So.
Wedding dresses.
They are really heavy. I'm not talking in the metaphysical sense here. I mean, those things are made of a lot of fabric. And tulle. Don't forget tulle. In fact, you cannot forget the tulle. But, I have limited experience with these things. I've only tried on dresses today. This was the inaugural shopping expedition.
Mom flew in from New York. I assembled my crackerjack team of shopping and style experts and we headed west. Past Cicero Avenue and into the land where Polish, Italian and Mexican families live Catholic harmony. Just like Springfield has it's Hammock District, Chicago has a Wedding District and that is where we were today.
It is not, as one might expect, a glamorous district. But there sure are a lot of bridal salons out there. And a lot of dresses. Dresses in all styles, colors and silhouettes. That is how you refer to them. Not shapes. Silhouettes. I think I learned that today. Did I mention the crackerjack team of experts? You wanna know why I'm smart? It's because I know when to admit that I need help. I tell you right now, without my three ladies, I would still have my head stuck in a dress with an arm poking through one of those fancy, hanger straps they have. I would be lost.
When we first walked into Eva's Bridal I froze up. There were a lot of sparkles, shiny fabrics and pointy bodices around. I got a little overwhelmed and I shuffled over to the desk, a display case of tiaras and other ridiculous accessories. They gave me an information card to fill out and by the time I looked up, the ladies had already agreed upon a gown off one of the racks.
I love these girls. They jump right in where I fear to tread.
We were told it would be a few minutes before my consultant was available and we ushered ourselves into the room of gowns. Floor to ceiling wedding dresses. I had no idea where to begin. I touched a few, wandered past a couple of different price ranges but my chest got really tight and I felt really lost for a minute. I can't even go to Blockbuster without taking six and a half hours to chose from all of the titles. What was going to happen here?
Ultimately, we're talking about a room full of white dresses. OK, some were ivory. Some were antique, some were even baby blue but upon first glance it is a sea of white. It was like being snow blinded. However, there was no hesitation on the parts of anyone else. Head first and into the racks they went with me trailing behind them.
Most of the dresses were hung inside clear garment bags. We were unzipping and digging through massive amounts of silk, satin and tulle. Don't forget the tulle. We saw some really ridiculous dresses. Lots of lace overkill ... er overlay and sparkly detailed bodices. When our consultant (and I say our because today was, for sure, a team effort.) We had three gowns to bring into the dressing room. I gave the pictures I had cut from the only bridal magazines I have purchased thus far and she went off to find more gowns for me to try on.
One of the best things about having spent so much time in theater is that I am pretty comfortable in a dressing room. Usually I'm the one lacing people into corsets but the tables were turned today. I think I did good. I had a specific dress in mind going in but I kept myself open to some other designs and I had three of my most honest advisers with me. Plus my mom. She was there to make sure my boobs weren't going to hang out too indecently. In describing her sense of fashion, as far as my wedding dress was concerned at least, she used the word "parochial." I'm not entirely sure what she meant by that but I have a good idea, considering she favored the more "well structured" and least plunging necklines of all the dresses I tried on today.
Not that there's anything wrong with a modestly cut wedding dress. However, while I am looking to minimize certain aspects of my physique, there are others that I feel should be tastefully showcased on my wedding day. Tastefully.
I think the biggest surprise of the day, besides the whole "wow, I look pretty f'ing good in a wedding dress" thing was that I figured there would be some sort of conflict over dress color. But there wasn't. In high school, walking the walk in the mornings with Eileen Kaufman, when we discussed future wedding dreams I always described myself in something completely nontraditional. And, while I have veered away from my initial feelings on a black wedding dress with bridesmaids in blood red, I am still not too keen on the pure white dress thing.
Now, I'm as virtuous and virginal as the next chick. I just don't think I look all that good in white. Plus, I'm a clumsy eater. And a clumsy walker. Pretty much, I'm a little clumsy all around and therefore I've never favored white. I've had in my head something in a nice ivory, perhaps champagne. I didn't think mom would go for it. Only daughter, only marriage and mom's not the most progressive lady... But she agreed. That was pretty cool. We can only hope that things progress as smoothly over the next nineteen months.
Only nineteen months? Oy. OK.
So the dress thing turned out well. We eliminated some styles altogether. Bye bye mermaid silhouette. See ya at someone else's wedding, Mae West slinker. Hello Grecian draped style.
I know, it's a real shocker that I can rock the Grecian garb. What can I say? Some of us are just born to look good in raw silk. Elegant, simple, classical if you will. Indeed. Lovely dress, shame it doesn't exist in my size.
It's a really arduous task, trying on wedding gowns. I am not kidding about the weight of these things. Thankfully my crackerjack team was there to help me in and out of the gowns. Pulling down underskirts, lacing the aforementioned corsets and making sure I didn't fall off that little platform they give you to stand on, so you can see what the dress looks like without stepping all over the bottom. Not to mention six brilliant eyes and three mouths not afraid to speak the truth. None of the three of these ladies are part of the wedding party. That team is all in New York. But these three, they are my every day go-to team. We have our verbal shorthand and I know I can trust each of them to give me unvarnished opinions. Very important.
I feel pretty good. We dropped mom off at the train to the airport with information on two specific dresses written down for further internet searching. We took some pictures. And no, you can't see them. We're going to try and find the first dress we all agreed on. The one they told me is discontinued.
There's also a second dress. We popped into the shop where one of the girls bought her own wedding gown. Unannounced, you can't expect too much from a shop the size of this store. But the lady was super nice and very helpful. The one dress I tried on there is a winner. It's beautiful, but it's got a lot of "business" going on. I don't know if I want a lot of "business." But we've got all of the information on that one as well.
And I am confident, after today, that I can find a dress I look great in. Truthfully, I wasn't too sure of that until I started trying them on.
I don't know if I did it right though. I didn't cry. Wasn't I supposed to cry? I always hear about brides and their mom's crying when they find THE dress. Standing there, in front of the three-way mirror in a billowy cloud of white, tears of joy streaming down their cheeks. Yaddayadda yadda. No? Good.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Stop Me Before I Troll Again
there is some sick (SICK!) compulsion inside me that makes me do crazy things sometimes.
like putting my ex-boyfriend's name into google "just to see what happens."
you know what happens?
i find him.
and i go to his myspace page and stare.
and then i throw up a little in my mouth.
and then i do it all over again like a month later.
because...
i don't know.
maybe he makes mention of me? maybe someone finally posted a comment calling him out on his supreme douchebaginess (yeah, i made that word up. all on my own. fuck off.)
maybe some sort of non-fatal tragedy has befallen him and i can laugh about it!
curse you myspace.
curse you for providing access to the people, places and things we should never be able to access again.
curse you myspace and curse my trolling sickness.
ew. alanis morrissette's "you oughta know" totally just came on.
i'm going to go wash the gross off myself before it's permanent.
like putting my ex-boyfriend's name into google "just to see what happens."
you know what happens?
i find him.
and i go to his myspace page and stare.
and then i throw up a little in my mouth.
and then i do it all over again like a month later.
because...
i don't know.
maybe he makes mention of me? maybe someone finally posted a comment calling him out on his supreme douchebaginess (yeah, i made that word up. all on my own. fuck off.)
maybe some sort of non-fatal tragedy has befallen him and i can laugh about it!
curse you myspace.
curse you for providing access to the people, places and things we should never be able to access again.
curse you myspace and curse my trolling sickness.
ew. alanis morrissette's "you oughta know" totally just came on.
i'm going to go wash the gross off myself before it's permanent.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Love In The Time of Cold Remedies
Ahhh Valentine's Day.
In honor of this most auspicious holiday marketing scheme here is a list of the other things that annoy me:
* Men blaming women for Valentine's Day.
You know, if some people thought to be more considerate and perhaps more caring towards other people on a regular basis (and without prompting) throughout the year maybe we all wouldn't be in this heart-shaped pickle, now would we?
Is it so hard to buy a bouquet of flowers every once in a while? Sheesh.
Ahh, not that I condone laying on the pressure for expensive baubbles and/or trinkets either. The entire thing is a gross misappropriation of perfectly good emotions if you ask me.
Just stop blaming me for the whole thing.
* Food voyeurs.
The next person who comes up to me and starts sniffing my food at lunch is going to get a face full of ...well, whatever it is I'm heating up at the time. I don't sniff at your food now do I? Scram.
* The CTA.
Specifically the Blue Line and the Damen Bus.
SpSpecifically having to wait a full 40 minutes for both/either of the above.
SpSpSpecifically having the above mentioned wait quadruple my commute time.
SpSpSpSpecifically when it's 10 FREAKIN DEGREES OUTSIDE.
Thanks CTA, I'm so glad the revenue from all of those fare hikes is being put to good use.
Douchebags.
*The Cold. The Cold. Oh The Cold. Please God Make It Stop Being So Cold.
It's very difficult to reach into my pockets when I'm fully dressed and leaving the house in the mornings. I can't answer my cell phone if it rings when I'm outside. I can't, physically, get to the inside of my pocket. It makes me crazy. My fingers are virtually useless inside my gloves. My scarf is so big, and wound so high on my face that my neck is immobilized. And I so wasn't kidding about waddling to the bus stop in the mornings. Today it was a pair of tights, a pair of wool leggings, one pair of cotton socks and a pair of wool socks underneath the big, pink snow boots and my jeans. So much. Too much. Enough.
Thank you.
*Commercials.
Dear The Violent Femmes,
So sorry to hear you have fallen upon hard times. I guess you should have invested some of that early-eighties cashola a little bit better. Maybe then you wouldn't have had to sell one of the most awesomest songs EVER to Wendy's. Dudes.
*Oprah.
Still.
That's it.
Right now.
I'm gonna go work on the one-act.
In honor of this most auspicious holiday marketing scheme here is a list of the other things that annoy me:
* Men blaming women for Valentine's Day.
You know, if some people thought to be more considerate and perhaps more caring towards other people on a regular basis (and without prompting) throughout the year maybe we all wouldn't be in this heart-shaped pickle, now would we?
Is it so hard to buy a bouquet of flowers every once in a while? Sheesh.
Ahh, not that I condone laying on the pressure for expensive baubbles and/or trinkets either. The entire thing is a gross misappropriation of perfectly good emotions if you ask me.
Just stop blaming me for the whole thing.
* Food voyeurs.
The next person who comes up to me and starts sniffing my food at lunch is going to get a face full of ...well, whatever it is I'm heating up at the time. I don't sniff at your food now do I? Scram.
* The CTA.
Specifically the Blue Line and the Damen Bus.
