What is the most memorable gift you have received?
The most memorable gift I received was the moment I saw a former colleague open his “white elephant” gift at a work party at WNIJ. It was a crocheted Cthulhu ski mask. The room erupted in laughter that lasted so long I was able to dig out my phone from my bag and take a (slightly blurry) picture.
Prior to walking into the party, the Cthulhu gift-giver told me he bought the present in the summer and had been looking forward to the white elephant portion of the party for months. I can still see the anticipation and gleam in the gift giver’s eyes.
Cthulhu, as written by H.P. Lovecraft, is a fearsome character and not exactly good looking. He’s part octopus, part dragon, part human, part beast and ALL FEAR! He makes brave men go crazy! The young man who received the ski mask, though highly respected, also happens to be one of the most gentle souls on Earth. Seeing this kind-hearted person don the Cthulhu mask was purely hilarious.
A gift.
Thanks for reading!
Yours in madness,
Cthonnie
P.S. Cthuhlu us pronounced “kuh-thoo-loo” and if you are interested in reading about the ugly beast, here is a list of horror writer H.P. Lovecraft’s books.
Barbara and Fern on a remote island in northern Illinois overlooking Lake Michigan.
After I read this morning’s prompt How far back in your family tree can you go?, I took Barbara for a walk and thought about her family tree.
Who was Barbara’s mother? Who was her father? Who were her litter mates? Are they still alive?
Beats me.
Some animals come with papers clearly delineating their pedigree. Barbara came with cuteness and little else. Compared to, say, the Queen’s corgis that date back 15 generations, there is very little recorded about Barbara’s heritage.
Here’s what I know: Barbara is a 12-year-old tan chihuahua from Chicago.
Here’s what I was told in 2011:
A college student bought the dog from a flea market and then decided nah. The young woman told her instructor about her chihuahua woes and he took the dog from her and said he’d find a home for it. His then-wife, an animal rights activist who had previously brokered the adoption of our first chihuahua (Toddy), asked us if we wanted “Annabelle.”
We said yes.
Jesse picked up the dog at State & Wabash and the two new pals drove home to Rockford. Upon meeting the dog, the family agreed that her name would be Barbara, after Barbara Bush.
As Barbara (my dog, not the ghost of the former first lady, although who’s to say she wasn’t there?) and I were walking along the pre-dawn streets of my neighborhood, I was lost in thought about pedigrees, puppy mills, flea markets and the like. Then I felt a cosmic tug on the leash. I looked up and noticed another “family tree.”
A family tree.
That’s my mom’s house and that pine is her tree. It’s the tallest tree in the neighborhood. Shortly after moving back to Rockford, I was driving home and realized I could see the trees from several blocks away and felt an absurd amount of pride. I didn’t shout, “The rest of y’all trees suck!” but I certainly thought it.
There are three trees in that section of her yard and they’re lovely but I don’t know the family tree about the family trees. I don’t know their age, what kind of pine tree they are, if someone intentionally planted them or if they’re volunteers.
Here’s what I do know:
In the 1970s, my brother adorned the trees with Christmas lights from top to bottom.
In the 80s, I climbed them.
In the 90s and on, my late father hung bird feeders on them and watched the avian activity from his porch swing.
“It’s a microcosm, Conniegirl,” he told me one afternoon when I was visiting from Minneapolis.
This was the nineties. Even though I was well into my twenties, it was the first time I ever heard the word and asked him what he meant. He, a teacher and a wordsmith, explained it to me scientifically and poetically. He used their compost bin as another example of a microcosm because he and my mom frequently saw snakes, insects and mice in it. He spoke to the essence of nurturing life, the importance of “turning the pile” and respecting the order of culinary events in a ecosystem, aka the “food chain.” Whenever I hear the word, I think, “Dad.”
I have a fascinating family tree but don’t have time to get permission to write publicly about them. Just know I am very proud of my family — the roots, trunk, branches, buds, leaves (fallen or fresh) and sap.
Today’s prompt: Write a short story or poem about rain.
Rain Delay
rain leaked into the
House this week, falling faster
than we could catch it
Rain Dance
eventually
it let up and the reigning
Speaker is dancing
Afterparty Cleanup
while the rest of us
clean up the mess the Grand Old
Party left behind
Some people can think things through. Others like to talk things out.
