percocet

Current Mood: Apothecarian

At some point in time, I stole my parents' heart. I swept them off their feet. I won them over completely and 100àAt least... well, this is what I'd care to believe. Whether it is the truth or not, I have no idea.



My father was in a car accident when I was four. He spent the following 4 months in the hospital. 3 of those months, he was in traction. I was supposed to be in the car with him. They told him I would have died, seeing as how none of the seatbelts in the vehicle were functioning. This was taken a year later - you can still see the scar on his leg from one of his 6 surgeries following the accident. I was supposed to be there and it gripped his heart that I was not. He quit his high-paying job to spend more time with his family.



My mother's heart broke to pieces when my father was injured and in the hospital. My parents were not only in the middle of some severe marital problems, but they were also in the process of completely renovating the house. Mom had just had her fifth child and was at the end of the proverbial rope. I didn't know what stand-up comedy was, but I made it up real quick and on the spot. She laughed at most of my jokes and skits and this gave me the most minute sense of sanity. I missed my dad. And the babysitter that my mom used to leave me with while she was visiting my father in the hospital smelled of elderberries. I hated her.

I don't suppose my father ever expected to be broadsided on his way into work
one winter morning. I don't see that he would have expected for my nursery school schedule to have been changed just days before and for me to not be in the car with him. I don't imagine that my mother expected him not to come home that night. I don't bet that she expected to spend every afternoon at the hospital for the next 4 months. I don't think that either one of them expected the backlash they received from the five of us kids.

Expectations are funny things. I don't ever think I have it all together. So I won't sit here and say, "every time I think I have it all together..." That's just absurd. I know that I'm a mess. I know that I never have anything together. I know that I'm in serious need of strong organizations skills.

However,there is the occasional curveball. It's thrown, and only occasionally swung at. Evern less occasionally made contact with. And scarcely ever hit out of the ballpark. But there is that cureveball. And whatever expectations I did have go flying out the window like a stream of smoke from a cigarette, coiling slyly, this way and that. Although I feel like I don't know what the hell I'm talking about, some part of me must secretly think that I do. Because when these people or circumstances come floating about, they really do throw me for a loop, and it's insane. And it's crazy.

I wasn't expecting Gregory. I wasn't expecting him at all. He came out of nowhere and saved my day, so to speak. I wasn't expecting for someone to force me out of my miserable self-pity. I was expecting to wallow in it for quite some time; get nice and dirty. Get saturated, as it were.

Instead, I was made to laugh. I was made to forget. I was made to be a girl-friend, so to speak: something I've never been before, but was willing to try.

I wasn't expecting a revelation. I wasn't expecting a conversation. I wasn't expecting to be honest. I wasn't expecting to get past all the things that had seemingly hurt me so badly. I really wasn't expecting to feel sorry for the way that things turned out.
But I got one.
I was.
I did.
I am.

I'm sorry, but at the same time I am not. And I mean that in the kindest, least offensive way possible.

I saw a bumpersticker in Jersey City not five days ago that said: "Kerry for President... because he's not BUSH!" I grew sad thinking of people voting against Bush instead of for Kerry. It just didn't seem steeped in any sort of sound principle at all. That, and I felt sad for Kerry - a person whom many people don't particularly care for but see as a means to an end. I'm proud to say that I've completely put all of my political expectations aside. I've
cast them out from me. I live in New Jersey. I am a conservative Republican. I have no political expectations except for the occasional cynical one. Sad? Probably.

Swiss Auto Club rocked my world once again. I find myself paying closer attention. I find myself knowing every riff and every bass drum beat. I find myself wanting to leave politics forever and work with a rock and roll band... I never expected to get this involved in politics anyhow.

At some point or another, I stole my parents' heart. They stole mine as well, so I suppose it's all good and fair. I respect them more than any other human beings on the planet. They call me at least 6 times a day and it's annoying as hell. But, I figure if my parents love me, this is the least of my worries. I wasn't expecting them to care so darn much about me, but apparently they do.

without condition

You find the situation just a bit uncomfortable.
You'd rather stay far away from reality.
For you to understand would be clearly impossible, so you shut your eyes and swear you can see; claiming there is a god, but does that mean anything?

You're so condescending to those that you don't understand.
It's just too easy to make them your enemies.
Like an ostrich, you bury your head in the sand, and then you shout about all the things you believe. But if there is a god, don't you think he could see what you really mean, what you're doing?

So place all the souls that you know in their own little box.
It's quite convenient to handle them that way.
You're the only one you know who carries a cross!
You don't care what they care about anyway.
And you talk to your god, praying for those who sin, for their eyes to be opened...

You can't find the answers until you learn to question. You won't appear stupid, just ask for direction. You're insecure and it clouds your perception,
so STOP,
and listen,
and learn a lesson in love without condition.

** ginny owens. occasionally rocking my world so simply **

Everything is better on a kaiser roll

I'm not certain that the title is actually true, but I feel like most New Jerseyans feel this way. Egg and bacon? Better on a kaiser roll. Steak? Better on a kaiser roll. Butter? Better on a kaiser roll. Your mom? Better on a kaiser roll.

argh... I'll finish this later. It seems I don't have time to complete a thought these days. Drat.

As Steven Tyler once said: "It's Amazing"

Old English: 1
Moe: 52

Contrary to popular belief, I did not spend Thursday night downing several small bottles of Old English furniture polish. Nor did I spend the evening shooting pool at the Old English Pub (although... well, that would have been a really good idea).
Nay, I spent the evening driving around northern new jersey, top of the saab down. I successfully downed 52 oz. of beer in 30 minutes. Testosterone levels were high.

Please, allow me to explain something: most of my previous injuries have been testosterone induced. Certainly self-induced, but also testosterone induced.
Thursday was no exception. Example:

"Here. Have a 40. The rest of us are having 40's... and seeing as how we're guys, we're sure to finish them LONG before your wussy girly self does..."
(paraphrased in order to make my freaking point)

So how do I respond? Well, I respond by making damn sure that the 40, along with a 12 oz. bottle fo XXX, was down the trap within 30 minutes.

I spent Friday morning wishing I had jumped out a window. Gatorade made me feel only slightly better. Granted, 52 oz. of beer is not an extraordinary amount, but it did something to me that I don't care to experience again anytime soon.

Saturday night was spent with the brothers and Brandon (best bud since... well, since forever) amazingly called me to hang out (he hasn't returned my calls for about 6 months now. OK, so not best bud since forever. argh) and we decided to grace Finnagel's with our glorious presence. Much tequila was consumed. This is another example of the testosterone induced madness that I was speaking of earlier. Tequila? Sure. I'll have whatever you guys are having. And I'll be damned if I'm going to have a chaser to go along with it. Chasers are for wussies. I am not a wussy! I am a warrior!
OK, so we drank tequila, blah blah blah (blah cubed), and then JC, Tony, and I went home, watched a young girl get a DUI right in front of our house (long story - you can make one up if you'd like), and then left to go out and put up lawn signs for GWB. Out until 5 in the morning, with the dog, and AC/DC on the hi fi. I don't even know where all we put up signs, but we put up about 65 or so. We got tired after awhile and decided to call it a night. JC and I were halfway into a bottle of Petrone, and Tony (the only sober one with us - including the dog) was getting tired of driving. So we called it quits and head home at dawn.

hrmmm... JC is starting to get more political than me. But he's fun. He's fun when he's political and drunk.

customized tradition

Current Mood: satiably soulful

I don't want things to change from what they've changed to. I like them the way that they are. Right now, this is what I like. I enjoy right now because I love the feeling it gives me - to make someone else happy. All this, and I don't want it to change. No, not one bit.