SpSpecifically having to wait a full 40 minutes for both/either of the above.
SpSpSpecifically having the above mentioned wait quadruple my commute time.
SpSpSpSpecifically when it's 10 FREAKIN DEGREES OUTSIDE.
Thanks CTA, I'm so glad the revenue from all of those fare hikes is being put to good use.
Douchebags.
*The Cold. The Cold. Oh The Cold. Please God Make It Stop Being So Cold.
It's very difficult to reach into my pockets when I'm fully dressed and leaving the house in the mornings. I can't answer my cell phone if it rings when I'm outside. I can't, physically, get to the inside of my pocket. It makes me crazy. My fingers are virtually useless inside my gloves. My scarf is so big, and wound so high on my face that my neck is immobilized. And I so wasn't kidding about waddling to the bus stop in the mornings. Today it was a pair of tights, a pair of wool leggings, one pair of cotton socks and a pair of wool socks underneath the big, pink snow boots and my jeans. So much. Too much. Enough.
Thank you.
*Commercials.
Dear The Violent Femmes,
So sorry to hear you have fallen upon hard times. I guess you should have invested some of that early-eighties cashola a little bit better. Maybe then you wouldn't have had to sell one of the most awesomest songs EVER to Wendy's. Dudes.
*Oprah.
Still.
That's it.
Right now.
I'm gonna go work on the one-act.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Man, I Wish We Had TiVo
Now that The Panda Show is over I have regained full use of my Sundays.
Woohoo.
I love Sunday. It is a day spectacularly devoid of any responsibility or relation to the other days in my week. When executed without flaw I can manage to be in my pyjamas all day. I try not to make any promises or create any expectations for myself on Sundays. Sitting down to write here is sometimes a major accomplishment for me but Sunday is the only day of the week I have to myself. And, therefore, the only day I have the time to commit to it.
Which, I admit, is partially laziness on my part. Sure, I could take an hour or two after work every night. Or I could start writing in the mornings over coffee and breakfast. But really? No. Not really. In the AM my brain is pretty much in a vice-grip of stupidity until I'm actually in the elevator of my office building. After eight hours at work there's no less pleasant a thought than sitting down in front of another computer and having to use the same brain cells I've been exercising all day. I can maintain consciousness until about 11pm. After that, I guarantee nothing.
Yes, it's true. I live a simple life. A quiet life. Saturdays are generally for chores. Grocery shopping, forcing The Fiance to help me "clean up, just a little." Sometimes a movie, or lunch out. Not in this weather though. Occasionally, Saturdays are spent recooperating from Friday night, but most of The Big Events happen on Saturday nights.
Which brings us back to Sunday.
I sequester myself on the second floor. It's the bedroom, and our office, and the music studio, and a very comfortable lounge area easily fortified against the elements by strategic placement of our space heater. It's quiet up here. The forced-air heat doesn't have the same resonence as it does in the living room. There's not the constant volume monitoring on the TV or on the computer as there would be downstairs. It's oddly cosy for a space so open. Equally as important, my cell phone gets horrible reception on the second floor. Oh well.
I bring some snacks up from the kitchen and a beverage or two. After 6pm, or with whatever passes for dinner on days like this, I might have a glass of wine or two but usually it's tea or water or juice. I'll bring the paper up and spread it on the desk, piling the ad sections ontop of the ones I have no interest in - automobiles, business, classifieds and sports - and browse the rest of the paper. Beatrice will eventually come searching for attention and plant herself in my lap, or ontop of whatever I'm reading at the time. We'll watch a little TV together until she moves her fat, kitty ass onto the other chair finally freeing all of my limbs and attention. She'll sit quietly until Jabber comes up here to tell me that he's starving for food and from lack of attention. Beatrice will either run him off with a swipe of her paw or allow him to nest on the bed.
If I hadn't finished reading my book last night, I'd be making my way through that right now. Or muddling through the new novel I just brought home from the stash in my desk drawer at work. But there's a Law & Order marathon on (does it still qualify as a marathon if they show 5 hours of L&O every Sunday?) The cats and I are content enough to sit here and eat our snacks and pound out some thoughts on the ol' blog.
I've been thinking about a one act play. Today is the type of day I might work on that. Or I might spend three hours rambling here. Or perhaps I'll browse the list of wedding dress designers from the salon I am going to next month. The Hunt begins on March 11th. There are a lot of things I could, and probably should, be doing today. There are a lot of ways I could spend my Sundays. But the greatest feeling in the world is not having a single damn thing to do.
Woohoo.
I love Sunday. It is a day spectacularly devoid of any responsibility or relation to the other days in my week. When executed without flaw I can manage to be in my pyjamas all day. I try not to make any promises or create any expectations for myself on Sundays. Sitting down to write here is sometimes a major accomplishment for me but Sunday is the only day of the week I have to myself. And, therefore, the only day I have the time to commit to it.
Which, I admit, is partially laziness on my part. Sure, I could take an hour or two after work every night. Or I could start writing in the mornings over coffee and breakfast. But really? No. Not really. In the AM my brain is pretty much in a vice-grip of stupidity until I'm actually in the elevator of my office building. After eight hours at work there's no less pleasant a thought than sitting down in front of another computer and having to use the same brain cells I've been exercising all day. I can maintain consciousness until about 11pm. After that, I guarantee nothing.
Yes, it's true. I live a simple life. A quiet life. Saturdays are generally for chores. Grocery shopping, forcing The Fiance to help me "clean up, just a little." Sometimes a movie, or lunch out. Not in this weather though. Occasionally, Saturdays are spent recooperating from Friday night, but most of The Big Events happen on Saturday nights.
Which brings us back to Sunday.
I sequester myself on the second floor. It's the bedroom, and our office, and the music studio, and a very comfortable lounge area easily fortified against the elements by strategic placement of our space heater. It's quiet up here. The forced-air heat doesn't have the same resonence as it does in the living room. There's not the constant volume monitoring on the TV or on the computer as there would be downstairs. It's oddly cosy for a space so open. Equally as important, my cell phone gets horrible reception on the second floor. Oh well.
I bring some snacks up from the kitchen and a beverage or two. After 6pm, or with whatever passes for dinner on days like this, I might have a glass of wine or two but usually it's tea or water or juice. I'll bring the paper up and spread it on the desk, piling the ad sections ontop of the ones I have no interest in - automobiles, business, classifieds and sports - and browse the rest of the paper. Beatrice will eventually come searching for attention and plant herself in my lap, or ontop of whatever I'm reading at the time. We'll watch a little TV together until she moves her fat, kitty ass onto the other chair finally freeing all of my limbs and attention. She'll sit quietly until Jabber comes up here to tell me that he's starving for food and from lack of attention. Beatrice will either run him off with a swipe of her paw or allow him to nest on the bed.
If I hadn't finished reading my book last night, I'd be making my way through that right now. Or muddling through the new novel I just brought home from the stash in my desk drawer at work. But there's a Law & Order marathon on (does it still qualify as a marathon if they show 5 hours of L&O every Sunday?) The cats and I are content enough to sit here and eat our snacks and pound out some thoughts on the ol' blog.
I've been thinking about a one act play. Today is the type of day I might work on that. Or I might spend three hours rambling here. Or perhaps I'll browse the list of wedding dress designers from the salon I am going to next month. The Hunt begins on March 11th. There are a lot of things I could, and probably should, be doing today. There are a lot of ways I could spend my Sundays. But the greatest feeling in the world is not having a single damn thing to do.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Big Mistake
Wearing one less layer of everything today.
Bonuses:
Less waddle on the walk to the bus stop this morning.
Trading in tie-up hiking boots for giant, pink snowboots = way cuter and much less me losing feeling in my toes because all of my socks make the boots too tight.
Bonuses:
Less waddle on the walk to the bus stop this morning.
Trading in tie-up hiking boots for giant, pink snowboots = way cuter and much less me losing feeling in my toes because all of my socks make the boots too tight.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
What I Wore Today
1 pair underpants
1 pair wool leggings
1 pair wool leg warmers
1 pair cotton socks
1 pair wool socks
1 pair ugly hiking boots that are more water/slip proof than any other shoes I own
1 pair corduroy pants
1 bra
1 thermal pullover shirt
1 cotton henley shirt
1 ugly wool "Mr Rogers" sweater over the whole mess
still cold.
1 pair wool leggings
1 pair wool leg warmers
1 pair cotton socks
1 pair wool socks
1 pair ugly hiking boots that are more water/slip proof than any other shoes I own
1 pair corduroy pants
1 bra
1 thermal pullover shirt
1 cotton henley shirt
1 ugly wool "Mr Rogers" sweater over the whole mess
still cold.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
2007 - The Year Of Living Frenchily
*Deep sigh of relief*
Today, January 16th, is the first day in over a month I have been able to just come home, kick off my shoes and relax with a some episodes from the Law & Order franchise.
The above is a lie.
I was supposed to go to the grocery store and buy breakfast food and pick up a pair of long johns for Bird.
Weeeeeeeelll. I copped out and hit the 7/11 for over priced bacon and eggs.
And, since I told Bird's mom to send him new, fancy, long johns for his birthday (It's OK, his birthday is tomorrow and he doesn't read this blog anyway) I figured I should wait and see if that happens before I buy him a pair.
So here I am at home. Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
The end of 2007 went kind of haywire on me.
First of all I signed up to stage manage a show.
It's strange and it's French.
It's playing here, in Chicago, right now. Come and see it!
Then, in November, Bird promoted himself from my "The Boyfriend" to my "The Fiance."
Go figure huh? (squeeeee!)
It's very exciting and a little bit scary.
Not because of the whole "til death" thing. That I feel OK about.
What's really freaking me out is the idea of being the center of attention at a huge event.
Really. There's a reason I'm a stage manager and not an actor folks.
I am fabulous with planning and organizing and making all sorts of magic come together.
For other people.
When it comes to my own life, and art, and entertaining I am way more neurotic and a bit of a weenie about committing to ideas and choices.
This is not a good way to be when you have a wedding to plan. I am trying really hard to remind myself what I have told all of my bridalicious friends at one time or another. This is just a big budget, one-night show. Lavish costumes, complicated props but (thankfully) very few light cues. If I can continue to think of it in this way I should be able to deal with whatever the next umm.... eighteen months....has to throw at me.
Only eighteen months???!?! Crap.
On the plus side, even if the reception falls to pieces, we're doing it down in New Orleans so people will have some sort of fun. Somewhere. Somehow, that I may or may not want to know about later.
And can someone tell me how I am meant to refer to the occurrence to this event?
