Change of Address

I want to live in IKEA. I doubt anyone would notice me. I would wear bright prints and meatball perfume. Blend right in.

I’d start with the kitchens because let’s face it, they rock. I’d whip up some pretend food and read the fake paper while almost eating a plastic apple glued into a beautiful oblong bowl. I bet I’d look right at home next to the shiny stainless steel and glossy white veneers.

After all, I have a very oily t-zone and painfully whitened teeth (get it, slick steel and veneers).

Sorry, had to do it.

Then I would go to glassware- ahhh, glassware. IKEA has the craziest shaped plates and bowls and glasses. I would stand there and do my best mannequin impression while fake sipping a square tumbler and pondering a crescent shaped bowl of plastic oatmeal.

Luckily, when I move into the living room section and spill my fake drink, the liquid will freeze mid- spill to demonstrate the stain guard or fabric seal or practically kid proof (!) material. I ADORE those fake spill crime scenes and sometimes visit furniture stores just to act shocked upon discovering them throughout the faux tableaus.

Back to my life in the IKEA, I would next meander over to the curtains which are out of this world unique and cheerful. You cannot be depressed with IKEA curtains- they will not let you. The intricate prints will block the world outside your window and shout happiness at you until you get up and go! With a wide-eyed grin and blurry shapes and colors behind your eye lids.

Where to next? So many rooms, so many pretend lives to step into and live perfectly. The limitless storage! The powerful lighting!

The toys. I recently saw stuffed broccoli in an IKEA toy section and I literally said, “Broccoli, how cute!” a phrase I thought I would never, never, ever utter. Then I saw the stuffed carrot.

Suppress your eye roll. Thank you.

How many people get caught trying to live in IKEA stores? Someone should do a study on that. I want numbers.

Obviously, I would eventually find myself in the bedrooms, so simple and elegant and modern and...again…bright.  

Faker than fake, certain furniture is often a mere spit shine from cardboard. But I do love the style and premise of the IKEA brand and clearly, the store design rocks. Your buck has bang at IKEA and that is why I go there time and again. That and the tasty meatballs.

~gregorific

Pssst…I bought a stuffed hare and named it Lettuce.  

In honor of wanting to join a stationary, fake society, here is a lovely poem by Whitmarsh.


Department Store Fictions 
 by Jason Whitmarsh

The mannequins are all in love with you
and too depressed to say it. The cashier
flirts with another cashier, who eyes you,
who eyes the sales rack of wool pants.
Behind each mirror hunches an old man
watching women adjust their skirts,
their sunglasses, their hair. Small dogs disappear
on the escalator. Everyone leans forward
at the perfume counter, asking to be touched. 

"Department Store Fictions" by Jason Whitmarsh, from Tomorrow's Living Room. © Utah State University Press, 2009.

B MORE
I hit the open road and started my summer today. Three hours and I was in the city shopping with my best friend and eating one delicious thing after another.  Ahhh, it’s nice to take a break from real life and vacation in someone else’s.

On my “Writing” page of this website is a picture of a 'doggy don't poop' sign that I saw in the same city on another visit.  It seems funny to me.  I mean if dogs can’t read, the picture would look like encouragement! I’ve never seen a sign like it. In a neighborhood near my house there is a handmade sign that reads 'Pick up after your dog!'. This has drawn a lot of comments from people as to the implied tone. 

Today walking a different route in the city, I was shocked to see another miniature sign exactly like the original! Different color dog, less descriptive detail near the tail…but seriously? It’s the patch of grass between the sidewalk and the road. Where else should a dog conduct business?

It’d be different if it said, ‘Remember to Scoop’. Or had a dog cleaning up after itself. But not at all? Be realistic.

I wonder how popular these signs are?

I won’t lie. It made me want to be oppositional. In a really inappropriate way. Because my dog wasn't with me on this trip. 

THEN I saw a sign on a tree that looked like this. 

Is this the preferred spot for the dog’s business? Why is the sign so high up then? WHAT is going to happen at that tree? 

Unfortunately my visit did not include staking out the tree or defying dog directions...

Next trip. 

~gregorific

Advice for the day: Eavesdropping is fun.





Here is the original photo of the original sign.

Exciting news- I received and signed the contract for Liquid Imagination to publish my story ‘Harm to Self’! 


Buckle up!

I love their site, it’s fem but also nervy. They push literary boundaries while still keeping the quality solid. Not easy. That should be published later this month so prepare your thumbs up buttons!

