Friday, September 30, 2005

latitude :: longitude

"I disappoint myself..."
I hummed as I fumbled for my EZ Pass, passing into the Holland Tunnel last night. Alina at my side, my McDonald's breakdown secret was safe with her, I was certain. Besides, she had eaten some of my french fries, so there was really nothing she could say to my demise.
She didn't recognize me when I first pulled up along side her Ford Contour Limited Edition in the good ol' JC. She looked me straight in the eye and then looked away, later admitting her thoughts as "who is this random Asian chick staring at me?!"

I'm really not Asian, although some people might disagree.

My job becomes easier and easier each day, and its ease was made evident last night when I dropped Andrea Forrester off at her reception, "Oh, you don't need to come in at all. Have fun tonight, whatever you do!"
She had no idea, but her release on my services made it possible for me to meet up with Alina last night, and with the Spies, and with Jonathan Gottlieb, and with Lauren and Colleen (of Lauren and Colleen fame), and with Paul the bartender, who recognized me from his tenure at Luna Lounge... it was a relatively good evening. I didn't expect to bump into so many people.
I only drank one Amstel Light. It was only partially satiating.
I found a parking spot less than a block away from Pianos. That was entirely satiating.

I expected the energy of the city to feel good, but it wasn't the energy of the city that felt good, it was the awkwardness of not having a drink for the first five minutes of being there, it was the loud ringing in my ears, it was the screaming at the top of my lungs in the ear of the person next to me in order to make small talk, it was the "what was that?" that you had to ask at least four times before you ever heard what the person said (the fourth one nearly always being yelled just as a song ends and the room falls silent).
Nodding my head rhythmically, pretending to be completely into the music when in fact I was really just studying the people around me, wondering how it is that so many people can look exactly alike. These things all felt good.

Paul the bartender asked me if I had changed my hair since the last time he saw me. I thought it was just a line, but admitted to him that it was true. He reached forward and fingered my new-ish bangs... I nearly felt a space violation coming on, but was too distracted by the fact that he recognized me at all to let it bother me.

Alina and I snuck out early and cruised home listening to Bowie. For the first time ever, the iPod worked in the city.
It was strange to arrive home after a show and still have time to sit around, play the piano, harass one of the four dogs that now inhabits my home, read, or even engage in a wickedly long game of competitive speed scrabble...

My job gets easier and easier.

And my moment of zen?

I roll the window down and then begin to breathe in the darkest country road and the strong scent of evergreen, from the passenger seat as you are driving me home.

Then looking upwards, I strain my eyes and try to tell the difference between shooting stars and satellites, from the passenger seat as you are driving me home.

"Do they collide?" I ask, and you smile.
With my feet on the dash, the world doesn't matter.

When you feel embarrassed then i'll be your pride.
When you need directions then i'll be the guide, for all time.

Currently listening :
Great Escape
By Blur
Release date: By 26 September, 1995

Monday, September 26, 2005

drink cold, refrigerate responsibly

Today's blog title brought to you by:
ALINA. Little. Yellow. Different.

Never in my life (at least, not that I remember) have I been so pleased to make a purchase at Wal-Mart. Most purchases these days are more pleasurable than in days past simply due to the self check-out line now so prevalent in many of the Wal-Mart stores. I also enjoy that Luna bars, those little devils that I seem to be so addicted to these days, are $.01 cheaper than anywhere else on the planet. Anyway, Luna bars and self check-out lines are not really the point of my story. The point of my story is my most joyous purchase in Wal-Mart not one week ago: Steel Train's Twilight Tales from the Prairies of the Sun... I spied it in the meager music section while I was waiting for my photos to finish processing and took about 1/2 a second to snatch it up off the shelf. It was the only copy and admittedly, I at first thought it was a planted album but was quickly set straight on that detail when it rang up at the self check-out line (let's see how many times I can include the words "self check-out" in this entire entry... but then, let's not really).
Needless to say, although I've already said it, this purchase made me really really happy, and proud. Really proud indeed.

