Group of Seven, seven male artists who worked to bring the various art forms to the native tribes to the general population in Canada. At the bottom was a reference to Emily Carr, the subject of Veerland's book.
Excited, I exclaimed something (or other) out loud that caught the attention of one the museum's guards. He asked if I was enjoying my visit to the museum and if there was anything specific I had come to see. When I explained that I had been trying to remember Carr's name, he escorted me to the corner where two of her paintings hung, one from the period of time she spent in France. I was surprised to see that both were in oil (Veerland depicted her as mostly a watercolor artist) and very impressed at how familiar the guard was with the location of various works in the museum.
The two special exhibits we walked through were of works by Ron Mueck and Robert Davidson.
Ron Mueck creates incredibly realistic sculptures of humans, all scaled greater or lesser than life sized. J was enthralled by one of a giant man, sitting in a corner in a poise reminiscent of Rodin's “The Thinker”. My favorite was of an exhausted mother with a newborn infant on her deflated stomach, still attached together by the baby's umbilical cord.
Robert Davidson is a Haida artist and sculptor. Feeling that his work was becoming stale and recycled, he turned to studying tribal designs on bowls and other objects as inspiration to create a series of stylized, abstract paintings, carvings and sculptures.
Burned out on great art we decided to have a meal and walk around the city. I was unable to capture my favorite moment on film as the feeling of squeamishness at taking a photograph of a homeless man's possessions outweighed the sense of irony at reading his handwritten sign “On a break, back in fifteen minutes”. To earn money he would write a poem on any subject and I had no money for poetry that day.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Randomness
Calabogie
Ontario, Canada
I have not been writing. I have not been writing because I have been immersed in the world of Hogwarts, re-reading all the Harry Potter novels in anticipation of the release of Year 7. However, I have left Harry in the midst of his battle of wills with Professor Umbridge in Year 5 to drive with J to Calabogie, Ontario for a week in the wilderness.
We left Pittsburgh early on Sunday morning, driving through a fog so thick the buildings downtown completely disappeared into the mist. It took several hours of driving before the fog burned off enough to see the lights of cars instead of vague outlines. As we drove north the signs of spring faded away and we found ourselves regressing back into winter, with overcast skies and snow on the ground.
Our drive was punctuated by sheer randomness, a semi-truck carrying a toll both north, the sight of a Canadian goose perched on the ledge of a five story building, a second goose staring up at the first from the ground. The most random moment came at the border, shortly after crossing the St. Lawrence River, when the guard asked us if we intended to leave anything in the country. Both J and myself were puzzled by this question and it took us several moments to formulate an answer (“No”) that was not snarky.
The St. Lawrence River is one of the most beautiful, dotted with islands tiny and large, stretching for miles in both directions, leaving an impression of green among the greys and browns of the winter landscape. As we drove we could see glimpses of houses on some of the islands and wondered aloud how the residents were able to access their homes in the winter.
Our cellular phones do not work this far north, so we turned them off without guilt. The local stores close early on Sunday, leaving us unable to purchase groceries as originally planned. Our choice of restaurant had one server working, an older woman who entertained us with stories of accidental deaths, drunk driving arrests and her experiences serving intoxicated patrons. She gave us a friendly warning when we left to watch out for the police at night.
The condo is clean, cozy and overlooks the still frozen lake.
This afternoon J and I drove to Perth, Ontario between thunderstorms for a brief walk around the town. Named Ontario's Prettiest City, the downtown is filled with old stone buildings, including a mill.
Ontario, Canada
I have not been writing. I have not been writing because I have been immersed in the world of Hogwarts, re-reading all the Harry Potter novels in anticipation of the release of Year 7. However, I have left Harry in the midst of his battle of wills with Professor Umbridge in Year 5 to drive with J to Calabogie, Ontario for a week in the wilderness.
We left Pittsburgh early on Sunday morning, driving through a fog so thick the buildings downtown completely disappeared into the mist. It took several hours of driving before the fog burned off enough to see the lights of cars instead of vague outlines. As we drove north the signs of spring faded away and we found ourselves regressing back into winter, with overcast skies and snow on the ground.
Our drive was punctuated by sheer randomness, a semi-truck carrying a toll both north, the sight of a Canadian goose perched on the ledge of a five story building, a second goose staring up at the first from the ground. The most random moment came at the border, shortly after crossing the St. Lawrence River, when the guard asked us if we intended to leave anything in the country. Both J and myself were puzzled by this question and it took us several moments to formulate an answer (“No”) that was not snarky.
The St. Lawrence River is one of the most beautiful, dotted with islands tiny and large, stretching for miles in both directions, leaving an impression of green among the greys and browns of the winter landscape. As we drove we could see glimpses of houses on some of the islands and wondered aloud how the residents were able to access their homes in the winter.
