Let's rediscover some of Fritz's favorites:

1. Siouxsie and the Banshee's- It's a downward spiral--If I start to sing 'Kiss Them For Me', I then enter into 'Where is My Mind?' by the Pixies which (of course) leads to 'Cannonball' by The Breeders, and then, Veruca Salt, and whoops! I'm suddenly humming New Order. But wait! That reminds me of The Cure, which briefly makes me say out loud 'Bella Lugusi's Dead' (of course I know it's BAUHAUS, but I like The Cure a little bit more than Bauhaus), and now I'm simply wondering why Weezer got to be such a sell-out band and could someone please buy me The Gorillaz for my birthday? Nah, nevermind, I'll just put in my old Blur cd, but I wouldn't mind some Morrisey/Smiths right now. Have you seen the Pepsi ad where the Ramones are playing?

Music is SO cool. And it all starts with the Sex Pistols. And I don't even LIKE the Sex Pistols.

2. Of new and great importance: I have a new COFFEEMAKER, and it is a god amongst coffeemakers. Brush aside the Krups! Make room for the Cusinart! No longer burnt, sludgy coffee! Now I make the coffee and TURN OFF THE BURNER! But wait--the coffee stays hot in the resevoir. WOW!

3. I found some cute sheets! And I ordered them! And then I ordered some corresponding sheets...and then some towels. And then some other towels! Gosh, I love linens.

4. Hooky days are my favorite days. Since I work from home, I'm kinda always on hooky. But when Michael plays hooky, it's my NEW favorite day. Yea, hooky! Hooky hooky hooky.

5. I still am angry about Bush, don't get me wrong.

I've been practising yoga. It's great--I'm really learning how to connect with my inner peace and body. Breathing rhythmically while bent at various ninety degree angles is truly a relaxing and meditative practice. The Zen masters claim that by slowing your breath to your body's natural rhythm's while focusing your mind on the Present can bring such stillness and peace, you can undergo surgery without pain medication, or sit for days in still meditation. I wasn't too sure about these claims until this morning.

I was bent in child's pose, contemplating my hollow eyes and the deep crease between my knees. I felt the strength and balance of my arms and the natural length along my spine. Suddenly, a voice came through--clear and ringing. It was President Bush.

Somehow, my Deep Meditation brought my existential plane in sync with his. It was truly eye-opening; at first, I thought I might be listening to the primal thoughts of the early-evolved, until one thought clearly came in: "I ain't no Goddam Chimp". The voice was faltering and unsure, but easily recognized. It was George Walker Bush the II.

Continuing to breath, hoping he didn't feel my presence, I listened in on his brainwaves. It was quite a tirade. I hope to capture the essence of the diatribe.

"...liar, they call me? LIAR? I read the Constitution...once. Then, we did a skit about Paul Revere and 'one if by land, two if by sea'. See? I remember! And who are these people telling me that wiretapping isn't Constitutional? I know it's in there, somewhere. I mean, yeah, okay, so they're lawyers and they think they know things that I don't...but I'm PRESIDENT! I get to do whatever I want! I can do as much cocaine as I want, and I can steal as much as I want, and I can bluff seniors into buying this Medicare Plan D, and I can put money in my pocket and in my friends' pockets, and it's all because I'm PRESIDENT!! Oooo, look, Laura brought me some Velveeta cheese. I love Velveeta cheese! Chew slowly...don't choke...And what's with this crap about my good buddy Alito? The man is God's right arm--along with Robertson and DeLay and Cheney and Daddy and Me. We are like the Knights of the Oval Table. Whatever...I hate women who talk too much. They're always crying about their rights and 'Keep your laws off my body' and then they start talking about the poor...what does 'poor' mean? Hey! I am so glad about New Orleans, secretly. It smelled bad. It was filled with those poor blacks; I bet they smelled bad, too. Most black people smell funny. Even Condie. But maybe that's because she's a chick? No, Laura doesn't smell like that. Laura smells like Clorox. My daughters smell pretty crummy, though, come to think of it. You know, I haven't seen Dicky lately. Wonder if he's still alive? Whatever. I'm sure he's coming up with a plan to keep me safe from these threats of impeaching. Im-peach-ing. MMm. I like peaches. Hey, they can't kick me out of this place! Congress are too scared of me! Those silly little representatives and senators, thinking they can kick me out? I don't think so. My money runs pretty deeply through THOSE viens, too. I'm going to name a planet after myself..."

Part of Zen Meditation is not permitting your emotions to impede your progress into your inner self. I haven't quite got the hang of this. I lost transmission when I started envisioning Bush getting hit by a train. Then, I got worried that FISA had somehow wiretapped my brain. I snapped back to reality.