I made other purchases this week as well. I purchased series I and II of The Office on DVD from eBay. Series I was great but Series II is clearly a bootleg and I've already written to the dude to make him aware of my disapproval and that I intend to mail the fraudulent copy back to him in exchange for a reimbursement of my hard-earned cash. I still haven't heard back from him...
I also bought a mosaic lamp that I have absolutely no place to put in my bedroom. Now that I've finally finished painting my walls and moving my furniture around (feng shui is an art), I think I might have become addicted to buying things. Granted, there are far worse things in life to become addicted to (reality television and smack are two perfectly good examples), but I've always prided myself in not being materialistic or not caring much for "stuff", and here I am buying any cool thing that my little monkey paws can get a hold of.


The Cheech is back on the East Coast. I can't believe what a little adult he is. I'm amazed every single time at how quickly he's growing up. He sat at the dinner table tonight and asked Cristina (Mama) for a piece of bread. She immediately got up to appease him (since he said please), and once she had gotten out the bread interrupted his chatter: "Alexander, I have an important question to ask you," he immediately looked up in attention, "do you want honey or jelly on your bread?"
He hollered back excitedly that he wanted jelly and then changed his mind, "No, honey!"

I got him a polo shirt so that he can pop his collar. This was more to piss off JC and Tony than anything, but it seemed to piss off Cheech as well. He screamed in protest when we tried to put the shirt on him. JC screamed back and it made him laugh for a minute, but he kept pulling at the collar of the shirt trying to get the thing off. I guess he's not a prepster afterall. I had such high hopes for the kid.


Having two pregnant women in the house now (Cristina, and JC's bride-to-be, Rhiannon) makes me a little nervous. Usually women living together in the same household or spending crazy amounts of time together will... well, they'll develop the same cycle, sort of just by association or something. So my concern is evident. But, I mean, it would be crazy to become pregnant by association, right? That's rubbish, right?

Actually, my concerns are more for everyone else in the house being left to combat the raging hormones that are flying around. Pregnant women are so moody. Damn.


I once (or twice) wrote about an old friend, named Brandon. I actually thought of him earlier today as I was criss crossing the northern part of New Jersey, flying at high speeds through the woods with wood-type animals looking on in shock and dismay. I thought about him being my fall-back boy, always there for me and constant date to weddings. His mother thinks that we're going to get married and somehow got the crazy idea in her head that this was some sort of arrangement between Brandon and I years ago... his mother is slightly delusional sometimes.

Regardless, I do have another friend named Brandon. Actually, his name is Michael, but people call him Brandon. I call him Brandon.
Anyway, this friend of mine, (Michael) Brandon is an absolute gem. He used to have long hair, but recently shaved it off. He majored in English and writes beautiful things when he actually gives himself the chance to. He really really likes Judas Priest. He recently bought a mountain bike.
(Michael) Brandon has a kitty cat that he calls Winnie (like from the Wonder Years). His birthday is next week. He loves Richmond. He has girl problems only because he is so beloved by so many. He has girl problems only because he cares so deeply for people and sometimes I don't think he realizes how much.
(Michael) Brandon encouraged me, inspired me to write a story this evening about two individuals so attuned to one another that they finish one another's sentences and can read eachother's minds. I think I can read (Michael) Brandon's mind. I think he can read mine, although recently he thought that I hated him. In that instance, his signal went a little dim and he was not able to percieve that in fact I do not hate him, I was just away from my computer working for a candidate that I'm not even sure I'll vote for. I was away painting my room. I was away talking things out with someone who understands or who wants to understand. I was just away... I didn't hate him at all.