Our cellular phones do not work this far north, so we turned them off without guilt. The local stores close early on Sunday, leaving us unable to purchase groceries as originally planned. Our choice of restaurant had one server working, an older woman who entertained us with stories of accidental deaths, drunk driving arrests and her experiences serving intoxicated patrons. She gave us a friendly warning when we left to watch out for the police at night.
The condo is clean, cozy and overlooks the still frozen lake.
This afternoon J and I drove to Perth, Ontario between thunderstorms for a brief walk around the town. Named Ontario's Prettiest City, the downtown is filled with old stone buildings, including a mill.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Home Team
It is probably uncharitable to suggest that Phil Bourqe (the “Ol' Two-Niner”) may have imbibed one too many beers during last night's Penguins / Sabres match. He may not be all that good at adding the numbers “1” or “2” to a running points totals for teams in the “circonference”
And it is definitely uncharitable for me to laugh even harder at Bourqe's frustrated, nervous chuckle when Mike Lange (not so) innocently asked him to recap the League standings. By the time Lange announced that Bourqe would not be joining Steigy for the post game show, I was having trouble breathing.
Last night's game was hockey at it's best. Fast and skilled with referees smart enough to let the game flow organically and allow two of the top teams in the conference to play it out with minimal interference. The crowd was the loud, happy and Buffalo was well represented by the fans.
But the highlight of the evening was what happened before the game, when Mario Lemieux made the announcement that the Penguins would be staying in Pittsburgh for the next thirty years.
In celebration, I offer up hockey fights.
A Junior A hockey Fight
They must have learned from their elders
And it is definitely uncharitable for me to laugh even harder at Bourqe's frustrated, nervous chuckle when Mike Lange (not so) innocently asked him to recap the League standings. By the time Lange announced that Bourqe would not be joining Steigy for the post game show, I was having trouble breathing.
Last night's game was hockey at it's best. Fast and skilled with referees smart enough to let the game flow organically and allow two of the top teams in the conference to play it out with minimal interference. The crowd was the loud, happy and Buffalo was well represented by the fans.
But the highlight of the evening was what happened before the game, when Mario Lemieux made the announcement that the Penguins would be staying in Pittsburgh for the next thirty years.
In celebration, I offer up hockey fights.
A Junior A hockey Fight
They must have learned from their elders
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Ritual
The Catholic ritual of the funeral remains a constant, unchanged mark in a mourner's life. We stand, we face the back of the church, we watch as the priest blesses the coffin for the deceased final mass.
We watch as the pallbearers gently escort the coffin down the aisle, lead by the priest, followed by husband and son, brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews. Our bodies turn from the back to the front as the mourners sing.
There are more blessings, the readings, the sermon, communion, another blessing, eulogies and a final goodbye. The coffin is wheeled back down the aisle for one last journey, to a grave or crematorium.
The music sounds out of place. How can one sing while feeling such loss?
The husband can barely walk. Each step is an effort, as if he cannot remember how. He holds his hands in front of him, his fingers full of nervous energy. His face is broken.
The son is stoic and will not look anyone in the eye. He stands straight, he walks a few steps in front, a few steps in back of his father. His face is wooden, contained.
No one stays for the cookies and coffee. We have not the appetite for sugar and small talk. We watch as the hearse, limo and long line of cars drive away from the church.
We watch as the pallbearers gently escort the coffin down the aisle, lead by the priest, followed by husband and son, brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews. Our bodies turn from the back to the front as the mourners sing.
There are more blessings, the readings, the sermon, communion, another blessing, eulogies and a final goodbye. The coffin is wheeled back down the aisle for one last journey, to a grave or crematorium.
The music sounds out of place. How can one sing while feeling such loss?
The husband can barely walk. Each step is an effort, as if he cannot remember how. He holds his hands in front of him, his fingers full of nervous energy. His face is broken.
The son is stoic and will not look anyone in the eye. He stands straight, he walks a few steps in front, a few steps in back of his father. His face is wooden, contained.
No one stays for the cookies and coffee. We have not the appetite for sugar and small talk. We watch as the hearse, limo and long line of cars drive away from the church.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Dear "Anonymous"
You know that little icon at the bottom of the page? It is for a program called "Site Meter". The great thing about site meter is that I can trace your IP.
Next time you feel like flaming me, use your OWN name, OK?
Kisses.
Jenn
Next time you feel like flaming me, use your OWN name, OK?
Kisses.
Jenn
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
In Memoriam - JoJo
I'm out of words tonight. One of my mother's oldest and closest friends, a woman I have known for almost thirty years died early this week. She was 57.
I don't have the right words to explain what JoJo meant to me. She was not a parental figure. She was not a role model in the traditional sense of the word. But she was there in my life, someone I have known for as long as I can remember, a small, funky woman who lived loud.