"One the plus side...we're _________ down in New Orleans."
Fill in the blank:
doing it
throwing it
celebrating it
tossin' it up
pledging our love
making me an "honest" woman
proclaiming our intended fidelity
making it all OK with The Big Guy
Is there a preferred term? Is there something in an etiquette book somewhere?
(This, by the way, is probably the last time you will hear me inquire about any sort of wedding etiquette.)
Anyway, so yeah. There's that.
In continence of the frenchified theme for 2007, for my birthday my The Fiance's Mom sent me a copy of Anthony Bourdain's Les Halles cookbook.
So far The Fiance has put together a splendid baked chicken.
A few years ago my family started exchanging Christmas gifts grab-bag style. Which is fun and cuts down on the spendiness that was Christmas but maddening when the wacky White-Elephant rules apply.
(You know, first person picks a gift from the pile. Second person can snatch the gift right out of first person's hands. Or can politely take one from the pile.)
Let's just say this. I started the game with a copy of "Young Frankenstein" and wound up bringing home a copy of the Balthazar cookbook.
Which, you know, one can never have too many cookbooks. But 2007 is surely shaping up to be the year of Parisian Brasserie cuisine.
Note to self: Register for those cute little ramekins to cook souffle in.
And perhaps an escargot fork.
But just one though. I doubt we'll ever need more than that.
So, that's all I've got for right now. Tomorrow is The Fiance's birthday. We are going out to eat something fancy and not at all French.
Today, January 16th, is the first day in over a month I have been able to just come home, kick off my shoes and relax with a some episodes from the Law & Order franchise.
The above is a lie.
I was supposed to go to the grocery store and buy breakfast food and pick up a pair of long johns for Bird.
Weeeeeeeelll. I copped out and hit the 7/11 for over priced bacon and eggs.
And, since I told Bird's mom to send him new, fancy, long johns for his birthday (It's OK, his birthday is tomorrow and he doesn't read this blog anyway) I figured I should wait and see if that happens before I buy him a pair.
So here I am at home. Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
The end of 2007 went kind of haywire on me.
First of all I signed up to stage manage a show.
It's strange and it's French.
It's playing here, in Chicago, right now. Come and see it!
Then, in November, Bird promoted himself from my "The Boyfriend" to my "The Fiance."
Go figure huh? (squeeeee!)
It's very exciting and a little bit scary.
Not because of the whole "til death" thing. That I feel OK about.
What's really freaking me out is the idea of being the center of attention at a huge event.
Really. There's a reason I'm a stage manager and not an actor folks.
I am fabulous with planning and organizing and making all sorts of magic come together.
For other people.
When it comes to my own life, and art, and entertaining I am way more neurotic and a bit of a weenie about committing to ideas and choices.
This is not a good way to be when you have a wedding to plan. I am trying really hard to remind myself what I have told all of my bridalicious friends at one time or another. This is just a big budget, one-night show. Lavish costumes, complicated props but (thankfully) very few light cues. If I can continue to think of it in this way I should be able to deal with whatever the next umm.... eighteen months....has to throw at me.
Only eighteen months???!?! Crap.
On the plus side, even if the reception falls to pieces, we're doing it down in New Orleans so people will have some sort of fun. Somewhere. Somehow, that I may or may not want to know about later.
And can someone tell me how I am meant to refer to the occurrence to this event?
"One the plus side...we're _________ down in New Orleans."
Fill in the blank:
doing it
throwing it
celebrating it
tossin' it up
pledging our love
making me an "honest" woman
proclaiming our intended fidelity
making it all OK with The Big Guy
Is there a preferred term? Is there something in an etiquette book somewhere?
(This, by the way, is probably the last time you will hear me inquire about any sort of wedding etiquette.)
Anyway, so yeah. There's that.
In continence of the frenchified theme for 2007, for my birthday my The Fiance's Mom sent me a copy of Anthony Bourdain's Les Halles cookbook.
So far The Fiance has put together a splendid baked chicken.
A few years ago my family started exchanging Christmas gifts grab-bag style. Which is fun and cuts down on the spendiness that was Christmas but maddening when the wacky White-Elephant rules apply.
(You know, first person picks a gift from the pile. Second person can snatch the gift right out of first person's hands. Or can politely take one from the pile.)
Let's just say this. I started the game with a copy of "Young Frankenstein" and wound up bringing home a copy of the Balthazar cookbook.
Which, you know, one can never have too many cookbooks. But 2007 is surely shaping up to be the year of Parisian Brasserie cuisine.
Note to self: Register for those cute little ramekins to cook souffle in.
And perhaps an escargot fork.
But just one though. I doubt we'll ever need more than that.
So, that's all I've got for right now. Tomorrow is The Fiance's birthday. We are going out to eat something fancy and not at all French.
Monday, December 04, 2006
Things You Learn On Your 31st Birthday
1) The day goes by much quicker when you aren't forced out of bed by a blaring alarm clock at 6am.
2) Mimosas taste good ANY time.
3) Cats do not care if it's your birthday. They still want their litter box cleaned.
4) Funny e-cards come from www.lamecards.com (Thank you Kristina. And no, you weren't really an ugly baby. OK, maybe for a couple of weeks there.)
5) Waterworld? Still a bad movie.
Back to mimosa drinking.
Ta Ta for Now.
Happy Birthday to me!
And Happy Birthday to Cousin Kristina Tomorrow.
The strawberry shortcake is in the mail.
2) Mimosas taste good ANY time.
3) Cats do not care if it's your birthday. They still want their litter box cleaned.
4) Funny e-cards come from www.lamecards.com (Thank you Kristina. And no, you weren't really an ugly baby. OK, maybe for a couple of weeks there.)
5) Waterworld? Still a bad movie.
Back to mimosa drinking.
Ta Ta for Now.
Happy Birthday to me!
And Happy Birthday to Cousin Kristina Tomorrow.
The strawberry shortcake is in the mail.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Pasting Down Reality
In the early months of 1999 I began clipping things out of newspapers: headlines, pieces of articles and pictures. At the time I was working as a news monitor. It sounds like an interesting job - most of the jobs I've had sound interesting (that's why I take them after all.)- but really it was brain-numbingly dull. I watched a tape of local news programming and kept notes on what commercials were mentioned at what times.
Hrm. With some perspective I think actually I was a commercial monitor and a hell of a lot closer to my current job than I ever put together just this very second.
Anyhow. So I sat at a computer all day. On the television next to me the news played. Five hours of news. And all day long I would watch the television news and type out short descriptions of each commercial. As you may guess, I did not last very long at this job. It was depressing. News all day, every day. If you subject yourself to that sort of thing for long enough, you begin to lose hope. Everything becomes ugly and mean. This is when I started cutting up the newspapers.
I don't remember having any plan for these clippings when I first started collecting them. I kept them piled together in one of those two-pocket folders - you know the ones in rainbow packs that you used to buy as part of back-to-school supplies. There weren't many of them. Just a few, at the beginning. When I fled from that monitoring job I wound up working as the de facto office manager and receptionist at a non-profit organization. Part of THAT job was to go through the morning papers and cut out any articles mentioning the companies that belonged to our organization.
So there I was, paid to sit at a desk and cut up newspapers. It was strange timing on the universe's part because what had once been just a slight interest became a fixation. All of a sudden I had little bits of newspaper falling out of everywhere. I don't remember when, or where, I got the sketch book that they came to be pasted in but I do remember spending a lot of hours on the floor of my living room cutting and pasting. And there's a date on the bottom of the last page. The day I decided I was done. There was a rush towards the end. I got tired of the labor of it all, so I filled the last pages very quickly just to wash my hands of the whole thing.
I pull it off the bookshelf occasionally and you can't really blame me for wanting to get it as far away from myself as possible once it was done. There is really very little goodness in it at all. It begins with pages of short articles about foreign wars and atrocities. Afghanistan, Guatemala, Cambodia. A New York Times headline reads "Eight Tourists, Including a U.S. Couple, Hacked or Bludgeoned to Death in Uganda." I forget that happened. All of the time, I forget about how that was news for at least a week. It was, it is, horrifying.
One page only has 2 headlines, pasted perpendicular to each other, about racism in the London Police force.
Ha. Here's a good one:
"War leaves Clinton feeling dispirited and boxed in."
Who wrote that? Why did that make it into 16 point font?
2 whole pages of NATO and UN forces in The Balkans. Kosovo. Serbia. "NATO apologizes for bombing residential area." A full page, black and white photo of Kosovar refugees in a camp.
There's very little organization to this whole project. The next few pages are all Chicago violence. Gunfire, children killed, women stabbed, officer slain on duty. 12 hurt by acid on a carousel in Indiana. Someone known as "The Naked Bandit" in Allentown, Pa. James Byrd Jr. A Richard Roeper column about fraudulent news stories and liars in journalism. A section about the release of exonerated death row inmates and abuses within the Chicago legal system.
Total shocker, right?
I have captured Columbine, the wreck of the City of New Orleans. Pages and pages of stories about the war on drugs - because there was no terror for us to fight back then. Christians, Catholics, and ex-Mouseketeer Darlene Gillespie was arrested for some dopey, white-collar crime. Gay rights, and the lack thereof.
One of my favorites simply reads "30 years later, and we're still not living like the Jetsons."
(Seriously, where the hell is my fold-up, bubble-topped, flying car already???)
Chicago Sun-Times Friday, July 23, 1999: Front page, full page color memoriam shot of JFK Jr. He was handsome.
The debacle that was Woodstock 1999. (What a bunch of douchebags.) Dana Plato's death by drug overdose. Robert Downey Jr. Sentenced to three years in prison.
And then something completely Monty-Pythonesque: "New Flare-Up in U.S.-European Banana Fight." Or maybe those boys had more fun with Kansas cutting evolution from its science curriculum.
There's a map depicting how many juveniles were executed, or are on death row in each American state.
There are stories about diseases and viruses and cloning and celebrity deaths (RIP Mr. Belvedere). All sorts of stories. Some pages are crowded with overlapping headlines. Some have pages to themselves, or only have a couple of small stories scattered on the clean white sheet. It's an interesting collection. But I am glad I stopped when I did. The date reads August 25, 2001.
I am glad I stopped there because if I hadn't I might never have stopped at all. I might have shelves of sketch books filled with clippings. A catalog. I am glad I got whatever that was out of my system. I think about it now and again. This past week especially. Pedofiles in Congress, rapists attacking Amish girls, consequences of war and politics. I don't know if it is worse, or better or the same and just renewed or if it has sustained itself for all of this time, for all time forever. Maybe I stopped paying attention.