There's something about having a friend who is removed from practically every situation in your life... having someone like that gives you the freedom to discuss freely whatever it is you need to get off your chest without the risk (or high risk) of judgment. Here it is: therapy without the outrageous expense (my insurance company says I have to pay for that other lousy counselor).
Sitting on the floor in the hallway of Alejandra's apartment building, just outside her door, I was feeling a little distressed, a little sad, and a little intoxicated when I decided to dial the number that had been sitting idly in my phonebook for so many months.
"Hey, is this Brandon?"
"Yeah, who is this?"
"It's Monica..."
"Yeah. Um, it's moe"

I'm not one for phone conversations, but we talked for well over an hour and when I hung up the phone, for some reason, everything made sense again. All I needed was a shove in the right direction. A little encouragement. A little love... there's just something about having a friend like that.
There's just something about having a friend like (Michael) Brandon.
Currently listening :
Twilight Tales from the Prairies of the Sun
By Steel Train
Release date: By 19 April, 2005

Monday, September 19, 2005

lavish yourself

I start the new job on Friday (in politics, you can start a new job any day of the week really because you work 7 days anyhow).


Talking with Tony last week and sharing tears over heartbreak and sorrow, I informed him of how aware I've been lately of so many people that are in need, and that are hurting. So many people that have never known the love of Christ. So many people that walk around with blank faces because they don't know why they're here on this Earth... it was nearly overwhelming for a bit. It's always overwhelming to think of good people who just seem to get a really shitty deal. Good people who are living in the depths of poverty, or who made a poor choice at a young age and are now fighting to survive an abusive husband, or young children stricken with fatal diseases and who are now forced to demonstrate strength that a full-grown man would have trouble mustering up.

I found it interesting that after all of that, Pastor spoke this morning about healing. I think he mostly was referencing physical healing and the faith behind it, but it got me to thinking about emotional healing, mental healing, spiritual healing (and it is only coincidence that I was listening to "sexual healing" as I pulled into the church parking lot before service) and brought me back to mine and Tony's conversation late last week. My heart goes out to Tony right now because I know how badly he's hurting. I know that he's hurting and not understanding why his world is being flipped upside down. Granted, there are individuals across the globe who are suffering far worse from disease, and crime, and crippled governments and economic systems, but this is affecting HIM. In the grand scope of things, this would be considered a minor bump in the road, but I'm learning to listen and to view things outside the grand scope and on a much more intimate level.
I looked around the sanctuary this morning and felt that there were so many broken hearts sitting around me. People who are suffering things in their personal lives that perhaps no one around them will ever know about. I knew that there were people sitting in that sanctuary that were completely and 100% broken, and that were, despite their faith in Christ, completely unsure of what to do about it. I felt so burderened for so many people at once that it became difficult to even stand and although I didn't necessarily feel as though I should have been, I began to cry. It's a strange thing to stand completely straight-faced with tears streaming from your eyes, looking like someone who cries just from allergies or a particularly good yawn.
I feel as though I've probably spent a lot of time trying to convince others that my belief system is right and good, when in reality I should just be living my life, purposing to demonstrate the love of Christ to others. That despite an individual's race, or gender, or financial status, or sexual orientation, or religious beliefs, I can still love unconditionally and have compassion for those in need. I once told someone that it makes me scared, how uncompassionate I am, but I really don't think I'm uncompassionate at all. I'm sometimes completely overwhelmed by compassion for others. I think I sometimes have a poor way of showing it and I sometimes become too defensive for my own good.

As Tony cried on my bed last week, and as I shared with him in those tears, I told him that we have a choice to either give up and give in, to go completely crazy when we feel this broken, or we can rely on the strength that Christ promises through Him, that sometimes we need to be stripped down to absolutely nothing, to the bare bone in order to see how much we are nothing and how much we need from God in order to make us whole. Is it a crutch? You bet it is. And a damn good one at that.

So this is what it means to be held, how it feels when the sacred is torn from your life and you survive.
This is what it is to be loved, and to know that the promise was when everything fell, you'd be held.

God heals hearts too. Isn't that great?