Change (coinage or otherwise) is reserved for rainy days. Celestial tears wash away today's pain and pleasure only to be sent down the curb's drain and swished around, saving itself for later. I like it though. Sort of.

The fluorescent lighting in this office is reminiscent of "Joe vs. the Volcano" or "Being John Malkovich". Either way, it can't be good on the eyes.

The greatest time I ever had in the rain was with Brandon at a rest stop in Maryland. I don't remember where we were going (or coming back from), but it was pouring rain and the water was collecting on positively everything. Instead of running into the rest stop (stale pretzels and day old coffee waiting inside), we stayed just outside where water had filled the awning of a kiosk and we threw water at eachother until we were both absolutely soaked. We're such children. We were completely drenched and even managed to get a few innocent passersby a little wet, but for some reason it was so funny. We were probably high. Who knows?

I like the sound of the tires driving over the slick road. It sounds... dare I say? Yes, I will. It sort of sounds.... well, it sorta sounds sexy.

Oh baby, oh baby, let me hear the sound of your goodyears on the slick road again...

it's not raining right now in Jersey City - it's just a bit slick. But people are still walking by this office, on the sidewalk, holding fully open umbrellas. I wonder this, and it is this by which I am mystified: do they carry the open umbrella in the hopes that it might rain or in the fear that it might rain?
If I had the time to conduct a man-on-the-street survey, that's exactly what I would be doing right now, at this very moment.

For the record: I was leaving the office late the other night and pulled up alongside a car at a traffic light. On the back bumper of the car there were two bumperstickers proudly displayed. First one said "Go Vegetarian!" (please note the exuberant use of the exclamation point). The second one, directly beneath the first one, said "I ♥ Gorillas". Sadly, there was no repeat on the exclamation point. But the message was clear just the same.

Jersey City is so curious in the rain. I want more of it. I have very mixed emotions about moving to Mountainside come November. It will be nice to have a bigger office, and my own office at that, but I shall miss Jersey City something horrid.

For the record (yet again): Paige Davis was at my office the other week, and quite randomly so. I walked up the front steps and there she was, on the phone, sitting on the step. Her camera crew was in the pet shop next door and she was outside making a call. I had to ask her to move her knee in order for me to open the office door. She looked up, smiled apologetically, and gladly complied with my request.

I walked out 10 minutes later and she was there on the other end of the stoop, camera pointing at her, microphone in hand, doing her thing "Hi! Welcome to this episode of Trading Spaces! I'm Paige Davis!" (the exclamation points! again! argh!) and sadly I was walking out the front door with a huge garbage bag slung over my shoulder.

Apparently, the Pet Shop Boys were trading spaces with their neighbors and the show decided it would be pretty cool to stop by their shop and check out the scene in JC. Keep your eyes peeled for my black trash bag and humiliated demeanor.

Ladies and gentlemen, it's that time again. Back to work. Argh.

PUSHING: buttons, daisies, envelopes, helpless people down elevator shafts, etcetera

As of late, we have depended on mild forms of entertainment in the office. Argh...


****

Moe: If I ever get a boat, I'm going to name it... "Your Mom"

Amanda: (laughing because it's way too late and we've been at the office far too long)

Moe: And then, when people ask me where I'm going I can say: "for a ride... on Your Mom"

****

Moe: Gregory, there is a one dollar bill in my bed with me.

Gregory: That is amazing! Do you think that maybe your body is producing dollar bills as you sleep? If that's the case, I'm definitely on my way over there...

Moe: I'm not sure, but that's the most fantastic thing I've heard in a long, long time.

Gregory: Well, it's a slow road to financial freedom, but at least it's SOMETHING. I mean, take the Sally Struthers approach: for just the cost of a cup of coffee a day...


****

Moe: I swear, if I get ONE MORE infection in this eye...

Amanda: You're going to poke it out?

Moe: No!! I'm going to get a glass eye; one of those fancy deals with the Schundler for Governor Reform logo painted right on it. That way, everytime I go to shake hands with Doug Forrester or John Murphy I can stare them right in the eye with that shit!


****

Amanda: I'm going to put on the hugest gala this state has ever seen. I'm going to have 5,000 people there!!

Moe: what if there's not enough room at the Atri...

Amanda: I don't care! I'll have people outside, in the freezing cold, busting down the doors to get in! Bob Schroeder, and Doug Forrester, and John Murphy, and Diane Allen will all be out there, freezing, trying to peek in. And it WON'T be the cold air blowing off the Hudson that makes their teeth chatter that night!


****

Amanda: Moe, we have all these young, male volunteers coming in and it's all because of you!

Moe: No, no, no... Amanda, don't be ridiculous. Please. Are we being honest? Let's be completely honest...

Amanda: Moe! I am being honest! Think about it: why would all these guys be coming in unless there was a hot girl here to keep them entertained?! Why else would they be hanging around unless they had huge crushes on YOU!

Moe: What?! I look like POO... with orange hair!

****

Amanda: I'll tell you what... I'll go ahead and buy your line. But only as long as the money doesn't go to support your habit of being an ASSHOLE!

****

Christopher: The name Chris just pisses me off. I hate it.

Clarence: My son's name is Chris.

Chelsea: My best-friend's name is Chris.

Moe: My sister's name is Cris.

Clarence: So basically, what we're telling you is that we're about to jump your ass... Jersey style

Moe: Chris, you're not in Kansas anymore...

****

Amanda: Awww... shit on a stick!

Moe: Shit-ka-bob?

****

Moe: You know, for a cop, traffic duty is sort of like prostitution.

Amanda: What the hell are you talking about?!

Moe: Well, I mean, there's just no honor in it, you know? Just no honor.

****

Moe: Hey, Amanda, what's "Hackensack" Indian for again? County Seat of Corrupt Government or something?

the best I can do

Tragically, the best I can do is not all that great (as it turns out). But it's still my best. So brava! Everyone give me (moe, that's me. I'm moe. right here. look at me) a big pat on the back. A high five, if you will. Because my best has arrived.

This is completely uncalled for.

FRIDAY: Absolutely outstanding. My excitement for the Swiss Auto Club show was completely out of control. I'm super proud of the boys to say the least and was more than pleased to be there. Bought the new album and have been rocking it in the car ever since.

The Friday bit in all caps and followed by a colon made it appear as though I was going to continue in like fashion with at least one other day of the week.

haha. i fooled you.

I've sat down to write in the good ol' blog at least six (6!) times this past week and each time was met with so much information, events, words, phrases (a mere extension of 'words'), and emotion that I've found myself overwhelmed and really unsure of WHAT to write. Work has been overly female dogged although somehow pleasurable just the same. There's something about working really hard and getting it accomplished. Granted, I've been working about 14 hours a day this past week (and it will only get worse) but I've been really satisfied with actually getting things accomplished. The family has been great - Cristina and Cheech were in town for two weeks and just left yesterday. He's gotten so big, it's amazing. My dad ran over some woman in a parking lot the other week. That's not the best part of it though. See, the best part is that he ran over her on purpose. Isn't that just fantastic? I realize it's a tad severe, but really, he only did what everyone else was thinking. So it's at least somewhat justified (not like Timberlake and Christina).