This whole conversation reminded me of a conversation I had with my parents when I was seven. We were sitting at the dinner table. I was pouring ketchup on meatloaf.
"Good girl! Eating your vegetables!" Dad said.
"What?" I said.
"Reagan says ketchup is a vegetable!"
"That's stupid," I said.
"Yes, you're right." Dad said.
"Dad? Why are we afraid of the USSR?" I asked.
"We're NOT afraid of the USSR. The PRESIDENT is afraid of the USSR."
"Oh. Why?"
"It's different in the USSR. Say you tell a friend that you don't like the mayor of your town. Well, your friend could tell her Mom, and then her Mom could tell the police, and the police could tell the Mayor, and the Mayor could have you arrested."
"Eww. You mean I can't have opinions in the USSR?"
"No, it means you can only have the RIGHT opinions," lectured Dad as he fought with some peas.
"How can an opinion be right or wrong?" I asked.
"Some opinions lead to problems for others. If too many people didn't like the mayor, he couldn't arrest them all. They could kick him out of the town. That's scary. So, the USSR makes sure people know what kind of opinions they can have."
"Yuck," I said.
Mom chirped in, "That's why, honey, no matter how terrible this country CAN be, we must always be grateful. We can have opinions. No one can take away our rights to opinions. That's what is beautiful about the USA."

I look back and see how lucky I was to have two parents so concerned with the world they took the time to educate me on these matters. It makes me sad to think this knowledge is archaic. We can't have opinions, anymore. At least, we can't have the wrong opinions. Because God only knows where that might put the current administration. And the current administration is showing such disdain for us, The People, that they would spy on us, and threaten us, and cut our medical care, and take away our rights, and expect us to believe their lies. We are in a great state of need, People. We must be prepared to fight back with words and intelligence. I fear that if we do not fight back in this manner, our children will have to fight back with more than words.

Do your part: contact your congressman through e-mail. Demand an investigation into Bush; DEMAND IMPEACHMENT.

They just tick me off--the TLC Bringing Home Baby series.

What brilliant dude thought this one up?
"Oh, I know! I'll do a whole series on new, stupid parents!"

Now, Moms of the world, I am sure that labor and all that is a 'beautiful and spiritual' occurrence. And I'm also sure that the pain, defecation, urination, ripping, bleeding and screaming is all worth it...until the kid starts crying. But I really resent this show, and I am beginning to resent it so much that it's affecting my love of "What Not to Wear".

Yesterday, the episode highlighted a couple who were introduced as 'looking forward to spending some time together after marriage when they discovered they were pregnant'. Great. Two relatively unexcited parents getting ready to slip another body out into the world. The show follows them through their labor, with a wonderful closeup to Mom's hoo-hah while Baby crawls out of the birth canal. I'm about to lose my lunch, but can't seem to stop watching when Mom says, actually SAYS this on television: "Well, we thought we were prepared. You know, we bought some stuff. But we're not prepared at all."

I'm sorry, you bought some STUFF? This is a freaking PERSON you're talking about, and you thought some STUFF was going to get you prepared? IDIOT.

So: pan into the 'nursery', which is really nothing more than a spare room with a heap of junk in it and the bassinet. Mom's trying to change Baby with those ultra-hip environmentalist swaddling diapers. Now, I don't really have a problem with that, because my parents used those same reusable diapers with me, and thanks to them, my tushy is soft and cuddly. What I do have a problem with is not knowing how to put a baby in a diaper. People! You've had NINE MONTHS. You'd think they could've practiced ONCE with a doll or a foster kid or something!

My heart rate is already bouncing off the walls at this point when Mom says AS SHE IS BREASTFEEDING Baby, "We're going to raise him vegan."

VEGAN?? You're freaking milking him with your own mammary glands and you're going to take DAIRY out of this kid's life? No meat? No protein? No birthday cakes? No processed sugars?? NO ICE CREAM?? How the hell did they expect the little runt to GROW? Pills and vitamins?

I snapped. I simply couldn't bear it. Here I am, nowhere CLOSE to thinking about reproduction, and I already know more about babies than this dull-witted, California trendy couple of yuppies. When people are sticking newborns in spare rooms and wondering what to do when Baby spits up, they should have their child taken from them. Yes, there's a lot of learning that happens when you become a parent. Sure, you're going to fumble and mess up. Okay, you might even drop the kid.

But a little foresight NEVER KILLED ANYONE. On the other hand, I know some vegans who look like death warmed over.
Stacy and Clinton, I'm going to have to take a break. TLC is causing me health problems.

I wanted ice-cream (the lo-fat kind that is okay on my diet). Michael said he'd drive. I was in my houseshoes; I wasn't going to get out of the car.

We parked in front of the grocery store, and Michael went it. I rolled down the window and yelled, "I love you!" and he laughed.