Currently listening :
Brothers & Sisters
By Coldplay
Release date: By 18 November, 2003

Thursday, September 15, 2005

life is better inside a warm sweater

I still don't have my drivers license back, but I'm far too humored right now to care that much.

Even if you don't follow New Jersey politics, do me a favor and check out this little cartoon. It's... well, it's pretty fantastic and absurdly over the top; typical for New Jersey anyhow (Zeoli, I especially liked seeing your face pasted onto one of Forrester's minions. Don't worry, I'll still love you. You and Dale both):

Wednesday, September 14, 2005

less space

I really really hate the MVC or DMV or whatever the hell you want to call it.

I want to be like Peter from Office Space and just not pay any of my bills. I'm sick of them anyhow.

This today is just the straw that breaks the camels back, or sanity, as the case may be.

Yeah, yeah, yeah... so I finished painting my room. Now I have four walls surrounding me that look exactly the same as one another and I feel even more trapped than I did before.

I'm such a crankster right now, but not even. I'm just really really sad. Defeated is a better word I think. Completely and 100% defeated.
What kind of a Christian does that make me now?

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

comfort, the feeble minded

:: Friday ::

Today we celebrate 25 years of Becky.
And what a grand celebration it was. Naturally, I had missed most of it by the time I arrived at Lake Nelson, but Becky and the Ecks were ready and waiting for my arrival, welcoming my presence and any alcohol that I might have brought with me as a gift.

The usual suspects were all there plus a few extra surprises - individuals that I thought had long since been thrown off the team.
Naked Tim was there. What a delight he always is.
He looked a little more humble this time around. You don't cross Becky and the Ecks without a test in humility to show for it.

Everyone was loud and oblivious to the fact that I had walked through the door. Their mouths all open - laughing and talking at the very height of their ability - the warm alcohol on their breath filled the air, making it damp and very very drunk. I had no option but to pour myself a drink. Rolling the dice I landed on Southern Comfort - a great way to start and finish the evening.
I poked around for a bit and found the smokers on the back deck, and a few more out on the dock by the lake. I stayed inside and watched through the window. I've noticed lately that if for nothing else, Lake Nelson is really good for observing. Rest assured some amount of drama will take place before the evening is through. There always is, and it's so much fun to watch.

Somewhere two hours later I found myself on the front deck talking to Holly and two guys that I didn't know. One was discussing his face piercings and pointing out how barely noticeable the scars are. His friend randomly brought up Death Cab and this began a conversation about how they'll be playing at Hammerstein in October and how I probably won't get to go see them on account of "work" (yes, I might be doing that sometime again soon. Miracles never do cease, eh?).

Pierced face boy excused himself from the conversation to use the restroom and I took advantage of the situation, escaping while no one would take notice. Through the living room, into the kitchen, grabbing my jacket from the back of the chair and out the back door all in one, swift movement. It was art. It was beautiful.

I felt a little sick.

I only threw up once on my way home. Southern Comfort isn't as comfortable as I once remembered.
Pulling off at the Red Bull Inn, I felt slightly miserable as the world spun around me, but not from the alcohol. The world was just spinning. I was spinning as I grabbed a blanket from the back seat and wrapped it around me. It was 2:45 in the morning. I've grown slightly accustomed to sleeping in parking lots these days.

Happy birthday, Becky.

:: Saturday ::

Some days I never wake-up. My eyes open, my feet hold me perpendicular to the ground and I go about my business, but I don't really wake-up. Perhaps the signal doesn't quite make it to the brain, or perhaps my physiological state is not quite coterminous with the functioning status of my psychological being. I'm no doctor (although I do play one on television), but it does happen. It's killer when you have to drive long distances.

I was supposed to go and pick up my bridesmaid dress with Kelly (for about the third time this week), but never made it around to that.
I was supposed to meet Bret at Echo Lake park at 10:30 in the morning, but I didn't really make it around to that either.