OK, not "maybe." I stopped paying attention soooomewhere around the priest sex scandal. Sure, I relapsed a little with the celebrity "news" and all but I've weaned myself off of that ... Mostly. I signed up for a month of The Tribune to help out some neighborhood kids with a fundraiser. I've been reading the paper on the way to work in the mornings. Now I save the news section for the ride home in the evening. It was too difficult to read about all of the horrible and confusing things going on that early in the morning. I like the funnies. Perhaps a story about different olive oils or a theater review. These are things I can think about at 9am. I save the hard stuff for the ride home. Gotta figure, hard to make a day worse right?
Maybe not.
This compulsion, the reasoning is buried somewhere. I feel like part of My Job is to hold onto these things; keep notes. There's a reason, I just don't know what it is yet. But artists, we artists - those of us who are not merely content to sit and watch. Those of us who feel the need to transform our surroundings and realities, those of us who dissect and lead examined lives - at whatever level and with whatever means - we have a job. I think. Someday, all of the things we have been collecting in our brains: the images and stories, words and songs and sounds and numbers. We're meant to put them to some use you know.
And I know I just put some people off of their lunch by using the dreaded "a" word. Get a grip. I'm,like, the least pretentious person you know. It's not like I capitalized it or anything. I'm just saying. There are those people who are content to get up, go to work, go home, go to bed. Repeat. Then there are those of us who need a little more than that. We bear some responsibility, to take this all and make something of it. Perhaps bring some understanding, or at least a perspective. There are so many people out there afraid, or unwilling, to own up to their opinions. Those of us who have developed methods to our madness need to take the madness and make something of it.
If you live in reality you wind up with a lot of crap stuffed in your brain. You have to do something with it.
Illuminate.
Hrm. With some perspective I think actually I was a commercial monitor and a hell of a lot closer to my current job than I ever put together just this very second.
Anyhow. So I sat at a computer all day. On the television next to me the news played. Five hours of news. And all day long I would watch the television news and type out short descriptions of each commercial. As you may guess, I did not last very long at this job. It was depressing. News all day, every day. If you subject yourself to that sort of thing for long enough, you begin to lose hope. Everything becomes ugly and mean. This is when I started cutting up the newspapers.
I don't remember having any plan for these clippings when I first started collecting them. I kept them piled together in one of those two-pocket folders - you know the ones in rainbow packs that you used to buy as part of back-to-school supplies. There weren't many of them. Just a few, at the beginning. When I fled from that monitoring job I wound up working as the de facto office manager and receptionist at a non-profit organization. Part of THAT job was to go through the morning papers and cut out any articles mentioning the companies that belonged to our organization.
So there I was, paid to sit at a desk and cut up newspapers. It was strange timing on the universe's part because what had once been just a slight interest became a fixation. All of a sudden I had little bits of newspaper falling out of everywhere. I don't remember when, or where, I got the sketch book that they came to be pasted in but I do remember spending a lot of hours on the floor of my living room cutting and pasting. And there's a date on the bottom of the last page. The day I decided I was done. There was a rush towards the end. I got tired of the labor of it all, so I filled the last pages very quickly just to wash my hands of the whole thing.
I pull it off the bookshelf occasionally and you can't really blame me for wanting to get it as far away from myself as possible once it was done. There is really very little goodness in it at all. It begins with pages of short articles about foreign wars and atrocities. Afghanistan, Guatemala, Cambodia. A New York Times headline reads "Eight Tourists, Including a U.S. Couple, Hacked or Bludgeoned to Death in Uganda." I forget that happened. All of the time, I forget about how that was news for at least a week. It was, it is, horrifying.
One page only has 2 headlines, pasted perpendicular to each other, about racism in the London Police force.
Ha. Here's a good one:
"War leaves Clinton feeling dispirited and boxed in."
Who wrote that? Why did that make it into 16 point font?
2 whole pages of NATO and UN forces in The Balkans. Kosovo. Serbia. "NATO apologizes for bombing residential area." A full page, black and white photo of Kosovar refugees in a camp.
There's very little organization to this whole project. The next few pages are all Chicago violence. Gunfire, children killed, women stabbed, officer slain on duty. 12 hurt by acid on a carousel in Indiana. Someone known as "The Naked Bandit" in Allentown, Pa. James Byrd Jr. A Richard Roeper column about fraudulent news stories and liars in journalism. A section about the release of exonerated death row inmates and abuses within the Chicago legal system.
Total shocker, right?
I have captured Columbine, the wreck of the City of New Orleans. Pages and pages of stories about the war on drugs - because there was no terror for us to fight back then. Christians, Catholics, and ex-Mouseketeer Darlene Gillespie was arrested for some dopey, white-collar crime. Gay rights, and the lack thereof.
One of my favorites simply reads "30 years later, and we're still not living like the Jetsons."
(Seriously, where the hell is my fold-up, bubble-topped, flying car already???)
Chicago Sun-Times Friday, July 23, 1999: Front page, full page color memoriam shot of JFK Jr. He was handsome.
The debacle that was Woodstock 1999. (What a bunch of douchebags.) Dana Plato's death by drug overdose. Robert Downey Jr. Sentenced to three years in prison.
And then something completely Monty-Pythonesque: "New Flare-Up in U.S.-European Banana Fight." Or maybe those boys had more fun with Kansas cutting evolution from its science curriculum.
There's a map depicting how many juveniles were executed, or are on death row in each American state.
There are stories about diseases and viruses and cloning and celebrity deaths (RIP Mr. Belvedere). All sorts of stories. Some pages are crowded with overlapping headlines. Some have pages to themselves, or only have a couple of small stories scattered on the clean white sheet. It's an interesting collection. But I am glad I stopped when I did. The date reads August 25, 2001.
I am glad I stopped there because if I hadn't I might never have stopped at all. I might have shelves of sketch books filled with clippings. A catalog. I am glad I got whatever that was out of my system. I think about it now and again. This past week especially. Pedofiles in Congress, rapists attacking Amish girls, consequences of war and politics. I don't know if it is worse, or better or the same and just renewed or if it has sustained itself for all of this time, for all time forever. Maybe I stopped paying attention.
OK, not "maybe." I stopped paying attention soooomewhere around the priest sex scandal. Sure, I relapsed a little with the celebrity "news" and all but I've weaned myself off of that ... Mostly. I signed up for a month of The Tribune to help out some neighborhood kids with a fundraiser. I've been reading the paper on the way to work in the mornings. Now I save the news section for the ride home in the evening. It was too difficult to read about all of the horrible and confusing things going on that early in the morning. I like the funnies. Perhaps a story about different olive oils or a theater review. These are things I can think about at 9am. I save the hard stuff for the ride home. Gotta figure, hard to make a day worse right?
Maybe not.
This compulsion, the reasoning is buried somewhere. I feel like part of My Job is to hold onto these things; keep notes. There's a reason, I just don't know what it is yet. But artists, we artists - those of us who are not merely content to sit and watch. Those of us who feel the need to transform our surroundings and realities, those of us who dissect and lead examined lives - at whatever level and with whatever means - we have a job. I think. Someday, all of the things we have been collecting in our brains: the images and stories, words and songs and sounds and numbers. We're meant to put them to some use you know.
And I know I just put some people off of their lunch by using the dreaded "a" word. Get a grip. I'm,like, the least pretentious person you know. It's not like I capitalized it or anything. I'm just saying. There are those people who are content to get up, go to work, go home, go to bed. Repeat. Then there are those of us who need a little more than that. We bear some responsibility, to take this all and make something of it. Perhaps bring some understanding, or at least a perspective. There are so many people out there afraid, or unwilling, to own up to their opinions. Those of us who have developed methods to our madness need to take the madness and make something of it.
If you live in reality you wind up with a lot of crap stuffed in your brain. You have to do something with it.
Illuminate.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Reconcile
Once Upon A Time...
There was a little girl who lived in New York City. All of her life she, and all of her family, lived in this beautiful city. To this little girl, at the time she was growing up, places like Milwaukee, San Francisco and New Orleans seemed to be completely disconnected from the place in which she lived.
As the girl grew older she began to explore all of the wonderful things this city of her birth offered her. Museums, concerts, parks and second hand clothing stores. She vowed in her heart and to her soul that she would never, ever, ever live anywhere besides this fabulous, loud and crazy city.
Then, one day, this little girl grew up. More specifically, she was expected to become a grown up. She had gone through all of her school days and now, armed with a diploma and a minimal sense of entitlement, she was expected to make her way in the world. She looked out onto the city of her home and where once she had seen beauty and wonder and adventure, she now saw high rents, low salaries and garbage piled on the sidewalks. While in her heart and soul a small voice still spoke out in favor of her earlier and earliest promises the other part of her (that would be the part that held the degree in Creative Writing) scoffed and called the dream impossible.
Turning then away from childish dreams and promises the girl packed her bags, grabbed her cats and her bear named Ted and hightailed it for a more promising scene financially agreeable scene in the great, mid-western city of Chicago.
The girl saw this sojourn as a resting point. A way-station of sorts, where she could learn to live and pay bills, perhaps write something off the wall fantastic and return, triumphant to her beloved city of New York.
She never intended to stay away for all that long. But, as it is wont to do, life got in the way. There were many trials and tribulations and dramas of enormous consequence to her life that prevented her from returning, let alone triumphantly.
And then, one day, a horrible, horrible thing happened. A big chunk of the city that she loved and watched from afar was set upon by Terrorists. All she could do was watch the horror unfold from the chair at her office desk as thoughts of everyone and everything she had left behind raced through her mind.
Where was her mother? Was she safe? Had she been hit in the head by falling debris? Had her father made it safely out of mid-town? What about her cousin who had an office near "Ground Zero?" Was she safe? When would the phones work again? Where were her friends and relatives???? How could she get in touch with them to know they were safe?
And what about the city? The city of so many dreams and hopes and promises? What about her city? Would it ever heal?
The girl sat at her desk and wept. Wept for all the people who were lost, all of the buildings that were gone and all of the needs of her city. If it had been possible, she would have been on the next plane/train/bus/slow boat back to New York. She felt as if the city might never forgive her for not being there at its greatest time of need.
For the next week she watched from the safety of her bed in her spacious, yet barrio adjacent, apartment in the mid-west as death tolls rose, speeches were made and plans for war were laid. She wept and wept and wept and wished that she had never left. Wished too that her mettle had been tested along with the rest of New York on that day. Feeling that she had inadvertently forfeit her right to be a New Yorker by being safely tucked away in The Second City on the day when all of New York rallied its resources and muddy good feelings to pull itself out of rubble. She looked at pictures taken by friends and strangers of the place that she still called home and felt that there could be no greater sense of loss than this gaping hole in her heart where those towers had stood as symbol of home and hearth and family.
