The Garden State of Euphoria

get ready to crumble

2008-08-27T00:09:00.005-04:00

I love me a high ceiling.
This ceiling is high; at least three stories high. OK, maybe only two stories. But it's high. Really high. It's dead space, but it's beautiful dead space. The air around me is completely cold and sterile despite the 90 degree temperature hovering just on the other side of the condensation-collecting glass behind me. I look up and feel dizzy for just a moment.
I love me a high ceiling.

I'm making a decision and it's just for me. It's pointless, it's fleeting, it serves no purpose but that of my own.
It feels a little (or maybe a lot) great. It feels a bit fantastic.

She asks me to take a deep breath, and I think I'm closing my eyes. She asks me to take a deep breath and for a moment I feel like I am at a doctor's appointment. I'm partially expecting to feel the cold shock of her stethoscope on my bare skin.
But then, she has no stethoscope, just a stainless surgical steel post and a rubber glove.

This is the prettiest doctor's office I've ever seen.

Yes, my eyes closed as she pushed the post through flesh and I held on tight. Jason stood nearby, wearing a smile I couldn't interpret. But then, I didn't really try to.
For reasons unknown, I didn't even want to see it when she was finished.
For reasons unknown, I was feeling a little embarrassed that my eye was tearing up.

I hopped down from her table and motioned to Jason with my thumb as we made our way down the steep stairway.
"It's your turn."

And so it was. And so he did.

This decision seems like one among many trivial yet important decisions for me. Trivial because they're the types of decisions that most individuals grapple with during their early years of high school. These are things that are whispered and discussed amongst pubescent young girls while changing into shorts in the locker room. These are things that we do to break the rules.
I've reached a point where these rules no longer exist and yet I still long to break them.
I'm not sure if that makes me incredibly hopeful or entirely under-developed.

Jason and I walked back onto the street and began searching for a celebratory post drink. We needed to celebrate, but I don't think he even realized just how much.

All of these decisions; big and little: the decision to go back to school, to move to Philadelphia, to pierce my nose for heaven's sake... these decisions feel decadent to me right now. They're little pieces of dessert. They're oh-so-sweet and meant to be savored.

So, can I have my cake and eat it too then?
Eh, screw the rules.

poykpac

2008-05-04T14:05:00.001-04:00

I'm probably a day late and a dollar short on this one - as always.

Apparaticus

2008-04-22T01:26:00.003-04:00

In the fifth grade, I had some pretty awesome friends. They were fun, helped me kill time, stimulated me mentally, and were all quite unique.
Stacy was someone to look up to - what with her incredibly giving attitude and funky wardrobe to boot. Mary-Ann was sweet, gentle, and an incredible listener. Kristi could be a little rough around the edges, but I could always count on her honesty. Dawn was fun, down-to-Earth, and usually did her best to keep me on target with my goals - plus it was nice that she was, like me (at the time), a vegetarian. And then there was Claudia; that exotic beauty. An extremely talented artist and constant dreamer...

OK. I confess. I was a little hooked on "The Babysitters Club" for quite some time.
I was hooked and I was embarrassed about it. I read the books in secret and often refused to own them. My mother would buy them for me at the wholesale clubs, five at a time and I would quickly pass them on to a younger family friend, pretending that I had long since outgrown them and had no use for them any longer. I often preferred for them to just be rented from the library.

As much as I loved to hate these books, however, they had such a definite impression on my 11 and 12 year-old self. I loved the descriptions that Ann M. Martin felt it necessary to include. No meeting of the Babysitter's Club could begin before Ms. Martin's complete and (very) detailed rundown on what the ever trendy Stacy and Claudia were wearing. Rest assured that whatever it was, it seemed always to involve over-sized sweaters or ballet slippers. Day-glo anything was frequently on the list along with dangled earrings shaped like every-day objects (think random office supplies and food type items).
I'd like to pretend that I was knee deep in classic literature when I was 12. I'd like to pretend - but I won't.
I wasn't.

I'll spare you the sugary grit details of the series and leave it what I've already divulge. Suffice it to say that the books left a bit of an impression on me. They built a very strong image in my mind and while I mostly knew that it was a ridiculous image, it existed nonetheless.
Perhaps their ingenuity impressed me.
Perhaps I took delight in the fact that a grown woman (the author) was being downright indulgent with these books; her life career. For all intents and purposes, Ann M. Martin was but a 12 year-old girl herself, living out her childhood dreams through 138 some odd quick-read books.
Who could know, really?

Regardless, I do know that in comparison to their fairy-tale liberties and self-employed 12 year-old trendy selves, I felt a little (just a little) uncool.
My clothes were hand-me-downs. My haircut usually influenced by my mother. Make-up was not a reality in my life just yet and neither was music (which at least, even with the absence of a kickass wardrobe and a relevant haircut, could have made me volumes cooler).

This was not for lack me trying.
My efforts were somewhat wimpy.

I recall one time in particular - I was walking through a shopping mall with my mother. I remember that I was wearing a red Hanes sweatshirt - I most likely at some point considered this a very good wardrobe purchase; you know, versatile.
The pants I was wearing were hand-me-downs from someone in our church. They were too big for me and the waist was elastic. They were black with small white birds printed all over them - small enough that it just kind of looked like an organized white spatter across black fabric. I'm fairly certain I was wearing sneakers. I probably had a perm.
Walking through the mall, my brain was quite a distance away (I think it should be evident by now that I didn't take much of an interest in shopping) and eventually I found it appropriate to ask my mother exactly what was burning on my mind:
"Mom, do you think I look... exotic?"
She had become at least somewhat accustomed to absurd questions from me, her middle child, but even this threw her off kilter a bit.
She stopped, laughed, and with one look-over responded, "Right now you certainly don't".

Sometimes it takes the words of a mother to shake reality back into you.

I swiftly dropped my dirty reading habits and bought myself a pair of lace trimmed leggings. Eventually the perm grew out and it didn't take too long for me to outgrow the hand-me-downs. And clearly, I've not too quickly forgotten myself and my mother's words at what could have very well been the height of my absurdity...

The end.

tri-fold

2008-04-16T03:00:00.005-04:00

I dreamt last night that I found it at a yard sale.
It sat there, nearly alone on a partially draped brown folding table.
It had rained the day before and I noticed the feet of the table burrowing into the soft earth. I imagined for a moment, as I ran my index finger along the edge of the table, the dark grass that was being crushed under its weight. Dust collected in a miniature slope between my fingertip and the table before I stopped to thoughtlessly brush it over the edge and to the ground.
I knelt to eye it more closely - the object - and saw that part of it was cracked a little. It didn't matter. Battered and bruised were still fine in my book. Some of my best-loved collections included the most battered and bruised that the world has to offer. Torn pages, chipped edges, missing buttons or eyes or pieces.
Over time, I've grown to find beauty in the broken.
Picking up the object, I became aware of it's lightness and fragility. It looked heavier than it was.
Very suddenly, I'd become afraid that it would simply crumble in my hands under the mere weight of my scrutiny.
It wouldn't be the first time I'd destroyed something. It sadly wouldn't be the last either.
I stared until I caught my reflection in the mirror of its surface and then I let time stop for a moment.

I felt the sun penetrating the skin on my shoulders, making my arms tingle just a bit.
I heard my pulse beating in my ears, the occasional swallow cutting in to interrupt the rhythm.
I smelled the history I was holding in my hands, littered with layers of dust and decorated with the splendors of time, love, and emotion.
Just then, I could taste my desire to bring it home with me - to know that it was back in my care.

It was only a moment, but it kind of felt like a forever.
My moment was broken by someone else's memory.

"That was my first one, you know! I can't even remember who gave it to me!"
I jumped slightly at her interruption and smiled crookedly as she laughed to herself. She was older than my mother, but younger than my grandmother. She wore a white tank-top, her arms shamelessly bare and boasting surplus.
"Well?!" She shouted, a bit too loudly, "You wanna buy it?!"
I raised my eyebrows in silent response and looked down to dig a dollar out of my wallet.

A dollar here, a dollar there - I spend dollars too quickly.

Her hand was ready and waiting, outstretched, as I made my exchange.
She was already busy with another weekend warrior when I turned to leave, my treasure tucked away and safe from harm.

I dreamt last night that I found it.
I dreamt I bought it back.

(If I could find it, I'd buy it back - perhaps for more than a dollar).
(But then, if I continue to live my life in parenthetics),

My life would be worth... well, about a dollar.

spineally

2008-03-16T23:16:00.004-04:00

I realize that I've been tagged. (Twice).
I also realize that no one really reads this blog anymore. I've been too lazy to prompt anyone to read it.
Maybe that will change.

The point is this: I'm supposed to divulge 10 very interesting facts about myself to you, the reader, and hopefully in a manner that will actually keep your attention for longer than 13 seconds. I have a lot of friends with ADD, so we'll see how this works.

Ready?
Good, 'cause I'm not.

One:
I'm a horrible channel surfer, largely because I don't like watching TV. I enjoy the noise, I enjoy the idea of TV... but the fact of the matter is that I'm terribly bored by it most of the time unless it involves blood and a scalpel. For this reason, I'm completely digging Discovery Health right now. I can watch back-to-back episodes of Mystery Diagnosis for 12 hours straight and still feel the need to persuade myself away from the tube.
The surgery shows are the best and I especially love that episode of Dr. 90210 when he performs genital surgery on that couple with the extra skin issues. I can't get enough of it. In that same vein, I briefly considered going to nursing school. Briefly. I might still consider it when I'm finished with this degree that I'm working on now. I could dig being a nurse for awhile...

Two:
I'm a recovering vegetarian.
It was never out of principle. I just realized one day that I really didn't enjoy eating meat and I seldom did. So why eat it at all? I eventually became the difficult one in the family that refused to eat any meat ever at the dinner table. The problem was, I didn't really eat vegetables either. In fact, I can remember a period of no less than three weeks at the age of 15 when I ate nothing but pasta. Aboslutely nothing. Pasta only. Three weeks. It was glorious.
Today, I enjoy quite a few things that I would have never dreamed of allowing past my lips 13 years ago. Grilled chicken breast, beef burgundy stew, even the occasional hot wing. I've been about 8 or 9 years in recovery and I'm proud to report that I'm doing quite well these days. I still eat very little meat and only about twice a week, but I'm making tremendous progress.

Three:
I never finished my undergraduate degree.
Well, actually, I never even started my undergraduate degree until two years ago, when I finally decided to leave politics behind forever and go to school. I've spent the past two years plugging away in classes at the local college while I make do with freelance jobs and babysitting. I was recently accepted to Moore College of Art & Design in Philadelphia, where I will be transferring in the fall.
I'm super excited about this. It will mean that I'm finally a college student for real.
Cross your fingers for me.

Four:
I have three dogs that I really don't like.
I used to love dogs. In fact, I think it's still possible for me to love dogs.
We had a dog growing up that I was positively in love with. His name was Shadow. He was perfect. Then Shadow died (rather unexpectedly), and my family felt the need to replace him immediately. I didn't not share with them in this need and have not stopped resenting it since. It seems that we keep getting new dogs in an effort to replace Shadow, and three times now it hasn't really worked out all too well.
I say we call it a day.

Five:
I secretly want the life of someone that I "hate".
Sarah Lewitinn has been a source of my frustration only in that I secretly desire to be a hipster and (not so) secretly envy her lifestyle. I'm friends with her brother, Lawrence, and although I've never met Sarah (aka: Ultragrrrl), in my dreams, I'm poking her with little needles that cause her eyes to bleed. And while I think that this is out of hate, in reality, it is out of jealousy. In reality, I believe Sarah to be an adorable if not too sweet young lady who seems to have a good head about her (especially when it comes to NYC bands). The parties, the wardrobe, the hair, the rock-star lifestyle... secretly, I wish it were me. That kills me.
Why can't I just be envious of the boring and ultra-ambitious people?

Six:
I talk to myself.
No. I talk to myself a lot.
You might be saying at this point: "no, really, I talk to myself a lot too"
But I guarantee that I talk to myself more than you do. I guarantee that I talk to myself an unhealthy amount. It's a bit embarrassing.
The culprit seems to be the car. Anything I'm in the car, driving alone, it's a sure thing; I will talk to myself.
I ask myself questions and answer them.I berate myself. I reassure myself. I scold myself and then justify to myself the very things I was being scolded for.
It's gotten so bad that I ignore myself. How many people can say that they talk copiously to themselves and find that still, no one is listening?! Friends, it's grown to the point of absurd.

Seven:
I'm one of those people who is shamelessly obsessed with their nieces/nephews. One of my favorite things is to have iTunes dance parties with them. They totally rock my world. They kind of worship the ground I dance on and I'm not gonna lie: it's sort of nice to have such devoted fans - even if they are all under the age of 5.

Eight:
I want to be a philanthropist. I realize how retarded this is: to wish I had tons of money just so I could give it away, but I never said I wasn't a total dork. I've devoted entire blogs to my supreme nerdy-ness. So there you have it: I want lots of money to give away. And to travel (because what's the sense in having tons of money if you can't have a little fun with it yourself)?

Nine:
My feet are surprisingly large. I'm not all that tall (about 5'4", if I'm lucky), but somehow I ended up with these honking huge feet. They're deceiving, because I'm short. But the truth is that I'm packing a big ol' size 10 (sometimes 9, if I'm willing to squeeze). I know. You're shocked. Take a minute to collect yourself.

Ten:
I've struggled to come up with 10 facts about myself. Seriously. I'm not all that interesting. But I did a great job of pretending, right?!

As far as tagging goes, I'll give it a shot. The God's honest truth is that I think I've lost just about all of my readers. So I'll take a shot in the dark and tag Alina, Pilar, Darling Cait, Mary Jo, and Elisabeth. We'll see if it takes or not.

something a little incomplete

2008-01-07T21:00:00.000-05:00

the option was presented: write all your cares on a luggage tag and check your baggage at the door.

So... seriously? Check it at the door? The opportunity to unload my baggage comes along and it has suddenly become difficult to breathe.

I click my pen and write in bold, capital letters HEARTACHE.

I look at it for a second and know that it is the only word that can sum everything up.
I fold it in half, suddenly realizing how vulnerable it has made me feel to write that word.

The question of my hurt has been answered, but not this: will I actually even want to let it go?

small

2007-12-10T22:44:00.000-05:00

On a normal night I would be at his house, arranging some concoction of over-priced goods in a skillet and pretending that I know what I'm doing while ridiculous re-runs sound off in the background, making me smile. I like to sip white wine while I cook and despite unfavoring comments, prefer to be barefoot in the kitchen.

On a normal night we would be lying together in a tangle of us and sheets, the smell of our fumbling skin shaking up an intoxicating cocktail as the sound of our breathing drowns out the television just three feet away.

On a normal night I would know what he wants and how he feels; I would know where he is.
On a normal night I would know, with no uncertainty, that he wants me.

I wish tonight was a normal night.

100% real cheesy

2007-11-20T10:52:00.000-05:00

It took awhile to get everyone out the door this morning. My niece Elliana was cranky, my parents were quietly and covertly making jabs at one another, my father and his sister (who is up visiting from Peru) were arguing over the Iraq war; Cecilia, for once, didn't say a word and quietly got ready and escaped this morning for work without setting off fireworks somewhere over something.
Rhiannon eventually left with her two cranky little girls to head over to her mother's house, Cecilia took off for work (on time!) and my parents and my aunt argued their way out the door and to the car, on their way down to Atlantic City to take Tony for a follow-up appointment. I propped open the storm door and helped Tony wheel his way out as he made some ridiculous comment about not being able to wait until he could rock a walker. I leaned over to kiss him on the cheek and whispered "good luck", my parents' arguing voices still accenting the air. He rolled his eyes and headed toward the car.
And here I am now; I actually cooked myself breakfast this morning and am enjoying a cup of coffee (somehow I've become a coffee drinker these past several weeks). I realize now that this is the first time I've been alone in quite a long time. Probably several weeks, or even months. Yesterday there were 13 people in this house; today, I am all alone and it kind of feels nice.
I can stretch, and I can breathe without the tension that is typically floating around this place I love to hate so much.

Tensions have been oh so high lately.
Thirteen people and thirteen thousand opinions... it's been a disaster waiting to happen. We've all been handed a new life and none of us have had any time to adjust to it. Or maybe it's just me that feels this way - I confess that I've not necessarily talked to anyone else about their feelings on this.

Ugh. And now, for whatever reason, I feel like scrapping this entire thing.
But I won't. I won't because I've not written anything in so long and it kind of kills me a little.
My brain continues to write; sometimes I write some pretty damned good things, but they never make it far enough to reach my fingers; to reach the page.
It's sometimes a little frustrating. Sometimes a lot.

But then there is this: there is snow when I least expected it. And I was grateful for it and I'll tell you why. Because every year Christmas sneaks up on me in a furious way and makes me feel like it's a project rather than a celebration. I face yet another deadline and it's here and gone faster than I can (usually) handle.
But this snow - it started falling unexpectedly and at all different crazy paces. It was fast and thick, then small and slow. I sat still for a minute, or two, or twenty. I did nothing for awhile but sit and stare, watching it fall and noting the changes in frequency, density, and speed.
And then I whipsered a small bit of thanks to God.
This is all it took for me to feel prepared for Christmas - for me to feel like it wasn't sneaking up on me out of nowhere.

Pretty groovy, eh?

more miracles

2007-10-16T06:53:00.000-04:00

And this year, Thanksgiving comes a little early.
It's become easier and easier to thank God for things; small things even. First it was that Tony was alive at all, of course, but then it evolved into small gestures such as a wiggle of the toe, or a brief opening of his eyes. From there it was the fact that he was awake, and that he could take small sips of water. His moving from the ICU last week was huge and now, today, he will be transported from Atlanticare Regional Medical Center in Atlantic City to JFK Acute Rehab Center in Edison (for those of you not from the Garden State, Edison is about a half hour from our house - certainly a lot closer than the 2 1/2 to 3 hours that we've been driving down to Atlantic City).

I cannot tell you how excited I am for the move. I'm excited to be able to see Tony far more often and for others to have the ability to go in and see him as well.
This past weekend, for the first time since he's been awake and alert, I was able to steal a few minutes with him alone. I want to be able to hug him, but that's a little difficult. So instead, I just told him to slide over in the bed a little bit so that I could just hop up there with him. We laid there and talked for about 20 minutes and I was glad to have the chance to ask him all the questions that have been brewing in my head the past week; how much does he remember before the accident? What is the first time he remembers waking up? What is scaring him the most right now? How gross is the food (ok, so I already know the answer to this question)?

I told him that we don't even know the exact number of people that have been praying for him, but we know it's quite a lot (upwards of 15,000) and we know that those prayers are coming from all over the world.
I read him some of the numerous (NUMEROUS) cards and postcards that he's received. He didn't care if he knew the people sending them or not, he didn't care if they were short or long - he only cared that people were telling him that they were praying for him. It made all the difference in the world to him.
He stared at the wall, listening for a long time and then interrupted me.
"I should be dead."
"Hmmm?" I knew what he was saying, but I wanted to hear his
"There's no reason I should be alive. I should be dead right now."
I nodded my head and started into the cliche comments that I've been trying to avoid the past few weeks.
"Yeah, but Tony, God knows what he's doing. He had everything perfectly in place that morning...".
He interrupted again (he's not much on manners these days), "No, it was an accident. Accidents happen all the time. God knew it was going to happen and he kept me safe. He kept me alive even though technically, I should be dead."
It was the first time since the accident that I was sure he was beginning to understand full gamut; the severity of his injuries, the variables that were 'just so' that morning, all the things that could have gone wrong - if not for a millimeter here or a shift in direction there, things would be far different today.

And so I have a confession to make: sometimes my faith falters. Every now and again, I have a lapse. There are times when I've felt completely static in my love and desire for God's role in my life. I've questioned every single facet of the belief system that I grew up with. I've questioned whether or not, at the end of the day, when my faith is under fire, if it would completely collapse. And there was a moment (a brief moment) when I wished it was me in that hospital bed. I wished that it was my life that was being shaken to the very brink - I wanted to know that I wouldn't buckle.

Friends, my faith has been under fire. A month ago, I received news that I found devastating. 'I'm not ready to lose a brother' is the thought that cycled through my hyper active brain over and over and over again. It wasn't until last week that I realized how under fire my faith had been, and that I hadn't buckled.

If I wasn't sure what I believed before, I am right now;
Miracles really do happen.
Faith can be strong enough to survive.

I ask that you continue praying for Tony. He's slightly discouraged, but the news of every miracle keeps him from staying that way.

Thank you, thank you, thank you for all of the cards. Keep them coming! You've no idea how that simple act has helped to keep Tony encouraged! Some have asked, and the address that you can send postcards to is:

Tony Navarro
One Haver Place
Whitehouse Station, NJ 08889

additionally, his pictures (which will be updated really soon) can be viewed at: http://www.flickr.com/photos/moebe97 under Tony's album.

I Love you all madly and I'm so grateful for each and every one of you. Seriously. No joke.

the strike(ing) effect

2007-08-22T23:22:00.000-04:00

And anxieties really can be overcome. Would you look at that?

The pavement was slick today, and I must confess that I positively love it because of the satiating, sliding sensation that I get when my flip flops move across wet pavement. It is August, and I am gleefully flip flop skating in the parking lot of the Strike 'n' Spare in Greenbrook, New Jersey. Hoo-ra.

And I'll back up a bit -- it seems that somewhere along the line I intended to jot down a few notes regarding my apparent fear of bowling. And while I realize that people are permitted one or two irrational fears throughout the span of their life, I find the fact that one of mine seems to be bowling to be absolutely insane. Or inane. Or both.

I'm going to go ahead and be honest here: I've never broken a bowling score of 100 in my entire life.
I have unusually large feet for a girl my height and have harbored a secret insecurity over bowling shoes since I found out that I was a size 10 (at the fresh age of 10).
My thumbs never fit correctly into the thumb holes on bowling balls, ending up either too large or too small. This creates one of two possible conundrums: either the hole is too large and my grip is not strong enough to keep me from tossing the ball into the air (always coming back down and hitting the hardwood with a painfully cracking thud) as I attempt to roll it down the lane, or the hole is too small, squeezing the life out of my innocent thumb and forcing my tendency to sort of trip down the first few feet of the lane along with the ball before it finally squeaks free (and again, hits the lane with that same, cracking thud).
These things combined with the fact that each time I step up to bowl, I feel a tremendous pressure to perform and be clever (of course, to make up for the fact that I am so embarrassingly horrible at the sport) are what have cultivated into my severe case of Bowler's Anxiety (BA).

Bowler's Anxiety is apparently a disease that can remain silent and invisible for quite some time before it is discovered. I was completely unaware of my case until early last year when I was invited to go bowling with a group of friends. I'd not been in several years, and as soon as the invitation left his lips, this overwhelming anxiety overcame me. My instant answer was "no thanks".
My friends were confused and I myself was left with little to no explanation because I myself did not understand it.