I opened my eyes in the parking lot of Red Bull Inn somewhere around 7AM and decided to venture home, setting my sights first on an Egg McMuffin along the way. I rested peacefully for about three hours.

I made it to Echo Lake park somewhere around 12:30, after my body tried to purge that harmless little McMuffin from my system for the second time.
I was feeling a little weak at the knees, but the sunshine felt nice against my skin. It reminded me that I really was alive, and perhaps even awake.

It was nice to see Phyllis again.
Everyone felt the need to remind me that I'll be working for Doug soon.
Rick looks really miserable (you can read all about it in his blog, where he openly bashes me and Greg).

Shaylin and I went for a car ride while the 40 or so volunteers and supporters mingled around her father, waiting for him to give his typical and obligatory 20 minute speech. It was good we went or else I might have felt the need to kick him in the shins and remind him that we were at a picnic.
Her hair was braided into a million tight little braids, all over her head. She had just gotten back from Jamaica.
"How long did it take to do all these?" I asked as I ran my hand over the strange and smooth little bumps.
"About two and a half hours..."
I exclaimed that I didn't know she could sit still for that long and she smirked at me, looking very much like her father.

I threw up again after that. I think it was the car ride.

Lynn sent me with a watermelon, and I was feeling sort of mellow. I was thinking about another picnic that was going to be starting shortly, one that I really wanted to go to but didn't feel much liberty to. Well... let me rephrase that a bit: I wanted to go, but I really didn't. Not really anyway. I've made enough trouble this summer, you know? I need to stop thinking of myself so damn much...
I did want to bring Luke a watermelon though. And I wanted to bring him some beer too. In fact, in light of how miserably sick I was feeling, bringing Luke some beer and watermelon for his cookout sounded really really nice.
So I did.
Red Stripe and Watermelon in hand, I showed up at Luke's around 4:05 with weak knees and a shaky voice.
It was nice to see him again. He gave me a hug, that superb kind of a hug that makes you feel really good to be there.
It made me realize how little I actually know him, to see him looking so casual. I watched him rinse out small dishes for chips and salsa as he chatted with the few people in his kitchen. Everything was clean and shiney and he just seemed really content. I asked him about the boys and he didn't say much. He asked me if I still talked to anyone and I told him I did not.
"Oh... right." he said as he sort of put his head down for a moment, still smiling a little. I didn't really know what he meant by it though.

I stayed 20 minutes and then left, being sure to duck out before anyone really got there. I wondered if he would mention later that I had been there. I wondered if it would even strike him to do such. I wondered if it even mattered one way or the other. In the grand scheme of things: not really.
But that's in the grand scheme of things.

I drove down to Princeton and tried to sleep for a very long time. Somewhere around 3AM I didn't feel so sick anymore. I dreamt about a painting that was hanging on the hotel room wall. It was strange. In my dream, the painting was all I could see, no matter what people put in front of my face.

I didn't sleep very well.

:: Sunday ::

When I lived in Washington, DC it was not an uncommon thing for me to be out and about on a Sunday morning and to find a strange church to duck into just spur of the moment. Not strange as in odd, but strange as in one that I'd never been to before. I feel like a lot of the time, by some strange miracle, the service was always starting within five minutes or so of the very minute I was walking by. That's actually how I came to find the church that I would attend regularly there. Pretty amazing, right?

Driving up from Princeton Sunday morning, I was feeling quite a lot better than I had the day before. Of course, I'd gone out of my way to visit Einstein Bros. Bagels on Route 1 on my way out and only to be terribly disappointed... that's a whole other story for another day.
I realized that I wasn't going to make it to my church in Bridgewater and I actually, for a moment, for kicks and giggles, entertained the thought of hopping up to the Presbyterian church in New Providence, but didn't quite feel it necessary or wise.

I passed a Reformed church and noticed that their service was to begin at 10AM. The time was exactly 9:57 AM... miracles never do cease, I am reminded once again.