PARTNER IN CRIME: I've managed to outdo myself yet again. I've managed to score myself one of the coolest cats on the planet and in him I've found a true confidante, a great partner in crime. He makes me smile at least 8 dozen times a day with crafty machination and random wordplays that are far too clever for me. He tells me long stories that I love and we poke fun of quirky and awkward everyday things as often as possible. Mr. Gregory Andres is soooo coool. Special even (in that very non-rainman sorta way). Stick around... 'cause I like you. I like you just fine.

Post surgery follow-up appointment this Friday. Should be tons o' fun to be poked and prodded yet again. Except this time, in vibrant technicolor! Well, I'll be toting a fancy scmancy blue health insurance membership card around in my back pocket this time around anyway, which is just as good (if not better) than technicolor - vibrant or otherwise.

I realize that I mentioned it in my last blog title, but failed to fully highlight the important role of the york peppermint pattie in my life these days. Please, do not misunderstand me. Do not believe for one second that I have no self control over such trivial indulgences. I really and truly do - it's just that the ypp is so special I don't want it to be gone from my life. No, not in the least. I see no reason to eliminate this tasty comestible from my diet and so I'm keeping it around. Its small, smooth roundness and fresh sensation has imbedded itself in my everyday routine and I just can't shake it. Experience it for yourself and you will be hooked, I'm sure. My mother has recently been found guilty of supporting my nasty habit - she brought me home a Costco size box of the little buggers. 180 miniature ypp's all for me! Good heavens, I hardly know what to do with myself.

On this note, my friends, I bid you farewell. As I said earlier, work has been somewhat of a bitch lately and I must arise early tomorrow morning to walk the dog (this is totally a metaphor, in case you didn't catch on).

Goodnight.

the perfection of the york peppermint pattie

Current Mood: shivery delicious

Full of smite am I right now.
At this very moment.

It's quarter past one in the morning. I have to leave for work at 6 o'clock tomorrow morning. I have to shower now for it will never happen later - er at least, it could happen but would ruin any promise I had of actually leaving for the office on time.

At any rate - all this aside, I am in such a state. The Garden State of Euphoria, if you will (and I will).

I will finish this some other time. I realize that I have been silent for quite awhile, but I will have to remain silent (or at least semi-silent) for a few moments longer. I'm falling asleep on the keyboard and I'm not the biggest fan of getting drool between the keys.

Farewell and goodnight,
moe

If Heaven goes to Betsy, then who gets Hell?

I have been working with such great velocity and ferocity lately that I've had little time to keep up with things like, well, the blog on myspace. Although I love it and hold it so dear to my heart, and although I've had so many good writing thoughts running through my head lately, so many good ideas, I've simply not had a moment to sit down and actually WRITE. It's left me slightly irritable, but still thoughtful as ever as I keep busy saving the world from such atrocities as New Jersey Republican party leaders, emphysema, crazed unicyclists, and the tragic and untimely death of the semicolon. As you can see, my schedule has been quite booked.

Yet, this is just an abbreviated view of my oh-so-busy schedule over the past two weeks. I have also managed to finish painting a wall in my room, make several impulsive ebay purchases, make a groovy new friend who is as big a dork as I, score tickets to a concert, not-so-fruitlessly garner media attention for a band I think is pretty cool, convince myself (not so convincingly) somehow that I can be seemlessly reunited as buddies with a former fling, taught someone the etymology and proper usage of the word machination, picked up my Cheech from the airport, attended three birthday parties in one weekend, told my mother that I love her, discovered that I really really do enjoy the Postal Service quite a great deal, made several other long and meaningless lists... ummm... let's see, what else.... A lot more of a bunch of nothing really.

*** And I shall miss Jersey City...

I won't miss the commute, but I will definitely miss our neighbors: The Pet Shop Boys, Baker Dorks, and Lombardi's (AKA: Death). I will also miss the parking tickets I seem to get on a fairly regular basis. I will miss the construction that they have been doing on the exit ramp off the turnpike for the past year and a half to no great or even somewhat successful end. I will miss the atrocious parking situation at the Jersey City post office. I will miss the potholes the size of volkswagens. I will miss my picture windows (that one is for real).
Schundler for Governor is moving. We are moving from Jersey City to a more central and certainly larger location where we will be able to facilitate a staff of 15-20 plus volunteers instead of our current number: a meager three. The office is moving to beautiful Mountainside, New Jersey - just moments from such great landmarks as Bowcraft, The Colorado Cafe, and (most importantly) the Echo Queen Diner. Apparently this office even has a shower - which is great considering how many nights I'm sure that I'll be spending there over the next year.
One thing I am really excited about is the 20 minutes that will be instantly shaved off my commute. Oh yes, I'm super excited about that. It will also be nice to eliminate the $150 I'm spending every month on tolls, as I will no longer need to use a toll road to get to work.

So, as of November 1st, Schundler for Governor campaign headquarters will be in Mountainside, New Jersey. Come and join the fun!

The Grapes of Bathgate's Laire

I'll be the grapes fermented, bottled and
served with the table set in my finest suit
like a perfect gentleman.
I'll be the fire escape that's bolted to the
ancient brick where you will sit and
contemplate your day.

I'll be the waterwings that save you if you
start drowning in an open tab when your
judgement's on the brink.
I'll be the phonograph that plays your favorite
albums back as your lying there drifting off
to sleep.
I'll be the platform shoes and undo what
heredity's done to you: you won't have to
strain to look into my eyes.
I'll be your winter coat buttoned and zipped
straight to the throat with the collar up so
you won't catch cold.

I want to take you far away from the cynics in this
town and kiss you on the mouth.
we'll cut our bodies free from the tethers of
this scene, start a brand new colony
where everything will change, we'll give
ourselves new names, identities erased.
the sun will heat the grounds under our bare
feet in this brand new colony.

everything will change...


** crushes are such fun things... revel in them. **

death cab for cutie patootey

October 22nd.
Roseland Ballroom, NYC.
Gregory and Moe.

6:45 PM the curtain rises sharply, casting contrast on the loud crowd
minus one, two, three, four members, standing tall and limber, center stage.

Dim lights and endless fights with bar tenders of chicken big spenders
Pouring over and into full mugs of light beer chugs, sliding down, down, down…
Bright pink wrist bands keeping loud double fisting fans at bay
And long lines through far off lands ending in restroom etiquette disarray.
Melodic sounds filtered through subwoofer box hounds, and a new musical discovery for moe.

Sounds absolutely splendid, I must say.

where have all the cowboys gone?

Some things force me to realize that I have bigger fish to fry than the fish I've been frying so far (pun entirely intended - if it does not appear to be a pun, bear with me, i'm heavily medicated at the moment).

Today I stepped outside for the first time since Saturday night - save getting in or out of a vehicle. I hobbled across the lawn to get the mail and felt a mite dizzy in the noon day sun, but it was nice to get outside just the same. I had to sneak out because Lord knows my brother would have shot me if he knew I was walking around outside. He's been awfully protective these days.
It was him who was with me in the emergency room at 5:30 Sunday morning, holding my hand as my body writhed in absolute paralyzing pain. He was the one who yelled at the nurse when she left me in the hallway for over an hour waiting for an ultrasound. And now he's staying home from work to be with me all day while I lay around like a vegetable, tuning in and out of deep sleep (God bless percocet).