You see, friends, I've no worries of performing every now and again. You show up at a party, you go to a wedding with a friend, you meet a group of new people... these all call for one or two performances over the course of an evening. But bowling? Man.
You're called to the platform at least 10 times within a 45 minute period. And that's only if your group has wussed out at just one game! The pressure is far too great for a night of supposed fun. Additionally, NJ bowling alleys (with their creepy staff and day-glo color schemes) used to at least keep two saving graces within their God-forsaken walls: alcohol and cigarette consumption. Copious amounts of alcohol and cigarettes could definitely heal the fresh wounds of bowling, but now one of those delights has been taken away (round of applause for the NJ State Legislature, please) and who knows when the second one will be snatched from our hands (and sore little thumbs).

And please, spare me the numerous comments on how bowling is supposed to be "fun", and "goofy", and "a great idea for a birthday party". I've heard it all. I won't be shaken. I have a condition for pete's sake. I can't be shaken.

However, I digress.
I digress because I'm here today to tell you that I've finally taken my first therapeutic steps to recovery. Of course, it will be a long process, but I feel that quite a lot of progress was made today.

And dammit, I still only bowled an 80.

hoopla

2007-05-08T01:46:00.000-04:00

There are two ways that you can delete friends on MySpace.

1. By clicking on the "Delete Friend" button on the edit page of your My Friends section.

2. By clicking on the "Delete Friend" button at the bottom of one of the survey bulletins that friend has posted.

Tom knows. Tom knows that there have been times I have seen bulletins and have been tempted to delete a friend. He has probably felt this way too.

I just noticed this option this evening and it made me laugh.

God bless Tom.
And God bless MySpace.

the flesh eaters

2007-05-04T10:31:00.000-04:00

This is ridiculous, but it makes me happy. My professor requested that we submit our papers in letter format (as opposed to a more traditional format). As it turns out, I managed to pull a 90 on the paper (regardless of the fact that I mentioned David Hasselhoff more than I mentioned the actual piece of artwork).

***

Dear Abby,
I am a 27 year-old woman and I’ve always had trouble sleeping. But it seems lately that I’ve had a particularly bad time. I wake-up consistently every two to three hours and always having had the same dream.

I keep seeing this image in my dreams that I can’t seem to get out of my head. The image is obscure and colorful, but doesn’t seem to hold any relevance to my every-day life. The forms in this image are relatively indiscernible and it drives me crazy every day trying to figure out why I continue to have this dream and how it relates to my life.

So I guess my question to you is have you ever helped anyone make sense of an absurd dream, or on how to get rid of a recurring one? I hate the constant waking up and I’d like to start getting some sleep for a change!
-Dreaming in Dakota

Dear Dreaming,
It sounds like you’re having quite the predicament! I know that I myself went through a period of sleepless nights, continuously waking up to disturbing thoughts of David Hasselhoff, American Idol reruns, and Twinkies. Many times when we dream, we forget what we’ve dreamt about and go about our daily routines. With recurring dreams, however, the message may be so significant and powerful that it just refuses to go away.
You’ve given me little to no information about your background or on even the image itself. I’m curious to hear more – I’d like to help you figure this one, but I will most certainly need more information.
-Abby

Dear Abby,
This image… well, it’s kind of difficult to describe. As I mentioned in my first letter: the figures are pretty difficult to discern. It reminds me a little of a painting; probably modern. There are a lot of colors, and a lot of interesting lines. Green squiggly lines run parallel to one another on one side (it’s difficult to say which side they are actually on because the image turns and flips quite a lot). A violet zig-zag dances along the green squiggles, touching on every zig and separating on every zag. A light blue shape that I cannot quite identify sits right in the midst of the green squiggles – it sort of looks like a person sitting with their feet straight out in front of them. I’ve thought in the past that it is the silhouette of someone that I know (my nephew perhaps?) The only detail of this blue blob is a black, very linear, spider-looking thing with 11 spindly arms that reach out from the center – each arm has a little ball at the end. This spider-looking thing is right where the face of this supposed person would be and it always has me racking my brain to think if I know anyone who looks like a spider. While it sounds like this little spider would be horrific, it actually looks more pleasant than it sounds. I always think of it as being a fun little spider (is that weird?) The opposite side of the image looks like a lovely salmon sky with a green lined blue cloud that fades down into a very dark earth-like area. In front of this darkness is another seemingly silhouetted image that kind of reminds me of myself on a very bad hair day. It looks like a grayish shoulders, neck, and head that moves up into a crazy haircut from the early ‘90s. The hair-like spikes reach up into the darkness and toward the pink sky like sinister fingers. The space created between those fingers and the background is actually quite lovely (despite its being sinister). If this is a person (as I suspect it might be), their back is turned to the other person (blue blob) that I mentioned. Is this perhaps meant to suggest that I’m turning my back on someone I care about?! Or maybe I ought to be turning my back on someone who is really a spider?
Oh, and to further answer your question, I am an art student. And I really enjoy the opera and Thai food. I hope that this information helps!

I’m looking forward to your thoughtful reply!
-Dreaming in Dakota

Dear Dreaming,
Wow. I must say that is quite a lot of detail that you have given me. Your dream must have occurred many, many times for you have recalled a great deal of detail in your description of this recurring image! I can honestly say that I almost find it unbelievable and really have to ask if you are yanking my chain here. It is not uncommon for me to receive letters that pose an entirely ridiculous and entirely fake inquiry, and while this does not seem altogether ridiculous, it does seem pretty unbelievable (surely you understand).
I really hope that it is a true concern that you have written about, because otherwise I would feel just a mite embarrassed for mentioning the whole little David Hasselhoff bit.
Pray tell me.
-Abby

Dear Abby,
I hope that your letter was a joke. I was expecting a reply, not an accusation. Perhaps I ought to bid you good riddance?
-Dreaming (and disgruntled) in Dakota

Dear Dreaming,
I am so incredibly sorry! I did not mean to accuse, merely to clear the air. You do understand, do you not? I submit my sincerest apologies and I hope that you will reconsider that bit about good riddance.

Meanwhile, I will go ahead and advise you to consider the relationships in your life. Are there people that you are close with that you’ve recently had a fight with? Are there people that you work with that have treated you poorly or who have had a venomous influence in your life? It is a possibility that those figures you see are silhouettes and that they represent people that you interact with on a day-to-day basis. It is also possibly that the figures themselves mean nothing at all and that the colors are more significant here. Of course, the colors that you have mentioned present a fairly broad range (green, violet, blue, grey, pink, black) and all of them hold very different meanings. I would suggest making a list of these colors and writing their significant meanings to you personally. What emotions do these particular colors invoke in you? Do pink or green bring up special memories or mean something specific to you? Look at samples of these same colors and keep notes on your responses to them. Do they invoke anger? Peace? Anxiety? I will help you, but you have to be a partner in solving this mystery!

Please keep me informed on how this develops, and once again I offer my sincerest of apologies.
-Abby

Dear Dreaming,
I have not heard from you in quite some time. I hope that everything is going all right. Are you still having the dreams? Are you still upset with me? Did you take my suggestions to heart? I have been thinking about it a bit more and have taken my own advice in regards to the little recurring instances I myself was having. It is amazing what one can learn form their dreams! This is the sort of instance that makes my job so worthwhile. After three or four more occurrences, I decided to act on the Hasselhoff thing and send him a letter. I still have yet to receive a response, but that is not the important thing. The important thing is that I have taken action on something that is important to me, regardless of how vulnerable it makes me. And let me tell you: I am not one to make myself vulnerable. I would like to think that I am always strong and stable, but like every human being I have weaknesses. There are times when I cry and when I feel incapable of doing the simplest of things. There are times when I feel lonely. I know that I would always prefer for people to see me as flawless and as having all of my stuff together, but I am learning that is perfectly all right to wear my heart on my sleeve every now and again. I hope that you are having the same revelations!
-Abby

Dear Abby,
I’m sorry for not getting back to you sooner. Wow! That’s pretty amazing about Hasselhoff! Has he written back yet?
Well, I feel really silly about this entire dream thing and I’ve been putting off responding because I was just a little embarrassed. I visited the Metropolitan Museum of Art a few months ago to do research for a paper I was writing for school and while I was there (wouldn’t you know) I stumbled across the very same image that kept popping up in my dreams! My first response, of course, was complete disbelief and amazement. I felt like I was having a little episode of déjà vu until it occurred to me that yes, I had actually been here before, in this same place looking at this very same painting. I had been there two years earlier for yet another school project when I originally saw this painting by William Baziotes, an American painter. It’s called The Flesh Eaters, and I remember my initial thoughts as being that while I thought the color palette was fantastic and that the images were a great use of space that it was just a little unnerving. I decided then not to do my project on that painting and apparently it was trying for months and months to not let me forget it. In essence, the painting came back to haunt me. It still pops up in my dreams from time to time but at least now I know that all my loved ones do not go thoughtlessly ignored by me. I do have a woman that I work with that I can’t stand, but I would hardly call her venomous as you’d suggested. So naturally, I feel pretty stupid right about now. Sorry for my nasty response earlier. I especially feel bad about it now that this has all turned out to be nothing! Silly me.

I went ahead and enclosed a copy of the painting with this letter. I thought I might as well share it with you since you’ve had your time invested in this little investigation of sorts!
I hope that everything works out with Hasselhoff! Let me know if anything interesting develops.
-Dreaming

PS: My real name is Mónica, and I’m actually from New Jersey and not Dakota. Dakota just sounded better after the word Dreaming.

PSS: Did you ever further investigate the American Idol or Twinkie dreams? Just curious.

sacridiculous

2007-04-27T15:36:00.000-04:00

I'm going to keep this short and sweet (something I'm not frequently prone to do, me being a person of a rather verbose nature).

For those of you who do not know me all that well: be aware that I often injure myself in mysterious ways and I am often taken to strange ailments. If there is a rare and undiscernable illness out there, I will probably at some point be stricken with it; often with more than one at the same time.
This having been said, I will also preface the announcement of this most recent injury with a disclaimer that is meant to assure you that said injury was not inflicted during any sort of questionable or suggestive activity. I was actually (and most truthfully) injured while really doing nothing at all. I was sitting. In a computer chair. scanning photos. There's really nothing else to be said of my injury (get your minds out of the gutter, I beg).

So, without further ado (and with only slight embarrassment) I announce to you all that (somehow) I've managed to moderately strain the ligaments of my sacroiliac joint.

Don't know what that is, do you?

Basically, I've sprained my butt. I didn't know that it was possible, but by golly I've done it.

And don't waste your time; I've already heard all the jokes.
Har har - yes, I'm a real 'sprain in the ass'.

respectacle

2007-04-25T09:21:00.000-04:00

Her fear was evident.
It was evident in her touch and in her look. It was evident in the constant shiver that seemed to surround her and affect anyone that stepped within 3 feet of her. She never appears scared, but she was definitely scared now.
She had been praying off and on for hours and I joined in with her now as we held hands, my head resting near hers so that she could feel the movement of my lips on her cheek as I repeated that prayer with her over and over.

I wasn't nervous for her health or for the success of the surgery. I wasn't nervous about the doctor's capabilities. None of these things concerned me. I didn't pray for the sake of these things, but I did pray for my mom - I prayed so that she knew I was joining with her in prayer -- so that she would feel prayed for.

My mom has been waiting for this surgery for quite some time. Her hips began giving her problems so long ago that I can't even recall when it began really. First some moderate pain. Then came the slight limp. Sometime after that was when she could no longer put on her shoes by herself or shave her legs on her own. I don't remember exactly when it was that she began walking with a cain or when the doctor told her that the cartilage was completely gone in her hip and that she was functioning bone on bone, or even when that bone itself began to crumble completely. I don't remember the exact time frame of these events, but I know that it's been a very long time since my mother has had the functional use of her legs.

So here we are in the pre-op patient room, and being wheeled into the OR, and waking up from anesthesia, and being catherized. Here we are feeling dizzy with nausea from the pain medication, and trying in vain to keep some food down.

Here we are, mom.

And here we'll be tomorrow and the next and the next when you go to physical therapy and when you put this surgery to the real test - it's where the metal meets the road (so to speak).

And I am grateful.
I'm grateful because despite all the pain and the misery, she's been waiting for this for so long.

Folks... mama's got a brand new hip.

high molesterol

2007-04-16T23:27:00.000-04:00

I'm really good at forming lousy habits. I'd say I'm a bit of a pro in fact. One of these lousy habits happens to be getting myself into lousy situations by performing outrageously absurd (and lousy) little stunts.

I recently learned that I demonstrate passive aggressive behavior. When I become upset (or sometimes even enraged), I say nothing at all, never demonstrating outwardly the rage that I'm feeling and the source of my rage, as a result, is never any the wiser. You see, instead of saying anything, I perform small acts of absurdity that make me feel inwardly satisfied and (somehow) that the situation has been rectified.

I once had a roommate that was frequently the source of these sorts of sentiments. * I realize that pretty much everyone has had a roommate that enrages them from time to time, but you have to understand that I (miss butt) almost never get angry. It takes quite a lot. It takes something like consistently not cleaning up any of the messes that you make in the kitchen, scarcely ever turning off your air conditioner and then not ever once reimbursing me for your portion of the electric bill, moving your boyfriend into the apartment without even mentioning it to me first, asking me to dish out upwards of $100 for the communal goodies you purchased for the apartment and then taking them all with you when you moved, inviting hordes of people over for dinner parties without making me aware that there would be a dinner party (furthermore not inviting me to join in and then leaving your dishes for me to wash)… it takes all of this, and then yelling at me for spilling oatmeal on the stove and forgetting to reimburse you for some gas money (no, I'm not still bitter… really).

Regardless, I had a roommate that did all of this (and more). I never made it evident to her that I was inwardly furious. I never once said a thing when she left her dishes; I simply scrubbed in disgruntled silence, pretending that I was being a cheerful giver. Not ever did I mention her two weeks' worth of mail stacked on the table, or her insistence that I split with her the (absurdly $80/month) cable bill even though I never watched t.v. (not that I could actually – she had a pretty strong grip on that remote; the strongest I've seen to date, I believe). I refrained from ever mustering anything but a lovely smile because to me it wasn't worth a fight. It wasn't worth making my living situation any less tolerable than it already was.

So instead, I ate her cereal in the mornings, folding the bag back up nice and neat and leaving it just the way she had left it.
I took her car twice during the day while she was at work to go shopping in Arlington without asking her first (I was still too nice to not put gas in it when I was finished).
I used her shave gel in the shower; I used her laundry detergent despite the fact that I had a perfectly good (and full) bottle of it that I even preferred over hers. I think I took a book of hers once too. I lent the book to Alejandra who then lent it to someone else, who lent it to yet another person. We had this discussion over this past New Years actually, at which point I had completely forgotten about the book only to learn that it had traveled across 4 states, two countries, and at least one gender. I don't think said roommate even realizes that it's missing. That's ok… she has at least 2 of my CDs and a book that she never returned.

I always knew that my reactions were irrational. I knew they were, but I didn't want to stop them because they were small, internal victories for me. She was the self-proclaimed smarter, more capable, and less ridiculous roommate. She never shied away from sharing this opinion with me (often in the company of several other peers). So to me, she wasn't even worth outwardly standing up to. It felt better to "beat" her in ways that she would never know about.

Now, believe me, I realize that I wasn't beating her every time I poured myself a bowl of her Peanut Butter Puffins; but I at least felt like I was beating someone at something which in turn didn't make me feel like I had to beat her so much.

The breaking point – the day of absolute insanity – came when I agreed to help Alejandra move out of her apartment and into a new one (into the apartment building of the late and famed intern, Chandra Levy). Roommate had generously agreed to allow me the use of her car for the occasion on the condition that I had it back by 5:30 so that she could go grocery shopping with a friend.

Alejandra and I got an early start. Well, let me rephrase that: I got an early start. As I recall, when I arrived at her apartment, Alejandra was still frantically stuffing clothing from her closet (still on the hanger) into oversized plastic trash bags.
It took us nearly an hour to load up the first load and about 15 minutes to drive the 18 or so blocks to her new place. Add another hour to unload and drive back for the next trip. I don't remember how many loads we did, but this process took us all day. The unfortunate part is that Alejandra had to be moved out by the end of that day and I was the only person she knew with access to a car. So here I was completely stuck at around 5:00 or so in the afternoon as we were still loading up the last of her belongings. I knew it would take time to finish up, unload, and drive all the way back across town to get the car back.
I called the roommate at 5:30 to let her know that I was almost on my way back, but was going to be a bit late. She wasn't thrilled, but she didn't say anything. Honestly… she was going grocery shopping. No big deal, right?

Friends, I did my absolute best, but the car didn't get back to her until 6PM. And apparently this was too late to go grocery shopping because all of her plans were already ruined. Additionally, in my anxiety and haste in getting the car back, I forgot to fill up the tank.

Two days later I woke up to a rant over some oatmeal that I had splashed on the burner the night before. She told me she was trying not to be a bitch. She told me that she didn't want to seem unreasonable, but the oatmeal was grossing her out and there's no excuse for why I hadn't cleaned it up. She then handed me a sponge and said in mock sweetness,
"And also, I don't mean to be rude or anything… and I'm really trying not to be annoyed (long sigh), but it's usually customary to put gas in someone's tank when you've used their car…"

I smacked my forehead, apologized profusely, and then handed her a $20 bill for the $5-$10 of gas that I'd used.

And then I raided her closet when she left for work.

I don't know what came over me, but something had to be done. I made a grab for the new suit that she'd just had tailored to fit. It was still wrapped in the plastic bag – I made sure not to destroy the integrity of the wrapping.

Slipping into that suit was like slipping into a suit of armor. This is the real definition of a power suit. I zipped the zipper and felt awesome. I buttoned the buttons and felt even awesomer (oh shoosh. I don't care if it's not a word). I didn't care that I was a size 8 and she was a size 14. I didn't care that I might splatter some peppercorn ranch dressing on the lapel during lunch. I didn't even care that our third roommate (and my co-worker) might notice.

OK – so maybe I cared about that last portion just a little bit. Or, at least I did when co-worker saw me in the suit and her face lit up like a grand opening at Bloomingdale's.
"MOE! Where did you get that suit?! That looks amazing on you (apparently I can pull off a few sizes too large?)!"

This made me… well, a bit nervous. I stepped carefully the rest of the day and regretted ever breaking into roommate's closet. What if she came home early from work and saw me wearing it? What if co-worker recognized the suit the next time she wore it? What if I really did splatter peppercorn ranch on the lapel?

The regret bumper-carred it's way through my brain the rest of the day and by 6PM, I was a wreck. The office wanted to go out for drinks, but all I wanted to do was run home and (carefully) change out of this damned suit. Ugh! My stupid stunts! My ridiculous passive aggressive behavior!

Somehow, I managed not to get caught. Well, not by the offending roommate anyway. Third roommate/co-worker became one of my allies over the months that we spent living with the offender. We were both aware of her begrudging behavior and as a result were both in a similar boat. Many weeks later, roommate wore that very same suit to work and then met us all for drinks afterward. Co-worker looked once, and then twice, and then glanced my way with a smile. She never said anything, but I knew that she knew. And I knew that I wouldn't have to explain my outrageous behavior to her. So we left it at that: a quick glance, and a knowing smile.

Friends, I still do stupid things on a daily basis.
Luckily, I don't have roommates anymore.

* I realize that after this entire story you might think that I was rooming with a complete and utter disaster. The fact is that she was really ready to have her own place with her boyfriend and didn't have much use for roomates. The other truth tis that she had a hard time cleaning up after herself... wait, I already highlighted that. Regardless, we get along much better now that we're not rooming together. It also helps that I only see her once ever two years or so.

Currently listening :
Neon Bible
By Arcade Fire
Release da

the lovely gnomes

2007-03-05T18:58:00.000-05:00

Dusk in Lima flickers and glows the way that you imagine dusk would;
it flickers and glows the way that you imagine it should.
It's the kind of dusk that you read about in mystery novels or harlequin romances. You see them quite a lot on television.

Dusk in New Jersey mostly abbreviates rush-hour traffic and (if it's summer time) catching a whiff of six separate barbecued suppers in the span of a single block. It has its own nice little quality, but it's not the same as having this feeling like here in Lima. It's not like walking through a huge, rainbow glow necklace; like the kind that we used to get at the Frenchtown roller rink for $1.

Tony, Cecilia, and I landed last night in Lima somewhere around 12:20 AM and in a haze of prescription pain killers, muscle relaxers, and airplane peanuts. The doors on the aircraft had not yet even opened when I could already smell the warm, damp air that I associate so strongly with Peru. It smells salty and sweet - this surprisingly pleasant mixture, like kettle corn.
My cousin Roxanna came to greet us as we exited the baggage claim with a hug and a cigarette and looking exhausted. Of all my cousins here (there are 16 of us grandchildren in total), I've always been closest with her despite my being 6 or 7 years her senior. I look out for her and she looks up to me even though the scenario could easily and justifiably be in the reverse. She hugs me long and hard and holds my hand all the way out to the car, saying nothing and everything all at once. I immediately know that she's tired and weary of her job although she feels that she's very successful with it and wants to advance in this career. I know that she has missed me and that she wishes she will get to see more of us over the course of the next two weeks. I know that she wishes she'd never started smoking.

We continue in the usual routine back to Mira Flores, a cleaner and more pleasant district of Lima where my grandparents live and where my father grew up. I am reminded several times to keep my bag on the floor by my feet and to make sure that we only keep the windows cracked slightly until we exit this part of town.
It always feels like we never left - or that we were just here last month. Last week, even.

Sitting on the rooftop and hour later, cigarette smoke coiling from (almost) everyone's lips, we're all quiet. I haven't had a first night in Lima like this in a long time. I'd become accustomed to arriving to a house full of people and persuasive cousins who would literally change me out of my travel clothes and into appropriate going-out clothing in a record 5 minutes before wisking me away to a bar or a place to dance in a more active district of Lima. I'd roll in the door somewhere around 5 or 6 in the morning and feeling more tired than I ever had in my life, but very glad that they persuaded me to go.

But tonight is different, and serene. It's a Sunday and everything is shut down, including us. There will be tomorrow night, and the night after, I'm sure.

It feels good to be here.

Currently reading :
The Lovely Bones
By Alice Sebold
Release date: By 20 April, 2004

re: buttle

2007-02-21T17:19:00.000-05:00

Yes. Twice in one day.
Two for the price of one.
Who'd've thunk?!
(I don't even really know if that's proper, but I'm sticking with it).

I realize that the last post was a little crappy. It was written hastily and I am fully aware of my over-usage of the semi-colon (that little slice of punctuation heaven that I love and herald so much). This having been said, however, I find it newsworthy that I have received an amusing rebuttle so quickly.
I mentioned that Alejandra might comment.

She has.

Visit her fantastically witty compartment of the world at Sent from my Dell Desktop.

And for those of you who don't make a habit of reading regularly, you ought to.