She was there when I was a child in her home, with my favorite book (Gnomes by Rien Poortvliet and Wil Huygen) ready for me to read over and over again. She stood in as my confirmation sponsor, and sat in the bleachers at my high school graduation. As I moved into college and graduate school she cheered my nerve and supported my desire to become independent. She cried at my wedding and was the first to demand photographs when I returned from my first solo trip to Paris.
She marveled at the opportunities I had, the chances I took that never crossed her path. Through her eyes I was smarter, stronger, braver, and more adventurous then I felt in real life.
Shortly after retiring she was diagnosed with an aggressive and rare brain tumor. For almost three years she subjected herself to repeated rounds of radiation; surgery and finally chemotherapy. She lost her hair more than once and grew physically brittle from all the poisons used to try to save her life.
She died on Monday night, surrounded by the people who loved her, the people she loved.
I don't have the right words to explain what JoJo meant to me. She was not a parental figure. She was not a role model in the traditional sense of the word. But she was there in my life, someone I have known for as long as I can remember, a small, funky woman who lived loud.
She was there when I was a child in her home, with my favorite book (Gnomes by Rien Poortvliet and Wil Huygen) ready for me to read over and over again. She stood in as my confirmation sponsor, and sat in the bleachers at my high school graduation. As I moved into college and graduate school she cheered my nerve and supported my desire to become independent. She cried at my wedding and was the first to demand photographs when I returned from my first solo trip to Paris.
She marveled at the opportunities I had, the chances I took that never crossed her path. Through her eyes I was smarter, stronger, braver, and more adventurous then I felt in real life.
Shortly after retiring she was diagnosed with an aggressive and rare brain tumor. For almost three years she subjected herself to repeated rounds of radiation; surgery and finally chemotherapy. She lost her hair more than once and grew physically brittle from all the poisons used to try to save her life.
She died on Monday night, surrounded by the people who loved her, the people she loved.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
I Dated Lord Voldemort*
Subtitle: Signs you might be dating the wrong man.
He was one of those guys who looked good in theory. He was smart, well educated, traveled extensively and had a job. He was also a graduate student and understood the demands of balancing a full course schedule with a almost-full-time job.
Things are great at first. Conversation is wonderful. He has interesting ideas. His parents like me. We have a good time together.
With all those good qualities, it was easy to overlook the fact that he preferred to drive the five blocks to his gym to work out. That he sulked when he perceived that he was not getting his “way”. That every public outing turned into an argument over how much time I spend staring at other men. That his confession that he fantasized about having sex another man was simply a healthy display of sexuality. That he dropped classes on a whim.
I blame myself for the problems we were having. I'm still bruised over J** ending our relationship, my first love gone awry. I decide I need more time on my own.
Forward a year. We meet cute in a local restaurant. I decide to be civilized. We start dating again. For a very short period of time things go well.
Then the fights start up again. I can't go anywhere with him because I am subjected to abuse over my “wandering eyes”. He wants me to “confess” that I want to sleep with other men, that I find them more attractive then him. More sulking fits when I refuse to tell him what he wants to hear. Intense pressure to give him permission to purchase me a cell phone.
He goes away for a weekend. He calls shortly after his return. I tell him that I don't want to see him again, that he makes me feel bad about myself and I don't think there is anything about me that I need to feel bad about. He says that is untrue, that my feeling bad has nothing to do with him. He says breaking up “isn't going to work for me”. That he thinks there is more he can get out of our relationship.
I respond that breaking up works just fine for me. I hang up the phone. I go on to date other, nicer men. My heart breaks a second time, but I survive. J comes back.
*Bonus points if you can guess what relationship the man in question has to a villain in a series of children's novels.
**Yes, J my husband.
Asides:
1: How do you know when a team is really bad? When they can't win a game in spite of the pushing, whining, outright cheating and the possession of three out of four referees on their payroll.
I am not saying the Penguins played a fantastic game today. They were terrible. But the awfulness that is this year's Flyers was a thing of beauty. So was the Penguins sweeping the series. And Michel Therrien, normally stoic during games, earning a bench minor late in the first period for calling the referees (collectively) a very inappropriate name.
2: The tendinitis in my right wrist has returned, forcing me back into a most uncomfortable brace when doing computer work to avoid a deep, throbbing pain from wrist to elbow that keeps me awake at night. I'll also have to resume the sporadic physical therapy exercises I'm supposed to be doing every day.
He was one of those guys who looked good in theory. He was smart, well educated, traveled extensively and had a job. He was also a graduate student and understood the demands of balancing a full course schedule with a almost-full-time job.
Things are great at first. Conversation is wonderful. He has interesting ideas. His parents like me. We have a good time together.
With all those good qualities, it was easy to overlook the fact that he preferred to drive the five blocks to his gym to work out. That he sulked when he perceived that he was not getting his “way”. That every public outing turned into an argument over how much time I spend staring at other men. That his confession that he fantasized about having sex another man was simply a healthy display of sexuality. That he dropped classes on a whim.