~gregorific

Riot Grrrl

Up all night worrying about me listening to the Hunger Games soundtrack on repeat? 

Don't worry, I have a new tune. 
I am rocking out to Garbage’s new CD and it’s just what I hoped it would be. I love their signature sassy-but-not-in-a-cute-way, electro punk with raw lyrics style. I was worried the band had dissolved but they’re back from the flat-line with edge that isn’t done for show. Their album delivers just what I was missing, a perfect Garbage sound. Did you know I used to be a Riot Grrrl? Oh, who am I fooling? Once a Riot Grrrl, always a Riot Grrrl.

~grrrrregorific

In honor of the effort: 
"Dare you to do what you want 

“Everyone’s Quick to Blame the Alien.”  Aeschylus

Is this a good sign?

I open my front door and a huge hole is where the road should be. The hole is in the asphalt and it yawns at me like “Yeah, I can show up anywhere.”

Normal Day. Normal house. Normal woman (?) walking down the street.

Big gaping hole appears out of nowhere in the hardest surface around.

The road, people, a hole in the road. Then, a garbage truck gets stuck in the hole and some workers arrive at the scene. The truck pivots out to reveal the indentation which is the size and depth of a small grave. When the workers pry the cracked asphalt up, it reveals…

A bigger hole!

Not kidding.

With the kids at school I realize this is too fascinating not to document.

Here’s the hole.

Here’s what they did before they fixed it.

They made it bigger.

I have nothing but thankful, positive things to say about the workers who came out and put orange barrels and plastic fencing and cones around the spontaneous hole. That same day they began work to fix it. I didn’t have to call anywhere to complain or point out the problem with a huge hole in my road. They knew. They cared.

The backhoe carved the hole into a bigger hole to see if it went sideways or was Swiss cheesy down there.  When I ventured close to investigate they told me it was twelve feet deep and offered to let me climb down on their ladder!

Those nice men weren’t at all thinking of burying the nosy lady with the camera. I declined because I’m not much one for dark, enclosed, grave-like spaces.

Then they filled it with a large amount of broken up asphalt and dirt and rocks and other filler materials. They dug a little back up to level it and lay down new asphalt and molded a curb and planted grass, put down hay and SNAP we have a normal road again.

Do they expect more holes to turn up?

Under my house? While I drive? Are mole people living under me? Does the presidential evacuation tunnel come out this way? Am I living on an ancient burial ground? Did a meteor fall and bounce away? Aliens. That’s what you’re all thinking, right? Me too.

I asked the gentleman in charge “Why?”

He had a fantastical story about this area originally being full of iron ore mines that were not filled in well, or something like that.

The twinkle in his eye said, “Aliens.”

I thought so.

~gregorific

In honor of the mystery of life beyond our imagination, here is a quote, dedicated to the hole that once was in front of my house:

“The traveler has to knock at every alien door to come to his own, and he has to wonder through all the outer worlds to reach the innermost shrine at the end.”  Indian playwright and essayist Rabindranath Tagor

How can I be such a baby?

Psst…it’s easy.

My poison ivy is making it hard to exist. I am seriously considering taking a roofie and knocking myself out until it is healed. Severe sedation is an over-the-counter remedy, right?

I don’t have any roofies. And benedryl makes me hyper so I’d only itch fasterFASTERFASTER if I took it.

I know there are bigger problems out there but I couldn’t help sharing my pain, as blogging is kind of a self indulgent process, isn’t it? If I write about others it’s gossip. If I write about celebrities then it’s slander (you know I only have shrewish things to say about celebrities, right? Except Ellen DeGeneres- no issues with her whatsoever.)  

It’s severely hampering my dream patio’s completion and my writing, as it’s all over my wrists and forearms. Typing essentially tickles the oozing, shiny pustules. Oh, dude. I’m sorry.

Gregorific will be doing the natural thing after suffering serious poison ivy (let’s go with it being serious, shall we?). Camping in the wilderness. That’s what I’m doing this weekend.  I’m going to tightly duct tape around my arms up to the elbows to avoid itching. After a couple days it’ll be cured under there and I can soak it off. This may be a cool new trend in fashion. I’ll let you know how it goes.

~gregorific

I have slathered steroids on it and I am feeling better. Thank you for all the warnings about duct tape! My, my, gregorific fans are very knowledgable and handy! 