Currently listening :
Wincing the Night Away
By The Shins
Releas

a certain game that i have

2007-02-21T11:58:00.000-05:00

Monday January 20, 1990

Today we had school when just about everyone was out of school!

School was really confusing! Math is as confusing as someone telling you that theres a corner in a circular room!
I hate math! but I love, spelling, English, & art!

Cecilia is cleaning up her mess right now.

Today we went to grandmas so Aunt Kay could go to Uncle Eddie’s funeral. Tomorrow we got to go to Uncle Eddie’s burrial.

Kitty bit me twice!

Laura & Cherie are moving to Flemington I think. Sometime next month. I’m gonna miss them! I wont get to see them as much during the summer.

My Uncle Fred is thinking about moving into their house! He’s really crazy!

I pray that I can see them pretty often in the summer!

Well Gotta go!

Love,
Monica

Memory Verse – 2 Kings 13:3

Breakfast – Oatmeal

Lunch – Chicken Cardon Bleu

Dinner - Soup

*****************************************

Scattering dust bunnies from the corners of my closet, I came across this old journal of mine from when I was 10 and 11 years old.

For reasons unknown, I found it necessary to record everything that I ate on a daily basis.

This is… well, it’s embarrassing but very funny and almost sweet (dare I say?). I think it’s become pretty easy to forget that I've grown up. There are no boundaries drawn between age 10 and age 27 until I come across an old journal, photos from summer camp, a letter from a pen pal that I haven’t heard from in ages; there is no line in the sand from when I made the decision to grow up. I did not get a date stamped receipt for my purchase of adulthood. In fact, the debate is still out on whether I’ve actually become an adult yet.

My first response to these journal entries is to laugh and to think how different I am now. And that’s partially true; I’m not as simple minded, I suppose; and I’d like to think that my writing has improved a bit. I had little to worry about when I was 10. I was a book worm who constantly chose function over fashion. I was too practical for my own good and my friends thought I was strange because of it. In fact, I had friends only because I was active with my church – they were people I had known nearly my entire life. They accepted me as-is because… well, because we were church kids and that’s just what we did. I think most people would have considered me a little naïve and quite the tomboy. I played matchbox cars with my brothers and preferred dirt bikes, climbing trees, and building forts out of scrap materials to my sister’s Barbie house and fashion plate transfers. Not only was I nerdy and bookish, but I desperately strove to be such. *

So really, what’s changed between then and now?

Life; I suppose that would be an acceptable answer. Bills, debt, heartache, death, loss, broken dreams, broken promises, broken glass **, mistakes (tons and tons of mistakes)…

And I focus only for a moment on how different I was until I realize that almost nothing has changed; almost nothing at all.

I still (at least mentally) compartmentalize my day into digestible fragments.
I still hate math (some of you know this first hand), and find it completely frustrating and confusing.
I still love art and enjoy English a great deal.
I still keep obsessive tabs on what enters my mouth in a given 24-hour period.
I still hate cats.
My Uncle Fred is still crazy, and Cecilia is still cleaning up her mess.

I take a pill every morning to make me happy and I take one every night to keep me that way. I enjoy drug induced sleep because it’s the only good sleep I get. I don’t listen to music to dance anymore – I listen in hopes that someone else’s words will help me make sense of things. I strive to memorize scripture still, although I often find myself quoting what I memorized when I was 9 years-old instead of trying to memorize something new.

“Blessed is the man who walketh not in the council of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful. But his delight is in the law of the Lord, and in that law doth he meditate both day and night…” ***

The words cycle through my mind in a continuous round, peddling slower and slower until I finally drift off to sleep

When I was 10 I was too stupid to feel helpless, or lonely, or trapped.
So yeah, I guess life is what happens in between then and now.
And I might still be a little too stupid to feel lonely.
The difference is that now I know the difference.

* I had a specific outfit that I wore whenever we were going to the library. It involved a red, plaid, pleated skirt; penny loafers, a blazer, and a pair of my sister's old glasses that she used to read with. I didn't require corrective lenses at the time, but I desperately wanted them. They completed "the look" (I'm almost certain Alejandra will have a comment about this).

** In February of 2000, during my family's annual visit to Peru, an overhead window fell from its framing and broke over the back of my neck, leaving a nasty scar. I have some picture lying around here somewhere that I might share with you all at some point...

*** Psalm 1:1

Currently reading :
The Fasting Girl
By Michelle Stacey
Release date: By 25 September, 2003

exploring harmony

2007-02-16T11:41:00.000-05:00

I've decided to make the move to skinny jeans.

Well, let's not call it the move, let's just call it a move. *

I've not ever had any opposition to the skinny jean. The God's honest truth is that there have been just a few things holding me back. The fact that (number one) they are called skinny jeans - it's sort of similar to my original apprehension toward Gap's long and lean line of jeans. I am neither long, nor lean and so I saw no reason to give them a try. Wouldn't you know that the jeans are just supposed to make you feel long and lean. Egads.

Beyond their name, however, most skinny jeans I have found are so laden with spandex that I can't stand to wear them. I like my denim with a little give, but I'm no fan of super stretch jeans. The third problem has been length. I mentioned earlier that I am not long... or lean for that matter, but let's focus on the length portion. My legs are short. Really short. 28" inseam short. Flare and bootcut jeans allowed me to get away with a slightly longer pant leg because the cuff went over my shoes anyway. Skinny jeans afford me no slack on the inseam whatsoever and finding a pair with a 28" inseam has proven difficult.

Please believe me when I say that I am fully aware of how dull a subject this actually is.

I have a little secret to share. I sort of consider myself to be somewhat of a denim expert. This consideration is not completely unwarranted; I served a short sentence at the GAP in the Menlo Park Mall a few years ago. It was... interesting (I give Kelita a lot of credit here). Regardless, one of the first things I did when I started working there (over my 15 minute break) was try on every single cut of jeans available in every length, spanning 3 different sizes. It was a sizable task, but I persevered. I learned a lot about denim and a perhaps even more about the self-misconceptions of middle-class, mainstream American women. I learned that the low-rise curvy flares don't necessarily look good on curvy women. I learned that the low-rise long and lean don't necessarily look horrible on short and non-lean women. I also learned that I (mysteriously – considering my misgivings on dealing with people in general) love the challenge of helping people find the perfect pair of jeans.**

So, dear friends, in my personal quest for the perfect pair of jeans, I have been intrigued by the skinny denim comeback. Initially, the idea was perfect. Oh so Audrey Hepburn (and those closest to me know that I have a little bit of a "thing" for her) a la Funny Face, in her little skinny pencil trousers. I used to prance*** around in a similar pair of black trousers wearing black flats and mock turtle neck sweaters while at what was probably the peak of my nerdiness. And while obviously I look nothing like the famed actress (and at one time sweetheart of American film), I felt like her.

I was looking forward to once again living out this fantasy when I noted the return of skinny jeans, skinny pants, and skinny (period).

So you can clearly imagine my disappointment when I had a hard time finding a decent pair. I had hoped that you didn't actually have to be skinny to fit into skinny jeans. I had also hoped that once I found myself finally in a pair of skinny jeans that I wouldn't have to be doing a lot of standing around like this. But apparently that's what it takes to sport the skinny.

So here I sit, in 2-Dimensional design class (still not really doing anything – although I think we begin doing something as soon as next week), wearing the new skinny jeans that I found at Old Navy on the clearance rack (which might mean that by next month, no one will be wearing them anymore). I'm still in the experimental stage and I'm not quite sure how I feel about them. I'm even less sure of how they feel about me.

The bottom line is: I miss my old black pencil trousers.

* This move was most inspired by Alina's and Amanda's recent encouragement and brave move to the skinny jean themselves.

** My nerd-dom has never been disputed. I've always openly embraced it and even wrote a blog about it once or twice.

*** The word prance being used quite liberally in this context.

To get more skinny on skinny action, click here.

Currently watching : Funny Face

go wild

2007-02-05T14:00:00.000-05:00

I think I'll start writing again.

Whether this decision has been inspired by my new subscriber (who mysteriously subscribed despite my rather long absence), or by my trusty effexor, I'll never know. Regardless, I feel as though it's time. I've had a long enough vacation and I'm (pretty much) ready to be back.

That having been said, I'm in class right now and this keyboard is really noisy. We're creating a color wheel in Photoshop. My professor does not really know how to use Photoshop and I finished the project about 20 minutes ago.

I think she hears me typing. She keeps looking in my direction. I'll be back. I promise. For real.

Read on...

and in the meantime, read this. Or this.

Currently reading : Color (5th Edition) By Paul J. Zelanski Release date: By 01 February, 2006

musicians duet better

2006-11-13T23:52:00.000-05:00

I haven't spent a whole lot of time thinking about it, but if I had thought about it, I wouldn't think that they still rang the church bells in my town regularly. I've not heard them ring in quite some time and although it always seems... great (or maybe even monumental) whenever I used to hear them, it's amazing how not hearing them seemed to completely escape my notice.

They were always appreciated, but somehow never missed.

Weary I was (and have been all week) as I shuffleed from my car to the house.
"Hi doogies" I mumbled to the too many dogs running around, through, and about my home -- is it a terrible thing that every time I pull into my driveway, I consider hitting one of them with my car? Not enough to really hurt them, but just to let them know that I can.

Gus jumped at my hand, biting slightly. I was just about to smack him away when I heard them and stopped, completely frozen.
At first it sounded like music coming from the inside of my car, but the longer that I stood there silent, the more clear the bells became and it didn't take long to make out the melody to "Jesus Loves Me".

The goosebumps were instantaneous, unexpected, and (I'm not sure yet) a little unwelcomed. That sort of struck me.

The song is so simple. It's a children's song, really (for those who are not familiar already).
The bells themselves bring a certain level of comfort, but the song was fitting as well.

I thought about a comment that my Art History professor had made during class the other week while discussing religious structures of the ancient world and the tradition that has carried on to build these structures high up or at least so that they reach up high (like a steeple).
She mentioned the temples and churches being a symbol of peace, tranquility, and a source of comfort for many people. This is still true today, of course, as evidenced by the fact that I felt comforted hearing the bells.
And yes, that is the feeling it was: comfort. Safety. Reassurance that there is this (oh dear - dare I say?) cosmic force "somewhere out there".
There is a God, and a creator, and a redeemer. There is a right and a wrong, and yes, Jesus does love me.

Faith is a crutch, isn't it? It's so damn easy to view this sentiment as weak, and unintelligent, and hell (!), slightly demented. Perhaps a little simple or naive. It's easy to think those things and I understand when people do. The fact of the matter is that faith is not really all that logical. Really, it's kind of the anti-logic.

But see, that's the point though, isn't it?
God's love vs. man's brain

Friends, I can battle logic; I enjoy doing just that in many other areas of my life. I can do that, and I'm O.K. with it.
I'm O.K. with Jesus being my crutch. And I suspect that Jesus might be pretty O.K. with it too (just wanted to use "O.K." one more time).

It's probably true that even people who don't consider themselves religious would find comfort and security in the idea of sanctuary.
It's probably true that many people, while they don't really feel like they "connect" with God, believe that God is there and perhaps even want to believe that they could connect with him if they wanted to.
I can see why a person would find a church - the representation of God's presence in the community - to be a comforting sight.

And I was comforted a little myself as I stood outside of my house, in the relative cold, to hear the rest of the bells.
My breath was slow and even as I watched it escape from my nostrils and disappear into the chilly night air.

This faith stuff... well, it seems silly sometimes. Really. I know.
But it's the only thing that's just totally beyond this world. Out of sight. Completely beyond any tangible experience here on this earth.
So simple that it's almost too difficult to understand.

And... well, that's the point.

Currently reading :
Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs: A Low Culture Manifesto
By Chuck Klosterman
Release date: By 22 June, 2004

here comes little nocturnal me

2006-09-24T02:37:00.000-04:00

So today I drifted through an ice-capped fire of burning wood (read: Jersey City). There I was, back on my old playground. The air at 2^nd and Monmouth smelled the same as it always had: like tar, dirty water, and minestrone soup.

Today I found myself living la vida mocha back in the good ol' JCNJ, putting (what I hope to be) the final touches on this campaign audit that I'm working on.

It felt kind of nice, sort of reminiscent to be back in the Jersey City office. Things have changed a little bit (there's new carpet… thank heavens), but for the most part, everything is the same. I was there all alone, so I cranked up the music and got to work. It reminded me of (one of) the time(s) that Amanda and I, frustrated and frazzled beyond words, turned up the tunes and danced like madmen in front of the huge picture window facing Newark Avenue at 11 o'clock at night, giving a big "F-you" to the empowerment of anyone but ourselves.

It also brought to mind a certain evening when we were moving furniture and bringing about some much needed re-arrangement to the office. Somewhere around 2:30 in the morning we wrapped things up and I disappeared to meet a new friend, drink some wine, eat some (much promised) ice-cream, and make myself totally late for an early morning diner meeting in Westfield. I made it to my meeting, and grinned silently and secretly to myself the entire time.

I kind of miss Jersey City. I don't miss the commute, and I don't miss the parking situation; but I do miss the cozy little office, the pet shop boys next door, and the baker dorks across the street. I miss the $1 treats at the little Korean bodega across Newark Avenue(Steven's Market).

I had defied and dreaded going to Jersey City all afternoon, but I knew it would be good for me to get away from the house and to get some work done on my own, less the crying babies, barking dogs, and obnoxious roommates (read: family).

I rolled home somewhere around 8:30 in the evening and felt pretty damn relaxed. I poured myself one, then two glasses of wine, and in my wine-induced state, wandered right over to MTVland, where I (unsurprisingly, in the tradition of Undressed, Singled Out, and the like) saw one of the most horrifying things ever.

Kallissa Miller. You might be familiar with some of her work. She has brought us some of television's greatest! Among them? Dismissed.

You might recall.

She has also brought us a new program entitled "Date my Mom".

Oh, the pain. It was so bad that I couldn't stop watching for a few moments.

Mothers.

These were MOTHERS completely pimping out their daughters.

It works like this, see: some bonehead guy is chosen and he has to take three moms out on a date. The purpose of the date is to give the mom a chance to convince the guy to date their daughter. This is usually done by inflating the daughter's looks, breast size, body type, sexual habits, talents, etc. Of course, the moms think the world of their daughters. And I really do believe that Donna sincerely thought her daughter Sabrina looked exactly like Jessica Simpson, but I feel like everyone involved in this project just…

You know what? I don't know.

I don't even know if I want to talk about it anymore. It was that damaging.

All this, and what I really came here to say tonight is that I have this little pair of shoes that I'm not quite sure what to do with (read: what do I wear them with and how do I prevent developing horrible blisters while walking around in shoes made of synthetic materials?!).

Disclaimer: more links will be added later when my server is back up and ru-u-u-unning.

Currently listening :
Ocean Rain
By Echo & the Bunnymen
Release date: By 27 January, 2004

dirty skirty

2006-09-23T00:16:00.000-04:00

I stare blankly at my fingertips, hand resting in my lap. "Whose Line is it Anyway?" continues to play in the background, but I had stopped paying attention sometime… well, I don't think I was ever paying attention to begin with.

Three of the five fingers on my right hand have turned bright orange – an effect that cheese doodles tend to have on me. Everyone is here, all around me but I don't really want to be. I've been busy the past week or two, but I'm not busy tonight and I really wish that I was.

I've been avoiding the confession but, I'm completely lonely. Surrounded by people, and I'm lonely.

And it takes a lot for me to feel lonely.

I've been avoiding writing these sorts of public confessions for fear of appearing weak or for fear of appearing like things are not getting better. But then I realized that in return, I've been writing nothing at all.

Hmmmm…

So, you want honesty? Then here it is: I'm not better yet; no, not 100 percent.

I'm still lonely, and I still get sad. And while I do get out of bed every morning and behave productively and responsibly, I now have nights when I retire as early as humanly possible because it feels good to sleep and to dream about other things, and to be somewhere else.

It's amazing the things that we'll do to distract ourselves from depression and loneliness.

I've actually been watching TV – which, well, I don't know if that makes things better or worse, probably worse. I hate television and I can't imagine that it's enhancing my life any. It's just… well, it's easy. And it's noise. And it kind of sucks.

But on the other hand, school is good. And physical therapy is good. And making duck nuggets is good. And taking pictures is good. And I developed my first roll of film ever on my own this past week… and that felt good.

I am good.

It's just that I'm not too terribly fond of the times that are bad.

insperspiration

2006-09-07T23:37:00.000-04:00

I sit here completely inspired by sweat.

I painstakingly purchased a new pair of sneakers today (that's Jersey speak for "tennis shoes") and in my excitement, I decided to take them for a little test spin.
I never exercise before 9:30 PM. Never.
Actually, who am I kidding? I never exercise at all. I did tolerate a brief stint at Curves when I felt that my mom was really needing a partner in crime, but otherwise: never.

Regardless, I've been wearing them around all day in hopes of breaking them in. For what I'm not sure, but I know that newly purchased sneakers need to be broken in. That, and part of me was sort-of planning ahead for the walk on Sunday. So in walking around the house all day wearing these things, I decided that I needed to take them out for a REAL test spin.

Folks, I just went running. Like, really running. For a good, solid 40 minutes, I was running.
No, I dont think you heard correctly.
Me.
RUNNING.

I digress (but not completely).

I was so excited that I made a new iPod playlist just for the occasion.
So here I am, 40 minutes later. My heart is still pounding just a bit in my chest as I catch my breath every few seconds. My ponytail, once pulled taut, now hangs a tad sloppy and loose and the short little hairs at the back of my neck cling to my skin in sweaty strands as perspiration beads up into little droplets in my cleavage.
My legs ache. My hips ache. My feet ache. And above all this aching is my damp skin, feeling strangely tight as it sticks loosely to my clothing.
And this has inspired me.

Honestly, it's been a pretty inspirational day all-around. Earlier, I felt inspired (partially by my new sneakers, and partially by the start of my photography 101 class yesterday) to climb up on the roof of my house and try my hand at shooting the moon.

This was only partially a good idea.

I didn't see how I could possibly make it up onto the roof carrying a tripod, so I opted for steadying my hand by anchoring my elbow on my knee or some other handy and close-by object.

Camera slung around neck, I made my way up the courtyard wall and shimmied to the ledge of the roof. This was the easy part. I've done this a million times!
I can remember as a kid playing on the roof far more often than we played in the yard.
My siblings and I were relatively destructive by our very nature, and were known to sled off the roof during the winter, jump off the roof onto our monstrous trampoline during the summer, and utilize the roof as an all-purpose playground during the rest of the year.
All of this took place when we weren't cutting through our limbs with bow-saws or performing death defying stunts with our home-made wooden bike ramps. We owned bicycle helmets that one of my parents purchased (in what we now recognize as a thoughtful yet futile gesture), but they were always creatively used as props never as protective head gear. We were pretty successful overall, as I can only recall maybe three or four trips to the emergency room (and one was not even involving one of our stupid stunts it was involving a box turtle and my brothers bottom lip).
Regardless, the roof and I were good friends.

I perched myself on the peak, relying on the friction of the shingles to keep me steady, and brought my right knee up to rest my chin on. My left leg laid flat against the pitch of the roof, angled downward. I fumbled with my camera settings for a minute and then spent a few good moments trying to reduce the camera shake. I fired off two crappy shots and as I was aiming for the third, in dire concentration, WHOOSH!
Leaning too far over, I toppled sideways to my right as my left leg came swinging around, completely over my head.

And there I was, tumbling feet over head down the pitch of the roof and making a fervent effort to hang onto anything I could catch a hold of.
The shingles hurt like a bitch, but eventually worked in my favor. If we had installed the Spanish tiles (like my mother so desperately wanted) years ago, I'd have been in big trouble. So would have the tiles.

The leg swinging completely over my head did a little bit of a number on my hip, and I could feel it immediately as I clung motionless to the edge of the roof for a moment, catching my breath.

I made my way back to the peak only to realize that I hadn't really planned my descent. It's much easier to climb up the wall of the courtyard than to climb down. And granted, it's only 7 or 8 feet from the ground, but it still feels like a lot when you're sitting there.

So I did. I sat there. I sat there for a good 10 minutes.
I counted to three a few times as I tried to psyche myself up enough to take the Nike challenge and "just do it".
And in the meantime, I took a picture of me stuck on the roof. Thoughtful, right?

Yes, friends, I eventually got up enough guts to take the plunge.
It wasn't all that bad. And I knew it wouldn't be all that bad.
Suffering only a few minor scrapes, I made it out alive and ventured back into the house to share my story with my brother and his wife.

Apparently everyone had heard a noise up on the roof, but had no idea what it was. Rhiannon thought someone was up in the loft and had dropped a box.
No, no Rhiannon that was just me, falling off the roof.

All this, and this is the only shot I got of the damned moon.
I should probably take a little caution the next time I feel inspired.

Currently listening : The Dandy Warhols Come Down By The Dandy Warhols
Release date: By 15 July, 1997

nourishing our world

2006-08-30T00:01:00.000-04:00

So I'm just going to cut straight to the chase: I totally saw a grown man pick his nose and eat it in Jersey City last week.

A grown man.

In a suit.

Driving the latest model of nice car.

He picked his nose. And he ate it.

Friends, the bar was raised last week; that is, the bar of grossness. I mean, a grown man picking his nose is disgusting enough, but I'm willing to give a man the benefit of the doubt realizing that every now and again that nose just needs to be picked. Sometimes it just begs for it. But eating the harvest? That's for kids. Really anyone beyond the age of 3 or 4 (Ill even stretch it to 5) has no business browsing the booger buffet.

I was doing some work for former candidate in Jersey City last week and as I made my way from my car to the office, a car pulled out a little ahead of me from an underground parking garage and stopped midway across the sidewalk to wait for oncoming traffic to clear before pulling out onto the road. I didn't pay much attention until I looked up and realized that the man was picking his nose. I looked away quickly, chuckling to myself but then did a double-take to clarify whether it was an actual pick or just a little scratch.

We all see people picking their noses in their cars, right? I feel like it's an activity that many individuals take part in under the strange assumption that, despite being completely surrounded by glass, no one can see them. It's gross, but it's also kind of funny to pull up beside a Mercedes Benz at a traffic light and to look over and catch the driver sort of digging away, wrist deep in his cranium and completely oblivious to the fact that I, along with roughly six other people, have seen him in all his glory behaving like my two year old nephew, Cheech. Regardless, I always double-check just to be sure: pick or scratch? Was it an actual picking of the nose? Was the person really digging for gold, or was it just a good, well-needed scratch? There is a difference, and I realize this as I myself have been in need of a good scratching every now and again. Heck, sometimes other people feel the need to scratch my nose for me (for whatever reason), and yes sometimes this scratching goes on while Im driving in my car, surrounded by windows and passing through traffic and thousands of would-be bloggers who will eventually write about seeing me pick my nose on the New Jersey Turnpike...

I digress.

So I did a double-take to be sure. Was this a pick or a scratch?