I do love my brother dearly. He's been an absolute gem.
And I'm glad that he was around Saturday night when I arrived home late, barely able to walk and I sat down and told him my concerns. We decided to sleep on it for one night. I'm stubborn and I hate doctors and hospitals. There was no way I was going in unless this was really serious. He knows me enough that he recognized this when I called him at 5 in the morning to tell him that he should call an ambulence. I couldn't even roll over in bed. I couldn't move my legs. Another experience. Another removal from my day to day element. Another opportunity for me to understand a certain experience a little better.

I spent 8 hours at the emergency room Sunday - from 5:30 AM until 1:30 PM. They were going to discharge me. I had been poked, prodded, probed, and every other thing imaginable. I was too heavily medicated to care though. I just wanted to go home and go to bed. The spasms of pain were still coming every 30 minutes or so and lasting about 4 or 5 minutes a piece. They would wave over me and pull my entire body into a tight little ball of contracted muscles. I could literally feel every single organ in my torso quiver with pain. My lungs were not able to expand hence making each breath so short and so labored that it was as though I wasn't breathing at all. My oxygen levels were dropping and the ER knew that. Why they were discharging me, I will always wonder.

Kelly arrived to pick me up and said that I looked pale. Too pale to be going home. She was concerned. She had me wheeled back inside to get out of the muggy air. I was feeling quite nauseated but was nervous to eat anything because of the all the medication that they had pumped into me. Kelly insisted that I be admitted to the hospital and it was so (oh the power of an obstinate woman's words)!

I had been admitted absolutely no more than 20 minutes when the Gynocologist came up and introduced himself. Kelly, Cecilia and JC had just left 10 minutes earlier to run home, shower, pick up some stuff for me and eat. The Dr. was older, kind, but had a definite sense of urgency. I had just been given another two doses of something or other and the room was spinning a bit.
He started talking, slow at first, but it took off from there into a million different directions at a mach speed that I couldn't keep up with.
He just looked through my test results and ultrasound images. He can't believe the ER was going to discharge me. I am suffering a great deal of internal bleeding - it's starting to flood into my chest cavity which is why I am having difficulty breathing. He is hellbent on operating immediately. Will I sign this release form? Have I had anything to eat? Do I know how serious my condition is? Oh, by the way, there is a large possibility that infection has spread to my ovaries and if that is the case, he will have to remove my reproductive organs making it impossible for me to ever have children. But, it's all in the release form. Just sign on the dotted line please.

I started to tear up and the tension in my muscles began the worst pain spasm of the day. I dropped the pen he had handed me and grabbed hold of the bedside rails. My body curled up and I tried to speak through my labored, short breaths. I needed to call my parents. I needed to call someone. Cut me up, do what you have to do, I don't care - but that last part, the part about never having children really threw me for a loop. I didn't want to sign ANYTHING until I spoke to someone first.

The doctor seemed irritated all of a sudden. He leaned in and grabbed my hand. He was right in my tear-stained face.
"Look at yourself. You NEED this surgery Monica. I can't wait for you to sign this release form. What if you pass out in the next few moments? If you don't have this surgery now, you won't have the option to have it later. You won't be here tomorrow."
OK - so he wasn't really helping matters. I was spasing out because he had upset me and he certainly wasn't making me feel all warm and fuzzy with that comment.
So behind door number one was a surgery where I had a fairly large chance that I would lose any shred of hope to have children in the future. Or behind door number two was the loss of any shred of hope to do anything in the future at all.
Yeah, I chose door number one.

It's funny, even in these sorts of instances, I'm hard at work, plugging my candidate. The last thing I remember before going under in the OR (Oh... are they?) was talking to the anaesthesiologist about what a pickle Jim McGreevey is in, that he should step down now, and yes - you should vote Republican come election day.
Waking up from surgery is exactly how they show it in the movies. Sort of blacking in and out, bright lights and fuzzy faces in your line of vision. That's probably the only thing hollywood has ever captured accurately.
I've spent the past few days at home, holed up in my bedroom. I watched TV for the first time this morning (it's no wonder I never really watched it before - the options are so meager and frankly, unappealing). The swelling in my belly has gone down noticeably since last night also. I was sporting a pregnant belly since Sunday night and I was beginning to worry that it was going to stay that way.

I have three tiny incisions - one in my bellybutton and two on the left and right hand sides of my lower abdomen. There won't be any real noticeable scars at all. And even if there were, I would sport them with pride. Scars are, afterall, only tattoos with better stories.
And I'm doing all sorts of cool things on my own now, like walking and showering. Woo hoo! It's been kind of fun to sit around all day reading and popping percocet like M&M's. I have to admit, it's not all that bad. Apparently there are a slew of pictures and video footage that was taken during the surgery which my entire family has seen but I have not. I'm looking forward to getting my hands on that and selling it to Discovery Health. Might as well make a buck or two off this, eh?

Oh, and I can still have kids. :) Imagine that - little monkeys running around all over the place. Sort of makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside, doesn't it??

I'll have your cake and beat you too

The great Cheech-Meister has left me. Granted, he'll be back in a month (just in time for his first birthday), but I do miss the little guy already.

I sat with him on my bed this morning listening to Guns n' Roses and smiled as he rocked back and forth, clapping his hands (sounds a bit special, eh? Well, given the fact that he has little or no control over most of his movements, he's doing very well for himself thank you very much).
He digs Guns N' Roses, Maroon 5, Dave Matthews Band, and The New Pornographers seemingly more than anything else we've played for him. I've taught him well.

Oh my Cheech.

Q-tip for the weary

He that hath no rule over his own spirit is like a city that is broken down, and without walls.

sudden, inexplicable bursts

Muse and abuse any standard passerby for hopes of bringing a realization to the world that not all things are as they seem - laser beam your deepest desires onto the wall of hope, that is to say that someday your dreams may become the most brutal reality and your current reality a distant dream of the past, a thought that will last until your dying day, at which time you will lay in not-so-solitary stillness and think of a time when you were young, and in love, and possessing a stark willingness to lay it all out for the greater good of those would-be geniuses surrounding your every-day realness...

Reality barks - I'm the one who bites.

Today was Alex's first real experience with grass. No, no, not the illegal narcotic substance, but actual grass. Green, lush, lawnery (is that a word?)
Kelly and I were lazy most of the day and decidedly so. We marched out to the front yard (the back yard was a swamp after yesterday's glorious storm), blankets, pillows, and good books in hand. It was 2:30 PM and the sun was still high, as high as our spirits even. We were determined to spend the afternoon reading and working on our quickly fading tans.

*sidenote* Kelly and I seem to think that we will manage to achieve great success in the department of tanning despite our refusal to actually remove any clothing. The activity of tanning SELDOM involves a swimsuit where Kelly and I are concerned. Nay, the swimsuit is often ignored and over it is preferred a skirt or even loose fitting pajama pants, a tank top, and a pair of sunglasses. We will defy the principles of basic tanning and walk away shiny and bronze just the same. We've managed thus far, I'm fairly certain we can manage even farther. *end sidenote*

My recent mental block against reading kicked in after about 20 pages and I fell asleep with my book on my face and was promptly met with bizarre thoughts of crazed hula dancers sweating to the oldies (dreams are funny things, are they not?)
Kelly fared far better in the reading department and managed to finish an entire novella.
I awoke 2 and a half hours later with not much of a tan line, but to magnificent lines created by the sun. The spectacular fireball was low enough to begin casting shadows our way. Everything looked a little more curious than it had in full on day light. It made me want to start taking pictures. Perfect lighting for pictures, it was.
Cristina brought Alex out into the yard as he had just awoken from his afternoon nap.
His eyes appeared still slightly tired as she put him down on my blanket wearing nothing but a pair of pajama pants, his diaper causing his bum to portrude out in the most adorable and appealing rotundra. He was happy to be outside with us. Happy to be alive, in fact. And, I'm sure, happy that the sun was casting shadows because, well, let's be honest - who wouldn't be?