I like thinking and talking, but if I’m to make any personal progress as a human being, I need to write. It’s my physical way of processing data, assessing facts and understanding situations. Writing is where I am most careful, most cautious and most concerned. Writing is how I understand a little bit more about myself and others.
Several years ago, I read Anne Lamott’s book Bird By Bird. Her brother had to do a bird project for his science class and procrastinated until the day before the project was due. Their dad said he’d help and they’d just go at the task “bird by bird.”
Some nerd impersonating Anne Lamott.
Since I read that book, I’ve gone “bird by bird” whenever I feel overwhelmed or even underwhelmed. It helps me break things down and build things up.
Similarly, when I struggle to understand a person, a personal situation, I like to write about it “word by word.”
Over the Christmas holiday, I read the book How We Live Is How We Die by Pema Chodron. I read it in tandem with another book entitled Wicca Nature Magic: A Beginnier’s Guide to Working with Nature Spellcraft. And yesterday, I visited with my Baha’i friends at the local Baha’i Center. We had a potluck goodbye party for our friends before they traveled back to their home in Nevada.
There were non-Baha’i friends there, too; each spiritual in their own way. It was fun to catch up, visit and, as my friend put it, “cogitate.”
This morning, when I saw today’s prompt, “What brings you joy?” I knew I would need to cogitate.
Without cogitating, my immediate answer at 6:00 in the morning was, “My husband and our children.” But something didn’t feel right about answering a question about “joy” with “my family.” My family is so much more than “joy.”
Truth be told, I don’t understand “joy.” I don’t understand “happiness” either. I understand moments of joy and moments of happiness, but I don’t understand society’s need for perpetual joy and everlasting happiness.
So, after cogitating, here’s my answer:
Social media brings me joy. Buying something nice, be it expensive or on clearance, brings me joy. A venti non-fat cappuccino with extra foam brings me joy. Finding the cheapest gas in town brings me joy. Shopping at ALDI brings me joy.
I want less joy!
That’s me dressed as Pema Chodron for a literary-themed costume party in 2016.
Lately, after reading the aforementioned books, I’ve been tasked with thinking of my body as a miniature version of Earth. Earth is made of water, fire, air and stone. Following the logic of the books I’ve just read, my tears, saliva, urine and blood are my planet’s water. My body heat is the fire. My breath is the air. My bones and teeth are the stones.
Visualizing myself as tiny planet — not needing anything materialistic, electronic or caffeinated — I can sort of see it. (I can live without Starbucks but I cannot live without coffee.) This way of thinking has taken me on a little spiritual journey of living with less joy. I rather like it. To be clear: It doesn’t bring me “joy.”
Hey, thanks for reading. If the photo of me impersonating Pema Chodron doesn’t work for you, here’s a 29-second video of my back yard impersonating my mind. Cheers!
Today’s prompt is, “What is a treasure that’s been lost?”
Black and white televisions with limited reception.
I had a tiny TV from 1995-1999. My friend Eddie McNulty gifted it to me when I moved into my first “alone” apartment in Stevens Square of Minneapolis.
It was my first time living alone and I had big plans. I was very keen on not having a TV. I was an artist after all…
“I’m far too busy to watch it anyway!”
After one day I could barely stand the sickening silence. I was confused, jittery and sweaty. I couldn’t concentrate on reading or writing. I was only 25 but I wondered, “Am I having a heart attack?”
I called Eddie and told him I wasn’t feeling well. I confessed to him that I was having a hard time with the transition and felt like I had made a terrible mistake.
Eddie came right over. He brought me his old TV and said, “This is a loan.” I remember the eye contact. Eddie valued his antiques and I knew not to mess with that.
“Oh I promise I’ll give it back.”
He left and I tested the TV in every outlet until I found the best reception which was gloriously in my bedroom, also something I had previously sworn I’d never do. I placed it precariously on a stack of old books and no the irony is not lost on me.
The little television didn’t have very good reception but the NBC station was reliable. Many nights I would watch the late news (KARE-11) followed by a Cheers rerun and then The Tonight Show with Jay Leno.
One night I couldn’t sleep so I turned it on, gently turned the dial a little to the left and begged the TV to bring me something to watch.
“Come on, TV. You can do it. Be positive. ‘I think I can, I think I can…'”
Even though I wasn’t technically on a channel, my TV miraculously picked up an old movie!
From the 1936 classic “The Women.”
I didn’t immediately know what it was but the dialogue seemed familiar. After a couple minutes I recognized it was the 1939 film The Women because I had stage managed the stage play with the same title by Clare Boothe Luce at Park Square Theatre in 1996.