I took a moment to decide and just as a huge grin stretched across my face in realization of having a full-fledged picker on my hands his hand reached right down from his nostril to his mouth.

Nostril to mouth and that mouth was wrapped solidly around that finger; around that little mucus-y monster.

I immediately looked away from both embarrassment and disbelief. I think my mouth was actually, as they say, completely agape. I nearly lost my balance and teetered for a moment as I tried to regain it.

And then I laughed. I laughed and I thought about how I was going to blog about this later.

By the way, it's really, really important to me to share the most critical events in my life with all of you. I hope you know that.

And further highlighting my day is me forgetting to pull up the zipper on my jeans twice that afternoon after visiting the restroom. Yep, that's right: twice in a row I left my zipper all the way down. And I realize that this is something that happens to everyone every now and again, but twice in one day seems a bit much. This is one of the most embarrassing things that can happen to someone because while it is so obvious to everyone else, the victim remains completely aloof and unaware, going about his daily ritual and looking like a complete fool.

Here I am: making copies, sending a fax, talking to the auditor and discussing financial statements with him all with a gaping hole in and about my crotch area. I might as well have had "I pick my nose and eat it" tattooed on my forehead heralding to the entire planet my supreme idiocy.

But I will now stop talking about humiliating experiences such as nose picking or unzipped zippers. Instead, I will say that Friday night's fundraiser went swimmingly. And I will also say how grateful I am to everyone who came out and made it a successful evening.

Together, we were able to raise a smidge under $2000 (which may not sound like a lot, but for a bunch of poor and underappreciated, young individuals to come together in a small space such as Maxwell's... well, it's a lot) and give out cool prizes like a 30,000 GB iPod (in the immortal words of John Bonaventura) and free passes to Great Adventure (that's Six Flags, for all you non-Jersey Neanderthals).

Thank you. You're all amazing people.

And now, I leave you with a little moment of zen from the evening:

Pilar * Becky * Moe
2006

Pilar * Becky * Moe
1988

Currently listening :
A Certain Trigger
By MaxÃ¯mo Park
Release date: By 31 May, 2005

lather, rinse, repeat

2006-08-12T05:49:00.000-04:00

And the truth really will set you free. Would you look at that?

Swinging back and forth, higher and higher, I toss my head back as far as I can and for the very first time I feel relieved for my now shorter hair. My eyes look upwards and fixate on a single star that I spy resting between the silhouettes of two tree branches. I slowly begin to play connect-the-dots with neighboring constellations, and above and beyond the whooshing wind in my ears, I listen closely to the words that are being spoken to me.

These words are words of truth that I want and need to hear. And although I want to hear them, every few minutes I find myself choking back tears with moderate effort - oh! these tears are desperately searching for release, but I'm not about to give. No, not this time.

It's a little like growing up and choosing not to cry when you scrape your knee or when someone pulls a band-aid from a freshly healed wound: it tears at you a bit and damnit if it isn't quite painful, but when you grow-up, you just stop crying over scraped knees (or spilled milk).

And yes this hurts.
Perhaps a little more than a scraped knee.
But right now I'm taking the John Mellencamp approach to all of this in hopes that, in the end, it will just hurt so good.

The truth is, friends, that rational people make mistakes and even sometimes behave irrationally.
The truth is that strength has tiny little cracks in it called weakness.
The truth is that big girls do cry, and that the people who have everything going for them sometimes fall; they sometimes look down and see their life broken into a million tiny pieces and resting in the palms of their hands.

But the other truth is that those pieces (at least most of them) can be glued back together - as long as you take a deep breath and work really hard at it. Like a puzzle, you have to want to finish it.

Finish what I've started... yeah.
For the first time in a really long time, I want to.
I really, really want to.

As I swing my legs forward and then backward, pushing myself higher into the air, I get kind of scared. It's been awhile since I've been on a swing. It's pitch dark out and the higher I go, the more concerned I become about how I'm going to stop. I could just jump off, but I'd probably end up hurting myself more than I'd intended to.

And then... well, the higher I go, the more that it doesn't seem all that bad. If it's all up from here on out then I think I can handle that.

I'm not going to lie; this life can really really suck.
But really: fuck it.
It's so damn beautiful that at times, I can hardly stand it.

officially

2006-08-08T01:54:00.000-04:00

Apparently, our bodies' chemistry changes every 7 years. I haven't done all the research, but this is what "they" tell me (whoever "they" are). Regardless, I think this may be what's happened to me.

Me: the girl who was constantly warm regardless of the frigid temperatures.

Me: who had no problem running outside into the snowy tundra to check the mail or start my car wearing nothing but a tank top and boxer shorts (shoeless). I used to watch in wonder as every girl within sight was bundling up beneath the comfort of their boyfriends' sweatshirt while the thermometer soared to record highs. Perplexed, I'd gently pat the sweat from my brow and wonder if A: I was experiencing early on-set menopause or B: I was really a dude who looked like a lady. Or perhaps I'm just wired a bit differently than most girls, which would actually explain quite a lot.

Kids, things have changed. I've become obsessed with hot pockets. No, not the frozen sub-meals that come with strange cooking directions (the ones that I've never actually eaten - although I'm sure that they're aboslutely delish) - no, not those. I'm talking about actual pockets of heat.

While this has been (mostly) a recent development, it actually planted its roots about 3 or 4 years ago, while I was still working in Washington, DC. Mostly I'd be fine, but moments would pop-up during the day when I'd notice strange occurances: raised hair on the arms, slight shivers up the spine, bluish fingernails... holy crow! I'm freezing!!

I sneak a glance over at Alejandra who is completely aloof, powdering her fore-head and re-applying lipgloss. She doesn't look cold, she looks really comfortable.

I shiver and warp my arms around my waist as Alejandra, still completely unaffected by the sudden and drastic drop in temperature, browses casually through the copy of Vogue that is forever present on her desk (and yes, I will continue to paint this image of Alejandra as a crappy underling, but I will also let everyone know that I was a really crappy boss, and we now love one another like fat boys love cake).

At the time, I didn't own anything to the equivalent of the ugly sweater. No cardigans or zip-up hoodies... I didn't own any of these things because I never got cold. Coats were really only an accessory... at the time.

So I had a dilemma and I needed to fix it. I managed to find little "hot pockets" around the CRNC where I could hang-out for a few minutes and wait for my fingers to flush pink again.The office of pleasant, resident Mormon, Ryan Call worked pretty well because it wasn't really an office. It was our "back room", a storage closet really in which there were no air conditioning vents. While the rest of the office had condensation running from the windows and walls, Ryan's office suffered a musty haze that hung mid-air, and was a full 16 degrees warmer than anywhere else! This situation was great because I could swing back there and talk to Ryan about anything. You see, Ryan was an up-talker and could make you feel good regardless of what the conversation was about. This situation, however, did not last very long because I eventually began to feel really bad about the crappy straw that Ryan had been dealt and couldn't stand to look at him anymore. He would be there at his desk, shoved in a corner behind book shelves and mile-high stacks of membership kits that looked as though they might avalance at any moment. Two refrigerators hummed directly across from him making the room that much warmer. But Ryan would smile, and laugh, and never say a word about the heat as sweat dripped from under his chin and soaked through the back of his shirt. He's the type of person that would never acknowledge how uncomfortable the dripping sweat makes him, not because of pride, but because it might make you feel uncomfortable for him. So... I stopped visiting Ryan Call, for his sake and for mine.

Plan B: Pennsylvania Avenue, sidewalk in front of the CRNC building. DC weather during the summer is always hot and MUGGY. Everything around you not only looks sticky but also feels and smells sticky. So I found it a quick fix to run downstairs and vedge in the 102* heat for five minutes.

This plan was completely de-railed when I realized that creepy Marc (who was a guy with a small office right across the hall from us and whom we called "Rainman") began to schedule his cigarette breaks so that they were synchronized with my warm-up sessions. No further dilineation necessary... although, I could tell you a really creepy story involving Marc, a 30-second long hug, and an invitation to go back to Marc's place and let him cook me dinner. At the time it was really humiliating; now it's just funny and a little gross. Marc (and his office) has since been evicted from the building, apparently.

Oh well. Outside on the street was a little too smarmy anyway.

Plan C: Damnit! This should have been my Plan A!! Why didn't I notice earlier that the women's restroom on the 2nd floor was like a huge toaster oven?! So here became my permanent hot pocket.

The ladies' room had it's downfalls, just like all the other hot pockets - for instance it was always a pain when I got the biting chill at the bottom of the hour and then really had to pee at the top of the hour - but the restroom definitely had the most staying power.

Alejandra used to hassle me about it and of course, at the time, there was still far too much testosterone pumping through my veins to admit my sudden girly coldness, so I just continued to take frequent trips to the bathroom and allowed everyone to believe that I had an incredibly small bladder.

There is a particularly bad chill that I can recall when I found myself curled up atop the toilet seat in my corner stall, rubbing my toes and praying for the circulation to return. I completely lost track of time in my little envelope of cozy heat. By the time I stepped back into the office (which must have been nearly 20 minutes later), Alejandra just stared at me (with Vogue close at hand): "Were you pooping, Moe?"

I winced. It was definitely time to share my secret with her. It was also time to invest in a sweater.

I'm much more brazen about my chilliness these days. You'll almost never hear me comment on being cold, but I always come prepared and my wardrobe now boasts a broad selection of cardigans, zip hoodies, light-weight jackets and ugly sweaters. I also have a collection of blazers that borders the absurd.

So now, here I sit, in the old and musty "Dirty Dancing" resort hotel lobby - just a few feet to my left is the front door and about 15 feet to my right is the outdoor patio entrance. I am eternally grateful every time the doors open, ushering in a brief but warm breeze to parenthesize the 52* atmosphere in between. And, of course, I've come fully prepared with a cardigan (I reserve the ugly sweater for special occasions only).

I'll probably duck into the 2nd floor business center - another hot pocket around here - a little later to type this up and to defrost my poor, frozen self.

Being cold is not anywhere near as bad as I thought - but neither is being a girl.

atlantic pity

2006-08-07T02:18:00.000-04:00

Spirits are high this week (both alcoholic and melancholic), I'm happy to report. It's amazing what a little sun can do. Keeping really really busy also helps quite a bit.

So here I sit in the business center of an old, musty hotel which for some reason reminds me of watching Dirty Dancing - except I'm sitting in it. I'm sitting in Dirty Dancing. This resort has the same sort of nostalgic, 1950s adirondack family get-away with hunky-yet-not-so-cute dance leader who would like to whisk me away and expose me to all sorts of other-worldly (or just worldly) experiences that I'm far too naive to understand but will think that I do understand, feeling that for the first time ever my life is significant. My nickname is not "Baby" though - instead, it's "Bubby" and I'm a little on the hefty side. And we're not in the Adirondacks, but instead in an old, musty hotel off the Garden State Parkway with yellow-ish walls and a limited room service menu, just shy of the Atlantic City limits. And the only dirty dancing I do is the shuffle from my bed to the shower in the morning.

I've had enough of this joke.

I have sort of been on vacation the last several days though, hopping from San Diego to Atlantic City with less than 24 hours in between. I'll go ahead and confess that San Diego, while far more tiring and stressful was a lot more fun. This Atlantic City business (so far) is cake. Literally - I just had some down at the lobby restaurant. It was so-so. I'm not really a cake person. But regardless, this gig has been a little on the light side so far, and promises to remain so the rest of this week as I prepare for International Corp. to sweep in and be bored to tears with sales meetings all week while I sort-of entertain them. Probably a lot of older men looking for a good time while away on a business trip. Don't worry, I won't show them a good time... but they might think that they've gotten one. I'm the queen of illusion. I work in New Jersey politics - I've got to be, right?

And I'll have to take another trip to San Diego sometime because I didn't get to see all that much of it (really only my hotel and the Coors Amphitheater). I was tempted to take the rental car down to Mexico, but my father was very worried, letting me know that Tijuana is only full of "booze and hookers". I wasn't allowed to take the rental out of the country anyhow. Next time...

The concert in San Diego passed like a dream. Flashing lights, loud sounds, a satellite patch-through and a very happy Hank Williams, Jr. The show was a success and I'm still glowing from my run-in with Charlie Daniels (Hank's road manager and I got buddy-buddy and went on a secret mission to get my photograph taken with Charlie... very sneaky, but very fun).

Kids, I need to go on the road for a long time. I'm beginning to like this hotel stuff. I'm becoming a bit high-maintenance, and maybe that's not all bad.

Damn, it feels good to be a hamster.

just a thin colored wall

2006-08-04T21:38:00.000-04:00

Most of you know I'm walking in the LiveStrong Challenge (to benefit cancer research and education) next month with several friends and we're working hard in the meantime to raise money for this incredible cause.I've booked a bill at Maxwell's in Hoboken for the 25th of this month and we have a terrific bunch of artists particpating that night in what is sure to be an awesome show of support for the cause and also for my dear friend, Pilar, who was recently diagnosed with cancer and is walking with us in September.

So what do I need? I need my friends to come out and buy a ticket that night (for a mere $8, you too can have the time of your life).
I need my friends to come out and bring their friends along with them.
I need my friends to help me promote the heck out of this event.
I need my friends to become a part of this cause.

So if you're in the New York/New Jersey area (or further and you really like long drives), please come out on August 25th and bring some friends with you. And if you're in a capacity to promote the heck out of this event, please please please do so! Email me and I will send you the link for poster images that can be posted wherever you can think to post them. Or, if you'd like actual printed posters/flyers to put up around town or in your places of business, I can fix you up with that as well.

For all the info, go to: www.myspace.com/alldaystrong

Much love (and expecting the world of my friends - because I think the world of them),
Moe

***
Friday, August 25th 2006
Maxwell's in Hoboken

8PM David Pearsall
9PM Allie Moss (with Ingrid Michaelson)
10PM Ian McGlynn
11PM Swiss Auto Club
'til 2AM DJ Mike Stefan

$8/ticket, 21 to enter

A limousine service has kindly donated a vehicle and a driver for anyone who would like to take advantage of it. We need to know if you'd like to ride to Hoboken in style for the mere cost of gasoline (split between everyone), then please let me know immediately so that I can reserve you a spot. We're still working on a meeting place, but it most likely will be in the Somerset/Middlesex county area.

it's prettier than risk

2006-07-16T04:50:00.000-04:00

And today was a scorcher, right?

I've been popping quite a lot of Tylenol PM these days in an effort to stifle the screams of my whip-lash (is that hyphenated?), caused from my run-in with a deer a few weeks back. This morning, I foolishly washed those capsules down somewhere around 4:30 AM, completely disregarding my intended wake-up call of 8:30.

Fast forward 5 hours: Here I am coasting down I-78 West into Pennsyltucky to meet my sister, my niece, and my Cheech and escort them safely home to the Garden State of euphoria. My anticipation the entire ride was difficult to mask and I shamefully took it out on the iPod, listening and re-listening to Huey Lewis & The News tunes while singing at the top of my lungs. I was driving my mom's mini-van... didn't I once dedicate an entire blog to my ridiculously unprecedented nerdiness? Probably. But it can't be helped - the heart of rock and roll is still beating.

I'd say I'm a little unhealthfully obsessed with my nephew, the Cheech, but I don't know that it's possible for any sort of unhealthfulness to exist when it comes to obsessions with Cheech. He's that incredible. My sadness when he left New Jersey to head back to the smokey mountains of Tennessee was heart-breaking, to say the least. I'd be lying if I were to tell you that I expected to love any human being as much as I love this child. It is only occasionally that I feel a little guilty for not putting Olivia or Elliana (my two nieces) in the spotlight. Ever.

They're less than a year old.
They're still growing into their cuteness.
They can't share with me in dialogue about Dora the Explorer.
I love them too - but the most I can do right now is hold them and hope they grow up to be anywhere near as cool as their older brother/cousin.

So what did the Cheech and I do today? We ran circles in the parking lot of the Wawa until we were sick from dizziness - making sure to take off our shoes beforehand, turning the soles of our feet a deep ebony.
We jumped on the bed.
We played monkey tunnel.
We harassed the dogs.
We went exploring in the garden and found japanese beetles mating and albino crab spiders waiting in prey.
We had a blast.

Another portion of joy has returned and for real, this is a time when I know beyond anything that God is watching out for me. There's no other reason He would choose to bring something so absolutely amazing into my life.

Currently listening :
Plan B
By Huey Lewis & the News
Release date: By 24 July, 2001

easy access

2006-07-11T21:50:00.000-04:00

One o'clock in the morning, scissors in hand, I take a walk to the bathroom mirror and before you can say "no thank you, I don't care for meatloaf", off it goes: over a foot of hair. It took a full three seconds for what I had done to register.

Oh, shiesse.

So, naturally, off went the rest of it as well. It was a short lapse of judgement. No, who am I kidding? It was a short lapse of everything. At that very moment in time, absolutely nothing on my body was functioning properly with the exception of my hand. And as you can imagine, the aftermath has been treacherous at best.

It will take just a few weeks for me to adjust to this change - but those weeks will seem like an eternity. Everything has changed and even a simple task like showering has become an obstacle to overcome. If this change had happened gradually, it would have been so much easier to cope with, but I'm afraid that the loss was so sudden and so severe, that it will make the recovery that much more difficult. Washing my hair (if you can even call it hair anymore) takes about a minute and a half. And rinsing it - well, I don't even quite know how to explain this to you... have you ever picked up a gallon of milk thinking that it's full when, in reality, it's nearly empty? There's just too much give, right? Your arm flings up and over as you realize that the effort you were putting in does not match the task at hand (literally). It's the same feeling here. I prepare to squeeze the excess water from a length of hair that just simply is not there.

I'm not quite certain how I feel for the look of it yet. I look like Bridget Fonda in "Point of No Return". And as one well-meaning friend so thoughtfully put it: "It looks cute when it's pulled back."

So now comes the growing-out process, and the "how-do-I-style-my-hair-now?" process, and the "what-do-I-do-with-the-hair-that's-been-chopped-off?" process.

If I were married to Paul Mitchell, none of this would be an issue.

And PS: I'm going to do my best to donate the hair, but I'm not sure I'll have any takers.

alltheright.choices

2006-07-10T03:35:00.000-04:00

OK kids, raise your hand if you have an email account that is formatted firstname.lastname@gmail.com

Everyone, right?
Oh how I've ached for a normal email address, one that could even be considered "professional". Gone away are the days of "moechabean@hotmail.com" or "razzledazzle@email.com" (I don't want to talk about that last one, but it really did exist at one point, very close to the birth of email) - you can't have such an email address and be taken seriously. The story behind moebe97 or moebe79 is too long--and too boring--to tell, but be assured that they exist only because monica.navarro was not available. My sadness was only momentary, however, as the advent of Gmail came along shortly. Ahhh... by invitation only! If I can just get myself an invitation, I can sneak right in and snatch up that (apparently) coveted monica.navarro@gmail.com!
Friends, there are a lot of Monica Navarros out there. Do you know any others? I don't even know any other Monicas, let alone Monica Navarros. So alas, while I continue to discover more and more people who have the email address firstname.lastname@gmail.com (I don't think I've ever even seen any other type of gmail address... except for my own), I am just that much more saddened by my lack thereof. So, I've decided to take some action (in the form of an email).

To: monica.navarro@gmail.com
Fr: mycrappyemail@gmail.com (ugh)
Subject: coveted email

Dear Monica,

You don't know me, but we do have at least one thing in common: our name. I think it's a great name, don't get me wrong, but in sharing this name I do face a bit of a tragedy. You see, I've never been able to snag a monica.navarro email address. Perhaps you've always gotten there first (who could know?), but I've always seemed to just miss the boat.

I was ecstatic to open up a gmail account, while gmail was still relatively new, so that I could FINALLY have the email address I've always wanted! You can imagine my disappointment when I found that not only was monica.navarro taken, but so was every single reasonable variation thereof!
So I'm wondering this: would it be possible at all for me to purchase this email address from you? I don't know what it would take for me to get it, but I have a number of things that may or may not be of value to you. Money is one thing I do not have much of. I could probably throw you a few bucks, but I could definitely tack on some extras. I have a bottle of Grey Goose vodka that has yet to be opened. I also have a pair of brand new jeans from the GAP that have never been worn, but I was planning on getting rid of on eBay (they're in perfect condition and perfectly fine, I just didn't particularly care for them). I have two certificates for free ringtones that can be redeemed online -- in no time at all you could be rocking the casbah every time your phone rings (if you fancy the Clash, that is). Also, what size shoe do you wear? And do you like metallic gold?

I know this may seem silly to you, but I figured it's worth a shot. More than anything, I'd be interested to know what exactly it would take for you to sell me your email address. Although, well, I must say that if I had gotten to it first it would take a whole hell of a lot for me to let it go.

Cheers,
Monica.Navarro

Let's see if she bites, yes?

I had no idea

2006-07-04T05:29:00.000-04:00

Alejandra will eventually forgive me for having never read her June 29th Blog in its entirety until tonight. It is for this reason that I've only just now been made aware that I have been "tagged". I don't even really know what it means to be tagged, but I like silly games (most of the time and as long as they don't involve tap water or a spinning bottle), and I'm perfectly willing to entertain Alejandra's efforts to get me to post a blog. Granted, there is going to be absolutely nothing exciting in the next few paragraphs. Consider yourself warned, please.

Word has it that I'm supposed to play along and list the following items:

Five things in my freezer:
(oh how I long for the days when I used to have my own freezer! These days I have little to no say as to what goes into my freezer, so I'm going to take a wild guess)
* Morning Star veggie sausage patties (I think it's stupid and misleading that they call them sausage patties at all when there isn't actually any sausage in them).
* Sugar Free popsicles
* A large bag of ice
* An even larger variety of frozen meats that have been carefully vacuum-sealed and labeled with names and dates.
* Toaster waffles

Five things in my closet:
* A red sombrero that my parents brought me from Mexico City when I was 5. It can be seen here.
* Boxes and boxes of Christmas cards that I bought and almost sent out last year, but didn't quite get around to.
* One of these things.
* Five bridesmaids dresses that I'm sure I'll never wear again.
* A pair of metallic gold stiletto heels that Alejandra made me buy two years ago, promising me that she'd pay me back for them. She never has and they sit in my closet still.

Five things in my car:
(some of you may know that my Focus was recently destroyed in a tragic run-in with a New Jersey white-tailed deer. I only just got the new car a few days ago, so there's really not much in it at all. I guarantee nothing exciting).
* A package of armorall wipes (if you didn't know before that I'm a total geek, this should clue you in).
* An iPod adapter
* My secretly stashed map of NYC
* A bottle of vanilla lotion (secret weapon - because apparently I always smell like vanilla, the beach, or tostadas. The beach and Taco Bell were too difficult to fit in my glove box).
* What I think is a bootleg copy of The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust.