Seeing as how crawling is a recently learned skill of his, Alex was a bit skeptical with his new found liberties. He was completely capable of crawling off the blanket out into the grass... but did he WANT to? He put out his feelers a few times, almost venturing out into the great unknown, but then quickly changing his mind. The grass was too prickly. Too cumbersome. Oh, it was a glorious shade of green, but there was just too much going on that he was unsure of. Carter wandered out of his reach to the far corners of the earth, or, seemingly so if you are 11 months old and not 100% certain that you wish to venture five feet away, across the grassy vast of bug and mud ridden lawn.
But Carter was there. The dog, which he loves so much, has become his new motivation. He rocks back and forth cautiously one or two times and leans forward from his sitting position so that his hands land him in an "all fours" position, revved and ready for crawling.
One hand moves forward, ignoring the pricklyness of the grass, and then the other. Oh, this boy is brave. His face winces slightly as he feels the vegetable daggers poke at his plentiful baby leg. The other leg moves to follow but then hesitates, and stops. He rocks forward, his lips portruding into a definite pout, and then he backtracks to the blanket, safe, whole, comfortable. Carter is still an eternity away, but the grass is no longer a mystery. He knows what that mess is all about. And the dog can come to him from now on.

My motivations have weakened slightly over the past two years. I fear not the grass, but things that are equally ridiculous I suppose. And I fear hypocricy - that thing that I've always loathed. If it gets the better of me, I will be worse than horrid; I will be mediocre, which is far worse.
What is wrong with being extraordinary? Or with being average? Or with being extraordinarily average?

** I'm trouble everywhere I go, but unseemingly so. I stare with great mishief. Isn't it grand? I love to get into conversations with political people who expect a dissertation on the importance of government reform only to announce that I hate discussing politics and wish only to leave the political world forever and be completely engrossed in art school... I value shock value. I keep growing my hair just to cut it and for this very reason.
And for this very reason I might just quit my job, sell all my belongings, become a nun, and move overseas to run a mission in tibet.

I don't hate many things, but I hate melted chapstik. And I hate feathers that wander from the confines of my featherbed and poke into my back. And I hate lower back pain. And I hate this blog, for real.

the egg on your race

often spinning a spool of verbal cool - slipping into this pool of watery dark, dark, dark... Spark! My wit and prose hit you up with a mega dose of rhyming, two-timing verbosity of audio atrocity

Olympimania

Could someone please inform Mr. Tom MySpace that August is spelled incorrectly in the drop-down menu for the Blogs? It's somewhat unnerving. Or funny... I can't quite decide which.

"Vargas, a 22-year-old from a boxing-crazy family in Toledo, Ohio, impressed the crowd at Peristeri Olympic Boxing Hall with his dominance of El Haddak. Moving nimbly and surprising the Moroccan with even the simplest jabs, Vargas showed that his work on skill and strategy over the past six months has turned him into much more than a brawler.

“I think I’m peaking at just the right time,” Vargas said. “He looked a little nervous, a little scared. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I’m just trying to enjoy this and have fun.”

The fight was stopped 82 seconds into the third round on the 20-point mercy rule.

“I have decent power, but I’ll save it until someone gets on me and I need it,” Vargas said."

I don't know why, but I read this article this afternoon and found this particular group of paragraphs to be written funny. Quirky almost.

Gotta love the olympics. I haven't watched one single second of it.

me and phil hoffman

Philip Seymour Hoffman.
Me.
Republican National Convention 2000.
Releases on DVD and Video nationwide on August 17th.
I am pleased.

My truth is I am a monkey American

Apparently my Governor is a gay American. Bravo!

The past two days have been absolute pandemonium and I love it! CNN, ABC, NBC, CBS, MSNBC, Fox, Good Morning America, Time Magazine, Wall Street Journal, NYT... and about three dozen radio call-in programs, gosh - the list goes on and on. We have not had to call one single media source to garner coverage (hell, we haven't had time - we've been FAR too busy trying to field the calls coming in at a seemingly endless rate)! It's been crazy, but for the most part good. Every one wants a piece of my candidate and I'm loving it.

And, amazingly, I still manage to NOT have to work this weekend! We kick ass so much it kills me sometimes.

the same mistakes

Defy the world - that's what I'm aiming for. Defy everyone and laugh while I do it. Defy everyone by dinner time and cap off the evening with a seven and seven.

Sometimes I am happy making everyone else happy. Other times I'm happiest making everyone else miserable. I'm arsenal, I'm destructive in its most generous sense.
Match for match with a gallon of gasoline, sometimes I'd rather be burning bridges than building them.
- My construction hat has a crack in it from the last time I leveled you anyway.

For the time being, I'll light this bridge ablaze with great glee.
I'll leave you to extinguish the flames with the piss and vinegar running through your veins.

I've laid down my cards (count them, one through five).
I don't know what I'm doing, but I'll be damned if I let YOU tell me that.
Want a magic trick? I got one up my sleeve, or, where you're concerned, up the hem of my skirt - is it a trick, a dirty trick? You bet your bottom lip it is. You'll get more than you ever put your chips down for and walk away beaten, I'm sure.
Pick a card, any card, just be careful which one you pick, my friend. You might be a loser in the end.
What about the King? Is this your card? No wait, here it is - the card with the joker.
It's impressive what I can learn from just one game of poke-her.

Through the deck we go - you're a few cards short, you know.
Your Queen ran off with a club to beat the six out of your sorry Ace. While seven and two were busy drowning their sorrows with Jack, your King of spades was digging holes in my back.
We're done here now, my trick is through. I've played my cards and who the hell are you to tell me that I've played them wrong?

I'm proud of the mountains I've climbed and proudest of the ones I've made crumble -- Don't worry about a thing, babe -- let ME worry about keeping YOU humble. And when you're down at your lowest, with a rock in your mouth, your nose is all bloodied and your ears filled with grout, I will have compassion (like compassionate conservatives do). I will help you back up to your feet that fit so well in my mouth.
Humility is the price to pay for having prideful things to say. You think this is something I haven't been through before? No. Think again.

I lost a friend

And I can't figure out who it was. Apparently, it wasn't anyone of which I'm terribly fond.
It is tragic just the same. Before I was striving to keep my friends list to 30 people, now I'm struggling to reach 30. Pity, pity.

Where have you gone, dear friend? And who were you in the first place?

almost there

It's the small things in life. Trees. Rain. Grass - these are all things that Jack had missed while away for the past year and a half in Iraq. Things that I hadn't necessarily even thought about him missing per se.
He told us stories of having no electricity or power for four months. Another time he spent a month and a half living out of the front seat of his truck because they were on special mission - out in the middle of nowhere. He was on night shift then, which means that he had to sleep during the day. During the 120* heat. You don't sleep in that heat, you just pass out.