I watched the people coming and going. Here was a construction worker with a twelve-pack of beer; here was a young mother with four kids, there goes a middle-aged man. A thin blonde woman walks past, talking on the cell phone, her hand raised in mid-air, making an exclamation to no one. Two men stare at her behind as she walks by, oblivious to their wandering eyes. I see these lives, like thin threads, intertwining and disconnecting, briefly living lives in moments.

And then, I see the old man. He stoops under the weight of his two plastic grocery bags. His gait is unsteady; he walks like a tired penguin, swaying from right to left. He makes his way from the storefront to the handicapped parking space, smiling at others. I do not see anyone smile back. Nevertheless, he continues to smile and sway, a gentle tree.

Now, he reaches his car (the tired Cadillac--his last important purchase). He rests his hand briefly on the roof of the car, as though he is taking stock of its presence. He is assuring the car--it is stable, permanent, and heavy with existence. Slowly, he opens the door and places his two modest bags in the backseat. He is still smiling at something quiet in his mind. The old man enters his car gracefully, and steadily reverses it with the caution of the elderly. He values life too much to peel out; instead, he comes to the crosswalk and pauses. I see him swivel his head two or three times to ensure no one is coming or going, and he slowly accelerates, leaving the parking lot.

I realize as I watch him drive away I am crying for this beautiful moment. I have witnessed a tiny part of this man's life, and I feel blessed to partake in the simplicity of it. I wonder if he has a wife waiting for him at home. I wonder if she has died and he lives alone in the mystery of her absence. I wonder if he has an old dog for a friend, or good neighbors, or doting children. I wonder what makes an old, unsteady man such as he so powerfully gentle, so happy, so content with his two little grocery bags and his decrepit car. I am overcome with emotion--I am part of that old man, now and forever.

As I smile at the taillights of the old man, I wait for Michael in anticipation. Suddenly, there is nothing more important to me than seeing his face, watching him walk towards me, watching him smile and look for traffic as he crosses the parking lot. He has not emerged from the store yet; I peer intently, watching the people come and go.

Then, he is walking towards me, and there is nothing more beautiful than his smile. His gait is long and he strides with casual power, and I think, "We are together", and nothing could make me happier at that moment. As he approaches the window, he waves to me, as though we are greeting one another for the first time. He sees my tears and my smile, and a look of concern passes his face.

"Are you okay, honey? What's wrong?" he asks as he places his long legs in the car, handing me the grocery bag.
"I love you," I said.
He smiles, and two little tears prick the corners of his eyes.
"I love you," he responds.
***
Later, that evening, falling asleep, he rests his head on my chest and we breathe simultaneously. I feel his exhalations on my breast; I hold him tight. No one can tear us asunder.

Michael: you are my clarity.

Well, I've gotten too many kind responses from my loyal readers to give up on Blogging. I'm going to slowly start getting it back together; small baby steps at a time. So, reverie times...

(Clouds gathering, everything gets fuzzy...)

Two Days Ago: I was at Ikea (again) with Michael. Damn that place. DAMMIT! Michael and I have become so adept at navigating the store that we can get through the showroom with its throngs of Asian gaggles and yuppie chicks in a matter of hours...as oppossed to the first trip, which took us an entire week and a large amount of Ikea Cinnamon Rolls. Anyway, we were traversing the bedroom section with lightening speed when a very tall, thin couple bounced into me. The body to hit me first in the ribcage was at least 6'2"--broad shoulders, blonde, with a handsomely squared jaw. Then, her husband richocheted into my head. He was taller, blonder, and his face was slightly diminutive in comparison to his wife.

"Ich der fugbberstein Stupid American!" she said as she scowled at my head.
"Kjearnd eine floorboard!" he spat.
"Sorry, krauts!" I said.
"VHAT????!" screamed the woman. There were some German veins sticking out of her neck.
"No, it's okay. I can say that because I'm German, too!" I said.
"Nein! Voo ich Stoopid American! Voo have no pureness in your blood! Just look how short and stubby you are, Fat American! Vhat, you think because you listen to Rammstein voo are German?? Ach! Nein!"
During some part of this heated exchange, an Orthodox Jew wandered into the same area. He was looking for a new sectional.
"What is this?" he screamed in the general direction of our Foriegn Friends.
"VHAT?" screamed Thor--she had ripped off a sleeve to expose a tanned arm, bulging with muscle.
"Nazis!" the Jew spit at all of us.

"No, no!" I cried, "I'm not one of THEM! I'm American!"
This may have been one of only a few times that I was proud to claim this.
**
Now, close your eyes. We're drifing backwards, through time. I'm ten years old. The school system has put me in an advanced Literature class to make the sting of the remedial Math class less painful. We're given a book report assignment.

I think we could choose from several different books. Let's see: there was an opportunity to discuss "Where the Wild Things Are" from a socio-economic perspective; "101 Dalmations: The Subjugation of Breeding in Captivity" was another option. I bypassed these and went straight to the most depressing book ever written: "The Diary of Anne Frank".