Five things in my purse:
(I don't carry a purse, so I considered reporting five things that I typically carry on my person, but well... there are only so many things that I can carry on my person, and I think less than five is probably the limit. So I'm going to let you know what's lying around in the giant bag that I usually travel with or make day trips with. I haven't taken anything out of it since I went to Peru with it back in March and there are well over five things in there).
* A copy of Nick Hornby's "A Long Way Down" (I haven't read it yet, but I'll let you know how it is).
* Headphones from Continental Airlines
* A miniature pack of Charmin To-Go toilet seat covers - this has to be from Cecilia. Desires for sanitary environments aside, I despise toilet seat covers.
* A wedding invitation to Matthew & Martina's wedding last week
* A buiness card from Clinton Honda for the guy who sold me my Passat
* A bottle of Vicodin
* A medium-sized bouncy ball that I found in Central Park and have become unhealthfully obsessed with
* A Zip-loc baggie chock full o' Allegra (thanks, Greg)
* Two ball-point pens. One works, one doesn't.
* A miniature bottle of Opti-Free Express contact lens solution that opened accidentally and spilled all over everything inside.
* A miniature tube of Colgate Total toothpaste
* A miniature wheel of mint waxed dental floss
* An Italian Charm bracelet (I was looking for that)
* Advil
* Peruvian money
* Listerine breath spray that I stole from my sister and she still doesn't even realize is missing.
* A gift card to Macy's (thanks, Sal)
* A movie ticket to "Thank you for Smoking"
* A notice from the city of Summit for an unpaid parking ticket (it wasn't my fault, damnit).
* A headphone splitter
* A dimebag full of odor-free garlic tablets
* A tape measure
* A Radiohead CD
* iPod USB chord
* Some bobby pins
* A brochure for the Honda Fit
* Tons and tons of receipts

Yes, more than five things. But once I got started, I couldn't stop. It has definitely shed some light on a few things. First off, it seems that I carry around far too many drugs. I also have a tendency to pick up miniaturized versions of practically anything and everything (I did also have a miniature version of the 'fore mentioned bouncy ball, but I left it at Kevin's house the other day).

I think at this point I'm supposed to "tag" a few other people. I'm pretty limited here since not many people read this sad little corner of MySpace. So I'm left to tag the individuals who actually DO.

Caitlin, you're it. So is Katie, Alina, Greg, Ted, Jayvis, and that friend of Stephen's who is not my friend but keeps commenting on my blogs. You're it too.

Happy fourth to all. I'm heading to bed.

Currently listening :
Night and Day
By Joe Jackson
Release date: By 20 October, 1989

06-ish

2006-07-01T03:36:00.000-04:00

First it was this:

Then it was this:

And after that:

But then there was this:

and even this:
Allies of New Jersey | Interview next Wednesday!

And perhaps, eventually, hopefully, THIS:

It's been an interesting week and a half, one involving Peruvian Lillies, ADHD sales people, a bacon egg and cheese biscuit, Becky Nash's little brother, NyQuil, pain killers, and a bottle of blush champagne. I used to share any and all of the interesting things that happen to me, but I find myself becoming more reserved these days. I like it just fine that way, I suppose.

I'm doing pretty OK I'd say. I'm now a part of the club: both the one that hits deer in New Jersey and the one that owns a Volkswagen. I'd tell stories about the guy who sold me the car (his name was McManus), or I'd tell you stories about what I had to do to get the car (it didn't involve sex or microwave popcorn)... I'd tell these stories except I'm far too sleepy right now.

And grateful.
I'm sleepy, and grateful.

my love to all. ta!

Currently listening :
Pure Gold
By Harry Belafonte
Release date: By 24 March, 1992

active ingredient

2006-06-22T01:19:00.000-04:00

What most people find festive--a weekend at a beach shack with friends, a boat trip down a river, a crackling bonfire on a summer night--I see as a bleak nightmare to be grimly endured. I would sooner put lit cigarettes in my eyes than share a vacation house with a crowd. Inevitably there is one bathroom for ten people, so there is a constant line, and when its time to do your business, someone outside of the rickety door decides at that moment to take the CD out of the player as your furiously pull up your pants in the silence. Later, you are thwarted again as you realize that if you can clearly hear your friends newspaper rustling as he read the Times out loud for everyone's amusement, then they can all hear you. The days crawl by as you swell like a tick. No, thank you.

I do not way to stand in the kitchen with the car keys, seething, while one person makes a grocery list and another hunts for cash and a third announces to the housemates playing touch football that all fourteen of us are going to the grocery store in one car for a shopping expedition that should take ten minutes but will stretch for three hours, do you want to come along?

Every eternal day revolves around the meal. If you're at the beach, there's always someone who feels that it's their duty to boil lobsters, a joyless process of liberating the creatures from their muddy prison at the fish market, praying for the water to boil so they'll stop struggling, mustering your appetite as you wrestle the meat out of its shell, and then cleaning up the carcasses, the stench of which hangs over the kitchen for the remainder of the week.

If you're in the woods, you try to devise a menu from the macaroni and cheese mix and Vienna sausages offered by the bait and tackle shop that also sells toiletries and food, or, with noisy fanfare, you open the spider-corpse-encrusted grill out back to barbecue some dubious meat, which will be cold and raw in the middle and burned on the outside. On another night, you will make spaghetti, which the cook keeps tasting with the same spoon and putting back in the sauce, and you can count on someone throwing the cooked pasta against a cabinet door to see if it sticks, done to much hooting and clapping. When it comes to meals, everyone pitches in, so that your food is lovingly touched by fourteen sets of grimey hands, and since everyone is usually drunk by cleanup time, there will always be at least one chunk of beige food stuck in your fork tines when you eat something the next day.

The mantra of the gathering is always "Do your own thing," but of course you can never really do your own thing without acute self-consciousness. If you bring up a book that you're dying to finish, someone will plop down next to you and ask about what you're reading, or a group will gather around you and talk loudly so that you read the same paragraph three times. Somebody always brings a dog, usually a black Lab, and no matter how carefully you edit the guest list, there's inevitably one really annoying person in attendance, either some girl who gets too drunk and cries, or a meathead who likes to repeatedly remind her about it the next day when he's not checking all the various sports scores on TV as the birds chirp merrily outside. You buy flowers at a roadside stand to decorate the house, and in the tumult, nobody puts them in a vase. Days later they've turned to mulch on the counter where you left them, buried under a mound of moldy kitchen rags.

Silence is not going to happen, because silence doesn't mean Good Times, so there's constant chitchat, and one guy who takes it upon himself to play deejay. After lunch, time halts completely and gets stuck at four thirty for what seems like days, so the whole cabal bumbles around until someone cracks a beer and everyone else, relieved, follows suit. Then it's time to go to the grocery store.

After dinner, you can't go to bed early because everyone feels compelled to do the late-night Big Chill thing, and besides, there's an uncomfortable undercurrent because one couple claimed the good bedroom, despite having just joined the group this year. Then it's activity time. No, thanks, I dont play cards at home, so I sure as hell dont want to do it here. Or Boggle. Or charades. But you finally give in, and you drink more than you want to, and Boggle starts to seem sort of fun, and you think, Hey, this isn't so bad.

But then the next morning, after a restless, sweaty sleep on yellowed sheets and a musty dog-hair-covered afghan that the original house owners aunt knitted during the Eisenhower administration, you jolt awake at dawn to the sound of the stereo blasting courtesy of the one early-riser guy who's annoyed that no one else is up after he has already run five miles on the beach. Fuzzy headed, you make your way downstairs, where there is always a person eating cereal and making chipper small talk before you've had your coffee in a seventies earth-toned mug that's cracked and glued back together and has an ancient lipstick mark that has never been washed away. You grab the carton of warm orange juice that a housemate has left out on the counter overnight and pour it into a glass that foams up from the dish soap that somebody forgot to rinse during the drunken group cleanup.

Then, all you want to do is bike into town to that quaint little scone shop that you spotted during the drive in, the one that looks like an English cottage with morning glories covering the sun-dappled front patio, and buy yourself a scone, a cappuccino, and a newspaper and quietly read, but that is not what this weekend is about. Because even though the unofficial motto is "Do your own thing," if you actually do break away, there are raised eyebrows and hurt feelings, or, worse, as you make your escape and pedal desperately to the scone shop, you discover that you're playing Follow the Leader to fourteen bikes. Then your boisterous, hung-over mob noisily overwhelms the tiny scone shop. All the gentle regulars flee as the girl who drunkenly cried the night before complains that the store doesn't offer soy milk and the whole posse rearranges all the tables with loud scraping noises, so that everyone can sit together. God forbid you have two newspapers.

When you can't put off taking a shower any longer, you wonder why you didn't bring your flip-flops as you behold a rainbow assortment of pubic hair on the floor of the mildew-scented stall. After you're done lathering up in a trickle of cold, rusty water with Prell--always Prell shampoo, bought from the local tackle shop that sells toiletries and food--you reach for your one towel that you had carefully placed on the third hook, only to find it in a wet, fetid pile next to the john after it has clearly been used to swab your friends nooks and crannies.

Your mind races. Who used the shower before you? Was it one of the clean ones? Was it one of the guys in the nice gay couple or was it the husky one who came out of the bathroom after breakfast cheerfully announcing that he needed a plunger? Who is having actual fun here except the meathead guy and the couple who doesn't have a good relationship and are just relieved to be around others? As you prepare to go on a communal trip to the ancient movie-rental place that has Jaws in the New Releases section, and the long debate commences as you all try to find the one movie that hasn't been seen by all fourteen of you, you vow to yourself, Never again. Never, ever, ever.

** I love rants. They make me smile, especially when they're so incredibly unnecessary (and even more especially when in the written word). This is just a sampling really. Pay attention to what I read these days...

** Post Post Script: It has just come to my attention that the above post script was not as clear as it ought to have been. This rant is not from me but from the author of the charming and entertaining book that I am reading right now (see below). I love to rant, but I'm not near this cynical... a quality that I admire when it comes to light reading. I'll write my own words soon enough, I suppose.

Currently reading :
But Enough About Me : A Jersey Girl's Unlikely Adventures Among the Absurdly Famous
By Jancee Dunn
Release date: By 30 May, 2006

tooti-frooti

2006-06-02T23:43:00.000-04:00

You don't need to know me well to realize that not much aggrevates me. I joke about hating orange jell-o and Canada. I rant theatrically over dirty socks every now and again. Sometimes I pretend to hate UltraGrrl, enjoying the thought of having an arch enemy... but the reality is that I don't have enemies. At least, none that I'm aware of (it's a possibility that UltraGrrl hates me as well), and I don't really hate anything. But while I don't necessarily hate anything, there are certain things that I have a massive distaste for. Automated telephone systems, tech support outsourced to foreign lands, black olives, and toilet seat covers are some of the many. But I've recently learned that amongst those things is the wireless blackberry.

I will never, ever own a blackberry. Be assured.

Now, while bitter statments such as this tend to roll off the tongues of so many non-promise-keepers these days, I really and truly mean it. Seriously. Believe me. Mark my words: I will never own a blackberry. Frankly, I'd be pretty happy if I never even saw a damn blackberry again as long as I live.

I've spent the past two and a half weeks trying to get a blackberry to function (not my blackberry) and shamefully, I was frustrated on more than one occasion nearly to tears.

I lose it. I become rude. I become nasty. I make people second-guess their career choices (I'm not entirely responsible for this - their career choices are mostly responsible for this - but I will take a bit of credit). Basically, I'm a bitch. But I sometimes feel that I'm entitled. I spent what I swore would be my last time on the phone with Earthlink wireless and their posse of techies out in south seas. I tried to threaten them, but they knew the great distance between us and the little amount of power that I could possibly expel that far. Drat.

When I hung up with Earthlink, I flip flopped my way down the stairs to head to my car and found it raining. No, pouring. Sheets of rain were coming down and filling the streets with a rushing creek of muddy rainwater. My car was parked two blocks away and I saw a man walking my route, past his ankles in water. I looked down to examine my attire. halter top, denim jacket, yellow skirt, black flip flops. OK. Let's assess here. All three of my umbrellas are in the trunk of my car, conveniently. My flip flops are goners. There's no way I can walk in them once they get wet. It would be a nightmare of both flip and flop, to their greatest degree. I waited for awhile to see if it would let up - during this time I realized how frustrated I was when my mom called and I accidentally dropped the F-bomb while on the phone with her... she didn't seem to notice.
I made a decision to give it a shot, figuring that I get wet in the shower anyway. I took off my jacket and rolled it up and tucked it securely under my arm (I knew it would be nice to have something to dry off with once I reached my car). Flip flops in hand, I opened the door and braved the two blocks.
The street was even more flooded than I gave it credit for. I had to lift up my skirt and walk through the nearly knee-deep swirling waters. A man wearing brown trousers and no shirt stood inexplicably in his doorway watching me pass and I strangely grew a little embarassed. I looked down to be sure of my footing only to realize that I couldn't see the ground anyhow. I was amazed at the amount of water! At that moment, all I could think was what a shame it was that I didn't have my camera with me right then. I so desperately wanted a picture of myself standing in that water, my skirt gathered around my legs; flip flops, phone, keys all in hand... it just would have been the kind of picture I'd want of myself.

Walking through knee deep rainwater and sitting, soaking wet in my car somehow put me in a much better state of mind. I felt so relaxed and my frustration over crummy earthlink and their evil blackberries subsided. The world was fun again. And good. And amazing.

So I headed home to sell jewelry and did just that. A woman purchased a pair of sterling silver hoops right after I got to the store. I told her they looked nice on her (and they really did). The purchase was only for $35, but it still made me feel better. It was the first sale I'd had at all.

Rain, rain, I wish you'd stay - I don't mind you here all day.

Currently listening :
Nouvelle Vague
By Nouvelle Vague
Release date: By 03 August, 2004

caterpillar

2006-05-22T17:57:00.000-04:00

I'm a little worried.
I fear that I might have fellen into the habit of breaking habits only to form them all over again.
I find myself getting better only to fall ill once again, and again, and again.
It could just be the Jersey Fresh air that I breathe in on a daily basis, but my suspicions point to something a little larger.

God's faithfulness astounds and escapes me all at the same time - that, in and of itself, is pretty damn amazing. One day it can rescue me completely and 100 percent, only leaving me to crave more, causing me to desire a rescuing of not merely 100 percent, but of 150 or even 200 percent.
I want a cushion. I want not to have to depend on the blessings of my parents. I want my own apartment. I want to be able to properly furnish that apartment. I want to travel to London and possibly Ireland. I want a new car - a Saab 93. I want that gorgeous medallion strapless dress from Anthropologie and I want a wonderful pair of dancing shoes to match.

I want, I want, I want.
And while I do occasionally wonder about what God wants, I seldom ask. I seldomly file inquiries as to what exactly it is that God wants me to learn from these humbling experiences. I wonder how and when God will bless me next, but it is a rare occasion when I question how I am to be busy blessing others in the meantime.
I didn't know there was so much of me lying around.
Wow. There's a ton of it, laying around everywhere. My life is absolutely filthy with me.

** I live my life so much of the time at one extreme or the other. In previous days (and not all that long ago) I lead a largely selfless life, never able to say no to anyone, to the point of my own detriment. Recognizing a need for some change, I've pivoted to an existence of complete and utter self-absorbtion. **

I don't make inquiries because I'm too busy guessing what the response will be and then being scared to death of it. I'm frightened for what it will mean, for what I will be forced to give up. And so I sit in a selfish silence, concerned only for the "consequences" my break of silence will bring.
Please don't misunderstand. Many times I am really, really happy. When I am distracted by Southern Living orders, or relatively bad karaoke, or wholesale club memberships, or raw duck juice, or boxing on HBO...
When I'm distracted by my 2 year-old nephew, Cheech, assaulting my forehead with a plastic fish and then rectifying his behavior with a Curious George band-aid, it is then that I am truly filled with joy. But it is in the absence of these things that I feel how poorly I am glued together. My foundation has grown so weak, which leads me to believe that it was never really that strong to begin with.

I'm not all that crazy about taking on home improvement projects. Well, to be fair to me, let's just say that it's not that I'm I dislike the projects, it's just that I'm not the most diligent when it comes to those things. Yes, it took me over a year to paint my bedroom.

In light of this information: These self-improvements will not be easy to tackle. My stick-to-itness is feeble, at best.

In spite of this information: I will keep trying anyway. When I fail, I will go back and try again, and again, and again.

Friend, it's quite true that I cannot outgive God. Admittedly, I've never been wealthy enough to give it a fair shot, but I have tested the waters, so to speak.

My Cheech has left me, and has left behind him this almost shameful emptiness in my life.

Once upon a time, I had the equivalent of two jobs, a comfortable income, and many prospects.
Now I have no job, no money, and no prospects.

The Lord gives, and He take away, and I'll be damned if I'm not going to be blessing His name regardless.

blackberry bushel

2006-04-14T02:27:00.000-04:00

Kosher for Passover: A Recent Exchange

Matt: What are you doing this weekend?
Me (Alejandra): Going home for Easter. I might hang out with (insert Jewish male friend's name) on Friday night actually. Probably go to Hoboken.
Matt: Oh god. You're so gonna have sex with him...
Me (Alejandra): No way! It's (Jewish male friend)!! And anyway, it's Passover.
Matt: So? It's not like you're made of yeast...

http://www.sentfrommydelldesktop.blogspot.com

I've been meaning to plug this for awhile. It's Alejandra's baby (er, one of them. She also has a cat. Anais. She's in heat. It's kind of gross and Alejandra desperately wishes that Anais would "stop her sluttish writhing.")

But, you can read all about it yourself.

I've been meaning to write a blog about my bowler's anxiety, but haven't gotten around to it. There's no excuse really - I don't work anymore. Not having a job has sort of made me feel uninspired these days. That's a little depressing. But art is supposed to be depressing anyway, so maybe I'm headed in the right direction.

cheers.

on the curb

2006-04-03T03:39:00.000-04:00

I thought about writing a blog,
but now I've reconsidered.

That is all.

Currently listening :
Give Up
By The Postal Service
Release date: By 18 February, 2003

why i'm so brown these days

2006-03-14T19:22:00.000-05:00

This was clogging up the main profile. There will probably be more to come because I love to think that everyone cares to see my vacation photos. I love to think that everyone reads these stupid blogs. I love to think that I am really really cool. I love to think that I never had anything to do with MySpace to begin with. Mmmmmm...

why i'm so brown these days:

mas fuerte

2006-03-10T02:53:00.000-05:00

Shame is opening your mouth to speak to a family member and then realizing that you don't even speak the same language. Well, sometimes you do, but it's always because cheating is involved. I'm on their turf, and I can't deliver much beyond asking them to pass the butter or telling them that I love them (both two very important functions in any language, but I'm sure you see my dilemma). My cousins and aunts and uncles and my grandparents have always spoken English; what need was there to ever learn Spanish? In fact, it almost would have been selfish to learn Spanish when they were constantly desiring to practice their English when we came to visit! Right? RIGHT?!

Not quite.

The fire crackles and burns bright blue embers, the wind sending some of those embers afloat and sending all of us dodging. One of them managed to bite the secondary toe of Kristen's left foot, leaving a hideous blister in its wake. I have it all on film, not wanting the moment to diappear forever as Kristen cursed the fire keeping her warm.
Tony was burping and spitting a mouthfull of beer onto the fire while Cristina, Elisabeth, Kristen, Cecilia (and admittedly me) sang a slightly off-key version of Only the Good Die Young. We could be heard all the way down the beach for certain. It was glorious. Somewhere in the midst of all this we spied three flash light beams shivering their way down the beach from about a quarter of a mile away - clearly my father, Kelly, and Norm (her father) on their way back from the cave down at the end of the cove (clearly, because we are just about the only people on this blessed beach out in the middle of nowhere). I quietly excused myself from the blaze and made my way quickly toward the surf to catch them. As I came closer, their flashlight beams caught my silhouette and shined my way. I continued into a blinding beam of light, shielding my eyes to no avail.

I joined them and we walked together as they told me about the all the crabs wandering the beach down that way and also the bat the size of a monkey that they had seen in the cave. Kelly was wide-eyed and slightly shaken, but all in excitement. Unlike the Jersey Shore, there are no lights out here - just starlight and moonlight. As we walked, we could see the outline of two or three men wading in the surf. Fisherman.
Dressed in nothing but a brief swimsuit, the men were skin diving into the surf to catch fish. We struck up a brief conversation with one as he walked us to his basket, sitting 10 yards from the incoming tide. THe fish smellled strongly, like oil and salt water and, well, fish. I looked down into the basket and saw about a dozen fish flopping urgently against one another, desperately (and fruitlessly) trying to find their way back to the ocean. My father waved his flashlight across their glittering scales.

"esto pescados de la noche"
Night fish, the fisherman explained to us, and then kindly asked us to keep our flashlight beams from the waves lest we scare away any of their game.
They would stay out for another two hours, catching whatever fish they could before making their way back up the beach and climbing the rocky cove (easily an 800 foot incline) back to the road where they would most likely bicycle back to their respective villages and prepare their goods for market.

As I made my way back toward the fire, I felt like I was on my very own beach. MY beach. This tiny little cove, the palm trees, the caves and the tumultuous waves... it felt so small and so vast all at the same time. The sound of the crashing waves pounding in my ears, I began to run, kicking up sand everywhere as I went. I ran just for the sake of running, just because it felt great to run. Because it felt great to lick the salt from my breath. I ran until I (blindly, because of the lack of light) hit a slight incline on the sand and tripped. I caught my balance, preventing a certain faceful of sand.

When I returned to the fire, Tony was dancing around the flames and chanting what he interpreted as a Native American rain dance chant. When that got old, he decided to smoke a cigarette with his belly-button while everyone sang Bob Marley tunes. We stayed until the fire burned out - a good three hours later. We stayed until Tony ran out of creative ways to entertain us. Until we ran out of songs to sing in English that my cousins knew and could sing along with.

I really, really love this.
Just this.
All of this.

Currently listening :
Volare! - The Very Best Of The Gipsy Kings
By Gipsy Kings
Release date: By 05 September, 2000

beneficence

2006-02-21T01:19:00.000-05:00

Two times.
That's two (2).

Two (2) times in the past twelve (12) months I have welcomed a new woman into my life. Well, honestly, they could hardly be considered women. At best, "pre-women", maybe. But these two little girls are some of the greatest accomplishments my siblings will ever tackle and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't just a mite proud.

The shape of those eyes, the pucker of those little lips, her button nose... yes, she's a Chexican just like her Aunt Monkey.
I arrived at the hospital earlier this afternoon, computer speakers in tow (JC can't stand to be bored for any longer than 38 minutes) and walked through an endless maze of sanitary tiled floors, dodging my way gracefully around wheelchairs and food carts, before finding the maternity ward. Guarding all the precious newborns and their glorious trust fund accounts was a single guard and a huge red double door magnetized and alarmed to the max. I had to be buzzed in, and I'm guessing that I didn't look all that threatening because they barely looked up when I walked through the door. No questions were asked, and no answers were given as I made my way to room 423.

