Sassistas! Our dish on the social soup.

July 2011 Open Mic

 

The sassosphere microphone is open, sistas and mistas.

Please step up and dish whatever you like.  

 The Sassistas! sponsor Open Mic the last Friday of every month.

 

Distraction

Like "masturbating monkeys", we check the internet, our email, facebook page or twitter tweets every 30 seconds, according to an essay in this past Sunday's, New York Times Book Review. This habit is especially perilous for writers.

To escape literary distraction, Tony Perrottet, the author of the article, "Why Writers Belong Behind Bars," believes that some writers (perhaps Flannista?) can only write "in extreme -- and involuntary -- isolation." Following are some examples:

Colette's husband "stashed her in a tiny room for four hours a day, refusing to let her out until she had finished a requisite amount of pages -- a drastic measure, but one that resulted in a novel a year for six years."

Annie Dillard pushed her desk away from the windows in ther tool shed study on Cape Cod, which looked out on lovely pine forests, to face a blank wall.

John Cheever "preferred his New York apartment building's dark and dismal basement."

Jonathan Franzen wrote The Corrections in "a dark room wearing earplugs, earmuffs, and a blindfold and confessed to blocking his Ethernet port with Super Glue while working on Freedom."

Truth be told, the Sassistas! blog community has served to distract Flannista from the writing she needs to do to finish telling her story. Not that that has always been a bad thing as Flann has published some of her stories here.  However, what's your advice on how Flann could be less distracted by her computer?  How do you walk -- and stay away -- from your computer?

 

Afternoon Feeding

 

The following is a true story.

 

Yesterday afternoon, after walking the dog, Flannista made an amazing yet terrifying discovery when she stepped out of the shower:

Attached to the bottom of my right nipple was a large tick.

Seriously.

At first I thought I had cut myself and had discovered some dried blood.  However, when I began to put water on the spot, it moved.  I was, of course, horrified. I carefully pulled the thing straight out and flushed it down the toilet.  I then examined myself to ensure that I had gotten all of it. I thoroughly washed my hands and the "area of attachment" and felt a bit relieved.  The tick had been quite large (larger than the one pictured left) and the large ones typically do not carry disease. Plus, I had pulled similar ones off of my legs earlier this month.

But how in the world did this tick become attached to what had to be the smallest area on my body?  Though I wear a sports bra when I work out, I don't typically wear one during the day, so I guess the thing had free access. But did it really think it would go undected in a hiding space that was smaller than it was?  

What's this tick's story? If the Sassistas! were to make a movie or write a book about this crazy episode, what would be the title?  How can we make money from this horror story?

 

No, No, No

 

"They tried to make me go to rehab,

but I said, 'No, no, no.'"

-- Amy Winehouse, composer/performer "Rehab"

1983-2011

 

Constantly

 

The back of St. Francis Cathedral, Santa Fe, New Mexico

11:11 a.m., July 19, 2011

 

Holy Spirit Espresso

About 10 years ago, Flannista stopped by a coffee cart in Santa Fe, New Mexico and ordered the best latte she'd ever had at Holy Spirit Espresso in the lobby of the El Dorado Hotel.  It was run by a great guy named Bill who promised that if I sent him a postcard, he would send one back.  True to his word, Bill did, and for about five years, Flann and Bill exchanged postcards.

Curious to know if Bill was still around, the Sassistas! went to the El Dorado Hotel yesterday morning and learned that Bill had opened his own small shop across the street.  We had to stop by, of course.  

When we found it, I walked in and said, "Bill do you remember me?  Flannista?"  Without hesitation, Bill said my last name, got out an index card and asked me if I still had the same home address.  He then made Matissta and me two of the best lattes in all of the Southwest (see Flann's, pictured above).

The Sassistas! plan to take PEACEsista with us this morning to meet our friend, Bill.  We're so happy that he is still in business and moreso, still the sweet, generous guy he's always been.  It takes a good man to make a good latte, don't you think?

And with a name like Holy Spirit Espresso, the coffee's got to be heavenly.

Big Wet One

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MATISSTA!