Time heals all wounds. This is true. To an extent all wounds will heal and do. All wounds leave scars though. Some are visible. Like the way she cries on the plane after visits to New York. Some are more subtle, like the way she cringes with every mention of 9/11; no longer innocent numbers but an indelible mark on the lives of people all over the world. Or the way she handily avoided all news casts and internet news sites today, the fifth anniversary of that day.
But some scars are on her heart. Some of them do not fade with time but only sharpen in contrast. Some of them were reopened when she watched New Orleans wash away. Watched with her boyfriend as his city suffered grief and tragedy and injustice as well. Watched and realized that there is no difference - blown up or blown away. It's still your heart - her heart. His heart. And now they share a personal grief and guilt that they do not discuss and do not acknowledge. But it's there in the way they scoff at elected officials and their officious words. Promises of hope and healing for their cities are filtered through this grief and guilt. Knowing that in a solitary way they failed. Failed to be there when their family, and friends and homes needed them to be close and available - for a heartbeat, for a helping hand. As a daughter or son, cousin and friend. Failed to be there when their homes needed to be claimed as homes.
So now she must reconcile this guilt. She must remember that, although if any city in the world were capable of laying a guilt trip it is New York, there is no guilt. That, despite the length of her time in this city away from her city she is still a New Yorker and still a member of her family - family of blood and family of those that call New York "home." Because, no matter how long she is gone from New York she thinks about it every day. No matter how much changes in her city or with her family all of these people and buildings and walls and water run through her veins and make her heart beat. No matter what vacuous accent she picks up here in the mid-west she still falls into the familiar patois of New-Yorkese five minutes off the plane.
And no matter how hard her boyfriend argues against it, she will be back.
She will be back.
There was a little girl who lived in New York City. All of her life she, and all of her family, lived in this beautiful city. To this little girl, at the time she was growing up, places like Milwaukee, San Francisco and New Orleans seemed to be completely disconnected from the place in which she lived.
As the girl grew older she began to explore all of the wonderful things this city of her birth offered her. Museums, concerts, parks and second hand clothing stores. She vowed in her heart and to her soul that she would never, ever, ever live anywhere besides this fabulous, loud and crazy city.
Then, one day, this little girl grew up. More specifically, she was expected to become a grown up. She had gone through all of her school days and now, armed with a diploma and a minimal sense of entitlement, she was expected to make her way in the world. She looked out onto the city of her home and where once she had seen beauty and wonder and adventure, she now saw high rents, low salaries and garbage piled on the sidewalks. While in her heart and soul a small voice still spoke out in favor of her earlier and earliest promises the other part of her (that would be the part that held the degree in Creative Writing) scoffed and called the dream impossible.
Turning then away from childish dreams and promises the girl packed her bags, grabbed her cats and her bear named Ted and hightailed it for a more promising scene financially agreeable scene in the great, mid-western city of Chicago.
The girl saw this sojourn as a resting point. A way-station of sorts, where she could learn to live and pay bills, perhaps write something off the wall fantastic and return, triumphant to her beloved city of New York.
She never intended to stay away for all that long. But, as it is wont to do, life got in the way. There were many trials and tribulations and dramas of enormous consequence to her life that prevented her from returning, let alone triumphantly.
And then, one day, a horrible, horrible thing happened. A big chunk of the city that she loved and watched from afar was set upon by Terrorists. All she could do was watch the horror unfold from the chair at her office desk as thoughts of everyone and everything she had left behind raced through her mind.
Where was her mother? Was she safe? Had she been hit in the head by falling debris? Had her father made it safely out of mid-town? What about her cousin who had an office near "Ground Zero?" Was she safe? When would the phones work again? Where were her friends and relatives???? How could she get in touch with them to know they were safe?
And what about the city? The city of so many dreams and hopes and promises? What about her city? Would it ever heal?
The girl sat at her desk and wept. Wept for all the people who were lost, all of the buildings that were gone and all of the needs of her city. If it had been possible, she would have been on the next plane/train/bus/slow boat back to New York. She felt as if the city might never forgive her for not being there at its greatest time of need.
For the next week she watched from the safety of her bed in her spacious, yet barrio adjacent, apartment in the mid-west as death tolls rose, speeches were made and plans for war were laid. She wept and wept and wept and wished that she had never left. Wished too that her mettle had been tested along with the rest of New York on that day. Feeling that she had inadvertently forfeit her right to be a New Yorker by being safely tucked away in The Second City on the day when all of New York rallied its resources and muddy good feelings to pull itself out of rubble. She looked at pictures taken by friends and strangers of the place that she still called home and felt that there could be no greater sense of loss than this gaping hole in her heart where those towers had stood as symbol of home and hearth and family.
Time heals all wounds. This is true. To an extent all wounds will heal and do. All wounds leave scars though. Some are visible. Like the way she cries on the plane after visits to New York. Some are more subtle, like the way she cringes with every mention of 9/11; no longer innocent numbers but an indelible mark on the lives of people all over the world. Or the way she handily avoided all news casts and internet news sites today, the fifth anniversary of that day.
But some scars are on her heart. Some of them do not fade with time but only sharpen in contrast. Some of them were reopened when she watched New Orleans wash away. Watched with her boyfriend as his city suffered grief and tragedy and injustice as well. Watched and realized that there is no difference - blown up or blown away. It's still your heart - her heart. His heart. And now they share a personal grief and guilt that they do not discuss and do not acknowledge. But it's there in the way they scoff at elected officials and their officious words. Promises of hope and healing for their cities are filtered through this grief and guilt. Knowing that in a solitary way they failed. Failed to be there when their family, and friends and homes needed them to be close and available - for a heartbeat, for a helping hand. As a daughter or son, cousin and friend. Failed to be there when their homes needed to be claimed as homes.
So now she must reconcile this guilt. She must remember that, although if any city in the world were capable of laying a guilt trip it is New York, there is no guilt. That, despite the length of her time in this city away from her city she is still a New Yorker and still a member of her family - family of blood and family of those that call New York "home." Because, no matter how long she is gone from New York she thinks about it every day. No matter how much changes in her city or with her family all of these people and buildings and walls and water run through her veins and make her heart beat. No matter what vacuous accent she picks up here in the mid-west she still falls into the familiar patois of New-Yorkese five minutes off the plane.
And no matter how hard her boyfriend argues against it, she will be back.
She will be back.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
I don't wanna live in a big old Tomb On Grand Street
Hrm.
I was all set to write about my current fascination with construction sites. Talk about how I want to grow up and be a construction worker.
I was going to tell you about the Caterpillar key I have that belonged to my grandfather. And how it could start any Caterpillar. Any one at all.
I was going to tell you that I keep it on the key chain with the keys to my parents' apartments.
I was going to say that I get a little thrill walking past those machines thinking that maybe the key I have still works and that I could just start her up and drive off down the road.
But, now I just cannot seem to be able to find the damn thing.
It really isn't funny.
I cannot think, for the life of me, where it might be.
It has been on my key chain since I was in High School. The keys may have changed but nothing else has.
So now I'm a little distracted from my plans of dropping out of the rat race to pick up a shovel.
I'm really disappointed in myself for losing that key. I have so few things in my possession as mementos of my grandparents. A rosary, a set of worry beads, a dog tag. Not a lot. There are plenty of pictures though, and memories. On my father's side I remember plenty of weekend afternoons playing with my cousin on the sticky, plastic covered couches. Or underneath the table while Yankee games played on TV. I remember having my nose stolen countless times and sitting at the window, watching the world go by. There was one time, when I was spending the night at their place in The Bronx, around Easter. I was staying up late, watching Jesus of Nazareth from the leather recliner in the dining room. All of the lights in the apartment were off and in the flickering from the television set I watched the silhouette of a mouse running along the baseboards. There was also the time I got myself locked in their bathroom. But that was just ridiculous and I refuse to go into it.
My mom's mother and I were pretty close. I used to spend long weekends at her house. And every summer, almost every Sunday, we would hit the road before dawn and head out to her house in Massapequa. From there, a quick stop for Gertz' buns (and half-and-half cookies for us kids) and straight on to Jones' Beach for a day on the sand. When I stayed at Grandma's house there were always trips to the beauty parlor, meals at Red Lobster and laps around the mall at Roosevelt Field with my great-grandparents. She always had beach towels spread out on the seats of her car. It was big, and silver with black, leather...Or vinyl, I don't even know. I do know that on hot days you could get third degree burns from sitting on the seats in that car. Hers was the house where my cousins and I played at mixing drinks at the dusty bar in the basement. It's where I watch The Natural and almost peed my pants watching The Amityville Horror for the first time.
My grandfather though, there aren't many memories of him. Mostly just impressions, he died when I was very young. I think I remember his hands, but not the missing finger so maybe I don't. There's a portrait of him that my mother painted. It's at my dad's house. We rescued it when she purged herself of all her art. I haven't had it shipped to Chicago yet. Part of me has no idea where we would hang it. The other part of me figures I'll be back in New York soon.
The pictures of me and my grandfather are all with my mother. She has all of the old photos. Including the one of me with the goat grandpa tried to buy from the petting zoo for me (or so the story goes.)
So one last thing of his that I have. Damnit, I wish I knew where that thing went.
I was really looking forward to sneaking out tonight and busting into the construction site down the street to see if it still worked.
I was all set to write about my current fascination with construction sites. Talk about how I want to grow up and be a construction worker.
I was going to tell you about the Caterpillar key I have that belonged to my grandfather. And how it could start any Caterpillar. Any one at all.
I was going to tell you that I keep it on the key chain with the keys to my parents' apartments.
I was going to say that I get a little thrill walking past those machines thinking that maybe the key I have still works and that I could just start her up and drive off down the road.
But, now I just cannot seem to be able to find the damn thing.
It really isn't funny.
I cannot think, for the life of me, where it might be.
It has been on my key chain since I was in High School. The keys may have changed but nothing else has.
So now I'm a little distracted from my plans of dropping out of the rat race to pick up a shovel.