It was pure joy to watch this film in the middle of the night. It was hilarious and glamorous and wonderfully campy. I remember eagerly watching all the way until the end of the credits, soaking up every second of the old black and white magic.
Other than that one night, my TV-watching was routine: news, Cheers, Tonight Show. I often fell asleep with the TV on and one morning in August 1997, I woke up to the shocking news that Princess Diana had died. It stunned me right out of my bed. I sat on the edge of my bed and watched the early morning breaking news. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the princess’s death kickstarted my obsession with the Royal Family, something I really don’t want to admit.
In 1999, I moved to a tiny old house in north Minneapolis. I brought the black and white TV with me, but it didn’t get any reception. I was television-less for months but finally saved enough money to purchase a color TV. I brought the black and white TV to the basement with the intention of returning it to Eddie “some day.”
“Some day” never happened. The basement became the TV’s “forever home.” I moved to a new apartment in 2003. I left the TV along with several paintings and yard tools in the basement. There just wasn’t room but I still feel terribly guilty about leaving those items behind and I’m certain Eddie will never forgive me for not returning his television.
Years later, I learned that the house was demolished. I have no idea if anyone rescued the art or TV from the basement before the house was leveled. It’s one of those things that gnaws at me, especially when I find myself watching Harry & Meghan on Netflix on our ridiculously enormous screen in our ridiculously tiny bedroom. Note to self: Get some damn discipline!
Today’s prompt is, “What is the earliest memory you have?”
I have many. Here’s a list:
Seeing my dad pull up in his cream-colored station wagon when he got home from the newspaper.
Stubbing my toe and marveling at how the wound was a perfect brick red-colored circle.
Picking up pinching beetles for fun and marveling at their sheen.
My mom exercising throughout the house as she did chores. This is perhaps my earliest memory because she was back at work by the time I was in kindergarten. And not long after that, she ran for alderman. Didn’t win, but I am still so proud.
Having rotating art on the living room walls. Back then you could “borrow” a painting from the library.
My sister Rani performing as a grammarian dog in a play at Walker Elementary School. She and my mom sewed it and I also remember the roar of the huge sewing machine.
My mom saying “God bless America” when she was frustrated (still hilarious).
Singing “I’m a Rhinestone Cowgirl” into a handheld tape recorder while Glen Campbell’s song played either from the radio, a record player or 8 track. I think Rani was sending her friend Laura (who lived in Texas) a recorded letter. This predates mixed tapes and voice mail. Back then I think my sister would record a message onto a tape and then mail it to her friend.
My sister Rani blow-drying my hair followed by my grandma saying I looked like Farrah Fawcett but pronouncing it Faroo Fuh-rah. It’s worth noting that my very Italian grandma also liked the song Funiculi Funicula.
My brother David giving me that final push when I learned how to ride a bike. It’s worth noting that this was on Camp Avenue which means he had to keep me steady all the way around the block.
My sister Rani getting makeup secretly delivered to her in the mail. I believe she even sent cash (coins even!) to purchase it!
Ozark airplanes at the local airport that delivered our Morrison, Colorado loved ones to us (and sometimes us to them).
My sister Phyllis’s spellbinding performance in Clod Clown by Phyllis Ross. I can still hear her singing the title song:
Everyone calls me the Clod Clown
and I can't blame them cuz
every time I sit down, I fall down
every time I stand up, I fall down
and then when I walk up and down the stairs
I trip and fall and break my neck
My sister went on to write another groundbreaking song entitled, “Guess What America Is Eating Tonight?” If you’re wondering what the answer is, here’s a hint: She wrote and performed this song while popping popcorn.
Guess what America is eating tonight
Something light that you make at night
And when you eat it your pants won't get tight
All of these memories (and so many more) have obviously heavily influenced who I am today. I’ll write more about the “art” aspect of my childhood on the Rockford Fringe page later tonight. I had to write this quickly today. Thank you for reading!
Funiculi funicula,
Connie
One of the greatest songs ever–after “Clod Clown” and “Guess What America Is Eating Tonight?”, of course.
No one has ever called me a warrior. I’m not fierce. I don’t slay. I’m neither a fighter nor a beast. I have yet to grab life “by the balls” and I am certain no one has ever looked at me and whispered, “hero.”
What I do have is an unflinching awareness for originality. I am drawn to people who think, write and speak for themselves. They may be brave but I, Connie, am not.