LIFE: It’s what happens while you’re drinking coffee.

I was beat last night after a long day of attempting to create my dream patio on a budget of zero. I thought about blogging but I was exhausted. I lamented, 'I have nothing to say, nothing interesting or even boring. I’m a twat to think I could tweet anything worth twittering'. Then I flopped back on my chaise lounge and put my elbow on my forehead. 

Have no fear, gregorific fans. 

Today after a mere two iced coffees, I am brimming with updates and breaking news. I was tired, ya’ll. I been busy breaking my back putting together a DREAM. 

It began as most things do, with a concrete slab. Plain and unforgiving, the slab has stared at me for three years, taunting me with its absolute blankness. This year would be different. This year I would triumph. With no money and plenty of time, I would create a patio of my low budget dreams.

What followed was plenty of googling. And talking about it. And more googling. I wanted a patio where I could relax, eat with my fam any night it was nice out, and also party down when the mood hit. Oh, and I wanted to grow organic produce to last the summer. 

All this I want to do for very, very little money. Because while writing pays a priceless amount in inspiration and fulfillment, I can’t say much for dollar signs *just yet*.  

There are too many hilarious and sob worthy stories about my patio’s creation to include here for you gregorific fans. And I’m not even half done. I’ll sum up. 

Story #1: That of the Rolling Logs

Isn’t there an expression that says a rolling log gathers no moss? Well, it should go something like a rolling log can kill you. 

I have an idea for a natural table and chairs made of logs. So my crew and I hunted down some freshly slaughtered (by the township) logs a quarter mile from my home. We set out to roll them back, sounds easy right? Like a cartoon solution. Well, the idea was brimming with TNT and my crew fell into serious danger... of being flattened. In particular, the youngest of my crew, ages six and eight, were close to being steamrolled into the path by Logs Gone Wild. 

Turns out it's really hard to stop a rolling log. Long, exciting story short: We got the logs. They are perfect.

Story #2: How Organic is Organic?

I wanted to grow veggies and such but if I’m going to go to the trouble, they better be organic. I found out you DO NOT want to use railroad ties, regular wood from the store (treated), or normal plastic to grow veggies. Or a pot made out of leeching material like lead, aluminum, BPA, and all that crapola. 

So what do you use? I wanted a pot or something on my patio so the rampant deer wouldn’t get in it and so the garden produce wouldn’t suck up the chemicals used by previous owners to treat the lawn. Or any of this Marcellus Shale crapola being pumped into my area’s natural water channels. I looked online and called a fancy gardening company but they couldn’t say any of their planters were non toxic. Really? Isn’t this something everyone is asking for in this paranoid culture I have become part of?

I emailed a master gardener from the area. I like that title; I need to get it. “Master Writer”. Hmmm, too close to something else. I defer the title. Thanks anyway. 

The master gardener told me a lot of ideas to avoid and he’d only vouch for untreated wood. I bought a kit for a cedar raised bed planter from my local hardware store. I got it home and excitedly put it together! I was so proud! Then I found a huge patch of white, blueish and green fuzzy mold on a board. As I inspected, I saw a lot of the wood was really moldy. It claimed to be rot resistant and chemical free. It was already moldy, do I want to grow my food in here? Especially on my concrete slab, it has nothing to filter or aerate or absorb or retain- it’s all container. 


I wasn't frustrated or anything, but I found my hatchet and considered hacking at a log in my backyard to make a canoe planter myself. My crew informed me that I did not have hatchet privileges and they refused to help me drag that heavy log. Six-year-olds are smart.

So I finally found and ordered trough planters with casters which are made of UV stabilized polypropylene. The company assures me it is non-toxic and organic and the company and product has a good rep from my research. I hope I don’t poison my family. I put the troughs together last night. Yeah, I was excited.

Story #3: Prepare the Canvas

I got tired of waiting for my lawn to be weed wacked and I picked up the darn machine and plugged it in and went to town. The power! The noise! The aching arms! I got so much wacked! I felt like a professional hit man. Sorry, it was too easy.

I spent an hour weed wacking around my landscaping and then the patio got a nice haircut to show off my slow building dream. Somewhere along the way –disaster struck. I got poison ivy in my own yard! Who knows where? It could be still lurking out there waiting for me to come back with another dream on my sleeve for its tentacles of poisonous itch to climb and attack. It’s bad, ya’ll, real bad. Am I gonna make it? I’ve tried some things to make myself not itch it. I am not proud to admit it but I get obsessed easily and I am obsessed with scratching this bratty itch!   