Stepping in through the door, I was greeted by the image of my brother, t-shirt and baseball hat clad, holding his new born little baby girl. She looked like a little pappoose, swaddled tightly in her blanket. JC had her resting in the nook of his elbow as he fooled around on his laptop computer (shockingly). He smiled at me and looked down at Elliana.
"Isn't she so cute?"

I'm not the emotional type, per se, but really it was more than I could take. I instantly swelled with pride over my big brother, over this little human being which he had created. Her nose, her eyes, her mouth... everything was so incredibly small. She already knew how to pout and get whatever she wanted from daddy.
"I think she looks exactly like you" he told me. "even her nose and her chin - she's all you, if that's even possible."
I didn't say anything, but I was secretly overjoyed at the thought of her taking after me. I hadn't previously felt like I'd had any part in this creation. I didn't feel like it had anything to do with me outside the fact that JC is my brother. But her looking like me... it's pretty damn cool.

I watched as JC's massive hand adjusted her tiny little stocking cap more snugly over her head. He smiled at her and I could tell he'd been doing this all day - just looking at her and smiling at her and being amazed by her.
I turned away so that he wouldn't see the tears welling up in my eyes.

When did I get so sappy anyway?

This is my brother. This is wild, unrefined, and unreasonable JC. And this is his daughter, turning him into butter. The melted kind.

Currently listening :
Takk...
By Sigur RÃ³s
Release date: By 13 September, 2005

have an OK day

2006-01-25T02:02:00.000-05:00

Children are such gifts from God. A child's laugh, or smile, or slightly off-key rendition of "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star", or their ear-piercing screams at 3 o'clock in the morning that last until 4:45, or their projectile bowel movements that necessitate bed changes every other day (your bed, not theirs)...

I feel so incredibly selfish and horrible right now. I'm an awful Aunt. I have a... well, she's beautiful in her own way (babies come along after awhile), niece who is healthy even though most of the time, with her constant grunting and groaning sounds like she is not. She has ten fingers and ten toes, she can finally hold her head up straight, and her baby acne is coming in full bloom.
Why can't I help but feel like a horrible person for being irritated every time she defecates on my bed?
Good heavens, I'm building this to sound as though the child wears no diaper, but I assure you that the contrary is quite the truth. Her mother has not yet been properly trained in the method of drop-cloth diaper changing.

My home has been over-taken by nap time, feeding time, bath time, and bed time. I have a new alarm clock: my two year-old nephew (The famed Cheech Meister) who faithfully drags me from the depths of sleep every morning by climbing on my stomach and yelling "Monkey! Monkey! Wake up!" -- Sometimes he supplements this by counting to ten in Spanish or by asking to watch the Curious George movie trailer on Quicktime. He's my hero.

Somehow, over the course of the past 6 or 7 months, I have become the most selfish and narcissistic person that I know. The trouble is, I'm torn between feeling really enamored and feeling really disappointed. What a dilemma! Finally, the chance to be completely self-absorbed! The chance to up my potential wit at least 65% (it's a well known fact that the funniest people on earth are all supreme narcissists)! Finally, finally, finally... and I feel so guilty that I can't even crack a smile, let alone an admirable joke.

Kids.
BAH!

This is a really shitty web log.
I defy myself. Really.

I would move on to more interesting subject matter, but this is all I've got these days: screaming, pooping infants; moody two year-olds, four over-hyper and loud, barking dogs; a cat that likes to spill kitty litter all over creation and lick my toes while I use the toilet, and a wing of the estate that's under construction... I've got nothing else.
No wonder I'm self-centered, there's far too much else to focus on. It would be way too difficult and probably take too much time. But hey, isn't that what narcissism is all about?

You know, this isn't half bad actually.
I don't care if you're the center of your universe as long as I get to be the center of mine as well.

Currently listening :
The Trial of the Century
By The French Kicks
Release date: By 04 May, 2004

daydreams involving alejandra

2006-01-19T22:01:00.000-05:00

Alejandra says:

Hey love

Mónica says:

hola

Mónica says:

What’s up?

Alejandra says:

want to hear something weird?

Alejandra says:

I found out that Eric Hilton, the man who puts the thievery in thievery corporation, is dj-ing a set at 18th street lounge on Saturday

Alejandra says:

Jay and i have a party that night, but i know he would love to go

Alejandra says:

so i told him about it, and he's like "awesome, but i don't know if we'll be able to make it"

Alejandra says:

anyway, i go on the 18th st website to see if i can figure out better in terms of time, when eric will be doing his set

Mónica says:

Yes…

Alejandra says:

so i didn't find any info but i signed up for the dc mailing list

Alejandra says:

(this is all last night)

Alejandra says:

So this morning i get an e-mail from a so-called Mat Whittington responding to my sign up for the list that says “you going to be at the lounge on Saturday?”

Alejandra says:

and i thought he wanted to know if i wanted to be on the list

Mónica says:

That’s interesting…

Alejandra says:

so i write back and say: "yes, i'm hoping to make it, but my friend and i have a party earlier that evening. hopefully we'll be able to go later if we can get in"

Alejandra says:

and he replies "should be a good time. too bad i won't be here..."

Alejandra says:

and i was like "why are you missing it?"

Alejandra says:

and he's like "have to go to london and france for work. I leave tomorrow. Tough break, i know, but i always enjoy eric's sets."

Alejandra says:

anyway we keep writing back and forth and i'm like "do you always reply to all the strangers that sign up on the guestlist?"

Alejandra says:

and he's like "well i respond to everyone with a generic greeting, but i dont' joke around with them all. Just the ones with interesting names..."

Alejandra says:

anyway we kept e-mailing – talked about where we grew up, our favorite bars, favorite brunch places.

Mónica says:

Good heavens

Alejandra says:

lol

Alejandra says:

yeah but get this

Alejandra says:

i Googled him

Mónica says:

Naturally

Mónica says:

Who is he? Some major record exec?

Alejandra says:

he's the Label Manager for Eighteenth Street Music

Mónica says:

Holy crow. Of course.

Mónica says:

I should know him, I think.

Alejandra says:

i know!

Mónica says:

How come you now know him and I don’t?!

Alejandra says:

he's awesome

Mónica says:

How come you have your awesome web-editing job and I don’t?!

Alejandra says:

Moe, don’t hate.

Mónica says:

Alejandra, why have you stolen my life?!

Mónica says:

WHY?!?!?!?!

Alejandra says:

i'm a pod person

Mónica says:

A POD PERSON?

Mónica says:

HA!

Alejandra says:

you sound so dramatic in caps

Mónica says:

Maybe I should start wanting to be a journalist… NO NO NO

Mónica says:

A FOOD CRITIC! YES!

Alejandra says:

YES

Alejandra says:

we can trade lives

Mónica says:

Yes, and I’ll start meeting all these great food critic type persons… just by coincidence!

Alejandra says:

it's so weird though

Alejandra says:

that i'm just chatting with this guy

Alejandra says:

while listening to his music

Alejandra says:

very strange

Mónica says:

Give it ten years time and I’ll be disguising myself to eat in the hottest new restaurants, ping-ponging back and forth between LA and NYC and you’ll be up to your ears in A&R reps and entertainment lawyers, putting up hot new bands in swanky hotels that are worth way more than their music!

Mónica says:

And then we’ll call each other after ten years, just to catch up (because we’ve been so incredibly busy with our respective, flourishing careers),

Alejandra says:

of courrse

Mónica says:

And you’ll say “I don’t know how I got into this… when did this happen?! I don’t even like these bands! Whose idea was it to bring back disco anyway?!”

Alejandra says:

HAHAHHAHA

Mónica says:

And I’ll say, “I know… I’ve lost so much weight in the past few years. I hate food now. I just want to eat jell-o all the time. And macaroni and cheese with hot dogs cut up in it… where did my life GO?!”

Alejandra says:

mmmm i love mac and cheese and hotdogs

Mónica says:

And then we’ll agree to quietly and secretly switch jobs (knowing of course that this would work because our voices sound identical over the phone and no one on the planet – not even our parents – would ever know the difference).

Alejandra says:

HAHAHAHA

Mónica says:

And we won’t tell a single soul…

Alejandra says:

except for our hot husbands

Mónica says:

Of course, I am forced to change my name to Alejandra Jorge

Mónica says:

And you to Monica Natacha

Alejandra says:

Natacha!

Mónica says:

Well, yes, our husbands would know.

Mónica says:

But by this time, really, I would be so gaunt that I would have resorted to lesbianism

Mónica says:

And you’re married to Scott Stapp, whom you’ve grown incredibly weary of because all he does is whine and question existential issues all the time.

Alejandra says:

By the way, I love that you've managed to include your dream of being a waif

Alejandra says:

Wait, Scott STAPP!?!?

Mónica says:

Yeah. Sorry. He was the worst I could think of.

Alejandra says:

God, i hope i have more imagination that that

Mónica says:

No! Wait! Benji, from Good Charlotte!

Alejandra says:

hmmm

Alejandra says:

Nick Lachey?

Mónica says:

Alejandra says:

please?

Alejandra says:

damn

Mónica says:

He’s a nice guy who just happened to fall into a bad situation that snowballed. First 98 Degrees, then Jessica Simpson… the world is NOT his oyster, believe me.

Alejandra says:

i'll hook you up with the brunette from TaTU

Mónica says:

You’re a gem. A real friend, Alejandra.

Mónica says:

Fine, you can have Nick Lachey.

Alejandra says:

Yay!

Alejandra says:

he'll still be getting alimony from Jessica, who will be running a home for abused wives with Britney Spears (formerly Federline)

Mónica says:

You know Alejandra, you ALWAYS insist on having the best in these daydreams while I am continuously sacrificing a happy and prosperous life…

Mónica says:

You end up with Enrique Iglesias, and Nick Lachey

Mónica says:

While I end up with random Dave Josslyn and the mediocre half of a sucky lesbian duo.

Mónica says:

DAVE JOSSLYN!! In lieder hosen, nonetheless!!! And with his strange brother/cousin/nanny!!!

Alejandra says:

Whatever Moe. At least you get to be really skinny.

Currently reading :
Dry : A Memoir
By Augusten Burroughs
Release date: By 01 April, 2004

hiccup

2005-12-30T15:21:00.000-05:00

And here I am. I've crawled out of the gap and stepped back into the light, blinking in its harshness - slightly battered and only moderately bruised.

Breathe, Moe. This is fresh air.

I hear typical stories of individuals desiring so strongly to LIVE LIFE. Just get out there and live to the fullest; never missing a beat. Never missing a moment. I went through a phase like that sometime during my angsty teenage years. I was so desperate for life, or even death... just something. The desperation made me crazy sometimes, wishing I was the crying kind so that I could cry myself to sleep. But, alas, no tears came and when I wasn't suffering insomnia (which was much of the time, incidentally), I rolled dryly into sleep, musings of LIFE floating through my aching, 16 year-old head.
Now days, I think how nice it would be sometimes to simply be a spectator. There are enough beautiful lives around me to suffice, and new ones entering my life all the time and for years to come (hopefully).
So, this introduces Olivia Noelle, born quite unexpectedly on the evening of December 20th. She's like a little raisin...

And God is pretty damn amazing, isn't He?

Olivia sleeps not 10 feet from me as I write this, gurgling every now and again. She's completely taken over my bedroom, by the way... spitting up nearly everything she eats, she's well on her way to becoming the beautiful and complicated young woman stricken with an eating disorder that every girl someday becomes.

When it comes to watching the lives that twist, turn, and revolve around me day to day, I'd like to say that this is life. I mean, I could handle it if my life were watching these lives around me grow and develop, falter and succeed. Granted, I would never be able to resist the temptation to step in every now and again to lend a hand, or a word, or a hug, or a spontaneous dance to Dora the Explorer's opening credits. I'm not that disciplined. But I could watch. I could watch for a long time and be perfectly satisfied. There's this overwhelming peace that comes along with it that is really quite inexplicable. For every tear of sorrow there are four of joy. It's a pretty great trade-off, I'd say.

Live through this, and you won't look back.

I could most likely write about this for a long time, but I won't. Instead I'll shower, and dress, and pack my bags for a new years celebration in the district. I'll make my resolutions list: more a to-do list than anything else. Maybe I'll actually get some of it finished amidst all my watching this next year.

feliz ano nuevo a todos.

Currently reading :
Jesus Land: A Memoir
By Julia Scheeres
Release date: By 27 September, 2005

he said "maybe"

2005-11-28T20:19:00.000-05:00

Waking up to little, itchy bumps can be really really frightening. I realize this statement leaves plenty of room for gross misinterpretation, but please, don't misinterpret me, not even a little bit.

I've tried Allegra. I've tried Claritin, I've tried Clarinex... currently I'm working on a year's perscription of Zyrtec, my little allergy savior in a bottle. I think that, these days, even the Zyrtec isn't working so well. The little, itchy bumps persist and so does my violent scratching which leaves absolutely horrible looking red marks all over making me look like I've been pelted with Jujubes.

I have been pelted with Jujubes.

Brain food these days is dry Life cereal (not the cinnamon kind) and toaster waffles with lingonberries. I've also enjoyed the occasional affair with mac & cheese. Also, vegetable juice. I can't get enough of that stuff. And it's a shame that I keep feeding my brain such damn good stuff because I don't think I'm really using it right now. These days I awake to nightmares of cable knit sweater displays gone terribly wrong and backlashing, irate customers whose size I could not find "in the back". Retail has been pleasant though.
Let me tell you, this season the Gap has but one redeeming quality; one savior to call its own, and that is this sweater right here, and it comes in eight (8!) colors!! And this is about as dry as my Life (cereal).

You know what, I have to tell you... I am absolutely fabulous. Not me, as a person, but me in general; I feel fabulous, dig? For the most part, this is true. I'll have to look around here for it, but it seems to me that someone once said: "Happiness is a choice that requires effort." I think it's true for fabulousness also. Fabulousness is a choice that requires effort. Some days I'm just really lazy. I keep busy creating atmosphere for my life... I build the set but I'm too tired at the end of the day to actually utilize it. Let me tell you though, the atmosphere is phenomenal. Shadows cast this way and that creating perfect balances of darkness and light and color and all-around coolness. The air is positively filled with the stench of thinking and pointing and listening and maybe even some crying. There's also a faint whiff of coconut and vanilla lying around from somewhere or other. Music options abound and shift from the extraordinary to the mundane. There are rainy day tunes and empowering tunes and tunes to make you laugh. I'm running a regular starbucks here, folks... and not turning a damn dime of profit.

I knew I should have been an artist.

All this music available and I've got the GAP playlist stuck in my head.
But, my life could be far worse. I could have been born without a pancreas. That would really really suck. I could be someone who loves to write and although is never lacking inspiration is regularly lacking motivation and ends up settling for mediocrity and writing about absolutely nothing important whatsoever. Oh, man...

Someday this week I will tell a story, and it will be a good one. Right now, however, I'll just have to settle on my hives, and Life cereal, and the GAP playlist, and really really cheesy quotes about happiness and fulfillment... I keep all the good stuff written in another place anyhow.

Currently listening :
Grace
By Jeff Buckley
Release date: By 23 August, 1994

blank

2005-11-18T18:55:00.000-05:00

click here for the time of your life

Currently listening :
Guero
By Beck
Release date: By 29 March, 2005

this is where my mom is from

2005-11-16T23:49:00.000-05:00

Midlands Most Wanted

Each Monday, The State will run information on a suspect wanted by authorities. Since the feature began in February 2004, 29 suspects have been taken into police custody.

RODNEY DANE HIGGINBOTHAM

• DATE OF BIRTH: July 29, 1965

• DESCRIPTION: 6 feet 1 inch, 165 pounds, brown hair and hazel eyes

• WANTED BY: Lexington County Sheriff’s Department

• CHARGES: Third-offense criminal domestic violence

• LAST KNOWN ADDRESS: 232 Stagecoach Road, Gaston

• ALLEGED CRIME: Police said Higginbotham argued with his wife because she had not cooked anything. When she began cooking, he started making spaghetti while eating crackers and squeeze cheese. They argued, and he squeezed cheese on the kitchen floor. She squeezed the cheese on his truck, and he squeezed the cheese in her hair before fleeing in his truck. His wife said she washed her hair before the officer arrived to take her complaint.

• IF YOU SEE HIM: Call the Lexington County Sheriff’s Department at (803) 785-8230 or Crime Stoppers at (888) 559-TIPS.

simply basic

2005-11-16T03:14:00.000-05:00

Editor’s note: If you find yourself making commentary on recent unemployment more than once over the course of 12 months, please consider a change in career paths.

I was born to direct. I was born to sit in that special chair, and do a lot of pointing. I was born to make other people make things happen. I was born to think, and to create in my mind’s eye but then count on someone else to bring that creation to fruition…

I sit at my computer and make lists using Microsoft Word. My fingers can type so incredibly fast. I can’t write on paper anymore because my hand cannot keep up with my brain. I type for 30 seconds and then stare off to my right. I look at the bookcase and glance over the stack of laundry on my bed. And then I type again. I’m creating, see? This is what creative, unemployed people do: nothing.

While today was only (mostly) a series of good ideas, a day made up of 99% inspiration and only 1% perspiration, I did manage to create the most intriguing little corner in my bedroom. This amber-colored mosaic lamp that I’ve installed is positively intoxicating. My eyes feel the size of saucers as I sit, chin resting on knee, examining every last little square tile and the other-worldly glow that they cast over my bedroom… and I dare to say that this single minor adjustment might just increase my creative, do-nothing juices a good 30% over the next week or so.

I hope so.

Driving forces come all at once these days in a fluster of lust and love and passion and desire… well, these all sound so drastically sexual, but that’s not how I mean them at all. It’s like a draining whirlpool in my spirit: two tons of flourishing emotions being forced through one small pinpoint of a hole, draining out to God knows where.
If that sounds helpless, then I’m really not making myself very clear.
This doesn’t feel helpless, but feels excited, and anxious, and scared, and hopeful. Sometimes there are moments of helplessness…

Not two days ago I begged for a rebirth. I begged to be erased and re-generated, to start over. I would make better choices, do things right. I would trust and obey. This is the creation of inactivity. This is an overwhelmed spirit who does not know where to begin, because it is no longer at the beginning.

But then, there are always places to begin.

I begin by stitching up the rips in the seams of my throw pillows even though I don’t really know how to stitch anything, or, I say I don’t.
I begin by washing and re-washing laundry.
I begin by showering, even though it’s already 5 o’clock in the evening.
I begin by hanging prints on the wall that have been waiting to be hung for over a year.
I begin by folding laundry that’s been waiting to be folded for two weeks.
I begin by plugging in lamps and casting other-worldly glows over my bedroom walls.
I begin by dreaming up more things to begin.

There are many things I don’t even know how to do, from the monstrous to the mundane. I’m not sure how to paint my ceiling now that I’ve already painted my walls, and I have no idea how I’m going to start a new business.
I know how to create, but I don’t know how to build. Or I know how to…
Damn it. I know how to care, but I don’t know how to love. Egads, would you look at that?

And then I wonder if I can just create until there’s nothing left to create. If there’s some point I can reach at which time my entire mind will be clear, blank, erased…
Purity – damn, that’s really beautiful.

And, for the record, I wasn’t even close to being born to direct. I’m lousy at telling anyone what to do. I tell myself everyday, but, well, we all see where that gets me: right back to square one, back to the beginning.

Currently listening :
Ferment
By Catherine Wheel
Release date: By 09 June, 1992

Days 8 & 9: The price for governor

2005-11-07T01:23:00.000-05:00

The price for Governor: Faith, Experience, Loyalty and Trust
By: Habibullah Saleem

The price for Governor is loyaly and trust
The price for Governor is the absence of lust
Thoroughly qualified, Doug Forrester for sure
Bringing to the voters the requirements for cure

A state of emergency for a state that's ill
Doug Forrester with vision, with maximum skill
The price for Governor is substance in accord
Artificial opponents we cannot afford.

The voters today are in need of truth
Not someone unable to produce
The price for Governor means being for real
When voting for Forrester, the victory is sealed

A man unwilling to decline or pretend
No wonder Doug Forrester deserves to win
STraight to the point with honesty to share
Doug Forrester as Governor with leadership to spare

Down to Earth, whether black or white
Doug Forrester as Governor, an amazing delight
With nothing to hide, devoted and clean
Vote for Doug Forrester and not some scheme

Understanding New Jersey is to be alert
For health and economics he's willing to work
Putting in place collective education
Inclusive strategies with appropriate inspiration

A family man with righteous support
Unauthorized characters we must abort
Doug Forrester is accountable, dependable and precise
Willing to listen and accept advice

Knows how to proved and care for our elders
Forrester's character is that of a welder
Not drunk on status or monetary gain
Doug Forrester as Governor: productive and plain

Derailing confusion, tricks and lies
Integrity and dignity he constantly applies
A builder of unity, connecting the links
From the soul to the mind is the way he thinks

Winning you over with his honorable deeds
It's clear and obvious that he's the Governor we need
Born a winner with guts to challenge
Doug Forrester as Governor with exceptional balance

New Jersey as a garden in a state of decline
Defined by experience, a leader genuine
Not one to brag or foolishly boast
As Governor of New Jersey, oh! what a host!

Exposing the magicians with all of their tricks
As Governor of New Jersey Doug Forrester we pick
So let us as voters do more than just pray
Let's vote for Doug Forrester and without delay

***

Folks... I just can't make this stuff up.
There's tons more to write, with just one full day left to go. The highlights remain stellar (visits to black congregations and a country club that does not allow jewish members are just a few), and spirits are actually high.

My neck hurts.

To be continued...

Currently listening :
Yankee Hotel Foxtrot
By Wilco
Release date: By 23 April, 2002

Days Four - Seven: sometimes I actually feel like I have a real job

2005-11-04T20:33:00.000-05:00

Something told me at the beginning of this bus tour that I would have time
to be writing blogs daily as a useless and not read-worthy reference guide
to the Forrester for Governor campaign here in New Jersey... I was
absolutely correct in my original perception of how much of my time this
tour would be eating up. I'm busy, but I've certainly been busier. I've just
been lazy with this blog bit and admittedly, realizing how un-informative
and lack lustre it actually is.

Regardless, it's been an interesting past couple of days. of course, it
doesn't take much (just a small snippet or occurance here and there) for me
to turn into an entire blog entry. Berkeley's choice of necktie, an
overheard comment, an eight year-old with a better understanding of the new
jersey political process than either one of the candidates... you know,
little things. So, I might tell a few stories here from the campaign trail,
just to give you a little insight into how things work. I'll keep all the
secrets to myself though, seeing as how these types of things (written on
the internet) seem to come back and bite me in the ass all the time.