WITH LOVE FROM THE CATTIES!

The Visit

 

 

The gravesite of our beloved friend and writing companion,

GWENDOLYN

 

 

The Doorway

 

It doesn't have to be

the blue iris, it could be

weeds in a vacant lot, or a few

small stones; just

pay attention, then patch

 

a few words together and don't try

to make them elaborate, this isn't

a contest but the doorway

 

into thanks, and a silence in which

another voice may speak.

-- "Praying" by Mary Oliver from Thirst

 

It is time for a silence in which another voice may speak.

After publishing nearly 1,140 posts, the Sassistas! have decided to take a hiatus from regular posting. We do not make this decision lightly or without much sadness. The fact is, however, we are very weary, particularly Flannista who has written nearly 90% of the posts and monitored most of the 40,700+ comments.

We plan to post occasionally while we discern what new direction Sassistas! might take. We will, for example, be in New Mexico next week -- with PEACEsista -- to pay our respects to Gwendolyn and to celebrate Matissta's birthday and plan to share some of those experiences here. Outside of that, we have no plans except to pay attention and patch a few words together -- for other critical creative endeavors for which the sassosphere might serve as a platform.

We are grateful for your steadfast loyalty and hope that you will continue to sass in.  We are particularly grateful to Westsista and her very popular "Meet the Sass" posts which we hope to continue when our new direction becomes clear.

In the meantime, know that this doorway is always open for you and your comments.

Thank you for your thoughts and prayers.  

Love to all. 

Unfinished Business

 

Two weeks ago yesterday, Flannista drove with the Sassistas! dog, Huckleberry, to Patuxent National Wildlife Refuge to pay homage to the one-week anniversary of Gwendolyn's death.  Huckleberry and I were only ten-minutes into our hike when he decided to drop his business for all the world to see. Fortunately, I had brought a couple of plastic bags in the event this happened and scooped up what he dropped. Unfortunately, I then noticed the sign that informed me that the refuge had no trash cans and hikers were responsible "to take out what they bring in". 

Damn if I was going to carry a load of dog sh!t on a hike to honor Gwendolyn in addition to handling Huckleberry. When I sensed we were safely out of eyesight, I tossed the plastic bag and its contents into a thick mass of trees, bushes and weeds (see the precise location below):

Within a minute, I saw a refuge patrol car.  Thinking quickly, I took out the other plastic bag, filled it with the dog biscuits I had stuck in my left shorts pocket and held the bag as though it were full of dog sh!t. The ranger stopped.  I noticed him closely scrutinizing the bag. Then I heard myself say this:  "I am here today to honor a beloved friend who died one week ago of a rare and aggressive form of ovarian cancer. Is there something you need from me?"

The ranger instantly put his head down and apologized: "I'm so sorry to disturb you," he said.  "I'll leave you alone right away."

"Thank you," I said, haltingly.  The ranger drove away.  I continued my hike with Huckleberry.

It didn't take long, of course, before I was filled with guilt. I had thrown a non-decomposable plastic bag filled with dog sh!t into what I imagined was a safe haven for all types of rare wildlife.  Further, I had used Gwen's death to get the ranger out of my face.  I practically ran the rest of the way, fully expecting to see the ranger next to my car holding the bag of dog sh!t at the end of the hike.  

He wasn't there.  But my guilt was and remained.

So yesterday, overwhelmed by all the unfinished business of my life that has emerged during this time of grief for Tim and Gwendolyn (and a sh!t load of other losses), I returned to the Patuxent National Wildlife Refuge without Huckleberry.  I hiked to the thicket where I believed I had tossed the plastic bag, took a deep breath and went in, not expecting to find it.

In less than a minute I found it, fittingly hanging from a thorn.  I gently pulled it off and carried it back to my car where I placed it underneath the driver's door.  I continued on my hike, stopping several times to watch the flora and fauna and occasionally taking photos.  When I returned to my car, I tossed the plastic bag and the dog sh!t into the back of my car and disposed of them properly.

I had, at least, completed that business.

 
Above is a photo I took while walking around Cash Lake at the Patuxent National Wildlife Refuge.