It was a lovely service, I must say. It felt good to be standing in a congregation where absolutely no one knew who I was. Showing up in ripped jeans, dirty hair, and no make-up makes you wonder if everyone around you is thinking you a heathen that's just walked in off the streets. I love to imagine this and then amaze the person in front of me as I harmonize with the hymns, singing the words by memory.
I feel more concentrated though. I feel like I can be more honest with God, and with myself. I feel like I gain a lot of encouragement from a congregation that I have never met. I like the feeling of it quite a bit, actually.

I washed the Focus again. It's been staying really really clean lately, inside and out. That's a good feeling as well.

:: Monday ::

I drove 200 miles today. I used 3/4 of a tank of gasoline.
I traveled from Whitehouse Station to Piscataway, to East Brunswick, to Mountainside, to Trenton, to Bridgewater, and then back to Whitehouse Station.
I finally picked up my Bridesmaid dress, that beast of a thing.
I bought a wedding gift for my brother and his bride-to-be.
I refilled a prescription.
I learned how to cut up a pineapple.

Being busy is all relative. When I had a job, I was busy all the time. I had time for literally nothing else.
Now that I don't have a job, I'm still pretty damn busy and just not getting paid for it.

It's all relative.

As busy as I was earlier today, I've been super lazy tonight.
I watched a horrible movie with Jane Fonda and Jennifer Lopez and I ate really awful chinese take-out. I hope it doesn't make me sick again.
But then, if it did, I suppose it wouldn't be all that bad.
Not in the grand scheme of things.

Currently listening :
There Is Nothing Left to Lose
By Foo Fighters
Release date: By 02 November, 1999

Saturday, September 10, 2005

leaning on my horn

Moe might have a job.
Said job might cause her to stop referring to herself in the third person.

I'd like to venture back in time to a few topics I had wanted to bring up in the past, a few stories if you will (and I will) but had mistakenly forgotten.
Bear with me for I am in mildly pleasant spirits, having painted most of the evening, I've been sucking up quite my fair share of fumes and now I find myself sitting here, sipping wine, eating risotto, my internet connection finally back up and running... I could make a few complaints for my current disposition, but overall I'm feeling quite gay.


I went to Denver earlier this summer. I had a glorious time.
Gregory and I flew out from Washington, DC. The fare was far more fair than anywhere else around and I figured we could stop in and check on the CRiNC and Alejandra.
She let us stay at her apartment and even cooked us quite a fantastic meal.

Our flight was to depart at 6:30AM from Reagan National Airport.
Naturally, we arrived an hour early for the flight, bleary eyed and slightly shaken by the cab fare that I had forgotten was so damn expensive. Both of us have been relying rather heavily on unemployment and had not quite budgeted exorbitant cab fees into our spending. Well, let's be honest, we don't budget at all. For the girl who used to budget her Trident chewing gum, just let me say: You've come a long way, baby.

We were standing on the down escalator. Greg saw him first.
"Hey! Look who it is!"
I had to turn to see who he was talking about for they had already passed us, going up. I saw the back of his head.
"Hmmm... well, it sort of looks like him. I mean, I've only to seen the back of his head, but it certainly appeared to be him.It could be..."

