the love of an italian mother
Last night we went to dinner at an AMAZING Italian Villa that should be in a movie. I would attempt to describe it to you but I just wouldn't know how and anyway, it's not the point. It's the home of a VERY Italian family that my husband has become friends with. VERY ITALIAN. And while the group of 10 or so of us were all sitting down in the middle of the 2nd course of our fabulous home-cooked Italian dinner, drinking incredible Italian wines from their personal wine cellar and gazing out over their citrus grove and palatial pool, the mother walks out from the kitchen and passes her son a note at the table.
The note reads:
Young Man,
Why is there a rifle outside my laundry room door?
WHAT THE HELL?
xxoo,
Mom
I am not kidding. That is an EXACT quote. And I know that because I pocketed that note off the table the minute nobody was looking and it is now hanging on our refrigerator. I love the Italians.
(Don't be afraid - it wasn't an actual rifle. These aren't THOSE kinds of Italians. It was a spear gun the son uses for fishing that the mother isn't fond of so he leaves it around the house to piss her off.)
Posted by Poka Bean at 7:33 AM
laura ingalls poka bean
Hi, I'm Poka Bean and I'm a shameful excuse for a blogger. I feel like I should re-introduce myself but blah, blah, blah. That would be so boring.
So instead I want to catch you up on what's been happening to me in the here and now. And when I say "happening to me" I truly mean it. There is an unstoppable force taking over my life and I am powerless against it. I did not invite it in, it has simply decided to claim me and consume me and sit heavy on my heart like a bowling ball.
People, I want to live on the prairie.
I want to move to the country and sew my own clothes and grow all of our food and make jam. I want to bake things from scratch, help my neighbors with barnraising and can tomatoes. I want to join a co-op, barter my homemade goods and listen to bluegrass music. I want to attend a little country church, make quilts, read books and never watch TV.
WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME?
I am serious when I say I cannot stop this. I haven't read or watched anything that has inspired these things in me, they are just suddenly there and I am their puppet. They are shouting "DANCE, POKA. DANCE!" and I am doing a jig to fiddle music.
If anyone has a cure for what is ailing me (or any good marmelade recipes!), please speak up. At this rate my next post could be a telegram sent from somewhere in central Wyoming.
Posted by Poka Bean at 9:51 AM
photos. because i'm out of words and they're worth 1,000 a piece.
I've been really uninspired about blogging recently but I've decided to take matters into my own hands and spice things up with a few photos from the holidays.
This is my dear husband dressed as a shepherd to help at our church's Christmas services. There was a petting zoo (I mean "Bethlehem Inn Stables") for the kids and there were plenty of shepherds helping out but go figure, there were no sheep. Instead, Jon led a pony around the parking lot all night. It had sparkly ribbons in its hair, just like in Jesus' time.
This is my nephew in the bathtub on Christmas Eve. Oh, how I love this boy.
This is view of the sunrise over Dana Point Harbor as seen from the patio of the little inn Jon and I stayed at after Christmas. It was as amazing as it looks.
Living proof of my highest scoring Scrabble game ever over New Year's weekend, the very one in which I kicked UC's ass. (Sorry, babe.)
Another little glimpse into New Year's weekend with Emily and Mark in the background. This was me trying to make it look like we're crazy party animals but let's face it, we were all in bed by 12:05am.
Posted by Poka Bean at 8:04 PM
you people suck
Harsh words, I know. But in my time of need you have NOT come through with even a SINGLE book recommendation even though I asked really nicely for your input. So now I'm not asking so nicely anymore. I'm demanding...LEAVE ME SUGGESTIONS FOR A BOOK TO PICK FOR MY BOOK CLUB. IMMEDIATELY. Time's a wastin'.
Posted by Poka Bean at 7:06 PM
you wish you were me. minus the spinning.
You're so jealous. Presently, it is 12:08pm on a Friday and I am cuddled up on the couch in my pajamas watching back to back episodes of Felicity* while drinking a huge mug of killer french press coffee with toasted milk (thanks to UC for the wicked cool Christmas present!) and eating homemade Swedish cinnamon rolls (aka BULLAR - not to be confused with the modern floor lamp sold at Ikea).