I'm really disappointed in myself for losing that key. I have so few things in my possession as mementos of my grandparents. A rosary, a set of worry beads, a dog tag. Not a lot. There are plenty of pictures though, and memories. On my father's side I remember plenty of weekend afternoons playing with my cousin on the sticky, plastic covered couches. Or underneath the table while Yankee games played on TV. I remember having my nose stolen countless times and sitting at the window, watching the world go by. There was one time, when I was spending the night at their place in The Bronx, around Easter. I was staying up late, watching Jesus of Nazareth from the leather recliner in the dining room. All of the lights in the apartment were off and in the flickering from the television set I watched the silhouette of a mouse running along the baseboards. There was also the time I got myself locked in their bathroom. But that was just ridiculous and I refuse to go into it.
My mom's mother and I were pretty close. I used to spend long weekends at her house. And every summer, almost every Sunday, we would hit the road before dawn and head out to her house in Massapequa. From there, a quick stop for Gertz' buns (and half-and-half cookies for us kids) and straight on to Jones' Beach for a day on the sand. When I stayed at Grandma's house there were always trips to the beauty parlor, meals at Red Lobster and laps around the mall at Roosevelt Field with my great-grandparents. She always had beach towels spread out on the seats of her car. It was big, and silver with black, leather...Or vinyl, I don't even know. I do know that on hot days you could get third degree burns from sitting on the seats in that car. Hers was the house where my cousins and I played at mixing drinks at the dusty bar in the basement. It's where I watch The Natural and almost peed my pants watching The Amityville Horror for the first time.
My grandfather though, there aren't many memories of him. Mostly just impressions, he died when I was very young. I think I remember his hands, but not the missing finger so maybe I don't. There's a portrait of him that my mother painted. It's at my dad's house. We rescued it when she purged herself of all her art. I haven't had it shipped to Chicago yet. Part of me has no idea where we would hang it. The other part of me figures I'll be back in New York soon.
The pictures of me and my grandfather are all with my mother. She has all of the old photos. Including the one of me with the goat grandpa tried to buy from the petting zoo for me (or so the story goes.)
So one last thing of his that I have. Damnit, I wish I knew where that thing went.
I was really looking forward to sneaking out tonight and busting into the construction site down the street to see if it still worked.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
So, As I Was Saying
Remember how when I started writing this blog I was all "wedding wedding blee blah blooh?" Right? And then I ran out of weddings because I went to so damn many in 2005 and 2006?
Right, well after a brief reprive; um mostly because there have been some I just wasn't invited to. (Which, whatever. No gift for you then!)
ANNNNNYWAAAAAAAAY my crazy friends are all at it again.
5 weddings on the calendar for 2007! FIVE!
And, here's the capper. I totally get to be a bridesmaid - for the very, very first time ever in my life - in one of them.
And I swear I will look GORGEOUS in a Tiffany-Box-Blue dress Krista. I'll just, you know, dye my hair something...ish.
YAY!
That is all.
Do we think my idea to maintain positive outlook at all costs while seated at my work desk is working?
I can't tell. My brain went pretty numb back around 1pm.
Right, well after a brief reprive; um mostly because there have been some I just wasn't invited to. (Which, whatever. No gift for you then!)
ANNNNNYWAAAAAAAAY my crazy friends are all at it again.
5 weddings on the calendar for 2007! FIVE!
And, here's the capper. I totally get to be a bridesmaid - for the very, very first time ever in my life - in one of them.
And I swear I will look GORGEOUS in a Tiffany-Box-Blue dress Krista. I'll just, you know, dye my hair something...ish.
YAY!
That is all.
Do we think my idea to maintain positive outlook at all costs while seated at my work desk is working?
I can't tell. My brain went pretty numb back around 1pm.
Friday, September 01, 2006
Thursday, August 31, 2006
How Did I Get Here?
Which, of course, is a question that leaves itself wide open to many and varied interpretations.
Most of which are best tackled on a day I do not already feel like going on a multi-state killing spree.
So I'll just ask this question: When did we start having to work 9 hour days?
I remember it used to be nine to five. There's even a movie and a song about it.
And now?
8-5
8:30-5:30
9-6
9:30-6:30
10-7
Can I get my hour back?
Most of which are best tackled on a day I do not already feel like going on a multi-state killing spree.
So I'll just ask this question: When did we start having to work 9 hour days?
I remember it used to be nine to five. There's even a movie and a song about it.
And now?
8-5
8:30-5:30
9-6
9:30-6:30
10-7
Can I get my hour back?
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
"Hear now a curious dream I dreamed last night"
Firstly curious because I knew I had been at the location of my dream before. Only I could not (and still cannot) remember if it was a real place or if I visited in another dream.
Secondly curious because all of the rooms in the mansion I was visiting in this dream kept moving. As in: exit library, enter kitchen, walk back through the door you just came through and it's now a bedroom instead of the library.
Thirdly curious because all of the staircases kept shifting. Not in the fun Hogwarts sort of way. But more in the way that what was once a proper staircase as I ascended was now a rope ladder as I attempted to descend.
There were also a lot of people I attribute to high school in this dream with me. As if we were on a field trip perhaps. Except I was in charge because I had already been there. Thus, everyone expected me to know how to get from room to room and floor to floor. Only, I could never figure it out because everything kept shifting.
I do know that the grounds were exquisitely manicured and there were many beautiful flowers growing outside. There WAS something else, something in the lake. But that's the part I've already forgotten.
I meant to write this all down when I first woke up but started rushing around to get ready for work.
Which is what I suspect this dream was about.
Much anxiety.
I am considering running away with the circus.
Can't be any crazier than working here right now.
Plus, nothing beats calliope music!
Secondly curious because all of the rooms in the mansion I was visiting in this dream kept moving. As in: exit library, enter kitchen, walk back through the door you just came through and it's now a bedroom instead of the library.
Thirdly curious because all of the staircases kept shifting. Not in the fun Hogwarts sort of way. But more in the way that what was once a proper staircase as I ascended was now a rope ladder as I attempted to descend.
There were also a lot of people I attribute to high school in this dream with me. As if we were on a field trip perhaps. Except I was in charge because I had already been there. Thus, everyone expected me to know how to get from room to room and floor to floor. Only, I could never figure it out because everything kept shifting.
I do know that the grounds were exquisitely manicured and there were many beautiful flowers growing outside. There WAS something else, something in the lake. But that's the part I've already forgotten.
I meant to write this all down when I first woke up but started rushing around to get ready for work.
Which is what I suspect this dream was about.
Much anxiety.
I am considering running away with the circus.
Can't be any crazier than working here right now.
Plus, nothing beats calliope music!
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Dear Mr. Fisk
1. What is the middle name of the first person you ever slept with?
I am unaware of any middle name he may have had.
2. What kind of underwear are you wearing and what color?
Little green ones that say "angel" on them in sparkly letters.
What? Shut up.
3. What is the song you want played at your funeral?
"Dear Prudence" by The Beatles.
4. Would you tell your parents if you're gay?
If perhaps it came up.
5. What would your last meal be before getting executed?
Crap, that's tough. I don't know if I want to go out on a full stomach. Probably ziti with meatballs smothered in my grandmothers delicious sauce.
6. Beatles or Stones?
Beatles.
7. If you had to pick one person on earth who should die, who?
Fred Phelps. Deplorable excuse for a member of my species.
8. Beer, wine or hard liquor?
Wine.
9. What is the thing most important to you about your mate?
Rare moments of unrestrained silliness.
10. What are your plans for the future?
marry, write, publish, make a baby or two...move back to new york. no particular order.
12. Do you walk around the house naked?
nope. never have. never will.
13. How many drinks does it take to get you drunk?
Depends on the situation, and what I'm drinking. Generally about 4 or 5.
14. Where is your best friend?
in here with the rest of us.
15. What hair color do you like on someone you're dating?
dark.
16. Would you rather be blind or deaf?
blind.
17. Do you have any special talents?
juggling, organizing chaos from other peoples' scribblings,chocolate covered bacon.
20. Favorite hateful thing to do to someone?
2 words: wet willy
21. First movie you can remember seeing as a kid?
Splash.
22. What do you do as soon as you walk in the house?
announce myself to the cats
23. When's the last time you went on a date?
anniversary dinner 2 nights ago. Does anyone else remember when restaurants used to be quiet?
24. Do you like horror or comedy?
i think horror IS funny.
26. Person you most wish you hadn't made out with?
big. jim. degrassi.
28. If you weren't straight, what person of the same sex would you do it with?
Ha. Ha. Thought you could get me with that one AGAIN? Nope. Not playin that game no more.
29. Where do you want to live when you are old?
somewhere near the beach.
30. Who is the person you can count on most?
me.
31. If you could date any celebrity past or present, who would it be?
Walter Matthau.
32. Where was your first kiss with your mate?
Outside of a party for our friend Jen's birthday.
33. What did you dream last night?
i have no idea.
34. What is your favorite sport to watch?
curling. it always makes for good conversation.
35. When was the last time you got laid?
recent enough. thanks for asking.
36. What is your new obsession?
home decorating.
37. If you could take back one thing in your past, what would it be?
there is a list. i keep it in my heart. not on the internet.
38. Do you have a college degree?
BA Creative Writing for Theater, SUNY New Paltz class of 1998
39. What was the amount of your last electric bill?
$150 or so. stupid utilities monopolies.
40. Do you have life insurance?
yes
41. How many hours per week do you have to work?
40+
42. Have you ever attended a Toastmasters event?
no. i don't actually know what that is. i organized a roast for someone once...does that...? no, i didn't think so.
43. Favorite place to attend Happy Hour?
Snug Harbor, New Paltz New York. Best jukebox evah.
44. How many miles is your commute to work each day (one way)?
not far. close enough to walk it in an hour if i chose to do so.
45. What time do you get up every morning?
if the cats are being wretched jerks, anywhere between 5am and 6am. By choice, 6:45.
46. What is your definition of sleeping in late?
10am.
47. Have you found any gray hairs?
for years and years and years. blessed be clairol.
48. Do you check your cholesterol on a yearly basis?
yep.
49. How large was your first cellular phone??
not too big but paid for by mom, which made it HUGE!
50. Does your employer provide good health insurance?
not so much.
51. Did you use the internet to write a research paper back in high school or did you do it with encyclopedias and research books in the library?
there was no internet for me in high school. i remember sending emails in college but i don't remember doing any research that didn't actually involve books.
52. What is your earliest memory?
mmmmmh, something involving my scooby-doo wading pool.
53. Have you attended a HS reunion?
went to the 10 year. never going back again.
54. How many jobs have you held in your professional career?
ugh. six if you count helping to run "wing & groove theatre co." and more if you count the temp jobs i've held.
55. Have you ever been fired or laid off from a job?
hells yeah.
56. What is your favorite drink?
iced coffee, a tasty shiraz, or perhaps a nice syrah, fat tire beer, top shelf vodka and soda, mexican hot chocolate.