I'm incredibly awed by his peace, his willingness, his balance. He has no complaints. He smiles often. He looks a little thin, but not too.
Here is one of the most peaceful people I know telling me how grateful the local nationals were to have American soldiers amongst them. They were more than well received by 90% the people they came in contact with. A handful of Iraqis tearfully stood in line to wish him farewell when word spread that he was leaving Iraq to head back stateside. They brought gifts and gave him hugs. They were sad to see an entire unit leave. They were glad that the soldiers were there. That speaks volumes to me.
I've grown somewhat weary of hearing what the media has to say about all this. Are they fighting this war? Then they can keep their opinions to themselves. Is the news ever objective? I fear not (this goes for Fox as well).

I want this all to be over just as much as the next person. In an ideal world, there is no war. Sadly, we do not live in an ideal world. This is the world we live in and we've tried to make the best of it (this is how America was founded in the first place, as I recall).
This dispute will end and millions will have been liberated as a result.
This dispute will end and the next will be right around the corner, waiting.

much to the world's ourtrageous benefit

outrageously much to the world's benefit.
much to this outrageous world's benefit.
much to the world's benefit, outrageously.

I'm so glad that this advertisement is not a joke:

HOW TO CHOOSE A BIRTHDAY CARD
(if you can't read)

Have a clerk point you to the right section.

Look for a picture of a cake.

Hope that you haven't chosen an anniversary card.

***

The simplest of tasks can be major hurdles for people who can't read.
Please help by becoming a literary volunteer.
Call Literacy Volunteers of America at 1-877-HELP-LVA for information

the unbearable lightness of being a twinkie

** Matt Morris makes me swoon. **

I stared, and for quite some time. An elderly couple sat to my right and seemed bothered by the fact that I did not have a traditional way of sitting in my airplane seat - wait, is there a traditional way? Not sure.
Is it all that un-traditional to sit with one's knees curled up next to one's chest while sitting in an airplane seat? They thought so. I will call them Melba and Hank, for I would hate to continue to reference them as "the elderly couple".
So Melba sent many wondering gazes my way. She smiled sweetly when I returned her quick glance, but otherwise was not friendly per se. Hank slept. He slept hard-core with his head tilted back and his mouth open. I wanted to drop a nickle in his mouth just to see what would happen, but I figured the outcome would be nothing on the helpful side. I wouldn't want to be un-helpful to Hank. No, not I.
So I'm convinced that Melba did not enjoy the way that I was sitting on the plane. I don't guess that it was necessarily disturbing her, although it did take some maneuvering to contort my body into the proper position in such a small space.
She didn't like what I was reading, or, at least she seemed to be curious. The cover too bright, the title too large, the tagline too unorthodox. I was not reading fine literature, nay, I was reading Nick Hornby. How intelligent could I possibly be?
Eh, I delight in shirking Melba and Hank's expectations. I am a monkey, afterall.

So I stared and worked my best to ignore Melba and Hank and their outrageously high expectations for my entire generation and especially for me.

Another wedding.
Another friend (2 friends!) married.
Another empty champagne flute.
Another sexual advance from Scott.
Another dance with a ridiculously drunk Tiedeman.
Another 1200 airline miles.

I love flying through the clouds. I watch closely, waiting because I know what's coming. I know that we're right on the edge (of reason, perhaps?) and I know that the sun is shining on the other side.
So I stare and watch and wait. The cloud's darkness completely envelopes the aircraft and if I look closely out my window, I can see the mist that makes up the entire cloud. I can see it passing rapidly by my window quicker than... well, quicker than something really, really fast.
Even though I'm expecting it at any moment, I am surprised when suddenly, in an instant, in a moment, in less than a moment, we are out of the cloud and the sun is shining so brightly I have to turn away from the window. I smile. I think what it must look like from the cockpit. What it must be like to head straight into it like that. You're flying through a cloud for one moment, two moments, a lifetime, when suddenly, out of nowhere, you are surrounded by bright sunlight and the darkness of the cloud is nowhere to be found. I wonder if the pilots watch this still, if it makes them smile. I wonder if they love it as much as I think they do.

The wedding was good, good, good. I've never seen Manny and Meg so happy.
And this is the last time that I know I'll see the merry CRNCsters. I've been seeing them all rather consistently since I moved from DC and everytime I've seen them there's always been a "next time" that we were getting together in the near future. Convention, CPAC, Parker's wedding, Meghan's wedding... now, there's nothing set and I'm not sure when I'll see them again. I know I'll see them - I just don't know when. That makes me somewhat sad.

I need to stop cracking my knuckles.

I have a rather long story I want to tell about a family I saw in the airport, but I don't have the time to type it right now. Later... I shall save it for later. But for right now it's going to be warm showers and quick breakfast and then my hour commute into Jersey City for a day at the Bret2005 headquarters.

I can't wait to get into my car. I can't wait to drive. I can't wait to be surrounded by the sound of "Origin of Symmetry" and to feel empowered all over again.

122%

I read this article this morning and it just pushes all my buttons.
It makes me sad, frustrated, desperate...

WebMD Medical News Article on Teen Pregnancy

There are so many people to reach. So many people to educate. So many people to hug - I'm only 24. I haven't done near enough of it. I feel that my years of reaching, and educating, and hugging ended largely when I left Indianapolis. It's funny, because I was thinking of my student Meagan as I was driving in to work this morning. My heart aches for her and I want to see her so badly. I hate that this guy took advantage of her. I hate that her father took his own life last year. I hate that her mother is struggling so much right now, desperately grasping for mental stability as she takes on the awkward role of mother and grandmother at the same time.

I find it perplexing that Meagan was raised with her set of circumstances while I was raised with mine.

This is life. This is the heartache and consequences. The tears, the joy, the scraped knees, the trips to dairy queen, the broken nail, the first kiss, the death of a loved one, the kindergarten graduation, the deep-sea fishing with dad, the lost pound puppy sneakers, the fender bender at the yield sign, the rebellious piercing, the divorce, the nine-year court battle, the imprisoned offender, the insomnia, the fear, the eating disorder, the spontanious trip to disney world, being your mom's hug therapist, the first daughter's wedding, the trip to the emergency room, the first grandchild, the first great-grandchild, the cancer, the secret affair, the mongolian sauce on your favorite dress, the victorious election night, the defeating election night, the black eye your brother gave you in the sandbox, your 8 pet turtles, ice-cream from polar cub, late night tv newscasts that you're too young to understand, your favorite gymnastics leotard, you first dance recital, the piano music played late at night, the drunken debauchery and the grotesque sickness that holds its hand, the morning after, your third place, your first apartment, the horrid roommate...

I don't hate this life at all.
I just hate that ugly things happen to beautiful people.
I hate that beautiful things happen and nobody notices them at all.

furrowed brows and broken vows

Good: found a dress that is just shy of amazing last night. It makes me look like Malibu Barbie. Is that amazing? Hmmm... not so sure. I do enjoy the dress a great deal though.

Bad: For a mere $6 I was able to score myself the brow equivalent to a bad buzz cut and am now suffering through some nasty ass eyebrow syndrome. They are hideous. There's no fixing them. Ah well - I'll just look like an ass for six weeks.