We dismounted the escalator and walked passed the first security gate - our security gate was another 50 yards ahead.
Stepping into line, we both giggled and pointed at the ridiculous illustrations surounding the entire area, and for good measure, giggled and pointed at some of the TSA staff as well.
We knew the routine: shoes, jackets, belts, bags... all haphazardly tucked into one of those rectangular grey bins and rolled onto the conveyor belt, through the x-ray machine.
We were just about to complete this routine when I turned and saw him, in the line next to me.
I nudged Greg.
"He's right behind us! Look! In the line over there!"
Like two nerds, we turned our heads to gape and gawk. We were in awe, and amazed as this man stood there, dark blue business suit that screamed expensive, ear piece in place, shiney leather shoes in his hand, jacket slung over his arm, standing in his stocking feet and waiting for a grey bin.
I walked through the metal detector while the security guard governing his secition hollered at him.
"Sir! Please remain behind the yellow line until you are called forward!! Don no move from behind the yellow line, please!"
I hid my smile and quickly gathered up my items, still watching his every move. I was putting on my shoes as he was being flagged for secondary screening. This was amazing. No one knew who he was. I felt like I was in my own little world with him and Greg as my only accomplices.
He stood patiently with his feet spread and his arms out as the TSA guard moved her wand over his body. He noticed me staring and he smiled.
"Good morning."
I was startled, and a little flustered (being the huge geek that I am).
"Good morning Governor!"
He nodded his head and smiled even bigger. I had one moment to speak my mind and so I did.
"I have to say, I'm really really impressed that you are schlepping through this line with the rest of us. Thank you!"
"Of course. That's what it's here for."

Gregory arrived at my side and we began walking to our gate. My cheeks were a little red and both of us were admittedly excited. The irony of it all. I thought it hysterical and actually imagined how I would write it into a blog.
I felt like defending him to those TSA guards and telling them that they have a job because of him.
I mean, really, how often do you get to witness Tom Ridge going through security with you at the airport?!

Fun times.


I've plum run out of energy. My cheeks are a little flushed from the wine I've been drinking. I just ran to the kitchen for a refill and Cecilia caught my ear on the way back down the hallway... admittedly (and shamefully) I don't even really know what she was saying to me. Surely something about the ridiculous shopping spree that she just went on or her new job at EB Games.

I'm feeling more relaxed now.

Tonight is Becky and the Eck's. Tomorros is more painting, and a Schundler reunion picnic, and probably picking up my bridesmaid dress for JC's wedding.

You know... when I choose clarity, it actually comes.
Now isn't that something?

Currently reading :
Girl with a Pearl Earring
By Tracy Chevalier
Release date: By 08 January, 2001

Monday, September 05, 2005

I've just seen a face

The Focus is so clean right now, it ought to be illegal. I drenched the interior with Armorall and the tires are even nice and shiney, looking all brand new and whatnot. Of course, I'm still missing my gas tank cap and there are a few dents in my hood leftover from that run-in I had with my neighbor's mailbox this past winter, but otherwise the Focus is looking totally PIMP.

Still at the Mountainside office for (hopefully) my last day. Tomorrow it's down to Trenton in the morning so that I can drop off this one last report. I hope this is final, once and for all.
Although... well, it appears as though I might be in this office for another year as Tom Kean, Jr. intends on taking it over for his run for the U.S. Senate starting next month. Perhaps I'll be staying in politics afterall.


That's all from me right now. Life is good. I am happy. The sun is shining. I'm not on prozac.

Isn't that just great?!

Currently listening :
Her Majesty
By The Decemberists
Release date: By 09 September, 2003

Saturday, September 03, 2005

por favor, sepa mi velocidad

I was just recently (as recent as three minutes ago) imagining a zipper, figuring in my mind exactly how it works, and thinking how proud a man Mr. Y.K.K. must really be for having the curve on such a broad market. Meanwhile, coincidentally, "Come Together" shuffles its way into the iPod mix and releases over my micro computer speakers.

I once had a friend who thought that YKK was really KKY, her exact initials (her name being Kristina Kay Yordy). I didn't know whether to think that she was dyslexic or a hopeful and wildly creative dreamer.
Mr. Youseff Karl Kurzenhoff
Mr. Yoshi Kaden Kirkland

I can't even think of more names than that.
In truth, YKK stands for Yoshida Kogyo Kabushiki and is a Japanese corporation working not only in the fasteners industry but also in machinery, engineering, and architecture.