57. What is the most expensive bottle of wine that you have in your residence?
i gone done and drank them all.
58. How old were you when you stopped getting IDed for alcohol/tobacco etc...?
i still get IDed and i will thank them every time. "why how flattering, thank you so much."
59. Favorite casino?
blech
60. Are you happier now than you were in high school?
it would be impossible for me not to be
61. Did you ever have Hypercolor shirts?
no but i know people who did...er, might still actually.
62. Do you remember when Michael Jackson was black and attracted to older people?
yes because ew, who wants to date Liz Taylor?
63. What music was in your cd / cassette player when you were 16?
the cure, depeche mode, violent femmes, whatever they played on WDRE-FM.
64. Favorite fancy / upscale restaurant?
Coast sushi, right down the street.
65. How long has it been since you attended a kegger?
i believe i still attend one a year - so long as Ben Morphis is throwing 'em.
66. How many major wars have you lived through?
Well, I missed Viet Nam by about half a year. So...the cold war, the war on drugs, both gulf war actions...um, i could get really into this but i'm not going to because..yeah, no i'm just not.
67. Where were you when you found out about 9-11?
sitting at my desk in the research dept. annex at Harpo Studios trying to eat breakfast.
68. When's the last time you were at a 7-11?
About four hours ago.
69. Were you a planned baby?:
i have never asked.
70. Were you the first?:
and only.
71. Who was present at your birth?:
well, for sure my mom. that's all i know.
72. Were your parents married when you were born?:
yes. not anymore though.
73. What is your birthdate?
12/04/1975
74. Which parent do you get along with best?:
mmmmmmmh my dad i suppose.
75. What do you fight about?:
whaddya got?
76. Do you have step parents?:
no
77. Do you have more than one best friend?
yes.
78.What do you like to do when you are together?
drink, eat good food, make each other laugh
79. Do you share the same interests?:
some.
80. Which friend can you tell anything to?:
the best ones.
81. How high/low is your self esteem?:
historically it's in the toilet.
82. Do you get depressed about things easily?:
some things.
83. Are you an extrovert (outgoing) or an introvert (reserved)?
mostly introverted.
84. Are you happy?:
upon occasion.
85. Do you live life to the fullest?:
i try but it's expensive and takes a lot out of me.
86.Are you comfortable with the way you look?
at this precise moment? yeah, sure.
87. Describe your hair?
brownish-goldish-reddish with which to camouflage the grey.
88. How do you dress?
comfortably.
89. Were you a strange child?:
if i tried to deny it there would be very valid arguments to the contrary.
90. What did you used to love that you no longer do?:
not care about things.
91. Do you have the same friends?:
well, i've still got Tessa.
92. Was there anything in your past that was traumatizing?
plenty.
93. What is your ambition?:
write, publish and then happily make my living repeating the process as often as possible.
94. Are you scared of growing old?:
no. so far, so good.
95. Do you want to get married?:
yes
96. Do you prefer indoors or outdoors?:
all depends. got a porch?
97. Favorite Season:
autumn
98. Do you like walking in the rain?:
depends on the rain
99. Are you a vegetarian?
tried it once. failed when i started dreaming about McDonalds' cheese burgers.
100. What is your favorite food?:
many and varied and sundry and almost all of them.
101. What food makes you want to gag?
mushrooms.
102. What is your favorite dessert?
bread pudding.
103. What is your favorite restaurant?:
is it sad that it's Buca Di Bepo? It's just so easy...and the bottles of wine are so big.
104. Are you a fussy eater?
not really.
105. Are you single or taken?:
very taken.
106. If taken who is the lucky guy/girl?:
alberto. he makes me lucky too.
107. Do you think love is the best feeling in the world?:
ain't nuthin better.
108. Do you believe in love at first sight?:
no.
109. What was one of your greatest experiences?:
cross country trip on the Green Tortoise Bus.
110. What was one of the worst?:
Being left by my friends to find my way home alone from junior high on the second day of school.
111. Have you ever done drugs?:
yes.
112. Have you ever thought you were going to die?:
a couple of times.
I am unaware of any middle name he may have had.
2. What kind of underwear are you wearing and what color?
Little green ones that say "angel" on them in sparkly letters.
What? Shut up.
3. What is the song you want played at your funeral?
"Dear Prudence" by The Beatles.
4. Would you tell your parents if you're gay?
If perhaps it came up.
5. What would your last meal be before getting executed?
Crap, that's tough. I don't know if I want to go out on a full stomach. Probably ziti with meatballs smothered in my grandmothers delicious sauce.
6. Beatles or Stones?
Beatles.
7. If you had to pick one person on earth who should die, who?
Fred Phelps. Deplorable excuse for a member of my species.
8. Beer, wine or hard liquor?
Wine.
9. What is the thing most important to you about your mate?
Rare moments of unrestrained silliness.
10. What are your plans for the future?
marry, write, publish, make a baby or two...move back to new york. no particular order.
12. Do you walk around the house naked?
nope. never have. never will.
13. How many drinks does it take to get you drunk?
Depends on the situation, and what I'm drinking. Generally about 4 or 5.
14. Where is your best friend?
in here with the rest of us.
15. What hair color do you like on someone you're dating?
dark.
16. Would you rather be blind or deaf?
blind.
17. Do you have any special talents?
juggling, organizing chaos from other peoples' scribblings,chocolate covered bacon.
20. Favorite hateful thing to do to someone?
2 words: wet willy
21. First movie you can remember seeing as a kid?
Splash.
22. What do you do as soon as you walk in the house?
announce myself to the cats
23. When's the last time you went on a date?
anniversary dinner 2 nights ago. Does anyone else remember when restaurants used to be quiet?
24. Do you like horror or comedy?
i think horror IS funny.
26. Person you most wish you hadn't made out with?
big. jim. degrassi.
28. If you weren't straight, what person of the same sex would you do it with?
Ha. Ha. Thought you could get me with that one AGAIN? Nope. Not playin that game no more.
29. Where do you want to live when you are old?
somewhere near the beach.
30. Who is the person you can count on most?
me.
31. If you could date any celebrity past or present, who would it be?
Walter Matthau.
32. Where was your first kiss with your mate?
Outside of a party for our friend Jen's birthday.
33. What did you dream last night?
i have no idea.
34. What is your favorite sport to watch?
curling. it always makes for good conversation.
35. When was the last time you got laid?
recent enough. thanks for asking.
36. What is your new obsession?
home decorating.
37. If you could take back one thing in your past, what would it be?
there is a list. i keep it in my heart. not on the internet.
38. Do you have a college degree?
BA Creative Writing for Theater, SUNY New Paltz class of 1998
39. What was the amount of your last electric bill?
$150 or so. stupid utilities monopolies.
40. Do you have life insurance?
yes
41. How many hours per week do you have to work?
40+
42. Have you ever attended a Toastmasters event?
no. i don't actually know what that is. i organized a roast for someone once...does that...? no, i didn't think so.
43. Favorite place to attend Happy Hour?
Snug Harbor, New Paltz New York. Best jukebox evah.
44. How many miles is your commute to work each day (one way)?
not far. close enough to walk it in an hour if i chose to do so.
45. What time do you get up every morning?
if the cats are being wretched jerks, anywhere between 5am and 6am. By choice, 6:45.
46. What is your definition of sleeping in late?
10am.
47. Have you found any gray hairs?
for years and years and years. blessed be clairol.
48. Do you check your cholesterol on a yearly basis?
yep.
49. How large was your first cellular phone??
not too big but paid for by mom, which made it HUGE!
50. Does your employer provide good health insurance?
not so much.
51. Did you use the internet to write a research paper back in high school or did you do it with encyclopedias and research books in the library?
there was no internet for me in high school. i remember sending emails in college but i don't remember doing any research that didn't actually involve books.
52. What is your earliest memory?
mmmmmh, something involving my scooby-doo wading pool.
53. Have you attended a HS reunion?
went to the 10 year. never going back again.
54. How many jobs have you held in your professional career?
ugh. six if you count helping to run "wing & groove theatre co." and more if you count the temp jobs i've held.
55. Have you ever been fired or laid off from a job?
hells yeah.
56. What is your favorite drink?
iced coffee, a tasty shiraz, or perhaps a nice syrah, fat tire beer, top shelf vodka and soda, mexican hot chocolate.
57. What is the most expensive bottle of wine that you have in your residence?
i gone done and drank them all.
58. How old were you when you stopped getting IDed for alcohol/tobacco etc...?
i still get IDed and i will thank them every time. "why how flattering, thank you so much."
59. Favorite casino?
blech
60. Are you happier now than you were in high school?
it would be impossible for me not to be
61. Did you ever have Hypercolor shirts?
no but i know people who did...er, might still actually.
62. Do you remember when Michael Jackson was black and attracted to older people?
yes because ew, who wants to date Liz Taylor?
63. What music was in your cd / cassette player when you were 16?
the cure, depeche mode, violent femmes, whatever they played on WDRE-FM.
64. Favorite fancy / upscale restaurant?
Coast sushi, right down the street.
65. How long has it been since you attended a kegger?
i believe i still attend one a year - so long as Ben Morphis is throwing 'em.
66. How many major wars have you lived through?
Well, I missed Viet Nam by about half a year. So...the cold war, the war on drugs, both gulf war actions...um, i could get really into this but i'm not going to because..yeah, no i'm just not.
67. Where were you when you found out about 9-11?
sitting at my desk in the research dept. annex at Harpo Studios trying to eat breakfast.
68. When's the last time you were at a 7-11?
About four hours ago.
69. Were you a planned baby?:
i have never asked.
70. Were you the first?:
and only.
71. Who was present at your birth?:
well, for sure my mom. that's all i know.
72. Were your parents married when you were born?:
yes. not anymore though.
73. What is your birthdate?
12/04/1975
74. Which parent do you get along with best?:
mmmmmmmh my dad i suppose.
75. What do you fight about?:
whaddya got?
76. Do you have step parents?:
no
77. Do you have more than one best friend?
yes.
78.What do you like to do when you are together?
drink, eat good food, make each other laugh
79. Do you share the same interests?:
some.
80. Which friend can you tell anything to?:
the best ones.
81. How high/low is your self esteem?:
historically it's in the toilet.
82. Do you get depressed about things easily?:
some things.
83. Are you an extrovert (outgoing) or an introvert (reserved)?
mostly introverted.
84. Are you happy?:
upon occasion.
85. Do you live life to the fullest?:
i try but it's expensive and takes a lot out of me.
86.Are you comfortable with the way you look?
at this precise moment? yeah, sure.