I’m more of a creative survivor. That means I deal with the stuff life throws at me in my own weird way.
In Harper Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird, Scout says, “My father, who hated guns and had never been to any wars was the bravest man who ever lived.” I’ll admit that sounds better than, “My father, who hated guns and had never been to any wars was the most creative survivor who ever lived.”
Hmmmm. Braveversus Creative Survivor – You be the judge:
My favorite team is the Atlanta Creative Survivors.
The best part of The Star Spangled Banner is, “The land of the free and the home of the creative survivors.”
He’s out running errands, creatively surviving the cold.
I didn’t want to talk to her but I put on a creatively surviving face.
I just read Creatively Surviving New World.
I will never have a career in marketing or branding but you can count on me to be original, just as I can count on you.
Yours in creative survival,
Connie
“I coulda had class. I [never] coulda been a contender.”
The historic Route 66 “begin sign” on in Chicago. A fitting image to begin this year’s Bloganuary challenge?
Today’s Bloganuary prompt is, “What do you want to achieve in 2023?” My answer: a better vocabulary.
In 1991, I stage-managed a holiday musical revue called I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas for Carolyn Vincent Productions at the Plymouth Congregational Church in Minneapolis. Like many churches (I would come to learn), it had a small stage that lent itself to Christianity and shitty theatre.
During a rehearsal, the cast, producer and director were talking about including the Cole Porter song, “Begin the Beguine.” I had never heard of the song.
“Begin the what?” I asked.
“The beguine.”
“How do you spell it?” I asked, for I was taking rehearsal notes.
This badge says, “I’m fancy!”
“B-E-G-U-I-N-E.”
“What’s it mean?”
“You know. A beguine!” said Jennifer, an impatient actor.
Nobody provided a satisfactory definition; there just wasn’t time for that sort of thing at the Plymouth Congregational Church or apparently in the past 32 years because it dawned on me this morning that in all that time I have never looked it up.
Until this morning. It’s a rumba-like dance.
That’s beguine pronounced “buh-GEEN” with a hard g. I also learned there’s a separate definition with two different pronunciations!
"Beguine -- pronounced BAY-geen or BAY-jeen: a member of one of various ascetic and philanthropic communities of women not under vows founded chiefly in the Netherlands in the 13th century." -Merriam-Webster
Now doesn’t that sound like a rip-roaring good time?
Maybe not, but I’ll tell you what is. Listening to a recording of Sammy Davis, Jr. sing “Begin the Beguine” is pure perfection. I’m listening right now and I highly recommend adding it to your playlist. Here’s a video of the legendary crooner.
With that, I’ll sign off for the day. Happy New Year and thank you for reading my blog.
Under vows as I endeavor to achieve a better vocabulary,
Connie
P.S. Blogine is pronounced Blog-EEN, not “bluh-jeye-nuh.”
P.P.S. “Begin the Beguine” never made it into the show.
Most mornings before school, Jocelyn gets up at 5-something and practices ballet. Her schedule does not allow her to train at Chicago’s Ruth Page Center for the Arts anymore, so she works the “basics” at the barre in our dining room by herself.
I don’t usually get out of bed until 6:30 but today I had an early start and when I went downstairs, I caught her dancing in pre-dawn darkness.
“Caught” isn’t the right word. “Sensed” is more like it because it was pitch black. Though I couldn’t see or hear her, I knew she was there.
I didn’t want to interrupt her but I needed to see so I turned on the Christmas tree lights. Like Santa filling the stockings in Clement C. Moore’s A Visit from St. Nicholas, she briefly turned her head toward me and then “spoke not a word but went straight to [her] work.”
Several years ago, Jesse and I created a “man on the street” video where we asked several people the same question: “Do you believe in Santa?” My friend Christy, a scientist, said she did not but that she loved “Santa moments.”
Sensing my daughter in the dark, then seeing her materialize when I turned on the Christmas tree lights, then carry on her with her ballet was a “Santa moment” for me and a wonderful way to start my day.
Thanks for reading my blog. I hope you have your own “Santa moment” today. -Connie
P.S. Here’s that video.
Several people answer the question, “Do you believe in Santa?”
Connie Kuntz is the producer of the Rockford Fringe, a playwright and the music and comedy director for Naked Angels Tuesdays@9 Chicago. She lives in Rockford, Illinois with her husband and four children.
Constance Kuntz 