Wow, this got long. And I have so much more to say. As a teaser I will let you in on the next story titles. I will post them after you digest this. Don’t worry, I’ll be back.

TO BE CONTINUED:

Story #4: PETRIFYING the logs.

Story #5: Sowing the Seeds of a Dream

Story #6: Set-Ups, Set-Backs, and Settees

Story #7: Glorious Patio of my Dreams –work in progress

  ~gregorific

‘Wearing my dream on my sleeve.’ 

Happy Mother's Day Ya'll!
I happen to have the best Mom in the world. She's taught me everything and then some. I'm still trying to figure out where she gets all her energy and endless devotion, and how to emulate it. It'll be my life's work. The kind of sacrifice and love that embodies a great Mom is the inspiration behind the poem below (I think) and the root of my feminism. 

Feminism.  Thought by some to be a dirty word. I've heard many a friend say, "I'm not a feminist, but I think..." and then they say something that is important and very supportive of women being treated equally. When I point out something I think is unfair or gender biased, people have asked me, "You're not a feminist, are you?" Like a cute way to joke about my semi-strong opinion.

Well, yes, of course I'm a feminist. Please recall the quote defining feminism as having thoughts that differentiate you from a dishwashing machine, or my choice here, doormat. Do I think people should be treated equally? Yes, I do. Not just women, either, and I think that's where some of the confusion lies. Defining feminism is complicated because by nature women are thinkers and inclusive and we defy catagorization as a whole. We're too big of a group to agree on a narrow set of words to embody our unity and strength. But it's there, the strength, holding up our world. If it was better tapped into, then the world would be a better place. I fight the stigma of feminism by saying I am one and then being a good, rational, kind person. 

Do I burn bras? I would like to, yes.
Am I a third wave feminist? Yes, sure.
Do I prefer the term womanist? Sure, I like that too.
Do I think the feminist movement has included persons of different sexuality, color and social status?   
No, not enough, it's never enough, we have to always keep trying and opening our minds to others.

My writing is flavored with my girl power beliefs in an effort to keep the dialogue open and continue passing it down to the younger reader/generation. I worry in our digital age and under constant media assault that our identity as women will be homogenized beyond recognition. I don't want my girls molded into a plastic image, constantly working to achieve a photo shopped body and a 'mass market appeal' type mind. If only women could join together then there would be no one to pose for those sexy scanty ads that do not sell anything sexy or scanty. There wouldn't be anyone to buy the ads or products. Women make the world turn, we makes houses into homes and are usually the primary parent. Not always, but often. We have more power than we know. Maybe realizing that power has to do with being comfortable with the label feminist.  

Just Sayin',
~gregorific


The good old days at home sweet home 
 by Marge Piercy

On Monday my mother washed.
It was the way of the world,
all those lines of sheets flapping
in the narrow yards of the neighborhood,
the pulleys stretching out second
and third floor windows.

Down in the dank steamy basement,
wash tubs vast and grey, the wringer
sliding between the washer
and each tub. At least every
year she or I caught
a hand in it.

Tuesday my mother ironed.
One iron was the mangle.
She sat at it feeding in towels,
sheets, pillow cases.
The hand ironing began
with my father's underwear.

She ironed his shorts.
She ironed his socks.
She ironed his undershirts.
Then came the shirts,
a half hour to each, the starch
boiling on the stove.

I forgot bluing. I forgot
the props that held up the line
clattering down. I forgot
chasing the pigeons that shat
on her billowing housedresses.
I forgot clothespins in the teeth.

Tuesday my mother ironed my
father's underwear. Wednesday
she mended, darned socks on
a wooden egg. Shined shoes.
Thursday she scrubbed floors.
Put down newspapers to keep

them clean. Friday she
vacuumed, dusted, polished,
scraped, waxed, pummeled.
How did you become a feminist
interviewers always ask,
as if to say, when did this

rare virus attack your brain?
It could have been Sunday
when she washed the windows,
Thursday when she burned
the trash, bought groceries
hauling the heavy bags home.

It could have been any day
she did again and again what
time and dust obliterated
at once until stroke broke
her open. I think it was Tuesday
when she ironed my father's shorts.

"The good old days at home sweet home" by Marge Piercy, from Colors Passing Through Us. © Alfred A. Knopf, 2003.