Note how nice my eyebrows look. Please disregard the frightening bandages. Look past them. Look into my eyes. Look into my soul. See how happy I am with these eyebrows? It's not that I'm with my cousin. It's not that I'm super duper magically tan. It's not that I'm on vacation in Peru. It's not even that I just had the wonderful experience of a dirty, low budget, gumball machine Lima emergency room. It's the eyebrows. I'm glowing because my brows look so damn great.

I'm going to try to work today. It's somewhat difficult when all I want to do is sit here and stare out the window. Perhaps drink some tea. Maybe even bang on some drums, should things get exciting enough.

Some crazy woman called the office this morning yelling at me and saying that we lied to her. We've known she was crazy for quite some time. She kept calling here asking about some $8 million, or $800 million that was coming from the state and going to inner-city police forces and whatnot. We kept telling her that no such thing existed and we're working on a program that would provide municipalities (including police forces) with extra money every year, but we told her numerous times that the program is not yet law and we would keep in touch with her. She proceeded to call several different chiefs of police to tell them that the state of New Jersey is going to be sending them $800 million (sometimes just $8 million). I guess someone told her this morning that she's nuts and there is no such money. She called here insisting that we've been lying to her and that she wants us all fired. She also wants to give an ear full to Bret.
The funny thing is, if Bret were here he would take her call in a second. But I won't let him. I have better ways for him to spend his time.

I love the crazies that I run into in this business. MAX POWERS!!!!

May I? Yes, please.

I just thought this wildly funny.

*** So it's shopping once again for me. Shopping could quite honestly be my least favorite thing to do. I love shopping for the holidays and I love shopping for cooking, but I hate clothes shopping for a special event like this. It is quite maddening. I'm all of a sudden six years old again, pitching fits in the middle of a department store because "mom" is making me try on something else that I don't want to try on. Alejandra is coming with me this time. She has to. If I don't bring someone along to supervise dress shopping, I will come home with one (or two, or three) of six items:

1. ribbed stretch tank tops in assorted colors
2. flip flops (usually with a wedge heel)
3. some sort of comfortable stretch pant or pajama pants with a funky pattern on them
4. socks with monkeys on them
5. jeans that I found for $14.99 that I just couldn't resist
6. CD's or books

The point is, if going dress shopping without supervision, I will not come home with a dress. I'm such a child.

The registration on the Foci is expired. I need a secretary. I hate paperwork and I never get around to doing things like this. Bah. Registering the car! Who needs it?! I can't be bothered with such mundane tasks as this! I have a Gubernatorial campaign to win!!
I just drove all the way across Jersey City to get to the DMV to actually do this horrid thing, this registering of the Foci. It's pouring rain and it took me 10 minutes to find parking. I finally arrived at 438 Summit Avenue at 4:45 PM only to find that they had closed at 4:30 PM. I could only laugh.
A man stood out front smoking a cigarette. I could see him staring at me from the corner of my eye (where exactly is the corner of one's eye??)

"What are you looking for young lady?"

*sigh*

I don't know. A pot of gold at the end of the rainbow? A free in-home physical trainer? A pair of jeans that fit right? An allergy medication that will actually kill these hives? whiter teeth in just 14 days without using Crest white strips? toenail polish that does not chip? A new Governor? A reason for why I look like a monchichi (no, Alejandra, I am NOT a monchichi)?

"I'm just checking the hours of the DMV. I'll come back tomorrow morning."

He turned to stare as I walked away, his eyes boring the proverbial holes into my back. Creepy man. Go away, weirdo.

Alejandra is going to kill me. I'm wearing my Joe Mamma t-shirt and I did it on purpose just because she hates it.

"Moe! You know you could be HOT if you didn't dress like Pinocchio all the time!"
Oh Nanda, I don't want to be hot. I just want to be loved for who I am!
I'm so cantankerous!

polyester bride

Someone around here is on glue. And it's not me (I gave up glue some time ago. Really now. I've since graduated to much, much more mature addictive matter).

Victories are spectacular. Even if they're smallish victories, they're victories just the same. And they make me happy.

I didn't drive home hating myself.
I didn't drive home feeling like I wanted to be defenestrated.
I didn't drive home en la manana.

Hoorah. I am the coolest rock star on the planet.

:: caring is creepy ::

It really and truly is. I didn't used to think that relationships were complicated. I have always been a very black & white person. Things simply ARE and anything else is mish mosh and drama.

Relationships truly are unique, confusing, elating, enchanting, irritatingly wonderful, crazily complicated, maddeningly angering things. Be it familial, sexual, social, professional or otherwise.

The older I get the more drama I experience. Being homeschooled, I was saved most of the high school drama. I didn't fully understand what all the fuss was about. Now I look all around me and see so much of it that it's nearly overwhelming, but at the same time so wildly fascinating. It's times like this that I realize why I want to study sociology and anthropology.

I am simply mystified.

I watched it all unravel tonight. It collided. A 12 year friendship, with a one month fling, with a lifelong sisterly bond, with a protective, older, brotherly love. It all came together into this crazy spinning thing called a culmination of grand yet not-so-glorious events.
I watched.
I laughed.
I felt uncomfortable.
I smoked a cigarette.

Outside of being absolutely abhored by one of the creepy persons involved, my presence held zero relevence. This thing, this situation had positively nothing to do with me. Yet I was there. I witnessed everything and made mental notes all along the way. Is it fair that I treated this as a sociology project?

Oh, the drama! You can seldom find such fascinatingly fantastic entertainment. No, not even if you tried. Not even in an afternoon marathon of Lifetime movies.

This is life. This is fact and fable all at the same time. Real people being fake and fake sentiments all of a sudden becoming eerily real.

They write books about this stuff... except they're not near as good as the real deal.

regal's queen is the central being of gallagher's precipice

"Don't eat anything with a face"

I'm glad for the warning. I was growing quite a bit ravenous and was on the brink of fully consuming, even ingesting my wrist watch. har har

I spied this clever little bumper sticker clinging for dear life to the rear-end of a white, early 90's Nissan Stanza earlier this afternoon. This bumper sticker was not alone, nay, it was one amongst perhaps a dozen other bumper stickers heralding similar messages (including, but certainly not limited to, the ever-popular "Beef: it's what's rotting in your colon").

I used to be a vegetarian many moons ago. I'm approximately 6 years into the rehabilitation process. My biggest beef (no pun intended) was with chicken, surprisingly. During my prime years as non-carnivore, I would eat a t-bone steak far before I would sit down to a bucket of KFC. I'm not quite certain of the logic behind it all - I'm just reporting the facts, folks.

But I will now digress from the entire vegetarian bit and move onto a much more important subject. Let's get serious now and talk about the Pet Shop Boys two doors down from this very office.
They are not actually called "The Pet Shop Boys" but I am using this nickname in place of their actual business name in order to protect the innocent. I believe they must be, however, the only pet shop in Jersey City. I see the trucks there nearly every day. Not just one or two trucks, but several. SEVERAL delivery trucks come and go from this tiny little pet shop no larger than the adult video section of blockbuster (not that I would know or anything). Day in and day out Amanda and I spy the delivery trucks stopping by, unloading, and then driving away only to return two days later. It has mystified us for quite some time. Who are these Pet Shop Boys that they can manage to conduct so much business in a shop as small as their's? I'm continuously amazed by not only the number of staff that works in such a small space, but also the vehicles that the staff drives. Mercedes, BMW, and Audi are three logos that we have become accustomed to seeing parked in front of the shop, emergency flashers keeping the rhythm of the night for fright that some bastardly officer will stop by and issue citation for illegal stopping or standing or anything in between. I'm simply mystified. That is all. Amanda asked the other day how much revenue they pull in each month (or perhaps the information was volunteered - I'm not quite sure) and I wish I could remember how much it is, for I know that it was a relatively substantial amount. Dammit. I'll report back. It's a lot. I would buy a new car. Or perhaps a dog. Maybe both. Who knows?