"Come together..."
That's what I was mumbling to myself internally as I fidgeted with the zipper on the ugly sweater this past Wednesday morning.
I had showed up 10 minutes late.
The office was offensively lit with fluorescent bulbs and shook me from the very start. These sorts of offices are supposed to be dimly lit with dark and heavy wood furnishings, perhaps one of those dark green desk lamps with the little gold pull chain.

There were books, "Anger as your Ally" and "Reclaiming Surrendered Ground", lining white ikea bookshelves along the far wall. Simple, ivory ceiling tiles loomed overhead and three or four meaning-to-look-important-but-not-really-doing-a-great-job-of-it degress and certificates hung on the wall behind me, all framed in $2 plastic certificate frames from Target; one of which was taped together at the corners, hoping desperately that no one would notice its disability.

The couch appeared old and well-used, like it had been moved from the doctor's semi-finished basement in an excited effort to set up her office quickly and make patients feel "at home".
We don't have pink, green, and yellow watercolor flowers on our couch at home. Thanks for the effort though.

The doctor, Charlotte, didn't seem to notice my immediate uncomfortableness. She sat in her chair, legal notepad in her lap and pen poised above it. She didn't look at me, she just waited for me to speak.
A solid three minute passed before I said anything at all. I didn't really trust her. And she was mildly unattractive - forgive my shallow soul for saying so, but she really was.

When I did finally begin to speak, I managed to avoid looking at her the entire duration. I stayed focused on the plaque on the wall, the one with portions of Psalm 119 enscribed on it, or I stared at the picture of her and her minister husband on the desk behind her. I couldn't look her in the eye or else I would start to cry, and there was no way I was going to cry to this woman - especially if I didn't even particularly like her.

All the same, however, I bore my soul (nearly all of it) to her and all with a frail and shakey voice that was at the very precipice of breaking and her response was everthing that every fiber of my body, mind and soul was fearing, the entire reason that I had avoided making an appointment in the first place. Her response shook me and nearly made me stand up and walk out the door at that very moment.

"Have you prayed then, and asked God for forgiveness?"

I don't think I have ever in my life felt more secluded and misunderstood and positively kicked to the side of the road as I did right at that moment. It took every ounce of strength I could muster right then not to cry, not to show a weakness that might be misinterpreted (since clearly that's what this woman is all about: misinterpretation).

I told her of the craziness, of the desperation at times. I told her of the confusion and the desire for clarity - oh, such a desire for clarity!
I told her that some weeks I feel so empowered and strong. I feel on top of the world and as though I'm in control of my life and then other weeks I know that I can just climb into the Focus and drive to God knows where... jetsetting to 124 with a change of clothes and a pint of ice-cream...

It's like having a printer that sometimes, for no reason whatsoever, jams every single sheet of paper you feed through it. During those times it must be monitored every second, almost willing it (in a way) not to jam. During the other times though, the well-functioning times, you can leave the room and let that printer run and everything is just peachy keen.

Everything is just peachy keen.

She gave me homework (bless her heart).
"Two things I want you to do this week: I want you to keep praying (!), and I want you to start making little decisions for yourself. If someone asks you where you want to eat or what movie you want to see, I want you to really really think about it. I want you to look into yourself and find out what it is that you really want to eat or which movie it is that you want to see."

Thanks, Doc.
I made the mistake of informing her that in major, life altering situations I have a difficult time saying no to people.
I'm not going back to see her. I'm not even really sure that she was the doctor to begin with. In fact, the possibility has no escaped my mind that she was simply the receptionist, called upon by the real doctor who phoned in sick that morning.
"Just stand in for me! Please?! She's a new patient, it will be really easy. Just tell her to pray a lot and stuff. She'll never know the difference."

Clap for the counselors. Give them a nice round of applause. They, afterall, appear to have the cloudiest vision of anyone and don't seem to have a single clue at all about it.

Currently listening :
If You're Feeling Sinister
By Belle & Sebastian
Release date: By 23 June, 1999