Doug received a letter from an eight year-old boy a few weeks ago. It was a
school project that had obligated him and his classmates to write and send a
letter to a hero of theirs. This boy, Gavin, chose Doug Forrester as his
hero and wrote Doug a letter highlighting his status as a "staunch"
republican and letting Doug know that he was "fed up with corruption in New
Jersey" and "very concerned about the transportation trust fund".
Admittedly, we thought that his parents had written the letter. Doug gave
young Gavin a call to chat with him and thank him for the kind letter only
to realize that it was VERY probable that young Gavin had indeed written
this letter copmletely on his own volition and using his own words.
This child became gold.
We decided to meet up with Gavin at the Toms River Halloween parade. His
parents drove him to meet the bus and were ecstatic that their son would get
the opportunity to sit at Doug Forrester's feet and suck up every ounce of
wisdom he could by way of osmosis.
His parents seemed relatively normal.
Gavin dismounted the family mini-van wearing navy trousers, a white oxford
shirt, and carrying a 2005 copy of the New Jersey legislative manual. He
was... interesting, but kind of cute for an eight year old political hack.
He exchanged words with Doug and Andrea for about an hour on the bus, sharing cokes and smiles. He shared that he is an only child and "very happy about it, because [he] gets all the attention". He also shared that he has no pets except a dead dog - but don't feel badly about the dog dying... he never really liked her anyway.

Gavin brought along his Halloween costume: a Garden State Parkway toll booth, featuring everything applicable including a basket to throw toll tokens, change, or in this case, candy into. I guess just keep Bret Schundler away from him.

I already briefed on the rest of the parade - no need for further delineation.

Tuesday I stayed off the bus the entire day, which was great because it afforded me the opportunity to do work for my old candidate, whom I still don't work for anymore, but manage to find work to do anyhow. My travels for Bret took me down to Trenton where I was dropping off the (hopefully, once again) final legal/financial report that I will ever have to drop off at the Election Law Enforcement Commission. I was waiting for my public financing representative to come down and chat with me when an old "friend" walked through the door.

Receptionist: "Are you here to drop off a Gubernatorial submission?"
Guest: "Yes, that's right"
Receptionist: "And which campaign are you from?"
Guest: "Bob Schroeder for Governor."
Receptionist: "And you are...?"
Guest: (ahem) "Bob Schroeder."

I felt really embarassed for him. Bob was one of the seven republican gubernatorial candidates this past spring in the new jersey primary election for governor. He was one of the less... popular candidates. A committeeman from Washington Twp. (Bergen), he had absolutely no name recognition state-wide and little to no leverage even locally (he wasn't even the mayor, just a councilman). A millionaire (seemingly a trend this year), he spent an absolute TON of money unnecessarily and only kind of made himself look a little silly. Regardless, I felt embarassed for him that absolutely no one knew who he was and I imagined that he was dropping off his own submission because he had absolutely no one else that would be taking care of things for him.

He stepped into the public filing room that I was waiting in and nodded his head toward me.

"Hi, I'm Bob Schroeder"

I nodded my head and smiled, "Yes, I know. I think we've met a couple of times, but you know... always amongst the masses."

He smiled back and glanced quickly at the files and papers I had set down on the table.

"Which campaign are you with?"
"Bret Schundler's campaign... last submission."
"Yeah... well, my accountant is in Ocean County and I was over there and figured, hey, while I'm down here, I'll just bring the submission over myself, you know?"

Yeah. I know, Bob.

Tuesday night was anything but anti-climactic as I found myself back in Newark at the Renaissance Church on 7th Avenue and Roseland St. We pulled up to the corner to find 250 African American Newark residents holding signs and screaming at the height of their ability. It was causing quite the ruckus and the media was eating it up. CBS, ABC, Fox, and a few others came out for the show. It was quite the spectacular show and I got to flex my "secret service" muscle as I navigated Andrea through the congestion, guarding her back with my outstretched arm, completely unconvinced that it would derail any sort of serious threat to her person.

The rally was just short of amazing. Doug was dead on target. It was great. The crowd was so incredibly electric... it generated this sort of high that wafted through crowd, touching most everyone and leaving us all in a buzz that would have been really hard to deflate.

For a moment, I felt like I might actually (finally) be working on a winning campaign.

Last night Andrea and I traveled into New York City for a fundraiser that some friendly neighbors (new yorkers) were hosting for the Forrester for Governor campaign. This was probably the highlight of the campaign as our driver (a former Port Authority police officer) arranged for us to have a police escort through the Lincoln Tunnel so that we wouldn't sit in traffic for two hours. Simple, right? I imagined that a police officer would clear the path in front of us, lights flashing, siren sounding, and we would wait patiently as people angrily moved aside. I never imagined what actually did happen. I never imagined that this would be a multi-officer operation, shutting down an entire lane of the Lincoln Tunnel and funneling all traffic to the right hand lane as we cruised past in the left lane, officer in front and in back. Andrea laughed uncontrollably in nervousness, as she ducked and hid her face from the view of the million and one commuters to our right, sitting in absolutely stillness as we drove on, effortlessly. It was pretty amazing and we were only happy that there were no campaign bumper stickers on the car. We ended the evening with dinner in mid-town and returned home in relatively high spirits.

I'm on the bus as I type and am heading to Vineland (Cumberland County) where we will attend a rally for the candidate. We just left Gloucester where Doug and Andrea walked the cows home from pasture with Farmer Smith and his wife. It was precious.

There has been some anxiety felt on the bus today and was felt strongest as we waited, parked in cow country, all of us tuned into the radio listening to new accusations. I can't imagine ever being a candidate's wife. I really feel sympathy for Andrea right now.

Tonight ends late and tomorrow is a long day. Only 4 days left to go...

hoo-rah.

Day Three: yeah, where is that guy?

2005-11-01T02:18:00.000-05:00

Brevity, in the past, has not always been my strongest quality. Certainly I might be known in some circles for charm, wit, the occasional good deed, but brevity is really not a strong point of mine.

Regardless, I plan on being brief at this moment only because it's an early start tomorrow morning and my poor, aching neck is in need of a soft, cushy pillow...

Every Halloween I forget at least 18 times that it's actually Halloween. Today was certainly no exception.
The holiday's presence finally sunk in as we arrived this evening at the Toms River Halloween parade. This particular parade has been held annually for the past 60 years and is hosted by the local fire department. They have very strict rules about politicking.

NO bumper stickers.
NO lapel stickers.
NO campaign literature.
NO campaign paraphernalia of any sort.

In fact, I had to promise all sorts of favors (ahem) just to convince them that Doug and Andrea themselves were not political paraphernalia.
It was actually a terrific parade, highlighted by the fact that all of the kids in Toms River trick or treat on the 30th and we were continuously refused when offering several children some of the 86 lbs. of candy that we had brought along with us. Everyone was "candied-out", a definite contrast to Saturday's pre-halloween parade.
I ate 5 miniature Twix bars while trying (vigorously) to give away candy, as though it were to stand as a testament to those would-be candy takers around me as to how wonderful an idea the candy actually was.
I don't even like chocolate. The sacrifices I'm making on a regular basis here are truly outstanding.

Innocently we walked down the sidewalk following Doug and Andrea, all 7 of us. We were a friendly entourage, eating and offering candy.
It only took about 15 minutes before they completely swarmed us. Young kids, about 12 of them, surrounded us with Corzine signs, blocking Doug's face from the crowd. They were passing out lapel stickers and bumper stickers (please refer back to the rules) and one was dressed peculiarly, with blue spiked hair and a large butterfly pinned to her back. They took pictures of Doug being suffocated by "Corzine". Doug smiled on, greeting parade goers and ignoring the nay-sayers.
They stood silently, but strangely made more noise than anyone there. They surrounded us and walked with us for a good 14 blocks.
It's really a shame that Senator Corzine is so crowd-phobic, or else he could have been there to defend himself against the masses.

"Corzine sucks!!!!" (this one was really popular)
"Oh, look, Corzine... wait, is he out tonight?"
"I thought they weren't supposed to have signs here."
"Don't ruin our Halloween!"
"Are you what we get in the statehouse if Corzine wins?" (directed to blue-haired butterfly girl... who, actually, someone wasn't sure if she was a guy in a skirt or not).

They followed us nearly all the way back to the bus and I briefly considered inviting them in for hot chocolate.
I wonder how much those kids got paid tonight...

***
I actually wasn't even on the bus today. I met up with the bus in Toms River to join them for the parade, but otherwise I was running around Jersey City like mad (for top secret reasons... really), and spent two hours or so in Princeton with Andrea while she was filming her next commercial for Doug (tune in to see)!

Pretty uneventful day. Tomorrow is fairly light also: a press conference in Newark sometime around 3:30.

Jeff Whelan followed us around yesterday at the Giants game. Actually, wonder of wonders, Greg and I bumped into him in Jersey City this morning. Regardless, he wrote up a little blurb that showed up today. Just a little highlight:

”Forrester, who is touring the state by bus, kicked off his day in the parking lot at the Meadowlands prior to the Giants game with the Washington Redskins. At a tailgating party hosted by a supporter, the candidate fended off Jell-O shots and feasted on a roasted pig as Led Zeppelin blared in the background and the crowd chanted his name.

Forrester and his wife, Andrea, then ventured through the rest of the parking lot where they ran into a few New Yorkers, who told him they were sorry they couldn't vote for him.

"This is Jersey, we can work these things out," Forrester joked.

Some fans mistook Forrester for a member of the Mara family, owners of the Giants, and a few others complained that his campaign bus nearly drove them off the road on the way to the parking lot. Forrester apologized profusely, but that didn't satisfy everyone.

"This is B.S.," said one fan, Arthur Sockolof, complaining that politicians have no place at a football game. “

And, of course, I couldn't possibly forget to ad my absolute most favorite quote of the day! Overheard in Toms River at the Halloween Parade: "Hey, so did you see Vinny's new Mustang?!"

Folks… all in a day’s work.

Day Two: welcome to the jungle

2005-10-30T12:35:00.000-05:00

I heard it was so cold yesterday that Jon Corzine had his hands in his own pockets... amazing, eh?
But while yesterday took every chance it could to greet us with windy chills, today was gracious and kind, with warm sunshine and little to no wind to push us along; it was glorious.

I'm not a big sports fan, folks. Not to say that I dislike sports (that's really not the case at all. In fact, I really do enjoy sports quite a bit), but I just wouldn't consider myself a fan. At least, I certainly wouldn't consider myself a fan after today. I don't think I actually ever even really knew the true definition of "Sports Fan" until this morning.

Our first stop on the bus tour today was the Giants / Redskins game at Giant's stadium. We arrived somewhere around 9:30 or 10 in the morning and were greeted by thousands of already drunk fans who had been working toward the goal of complete inebriation since roughly 7:30 or 8 o'clock that morning. Doug shook one thousand and one hands in what he later admitted was a tremendous effort after the first 300 or so, suggesting that perhaps drunk hands are a little harder to shake.

The purpose of the stop was to meet and greet with thousands of potential voters, make our absurdly billboard-esque bus visible to thousands of potential voters, and to stop by a volunteer's tailgate party at 16-B.

Wow.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is where the Future Meatheads of America (FMHA) meet.

This is where young, semi-attractive women adorned in gucci, chanel and prada are coupled to thick men with creative facial hair and wardrobes existing of only three colors: red, white, or blue.

This is where everyone's creativity shines brightest when trying to outdo one another in innovative ways to channel beer directly from the can to their mouths.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is where beer ads are made.

BF and I sat at the end of the theme-decorated motorhome that our hosts had parked at 16-B and watched the crowd around us.
I ate a little bit of pig.

The hugging.
The deep throated yelling.
The chants.
The dumpster diving...
Yes! There was dumpster diving! The honors were done by a man wearing a bright red wig. He did a flip right into the dumpster. Apparently this sort of occurance is a real issue at Giants Stadium.

After the dumpster dive, all the "Sports Fans" gathered in a circle around a guy wearing a Redskins jersey. I get the feeling that this was all staged and role-played, similar to professional wrestling. There was a ring leader who was yelling through a bull horn, bringing the offending opposer to his knees in the middle of the circle. The jersey was violently ripped off and immediately began a ritualistic burning. Doused in lighter fluid, the jersey melted before our very eyes as "Welcome to the Jungle" blared at deafening levels from the sound system that our host at 16-B had provided. The fans danced in a circle around the flaming adornment and chanted their devotion to the New York Giants.

BF and I were the only people not shouting, chugging, or stomping on the burning remnants of the jersey. We laughed though. We laughed in absolute utter amazement.

**

After the tailgate party, we escorted Doug and Andrea to an area where there was a lot of traffic going into the stadium (people traffic, not car traffic). They shook hands here and greeted game-goers for a solid hour. I was more than amused for a solid hour.

A lot of comments were overheard and most of them made my day in one way or another, but there are a few that stuck out so greatly in my mind that they ended up finding little ways to regurgitate themselves throughout the day, making me smile like mad.

"Let's go Corzine! Let's go Rebates!"
Perhaps a little weak, but funny because it's about as common a mixture as creamer in your lemon tea.

"Forrester sucks! Crack kills!"
No further delineation necessary.

"Yeah! Forrester! You have my fuckin' vote!"
I think it's great that people can mix profanity and encouragement.

and possibly my absolute favorite of the day:
"God bless you, Doug Forrester"
You really had to hear the tone of this one... you had to be there to fully understand. It was a heartbreaker for certain.

Most of the comments were encouraging though, seriously. Doug stood and answered questions, autographed sports memorabilia, smiled for photographs, and successfully clogged the stadium entrance...

The rest of the day was relatively anti-climactic in comparison. We had a press conference with NBC and CBS. I closed my finger in a door (!). Black Sheep closed his head in a door. Yes... relatively anti-climactic.

There were a few press clips that popped up from Sunday's travels.
We had Josh Margolis (of the Star Ledger) traveling on the bus with us and to the Rutgers game. The clip is so-so, but gives a little insight to traveling around with the candidate which is [usually] interesting.

Tomorrow is a light day. Maybe I'll sleep in. Or go to Curves. Or write this entry since I got too lazy to do it when I was supposed to.

Currently listening :
Appetite for Destruction
By Guns N' Roses
Release date: By 25 October, 1990

Day One: I saw a sumo wrestler

2005-10-30T01:36:00.000-05:00

I don't watch television a whole lot. In fact, the occasion that I turn on a television is so rare that I'd say I'm more likely to be struck by lightning or to be attacked by a shark than I am to be caught watching Desperate Housewives (that analogy really isn't fair, because I mean, even if I did watch television you can be assured that I still wouldn't be caught watching Desperate Housewives).

Regardless, I was enthralled today as I was absolutely surrounded by televisions channeling into satellite stations. Fox News and the Weather channel blared around me from every angle. I wasn't sure why it was necessary to have 8 different televisions on the bus, but we did.
The campaign is taking a 10 day bus tour (starting this morning and ending at the Westin in Princeton on Election Day - November 8th) and I'm on the bus every single day managing all sorts of menial tasks such as holding purses, finding lids for styrofoam coffee cups, and purchasing any kind of confection that I can find for the candidate's 19 year-old daughter. She consumes more sugar than anyone I've ever met in my life - it's really quite impressive... I get paid for this, by the way.

We had Fox News on mute (the best way to have it) and I stared as one ridiculous advertisement after the other flashed across the screen.
Did everyone know that they've revived the "Help! I've fallen and I can't get up!" advertisements for LifeAlert?! I had no idea. Maybe they never really fell out of circulation, but I just saw it for the first time in many many years. It was silenced, but I laughed. I laughed a lot actually. I laughed at the advertisement for the gospel singer who apparently hasn't had her photograph taken since 1976. I laughed at a commercial for the no-name brand electric razor that came with a free gift (a special napkin dispenser [?], if you order now). I even laughed at Fox's mini headlines running along the bottom of the screen. When we first got on the bus in the morning, one of them read: "Iranian President makes statement: 'Israel should be wiped off map.'" Then, just four or five hours later, I saw the headline had changed to: "Iran retracts earlier statement that Israel should be wiped off map."
That was the highlight of my day I think, actually.

I ate a lot of food today.
I consumed a lot of sugar too.
I had Cracker Barrel's magnificent macaroni and cheese. bliss.

We traveled to a Rutgers football game where I saw a guy (convincingly) dressed as Napoleon Dynamite.
We visited three diners and interrupted several people's meals with greetings from Doug and Andrea.
We participated in a Halloween parade that was actually pretty damn fantastic.
I came to a crazy realization today. It was almost monumental: people really do like Doug. And for every person that likes Doug, there are three that LOVE Andrea. Her commercial (the one that I still haven't even seen but continue to tell her how great it is) is probably the best thing that ever happened to this campaign. Brava, Andrea.

I saw JM2 in Medford at the parade hurling candy at small children. I think only one of them walked away with a concussion. He said he wasn't in costume, but he was wearing an aviator jacket with the American Flag printed on it, blue sweatpants left over from 1989, and Andrew McCarthy's hair.

He continues to amaze me. He took the bar again this summer. I'm not sure if he passed it or not this time though. My guess is... well, you know.

I've discovered that this bunch is actually funny. I mean, they've cracked a few jokes here and there before, but spending all day with them today, cooped up in a bus, I found that they really are funny people. They were a lot more relaxed than I've ever seen them. Berkeley actually has a sense of humor, and apparently is a ladies' man. Rumor has it that he picked up one of the waitresses at the Cracker Barrell. I think it was a really good decision.

I got kicked out of Lowes for "soliciting". So I ripped the campaign sticker off my chest and kept on talking. The manager wasn't too happy.
"Ma'm, you cannot solicit here at the store with any political party or candidate!"
"My candidate left - he's down at BJ's... I'm just having a conversation here."
"If you're speaking on behalf of your candidate, then that still counts."
"Oh.... well, then thank goodness I'm not!"

She left me alone after that, but I thought it best that I just leave. That's when I went to go find lids for the coffee cups and to order a turkey sandwich for Andrea... I get paid for all this, by the way.

There were roughly 35,000 people at the halloween parade in Medford. All the kids were in costumes and were like little vultures over the candy being thrown their way. I've never seen anything like it. I saw a sumu wrestler, a 300 lb. man dressed as a beauty queen, and an elf riding on a snowman's shoulders (which, amazingly, was one costume). Doug was well received.

There's this red-headed guy, Pete, who works for Corzine but his sole job is to follow Doug around to every single event he attends and write down/record/videotape everything that Doug says. We joke around with him, chat with him, ask him how his day is going, sort of look out for him... there's this funny scenario though that I keep imagining in which Pete, after working at this job for several months, finally finds himself one day at an event where Doug is speaking, nodding his head in agreement: "yeah! this guy's right!" and then totally converting to the other side. It's just a funny thought.
Every once in awhile, we try to battle Pete. We'll shut the doors on him, or tell him that a certain event doesn't allow video. We do it because we can even though it doesn't really matter.
He always has the same sorts of responses to little jests that we regularly make.
"Hey Pete, why are you still recording Doug everywhere he goes? Isn't it too late for that anyway?"
His response, "It's never too late."

"Hey Pete, how's it going today? You haven't gotten beat up yet, eh?"
His response: "It's still early."

Nine more days, folks. Just nine.
I've decided, for unknown reasons, to post Doug's schedule through election day on my calendar here. I just really want to use the calendar, more than anything.

I'm bringing my iPod with me tomorrow.
And a change of clothing.

true stories

2005-10-21T00:36:00.000-04:00

Black circles are not the problem, but instead, black rectangles as my eye (the right one) seems lately that it does not want to be bothered with contact lenses. I either put in the lens, it rips, and needs to be replaced 24 hours later or the eye decides to completely refuse it altogether and I am forced to rock the specks (which I dislike intensely).

Sunday, in an effort to save on gas, I rode to church with Cristina and rode home with Tony. Tony's car is an absolute pig hole, filled to capacity with candy wrappers, empty coke bottles and various crumpled paper products; CDs are strewn everywhere with no jewel cases in sight and air fresheners hang from every possible place to hang them from. He lit a cigarette and almost immediately dropped it in his lap causing him to nearly drive off the road. It burned a rather large hole in the seat between his legs. His lighter was shaped like a pig and had flames shooting from the snout. Peculiar.
We rode in silence most of the way until Tony reached to turn down the volume so I could hear him speak.
"You want to hear something really messed up? I was at a party last week and the guy that was having the party had a pinata... it was filled with a bunch of condoms and man thongs and stuff. Everyone was pretty wasted and when the pinata got busted open, I grabbed a few of the man thongs and was putting them on my car and stuff - they've just been laying around my room. The thing is, this morning I got up and didn't have any clean underwear, soooo..."

Tony wore a man thong.
To church.

Back in February sometime there was a rather large snow storm, the kind that forces you out of your house a full hour before you would usually leave for work so that you can dig your car out and defrost everything; the kind that keeps the plows so busy that it can take 2-3 days for them to get to my road; the kind that is followed by an ice storm leaving the 2 1/2 feet of snow in a thick, icy shell. It was that kind of snow storm.

It did take me an hour to dig my car out from under the mounds and mounds of snow. It had been two days and the plows hadn't come to visit my street yet. An ice storm had followed the snow and had left a thick layer of ice on everything, but I drove on anyway... and made it about a block before I found myself in a slide down a hill that I could do nothing about. I hit a ditch and said ditch catapulted me into the air and straight into my neighbor's mailbox.
Mailbox went everywhere. I said "oh no".

No one was home so I assembled a pile of mailbox pieces as neatly as I could at the end of the driveway and left my business card with a note on their front door. I received a call later that afternoon gushing with gratefulness at such honesty.
"Oh! But how could I have possibly left without saying anything. I felt horrible! You are, afterall, my neighbor!" (I had never even met these people).
She gushed for about five more minutes and then assured me that her husband or her would give a call back when they got things figured out.
I never heard from them again.

Five months later, a new mailbox had still not been put up. They had purchased a new box and had placed it on a stump, but there was no post or fancy reflectors. It took nearly 6 months before I finally drove by one morning and noticed the mailbox firmly planted into the ground, new numbers on its side, new reflectors warning future would-be mailbox hitters.

A week later it was knocked down again. This time by a drunk driver. I couldn't believe their misfortune and wondered if they secretly thought that I had done it a second time. I still had never met them or heard from them.

Yesterday morning I was racing back home to dig up a sandwich and a change of clothing before heading down to Princeton to clean up a crisis that the candidate's wife was suffering (someone botched up the schedule) when I saw my neighbor walking down her driveway for the mail. I thought to myself: "wow... I should really stop and introduce myself, say hello, do the neighborly thing. I still haven't even met these people and if nothing else I should at least do that!"
So, on an impulse, I pulled into the driveway. She stopped and stared, trying for the life of her to figure out who I was. I left the engine running and got out of the car to introduce myself.
"Hey there! I'm a neighbor of yours; I'm the girl who ran into your mailbox the first time."
Her face brightened up and she immediately put out her hand to meet me. She was ecstatic to see me, ecstatic that I had stopped by, still ecstatic that I had been so honest about the situation. She gushed for 5 minutes or so and I let her, smiling the entire time and thinking what a good neighbor I was.
"Hey! I just wrote you a letter the other day, actually. My husband and I were so grateful for your honesty. You know, not a lot of people would have done that..."
(awww, shucks, stop that now...)
"If you wait right here, I'd like to run in and print it up for you - is that alright?"
I assured her I would wait outside for a minute as she ran inside to get me this fantastic letter she had written me.