I have forgone my usual Friday morning ritual of yoga and reading a book at my favorite bagel shop in favor of this more homebody-style, pajama-friendly approach. Partly because IT ROCKS and partly because I'm experiencing some pretty awesome vertigo which would make Bird of Paradise and Dead Bug Pose challenging and because I'm not fit to operate the heavy machinery needed to GET me to my favorite bagel shop.
Okay, but completely off that subject, I really need your help. I have to pick the next book for our book club and I am cracking under the weight of this responsibility. Good grief, the pressure! Need help. Please leave me your suggestions. I'm thinking fiction would be cool since we've been reading a lot of memoirs recently. Bearca, I'm considering Paint It Black but I'm not sure if it's something everyone would like or if it's just for big Janet Fitch lovers like us. Ideas??
*Felicity: It's been over a year since I've watched this series. Why have I let so much time go by? I freaking love this show. But to change things up and not get bored on my couch day, I'm now switching to Grey's Anatomy for an episode or two because my homegirl Malin gifted me with season one last night at the 3rd Annual Christmas Cookie Decorating Contest which I'm proud to say I won**.**Okay, so we sort of all won. We are stupid, wimpy girls and were unable to choose a winner this year without any outside, objective judges. But I think my snowman/santa/gingerbread man was the clear choice.
Posted by Poka Bean at 12:06 PM
i kind of want to call this one "spores = whores"
Wet carpet = lame. Finding out you have a leak in your wall and that your home is a thriving and productive mold factory = even lamer. Discovering that your mold problem has ruined part of the only material posession you truly treasure = the MOST LAMEST EST of ALL.
So in case you haven't picked up on this already, POKA BEAN = NOT HAPPY.
The good news, however, is that the chunk of our wall that had to be torn to bits today in order to correct the problem is considerably smaller than I had anticipated. And the smell is getting better. And the most IMPORTANT part of the beloved material posession is in great shape. My mom's old guitar. I'm not entirely sure but I'd guess it hails from 1965 or so. The guitar itself is fine, I think. The case, however, is toast. Or I guess I should say it's MOLD which sort of works better anyway since toast becomes mold after it sits unnoticed in a damp, dark corner for several weeks too. But whatever. However you slice it (geez, enough with the bread inuendo) that baby is ruined. With a capital R. And it's not just any guitar case. It's dear to me because it belonged to my musical genius mother (don't worry guys, she's still alive, it's not the last thing I have to remember her by or anything tragic like that) and it's lined with the most ridiculous, fuzzy, flourescent red material, material I am certain they stopped manufacturing after the world's disco boots cooled off.
Tears were shed. Scrubbing and drying and fanning and airing and disinfecting were attempted but it was all in vain. I fought the mold and the mold won. The guitar case is still sitting outside my front door because I just don't have the heart to put it in the trash yet. I feel like I should bury it or something. Give a eulogy. But I should really just be grateful the guitar itself is fine because that is treasure enough.
Anywho, I suppose this unravels the mystery of why I've been an allergic maniac for the last several weeks. The mold zone is about 5 feet from where I sleep. Well actually, it's in about a 5-foot radius of pretty much anywhere you can possibly go in our apartment which is the beauty of living in a cubby hole. But finally figuring out what the heck the problem was is a friggin' miracle so I guess I oughta count my blessings and give mad props to our bomby landlord (meaning our landlord who is THE BOMB) who figured out what was wrong and is fixing it for us even though his wife just birthed their first born child. Mad props, yo. (And extra mad props to our bomby landlord for having given his first born child the middle name of "Sodapop." Do you see now why he is so bomby?)
Posted by Poka Bean at 6:57 PM
training for the big day
Every time I go to yoga, I fear THIS will be the time I get kicked out of class. It is humanly impossible for me to control my giggling at the mention of the words "yoga practice." As in, "Take a deep breath and focus in on today's yoga practice." What exactly are we practicing for...the big game? A recital? A yogathon? The yogalympics?
It strikes me as funny everytime. It ruins my concentration and prevents me from being able to
honor my body and
clear my mind of all thoughts and all that crap because all I can think is why not just call it a CLASS. Like normal people.
Posted by Poka Bean at 7:37 PM