For three weeks, I lived in fear of anything German-sounding, like my last name. I would drag my dresser over to the door and block myself in for the evening. I shut all the curtains and peered outside from time to time, waiting for the Gestapo to find me and my yellow star. I began to scratch out missives and thoughts in my diary, counting down the hours until I would surely be captured and sent to a Death Camp. When it came time to present the book report, my mother (a wise woman) suggested that instead of showering and getting some fresh air, I simply present the book report from the first person, dressed as Anne herself.

My mother was so enchanted with this idea, she made an armband for me and made a wool skirt. She even made Dad buy me leather penny loafers to complete the look of a forties' schoolgirl. The morning of the report, I slicked my curly blonde hair down in a drab manner. I bypassed the pink jacket for a somber brown thing. I frowned and looked sad. I believed I was Anne Frank, walking to her own death in the Camps. There was a small entourage of teachers guiding me through the halls of school; apparently, my delicate condition raised concern. The time had come: I sat in a blackened school room and gave my report, using the light squeezing through the blinds as backlighting. It was true: I had become Anne Frank.

I made an A on the report, but I don't know if it was worth it. Ever since then, I'm haunted by the words of a thirteen year old girl who survived for one year in an attic, living with eight other people, hoping to survive Death. For this year, she wrote. Her words were stronger as a child's then mine shall ever be. The light borrowed from the sky was bleak and indifferent; the only friends she had were the swallows, and they never told the Gestapo her hiding place. And at the end of this year, as the War was drawing to a close, the Gestapo found her and her father, mother, sister, and the five other people dwelling in a space beyond a wall in an office building.

Anne and her sister and mother all perished in the Kamps...she died of pneumonia and poor nourishment. Only her father survived, and he published her diary. Man, what a Dad, huh?
***

At Ikea, I was reminded of Anne. The Germans who were yelling at me weren't Nazis; they were simply tall people speaking a harsh language. In actuality, they didn't bump into me at all. I don't think they even saw me. But I responded to them as I responded to my deceased Grandfather...with a little fear and awe. Granddad still spoke a little bit of German, and his father had ONLY spoken German for years and years. There was something eerie in hearing those hard syllables at Ikea. It spoke to me of Anne's demise, of North Dakota and rolling plains of nothing but gray, of my own broad shoulders and blonde hair, and what it means to be German-American.

I wound up spending sixty bucks at Ikea. I went home and put my new pillows in their pillowcases. We hung a shelf up. We installed some lights. We hung some of our artwork up. And I thought of Anne.

I hope they still read that book in schools.

I have a bad case of blog block. I am desperately trying to rejuvenate my writing soul and enchant the world of cyberspace with wit and charm and all things good, but cannot seem to get into the right place. It is almost as though the happier and more content I am, the less I want to write. Now, I could curl into a depressing fetal position and bang out some stories, but I fear this is not worthwhile, because I am not getting paid for my writing endeavors.

I will state that I've lost six pounds in two weeks and am going strong. Michael and I have been making wedding plans and things are going well in that department. My new job is also going exceedingly well; in fact, in the second month of employment, I got a bonus. More props to me, and yet another huge raspberry blown in the general direction of Probation.

Tonight, Michael and I are going to go ice skating. The last time I went ice skating, I was five years old. I was in daycare. A whole bunch of us wandering, neglected children were taken to a ice rink in Chicago. We were set free, like baby alligators struggling to survive. Many of the children took to the ice quite well, and began skating and singing and running into the rest of us poor saps born without grace or motor skills. I spent three hours walking around the rink, hanging on to the walls. It was terrible.

Michael is a hockey player. As he explains, his training in defense has allowed him to skate very proficiently--especially backwards. Thank goodness, because I will be latched onto him facing forward. I have to think about wardrobe...shall I tie a pillow to my tushy?

I'm hoping I'll accidentally run into one of those annoying figure skaters. Maybe one of my blades will hit a main artery? There's always hope. I'll keep you posted.

Sigh. It just doesn't feel the same anymore, this blogging.

Double sigh.

Oh, I know I have been missing in action, and I am terribly sorry!

It all has to do with a little writer's block, a little bit of the holiday crazies, a little bit of wedding planning, and a lot to do with a new Playstation2.

Yes, I have fallen victim to gaming. But PLEASE! Do not fear! I will resume Blog Posting Insanity (as such) as soon as possible. I just have to give myself a little down time so I can re-devote myself to exploring the world in as much exhaustive ranting detail as readers are accustomed.

For those of you who have made personal appeals for my return, a hearty
"THANK YOU!" and "HAPPY NEW YEAR!" to you.

And for those of you too sad to write-I promise. I'll be hunting you down! And commenting!
Love
Fritz