I blame myself for the problems we were having. I'm still bruised over J** ending our relationship, my first love gone awry. I decide I need more time on my own.
Forward a year. We meet cute in a local restaurant. I decide to be civilized. We start dating again. For a very short period of time things go well.
Then the fights start up again. I can't go anywhere with him because I am subjected to abuse over my “wandering eyes”. He wants me to “confess” that I want to sleep with other men, that I find them more attractive then him. More sulking fits when I refuse to tell him what he wants to hear. Intense pressure to give him permission to purchase me a cell phone.
He goes away for a weekend. He calls shortly after his return. I tell him that I don't want to see him again, that he makes me feel bad about myself and I don't think there is anything about me that I need to feel bad about. He says that is untrue, that my feeling bad has nothing to do with him. He says breaking up “isn't going to work for me”. That he thinks there is more he can get out of our relationship.
I respond that breaking up works just fine for me. I hang up the phone. I go on to date other, nicer men. My heart breaks a second time, but I survive. J comes back.
*Bonus points if you can guess what relationship the man in question has to a villain in a series of children's novels.
**Yes, J my husband.
Asides:
1: How do you know when a team is really bad? When they can't win a game in spite of the pushing, whining, outright cheating and the possession of three out of four referees on their payroll.
I am not saying the Penguins played a fantastic game today. They were terrible. But the awfulness that is this year's Flyers was a thing of beauty. So was the Penguins sweeping the series. And Michel Therrien, normally stoic during games, earning a bench minor late in the first period for calling the referees (collectively) a very inappropriate name.
2: The tendinitis in my right wrist has returned, forcing me back into a most uncomfortable brace when doing computer work to avoid a deep, throbbing pain from wrist to elbow that keeps me awake at night. I'll also have to resume the sporadic physical therapy exercises I'm supposed to be doing every day.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Today's Lesson
Brought to you by the letter “L”.
Today's Lesson – Stay off the political blogs during staff meetings (really, stay off them altogether during work hours) less I give co-worker “L” the mistaken impression that I am pregnant and considering an abortion. Thus driving L, a deeply religious and conservative man to ask me in private if I was considering having an abortion and wanting to let me know that there are other alternatives.
He was relieved to learn that I was neither pregnant nor considering an abortion and that I was not offended by the question. On the contrary, I thought it was very nice of him to express concern and thought he did so in a sensitive and non-judgmental manner.
The irony – I normally do stay off those sites during staff meetings. But it was my third such meeting of the day and I was completely burned out.
In other news...
James Cameron produced a documentary called the Lost Tomb of Christ, scheduled to air on the Discovery Channel on Sunday night. Naturally since it suggests that Jesus actually died, remained deceased and (oh the horror!) was married, it has ruffled more than a few feathers, including those of a letter writer to the Post Gazette.
I'm not sure what amused me most about the letter. It was short and to the point. It was strangely logical. It managed to get an insult in at the “Hollywood elite”. It made me wonder if the writer was using “elite” as a code word for “Jewish”.
Or maybe it was that the writer was giving any credibility to James Cameron. Since I am of the minority that believe that Titanic is a truly terrible movie*, I find it difficult to take the documentary seriously anyway.
*Right behind Gone With the Wind, a movie that sends me into hysterical laughter every time I watch it.
Today's Lesson – Stay off the political blogs during staff meetings (really, stay off them altogether during work hours) less I give co-worker “L” the mistaken impression that I am pregnant and considering an abortion. Thus driving L, a deeply religious and conservative man to ask me in private if I was considering having an abortion and wanting to let me know that there are other alternatives.
He was relieved to learn that I was neither pregnant nor considering an abortion and that I was not offended by the question. On the contrary, I thought it was very nice of him to express concern and thought he did so in a sensitive and non-judgmental manner.
The irony – I normally do stay off those sites during staff meetings. But it was my third such meeting of the day and I was completely burned out.
In other news...
James Cameron produced a documentary called the Lost Tomb of Christ, scheduled to air on the Discovery Channel on Sunday night. Naturally since it suggests that Jesus actually died, remained deceased and (oh the horror!) was married, it has ruffled more than a few feathers, including those of a letter writer to the Post Gazette.
I'm not sure what amused me most about the letter. It was short and to the point. It was strangely logical. It managed to get an insult in at the “Hollywood elite”. It made me wonder if the writer was using “elite” as a code word for “Jewish”.
Or maybe it was that the writer was giving any credibility to James Cameron. Since I am of the minority that believe that Titanic is a truly terrible movie*, I find it difficult to take the documentary seriously anyway.
*Right behind Gone With the Wind, a movie that sends me into hysterical laughter every time I watch it.
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