87. Describe your hair?
brownish-goldish-reddish with which to camouflage the grey.
88. How do you dress?
comfortably.
89. Were you a strange child?:
if i tried to deny it there would be very valid arguments to the contrary.
90. What did you used to love that you no longer do?:
not care about things.
91. Do you have the same friends?:
well, i've still got Tessa.
92. Was there anything in your past that was traumatizing?
plenty.
93. What is your ambition?:
write, publish and then happily make my living repeating the process as often as possible.
94. Are you scared of growing old?:
no. so far, so good.
95. Do you want to get married?:
yes
96. Do you prefer indoors or outdoors?:
all depends. got a porch?
97. Favorite Season:
autumn
98. Do you like walking in the rain?:
depends on the rain
99. Are you a vegetarian?
tried it once. failed when i started dreaming about McDonalds' cheese burgers.
100. What is your favorite food?:
many and varied and sundry and almost all of them.
101. What food makes you want to gag?
mushrooms.
102. What is your favorite dessert?
bread pudding.
103. What is your favorite restaurant?:
is it sad that it's Buca Di Bepo? It's just so easy...and the bottles of wine are so big.
104. Are you a fussy eater?
not really.
105. Are you single or taken?:
very taken.
106. If taken who is the lucky guy/girl?:
alberto. he makes me lucky too.
107. Do you think love is the best feeling in the world?:
ain't nuthin better.
108. Do you believe in love at first sight?:
no.
109. What was one of your greatest experiences?:
cross country trip on the Green Tortoise Bus.
110. What was one of the worst?:
Being left by my friends to find my way home alone from junior high on the second day of school.
111. Have you ever done drugs?:
yes.
112. Have you ever thought you were going to die?:
a couple of times.
Something Like A Smithereens Song
By request, and a clever one at that Hackimer, here's the virtual tour of our lovely Bucktown apartment. I don't think I actually realized how gentrified the neighborhood was until I was taking pictures on the street today. I stopped for a 50 cent lemonade at a stand run by the neighbor kids. The lemonade looked good; slice of lemon and a couple of fresh mints leaves as garnish. I was equally impressed by the sugar on the rim of the cup until I realized that it was actually Splenda. It made me miss the lemonade stands of the early 80s I gotta tell you.
So, this is the street we live on:
Charleston Street. It's a pleasant street.
Except for the bar across the way. It looks like a nice enough place. We've been in for beers a few times. It is completely overrun by a certain class of people I have come to refer to as "Jazz Jerks." Liking jazz is OK. I have been known to enjoy some jazz. Jazz Jerks though, are the type of folks who turn into insufferable assholes when confronted with philistines who cannot be "down" with their extended xylophone solos.
Screw that. I live in a strictly "no xylophone zone."
This is our building. Standard issue, turn of the century brick. One of the few left in our neighborhood. Slowly but surely all of the other classic buildings are being razed in favor of tacky condos.
Across the street from us live the current bane of our existence. We thought the Jazz Jerks were bad but The Moped Posse across the street is enough to drive you to drink. Their little club rolls out the mopeds a few times a week. They rev the engines in the driveway for about 20 minutes at a time and then roar off. Usually they circle around a few times before taking off to where ever mopeds are acceptable means of confirming coolness.
Below is The Orange Offender. I swear, I am going to do something horrible to that machine one of these days.
I'll spare you the walk up four flights of stairs and just bring you right in the front door:
It's a modest kitchen but, it gets good light. And there's room for the table. I like the openness of the space. I would like to toss the noisy closet full of Goodman model central cooling air conditioner out the F'ing window at that moped. But I shouldn't complain because, no matter how disruptive the noise is to daily life it mostly gets the job done.
Hiding on the other side of the front door is the bathroom.
And hidden it shall remain.
You enter onward into the living room. It's got, um...sofas. And bookshelves. Also a table...Well, two actually. It's the living room.
Oh, and also - it all totally matches the cat perfectly:
We, natch, have an entertainment center set up in the living room. You know, with entertaining stuff? Yeah, we've got all that.
And, as you can tell in this picture, there's a bedroom over that way.
It's Beatrice's bedroom. But, she leases it out to guest at very reasonable rates.
We've come to face the reality that everything we own is covered in a fine sheen of cat hair. So, take your allergy meds before you come over.
But wait, there's more!
This way to the master bedroom, if you please.
That on the floor is our poor, abandoned mini-Weber grill. It's hard to grill out a window I tells ya.
Oh, and this here is General Robert E. Lee. Apparently it was some sort of package deal. Bird wouldn't move without him. So now he watches everything we do.
The entire second floor is one, big room. The only drawback is that the walls are slanty. You know, the kind of space you think sounds really cool when you're reading about the attic-bound heroine in the V.C. Andrews' book. But, in reality means limited vertical space. Not so bad for me. Terrible for the tall boyfriend.
Up here is also where all of the creative stuff happens. Bird has his music and I have my desk nook. I have a nice view of open sky above my computer. It's only distracting when The Air & Water Show is in town. The sky fills with all sorts of airplanes. Bird likes to sit and watch out the window. On a clear day, you can see all the way into downtown.
I guess the last thing left to show you is the closet upstairs. It's very roomy. Yep, lots of room for clothes and shoes and storage and...well, you get the picture.
That's about it folks. You want to see more, you have to come for a visit.
Oh, who am I kidding. Here: I'm a sucker for photos.
So, this is the street we live on:
Charleston Street. It's a pleasant street.
Except for the bar across the way. It looks like a nice enough place. We've been in for beers a few times. It is completely overrun by a certain class of people I have come to refer to as "Jazz Jerks." Liking jazz is OK. I have been known to enjoy some jazz. Jazz Jerks though, are the type of folks who turn into insufferable assholes when confronted with philistines who cannot be "down" with their extended xylophone solos.
Screw that. I live in a strictly "no xylophone zone."
This is our building. Standard issue, turn of the century brick. One of the few left in our neighborhood. Slowly but surely all of the other classic buildings are being razed in favor of tacky condos.
Across the street from us live the current bane of our existence. We thought the Jazz Jerks were bad but The Moped Posse across the street is enough to drive you to drink. Their little club rolls out the mopeds a few times a week. They rev the engines in the driveway for about 20 minutes at a time and then roar off. Usually they circle around a few times before taking off to where ever mopeds are acceptable means of confirming coolness.
Below is The Orange Offender. I swear, I am going to do something horrible to that machine one of these days.
I'll spare you the walk up four flights of stairs and just bring you right in the front door:
It's a modest kitchen but, it gets good light. And there's room for the table. I like the openness of the space. I would like to toss the noisy closet full of Goodman model central cooling air conditioner out the F'ing window at that moped. But I shouldn't complain because, no matter how disruptive the noise is to daily life it mostly gets the job done.
Hiding on the other side of the front door is the bathroom.
And hidden it shall remain.
You enter onward into the living room. It's got, um...sofas. And bookshelves. Also a table...Well, two actually. It's the living room.
Oh, and also - it all totally matches the cat perfectly:
We, natch, have an entertainment center set up in the living room. You know, with entertaining stuff? Yeah, we've got all that.
And, as you can tell in this picture, there's a bedroom over that way.
It's Beatrice's bedroom. But, she leases it out to guest at very reasonable rates.
We've come to face the reality that everything we own is covered in a fine sheen of cat hair. So, take your allergy meds before you come over.
But wait, there's more!
This way to the master bedroom, if you please.
That on the floor is our poor, abandoned mini-Weber grill. It's hard to grill out a window I tells ya.
Oh, and this here is General Robert E. Lee. Apparently it was some sort of package deal. Bird wouldn't move without him. So now he watches everything we do.
The entire second floor is one, big room. The only drawback is that the walls are slanty. You know, the kind of space you think sounds really cool when you're reading about the attic-bound heroine in the V.C. Andrews' book. But, in reality means limited vertical space. Not so bad for me. Terrible for the tall boyfriend.
Up here is also where all of the creative stuff happens. Bird has his music and I have my desk nook. I have a nice view of open sky above my computer. It's only distracting when The Air & Water Show is in town. The sky fills with all sorts of airplanes. Bird likes to sit and watch out the window. On a clear day, you can see all the way into downtown.
I guess the last thing left to show you is the closet upstairs. It's very roomy. Yep, lots of room for clothes and shoes and storage and...well, you get the picture.
That's about it folks. You want to see more, you have to come for a visit.
Oh, who am I kidding. Here: I'm a sucker for photos.
Friday, August 25, 2006
'Cause it's FrrriiiiiiDAY!"
Yeah, that's right.
I survived the week.
Tonight my The Boyfriend and I dine fancily to celebrate three years of watching Law & Order together.
I promise posts over the weekend...probably Sunday.
Stay tuned for a virtual tour of our humble (yet duplex) apartment.
And the answers to burning questions! Not questions that burn...just questions that are.
Peace ya'll.
Go find something to do with yourselves.
I survived the week.
Tonight my The Boyfriend and I dine fancily to celebrate three years of watching Law & Order together.
I promise posts over the weekend...probably Sunday.
Stay tuned for a virtual tour of our humble (yet duplex) apartment.
And the answers to burning questions! Not questions that burn...just questions that are.
Peace ya'll.
Go find something to do with yourselves.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Insert Evil Maniacal Laughter Here
My evil plan is finally working!
Hey, Tom Cruise, I've got $2.63 in my pocket. Bet ya wanna sell pictures of that fake-baby now!
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Humpday Blues
Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.
Snarl.Snarl.Snarl.Snarl. ROAR.
Grumble.Grumble.Grumble.Grumble.Grumble.Grumble.Grumble.Grumble.
GNAP. GNAP. GNAP.
Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa*gasp*aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaate.
Sigh.
Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh.
Weep. Weep. Weep.Weep.Weep.Weep.Weep.Weep.Weep.
Bachomp. Bachomp. Bachewy-chomp.
I fart in your general direction.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.
GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME, YOU DAMN, DIRTY APES!!!!
end transmition.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.
Snarl.Snarl.Snarl.Snarl. ROAR.
Grumble.Grumble.Grumble.Grumble.Grumble.Grumble.Grumble.Grumble.
GNAP. GNAP. GNAP.
Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa*gasp*aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaate.
Sigh.
Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh.
Weep. Weep. Weep.Weep.Weep.Weep.Weep.Weep.Weep.
Bachomp. Bachomp. Bachewy-chomp.
I fart in your general direction.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.
Hate.Hate.Hate.
GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME, YOU DAMN, DIRTY APES!!!!
end transmition.
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