She folded it before she handed it to me.
"You know... if this is... too much, you can just, you know, pay us in installments or something..."
I was only mildly shocked. OK, so they're still interested (after all this time) in collecting a fee for the mailbox I busted. OK, no reward for honesty... but that's alright. I mean, it's fair. I busted their mailbox.
I told her I would drop a check in the mail as soon as I could and then parted ways. I couldn't wait to check the damage.

2 Central Avenue
Whitehouse Station, NJ 08889
October 14, 2005

Monica N. Navarro
1 Haver Place
Whitehouse Station, NJ 08889

Dear Ms. Navarro,

As I'm sure you recall, you accidentally hit our mailbox several [8!!!!!] months ago. My wife and I appreciate your honesty.

Unfortunately, the parts were not salvageable and had to be replaced. I still have the mailbox in case you wish to inspect it. Following are the costs involved in replacing and mounting the new mailbox:

"Ironside" mailbox $56.95
Cedar post and vinyl sleeve: 20.00
Vinyl post cap 4.00
Iron post anchor 19.95
Brass numbers 3.95
Reflectors 1.50
Labor [!?!?!?!] 50.00

Sub-total: $155.40
Tax: 9.33

Total: $164.73

I would greatly appreciate a check in the above amount as soon as possible [I see time is a real issue for them]. If you'd like to discuss this matter, please stop by during the weekend.

Sincerely,
John
Homeowner

So while geography says that they're my neighbors, in my heart, as far as I'm concerned, they live in Deluth.

oh

2005-10-17T00:02:00.000-04:00

this is me, covering my ears, closing my eyes,
and screaming.

Currently listening :
Without Condition
By Ginny Owens
Release date: By 20 July, 1999

below fair market value

2005-10-14T03:20:00.000-04:00

My father has several hobbies. He enjoys computers and technology, Bible study, traveling, and taking the worst possible picture using the best possible camera.

I found a collection of wedding photographs from this past weekend on our network and decided that, with a few revisions and improvements, these positively horrible pictures could be made into something worthwhile.

***
Instructions:
Click on the link under the "before" photo to see the "after" result

This photo, like many that JC takes, lacks a discernable focal point. I've gone ahead and highlighted a few possible points of interest that could have been chosen. focal points

Next, we have this lovely photo which actually isn't that bad, but could stand some minor improvements. JC & Rhiannon

This is not really good for any of the individuals involved. A picture like this requires some sort of diversion to make you forget about how bad it is. bridesmaids

Finally, this photo could be terrific after just a few minor touch-ups. Thanks to fantastic programs like Adobe Photoshop, the editing takes no time at all. Moe & Cheech

I love that my job affords me the chance to take on little projects like this.

fun size me

2005-10-13T02:34:00.000-04:00

The above has the capacity to be great.
Or, at the very least, a new cinematic obsession for me.

I should be resting peacefully in my (if I do say so myself) supremely comfortable bed right now, but instead I'm trapped by this computer and find myself watching movie trailer after movie trailer on QuickTime's website, as I periodically do.

I totally forgot to put on deodorant today.

Deodorant didn't really seem to matter, however, as I walked through the day in a Miles Davis daze. Everything was wet and grey, temporarily staining the front of my shirt with damp spots. I looked like I was lactating.

Rudy Giuliani visited Westfield today for a press conference with Doug. 300+ people forced their way into a room built for 100. That State House press guy was there that I always see around. I can never place his accent. In fact, it might not be an accent at all. This is the first time he's every spoken directly to me, as it was somewhat unavoidable, us smashed against one another and a wall, with no room to move except to swivel our heads from left to right.
Rudy ended his endorsement speech and gripped Dougs hand high in the air, smiling for the flashing cameras. Doug was beside himself with glee. It took 20 minutes to get them out of the building.

Later that afternoon, in a noble effort to make at least one supporter very happy, I would spend 10 minutes fishing an autographed photo from the console's crevice of Rudy's SUV. I scraped up my hand pretty badly and it left hives for awhile. I have no idea how they managed to drop the picture through such a small space.

Mayor Giuliani was taping a commercial for Doug at a law office in Westfield. I waited silently as I listened to "I was mayor of New York for eight years..." a minimum of 14 times. Andrea and I left before they finished taping.

I drove through flood waters twice to get to work this morning.
Red Bull: at lips.
Teddy Grahams: in hand.
I'm campaigning now, yeah!

I'm not complaining about my job... I just can't wait for election day to get here.

Driving home tonight, I glanced in my rearview mirror as I turned to take my third detour due to flooding. There was a single leaf stuck to my back windshield, suctioned to the glass by a million tiny droplets. Headlights shone through the glass behind me, blacking out the leaf's bright colors and turning it dark. It distracted me all the way home and I kept stealing glances every chance I could get.

Four barking dogs.
One mug of hot tea.
Bed trousers. Tiger Balm. Movie trailers. MySpace... eventually it will end for a spell, but it will end amongst down and cotton and my favorite pillow which was recently stolen and then returned.

My life's not so rough.

** This was all way better before FireFox decided to create an error that would shut down the program and erase all the wonderfully delightful things I had written... my memory usually serves me correctly, but please understand. **

** I really am listening to "one bedroom" **

Currently listening :
One Bedroom
By The Sea and Cake
Release date: By 21 January, 2003

charm>link

2005-10-11T05:40:00.000-04:00

identical silhouettes standing side by side, feet set at shoulder's width apart.
same jeans.
same shirts.
same blazers.
same silver band on the middle finger of the right hand.

same beer bottles held at a perfect 45 degree angle to their mouths.
same stream of confidence down each trap for the same dark, happy ride.
matching shadows stretch back from the soles of their matching boots...
stretching back to me.
The shadows meet my legs and follow them straight up to my hips, my stomach, my neck, my face, where I hold a similar beer bottle, on the very verge of reflecting that same 45 degree angle, but too distracted by this perfect sight - everything freezes just like that for 2 seconds before one of the matching silhouettes reaches with his left arm to scratch his right elbow.

The world is perfect for two seconds.

The next distraction is just around the corner. Stage lights flashing, heads nodding in flawless and not-so-flawless rhythm, smoke slithers to the ceiling and a flash of light catches his eye, reflects into his beer bottle, and twinkles back at me.

The world is perfect for three seconds.

Mama naps and the Cheech plays on as he learns that more than one monkey was caught jumping on the bed and he literally falls off and bumps his poor, blonde little head.
Lifting him two and a half feet above me, my feet supporting his mid-section, I hold his little hands and watch the patterns that his swirling hair make in the air as I bring him in for a crash landing.
He's perfecting his english these days and asks of me: "Again, Monkey!"

The world is perfect for an hour.

All sorts of things are saved for rainy days, but I've managed to keep not one of them. Water falls down in sheets from steel grey skies and drenches positively everything in sight.
Droplets creep their way down window panes, collecting smaller droplets on their journey and create a hydrating web of wonder.
Bridesmaids hug skirts around knees as they jump over small puddles, holding eight pound bouquets over their heads to protect wedding day hair from the mother nature's hydroware.
Glossy smiles stretch for miles as two candle wicks, two hands, two lives, two hearts are made one.

The world is perfect for a day.

Darkness is for sleeping... sometimes.
Scary darkness is meant to be pierced by furious light, and curious darkness is meant to be followed by surprise...
But perfect darkness is meant to be left to its perfection, highlighted only by the flickering of candlelight.

Eyes closed.
And if you're lucky: those flickers dancing poetry on the inside of your eyelids.

Bare legs resting, and lifting - the senses are tickled as sound, and sight, and touch and smell all collide... somewhere, superboy floats through your ears.
At this very moment it could be a tear, or a laugh, or a hug, or a stare...

And the world is perfect forever.

Currently listening :
Teaser & The Firecat
By Cat Stevens
Release date: By 23 May, 2000

risky business

2005-10-04T18:04:00.000-04:00

I take a risk in posting this, I realize.
"Oh! But it's such a nice little poem!" you all might say.
The truth of the matter is this: I usually don't subscribe to cute little poems of encouragement. I don't subscribe to Precious Moments dolls or to Proverbs stitched onto throw pillows. I don't subscribe to note cards bearing NIV interpretations of John 3:16 or to signing letters with "God bless you"... the reason is that to me it represents a culture of people who say a lot of things and do very little. To me it represents the idea of loving Christ and others, but not actually doing it.

Regardless, I remember a dear friend at the training center giving me a copy of this poem that I have actually kept quite treasured for the past 10 years, the typing paper that bears its printing has been kept folded and creased and tucked away because it was so pertinent and important to me then.
It is has become impossible to ignore the perfect timing at which this piece of paper constantly chooses to resurface in my life. At the risk of sounding really sappy, I feel like it becomes more and more important to me each and every time.

***

Desperately, helplessly, longingly, I cried.
Quietly, patiently, lovingly God replied.
I pled and I wept for a clue to my fate,
And the Master so gently said, "You must wait!"

"'Wait?', you say, wait!" my indignant reply.
"Lord, I need answers, I need to know why!
Is your hand shortened? Or have you not heard?
By FAITH I have asked, and am claiming your Word.

"My future and all to which I relate
Hangs in the balance, and you tell me to WAIT?
I'm needing a 'yes,' a go-ahead sign,
Or even a 'no' to which I can resign.

"You promised, dear Lord, that if we believe
We need but to ask, and we shall receive.
And Lord, I've been asking, and this is my cry
I'm weary of asking! I need a reply!"

Then quietly, softly, I learned of my fate
As my Master replied once again, "You must wait."
So I slumped in my chair, defeated and taut,
And grumbled to God, "So, I'm waiting. . .for what?"

He seemed then to kneel and His eyes wept with mine,
And He tenderly said, "I could give you a sign.
I could shake the heavens and darken the sun.
I could raise the dead and cause mountains to run.

"I could give all you seek and pleased you would be.
You'd have what you want, but you wouldn't know ME.
You'd not know the depth of my love for each saint.
You'd not know the power that I give to the faint.

"You'd not learn to see through the clouds of despair;
You'd not learn to trust just by knowing I'm there;
You'd not know the joy of resting in me
When darkness and silence are all you can see.

"You'd never experience the fullness of love
When the peace of my Spirit descends like a dove;
You would know that I give and I save for a start,
But you'd not know the depth of the beat of my heart.

"The glow of my comfort late into the night.
The faith that I give when you walk without sight.
The depth that's beyond getting just what you ask
From an infinite God, who makes what you have LAST.

"You'd never know, should your pain quickly flee,
What it means that 'My grace is sufficient for thee.'
Yes, your dreams for your loved one overnight would come true,
But, oh, the loss! if you lost what I'm doing in you.

"So, be silent, my child, and in time you will see
That the greatest of gifts is to truly know Me,
And though oft may my answers seem terribly late,
My most precious answer of all is still..."WAIT."

latitude :: longitude

2005-09-30T17:25:00.000-04:00

"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

drink cold, refrigerate responsibly

2005-09-26T22:44:00.000-04:00

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!"
Unbelievable...

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?
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.
"Hello?"
"Hey, is this Brandon?"
"Yeah, who is this?"
"It's Monica..."
"Monica?"
"Yeah. Um, it's moe"
"Moe?"
"Yeah."
"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

lavish yourself

2005-09-19T03:56:00.000-04:00

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

life is better inside a warm sweater

2005-09-15T18:55:00.000-04:00

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):

http://michaelforgovernor.com/animation/latigona.swf

less space

2005-09-14T20:06:00.000-04:00

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?

comfort, the feeble minded

2005-09-13T21:34:00.000-04:00

:: 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

leaning on my horn

2005-09-10T06:01:00.000-04:00

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

I've just seen a face

2005-09-05T16:41:00.000-04:00

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.

argh.

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

por favor, sepa mi velocidad

2005-09-03T07:08:00.000-04:00

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.
Ahhh...
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.
Fascinating.

"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

we laugh indoors

2005-08-29T04:04:00.000-04:00

Ambulance lights flash and break the semi-darkness of dawn.
I reach and stop the ringing that is coming out of somewhere. My sleep is so deep that my dream continues playing out in front of me even after I've opened my eyes. I blink a few times to make it go away.

It is my mother calling me with strange and sleepy tears in her voice. She's very upset and I'm having difficulty piecing together why. My grogginess is unprecedented (and I challenge you to say otherwise).

Her and my father are on their way to the hospital, following the paramedics. Tony had arrived at work early this morning and began to feel strange - his vision blacking in and out and his coordination becoming painfully slow and labored. He knew what was coming, but as always, ignored it hoping that it would pass. Moments later, he collapsed. A teenage co-worker with bad skin and wearing a Paul Frank t-shirt hollered for someone to call an ambulance.
Another seizure.

Word came later that it took him a good 20 minutes to a half hour to fully come around. His memory seems ok this time. He's suffering a slight residual tremor in his left leg that will surely disappear by late afternoon.
I sincerely hope that this poor kid doesn't lose his license.
Much less groggy now, I'm really glad that it wasn't more severe. I don't want another late-August hospital disaster again this year. Last year was enough.

***
And just when I thought I had had my fill of this crap, just when I thought I had ended all the girly garbage, when I thought I had gotten a completely sound mind back for my efforts...
I don't mean for it to happen, and admittedly, it sort of confuses me. I thought I was finished being crazy. I thought I was finished looking for a counselor.
But then here I am.
But then there I was, three doors down, the headlights of a police cruiser penetrating the interior of the Focus, its cherry lights spinning, and flashing, and mocking - making my reflection in the rear view mirror to look exactly how I felt: crazy and distorted.

It has the potential to make me feel dark and Godless.
I don't like that feeling.
It makes me feel mentally exhausted, but then I don't want to develop any sort of romantical attachment to the idea of being insane, so...

I found myself at Kelly's house last night somewhere around 1:00 in the morning. Maybe 1:30 - I can't quite remember.
Brandon was there.
Brandon's friends were there.
I quickly retreated to the living room where I obsessively checked my email, Sports Center blaring in the background.
His friends left shortly after I arrived there but not before Frankie made his way to the living room to introduce himself and hit on me briefly. I said hello and kept my head down.

Brandon concocted himself a Captain and Coke in the kitchen and then came and joined me on the couch. He flipped through the channels before settling on Rounders - I made him shut it off after one scene because he kept talking along with the dialog. It was impressive (he replicated John Malkovich's Russian accent and everything), but slightly unnerving.

And then Brandon and I talked. We talked for a long time. We talked for several hours. Brandon and I haven't talked like that in at least two and a half years.
I told him [nearly] everything and he told me [nearly] everything. And then we shared sighs. And smiles.
Neither one of us said that we were holding back anything, but I think it was at least somewhat evident.

We talked (quite literally) about sex, and drugs, and rock 'n' roll. And we talked about God, and the church, and even homosexuality for a bit. I asked him about blow, he asked me about Jesus, and somewhere around 5:00 am we hugged, he mouthed the words "I miss you", and then we headed to bed; he to his and I to Kelly's.

I kind of miss you too, Brandon.

***
So where am I now? I'm here, at home.
I was just painting on my wall again. This plaster definitely feels more artistic than a paint roller, but it's taking forever and I'm not 100% pleased with the results. It's coming along though.
I'm coming along.

And am I feeling more stable and less afraid, and dark, and Godless than last night? Yes. That too.
I'm a reasonable person, I know I am. I have my moments, but overall I am reasonable. I've shaken this back into resolve, and until next time, I'll be just fine (thank you very much).

Currently listening :
The Photo Album
By Death Cab for Cutie
Release date: By 09 October, 2001

count the berries

2005-08-25T22:10:00.000-04:00

Denver.
Not exactly Camelot, but a lovely place nonetheless.
In all actuality, I didn't enjoy Denver itself all that much. Boulder was pleasant. Idaho Falls was great.
Denver is mediocre, and I'm pretty sure that it knows.

I climbed (drove) to the top of Mt. Evans where I saw fun things such as these peaks:

and these guys as well:

Enough about sheep and mountaintops though.
My computer is typing super slow right now and I can't figure out why. I'll type a sentence and it takes the computer a full 30 seconds to catch up with what I've written. I'm going to be here forever...

I could scream.
But I won't.

***

I've decided that I want to create something really fun, and nice, and pleasing to the eye. I want to make something from scratch and admire its completion. I want to be creative so badly right now that it nearly hurts.
The crazy this is that I"m feeling so damn creative right now but simultaneously feeling as though I can't write worth a whole hill of beans.
Please bear with me.
I'll take a few Tylenol and then this will all be better.
It will all seem better.

***
On a completely separate plane of thought: there are a few things that everyone absolutely must try. Certainly succotash and the Segway are among these things, but even more so than that, everyone really must try www.postsecret.comand www.overheardinnewyork.com
Two fabulous websites that will (no doubt) keep you entertained far past 5 o'clock in the evening.
At least you'll miss the return rush hour traffic.
While you're busy surfing the web, I'm in need of a new computer monitor. I've had my sights set on a 32" flat LCD - anyone willing may toss it into their shopping cart on BestBuy.com. I'll repay with Curves incentive dollars. Lord knows I have plenty of them.

Meanwhile I drive and I sing. I switch CDs often to mix songs and give myself a certain self-induced high that the iPod just doesn't seem to accomplish as much as I'd like it to. Something about rushing to switch the CD while hugging curves at 60mph is relatively calming, and intoxicating.

I realize that the lint is gone, but I am still here.
My life has changed, most certainly. It's always changing, contiuously evolving. I almost always love the evolution after the fact; the simple reality that it even took place at all is what I'm in love with most.
The evolution stretches and pulls. It rips at me in a few places and sometimes I wonder if what is trying to take place can actually even fit in my skin.
It does, eventually.

Dammit.
And isn't this FUN?!

An addendum:
My little brother Tony is engaged.
he's engaged. he's only 21.
egads.
I'm going to eat an ice-cream sandwich and watch Team America.

Currently listening :
Alien Lanes
By Guided By Voices
Release date: By 04 April, 1995

25% off

2005-08-13T16:52:00.000-04:00

To all those who will forever be a part of my life: I thank you. I bash you, but then overall, I thank you.

My face is warm still from the sun I absorbed this afternoon on the lake. I like my summer clothes. I like my summer clothes when it is summer, but as soon as fall hits I'm so in love with my winter clothes. But right now, well, summer clothes are it. I even managed to find a swimsuit that I really like. That hasn't happened in about 15 years.

I'm loving all the time that being unemployed is affording me to do things such as sit on the lake for hours at a time, pay my bills, read some books, think... I do a hell of a lot of thinking. It's typically the dangerous kind. And then I wonder, when did I become such a thinker? When did I become such a chick? Something here has to change.
Too much thinking. Not enough doing.
Whatever happened to my copy of "The Unbearable Lightness of Being"?

Whether or not I ought to be thinking, I'm not sure. But I do know that it's stirred up a lot of ideas. It's stirred up quite a few revelations. Mainly that I'm tired. I'm tired of bullshitting. I'm tired of not being creative. I'm tired of being a complainer. I'm tired of not being responsible enough. I'm tired of being too responsible. And most of all, I'm tired of selling God. I'm really really tired of selling God, as if He were a vacuum cleaner, or soap. All this time I've had this different idea of God locked up inside of me and I knew it was different, so different from the traditionalist view of God, that cookie-cutter church view that no one really understands but the masses seem to accept anyway. I'm frustrated with knowing and not living.

Heavens to Betsy...

The frustration will end. The living will start. Count me transparent from now on. Count me ever ready. Count me standing alone.
Just count me.

Addendum: on a completely separate note, can I even express the happiness I feel over my tan? Can I express the happiness I feel over life in general? Yes, I've been tired of these things, but I have been DOING, and it feels great. Yes, yes, there's a whole slew of "new leaf" stuff that has me feeling good, but a new leaf can only take me so far - after that, I feel like God takes me the rest of the way.
He's given me joy for the journey, and it's a wonderful thing.

Currently reading :
Blue Like Jazz: Nonreligious Thoughts on Christian Spirituality
By Donald Miller
Release date: By 17 July, 2003

red sequins

2005-08-05T10:46:00.000-04:00

The charm of a hand-written journal has only increased with the introduction of online blogs and "live journal".

And then I feel as though I've reached the point when I have nothing left to write because it's already all been typed... I would much rather my grand children and great grandchildren stumble across an old chest full of leather-bound journals in the attic than stumble across some cached blogs on a Google search. That's not real; that's not tangible.
A hand-written journal, I touched its cover, I turned its pages. That is real. That was, and is, and will be. That's so damn beautiful.

Business has been positively swimming around my brain the past few weeks, but very little of it was making any sense. None of it was going anywhere, most certainly. And then there was yesterday with its purposeful and productive work and then there was today, with it channeled energy and renewed enthusiasm for the task ahead. And there will be tomorrow, with its intended early rise, and exercise, and morning list making. And if I'm feeling really introspective and plain good, then perhaps a little romp through the Psalms and Proverbs.
My Bible reading seems to be reserved for those times when I'm feeling slightly redeemed, for when I'm feeling pious and good, for when I feel like I can approach my Savior, guiltless.

These days those times are few and far between for certain.
My life is spinning and moving, halting and starting again.
The life is constantly being breathed into me, over and over again.
And I know my Redeemer lives. And I know my life's work is not yet complete.
I'm sad to leave the present... sometimes I'm excited to move onto the next... when I'm not too busy being scared out of my mind with clueless wonder: what is next?
God only knows.

He cares more for a fraction of my life than for the lives of the thousands of tsunami victims in Asia.
Why can't I allow myself to love him?

All these changes in my life.
All these changes.
All these changes.
All these changes...

One year, and all these changes. I'm not the same person I was at all.
But oh yes, here I am.
I am here, only a tiny bit battered and bruised.
Only slightly marked.
Yes, I am so different, but here I am, right where I left me.
Right where I left God. And how amazing is that?
And I'm right here where I left God.
Incredible.
Right here where I left God.

first, october

2005-08-04T20:22:00.000-04:00

it's not quite new news, but still surprising every time I see it. oh my.

It's funny the way God works sometimes.
But then, well... not so funny at all.

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

aquafy

2005-08-03T20:25:00.000-04:00

I've been a bit blog happy lately, this I realize. It comes from being unemployed. It comes from having a big mouth (or large hands - both are equally applicable in this instance), it comes from desiring endless amounts of entertainment ranging between the brackets of really cheap and free. It comes from liking the sound of the keyboard as I type at 80 wpm...

I was cleaning out my computer today and came across this picture that I kind of forgot about for awhile. I really, really love it. In fact, it might be in the top five favorite pictures that I've ever taken. Well, maybe the top 10, but it's definitely up there.

This makes the top 10 as well:

There are others too that I don't quite feel like getting into. I do feel like getting into making things again though. Maybe I'll glue together my own pinata... right now I think I'd even be satisfied with a miniature ski lodge built from lincoln logs.