My eyes feel inside out today.

I recently lent out my new Muse CD and just got it back last night. I feel as though I've been without it for weeks when, in fact, it's been a mere four days or so. I was craving it last night, however, and was more than pleased to get it back. I rocked it on my commute into work this morning and nearly wept (not really). It did make me want to smash into things with my car though. Oh please, I beg, don't get the wrong idea. I wanted to smash into things not out of anger, but out of something happy. I wouldn't quite call it joy - that's a tad jovial - but most definitely something happy was causing the urge. Is there joy in smashing things with your car? I don't think I ever thought that there might be perhaps maybe.

Pero mi cabeza esta loco y no se la problema... pero mi corazon esta mas loco.

Hago las cosas que son estupidas. Yo no digo lo que quiero. Yo no cuido para este muchacho y este muchacho no cuida para mi, pero lo quiero a.

*** Just for the record, Stop 'n' Shop has some fabulous flavored seltzer water. My recommendation is Peaches & Cream. ***

I love my job today. Genuinely. I have been so incredibly self-absorbed the past few months and my deepest apologies and sympathies go out to those who have had to deal with me.

If you've met me within the past 6 months, you have not really met me. That's not me. That's the jaded, confused, weird, sometimes lonely, crabby, complaining, disenchanted, smelly version of me.

I laugh (often)
I cry (only over actual spilled milk)
I facilitate (random acts of destruction - all in love, mind you)
I instigate (all sorts of curiousness)
I pet (dogs and cats and even turtles if the occasion calls for it. Sometimes even people)
I read (everything)
I poke (fun of things)
I love (everyone and for my feet to be tickled)
I hate (you know what I hate)
I say (what I mean)
I do (what I say)

Meet me again. I'm back to normal (almost).

the leprous monkey butt

So my ear lobes (is that one word? Not sure) have been itching rather consistently for the past 24 hours. I have a neat little line of red bumps going up the back of my arm and my left ankle. My back is covered with them. My lips even itch this morning and it's driving me mad out of my skull. These allergy pills are not helping all that much.

I have leprosy. I'm sure of it. Stand clear my friend lest you yourself be infected.
Imagine if my ear fell off completely? I wouldn't be able to wear glasses ever again unless I have the ear surgically re-attached. Which would really be ridiculous. Why would I re-attach a leprous ear? It would look gross. It would look like I had my ear pierced numerous times. I don't even wear earrings. And if I had a leprous ear, I certainly wouldn't be able to wear dangly earrings or heavy earrings (should some event require such decoration). Forget it. I would never have the ear re-attached, hence I would never be able to wear glasses again. Pity. Sometimes I feel like rockin' the specs.

I'm not a hypochondriac, seriously. I do always think I have something (leprosy and appendicitis are both popular), but I don't necessarily care that I have it. Dig?
I think hypochondriacs care that they are ill. Does it count if I think I have leprosy, but don't really care that much?

Gelukkige Verjaardag in Deutsch

Happy Birthday (in Dutch) to my loverly baby sister Cecilia.

Poor Cecilia - I feel like she's constantly getting the brush off. And not because it is intended that way! It simply happens!
She had such great plans for tonight, such simply marvelous plans. Well, the plans were mediocre at best, but she was really excited about them just the same.
See, my baby sister (now 22 years of age) had never been to the Stress Factory - a comedy club in New Brunswick - so she decided that she wanted to go see a show there for her birthday.

Slowly, however, the plans that were originally so intricately layed out sort of flaked away like filo dough in a texas sand storm and the large group that we had initially planned on going dwindled down to just Cecilia and myself. Dude, it would have been so loser for the two of us to go by ourselves. I'm not really quite certain why that is, but I feel quite strongly about it.
So anyhow, Cristina, Kelly and I discussed this beforehand and decided that, yes, Cecilia DOES in fact always get the short end of the stick. She is continuously dealt the "something-or-other" card (this is not an actual card, mind you, but I cannot right now remember the term used for a bad car. Simply "bad card" perhaps? Who knows).
How then should we approach this deliciate subject? How am I going to break the news to her and let her know that we're going to have to scale it down a bit?

So we came up with a game plan. We figured we had one of two options. We could get my baby brother a fake ID (he needs one anyway) and all go out to a cheap bar for lousy drinks and way-too-loud music -
OR we could buy roofies, take Cecilia out, buy her a cheap drink and slip her the roofies, take her home, put her to bed, and then fill her in tomorrow morning on what a wild party we had the night before. She wouldn't ever remember a thing anyhow.
And none of that generic brand roofies - we go for quality, name-brand shit only please. Thank you.
I'll have you all know as well that Roofies is the date rape drug of choice. Please make sure not to fall too terribly behind on the fashionable date rape drug of the moment.
http://www.emergency.com/roofies.htm

Alright, enough of that. So what did we end up doing?

Well, I was coming back from Long Island through the city anyway so I stopped at a cuban bakery/tattoo shop in Newark and picked up some roofies.
Cecilia has been sleeping soundly for a solid 5 1/2 hours now. We have her going-out clothes hanging out on the line while we all smoke cigarettes in a circle around them to give them that "Garden State bar" smell. This plan is so incredibly glorious.

OK, so seriously? We ate ice-cream, made s'mores in the microwave (bad idea, by the way) and watched Matchstick Men (good idea, thoroughly).

As they say in Copenhagen: Gelukkige Verjaardag, Cecilia!

scratch my back and I'll tickle your arse

I saw a car driving into work this morning, a well used (read: beaten up) late seventies dynasty with a license plate frame that read: "NY Lotto - It pays to dream"
Apparently it does not.

We had another fantastic storm here in Jersey City last night. I was elated, to say the least. The wind was extraordinary, sending the heavy rain across the pavement in sheets (sheets, I tell ya)!
I know my creator. Sweet.

Many fine things there are in this life, but few are finer than Thai noodles with friends. Thanks for the oodles o' noodles and post dinner streudels, the shots of strong spirits and fun 80's lyrics.
Cheers! we say, Cheers! to no work and fun times, to short days and long rhymes, to rainbows and butterflies, to cartoons and bow ties!
And after our cheering and good natured jeering, it's off now to soft beds for long rest is nearing. Goodnight my dear friends and lovers of mine - I like you plenty; my mom likes you just fine.

The Foci needs a good bath this weekend. I will be trekking off, before then even, for Long Island to visit good, good friends this weekend (and, coincidentally more cheers and silly rhymes). Good fun is to be had, I'm sure. I'm looking forward to it. Loving it. Living it.
My GW buddies are good to me. They love me plenty even though I'm conservative.
I've noticed lately that those who are very politically active and liberal have the ability to put politics aside and have a great time with me. Oh yes, there is the occasional banter, but nothing worthy of anything beyond a slap on the ass. We have a great time together, eat, drink, and get high with no worries of anything beyond our friendship. Those who are not so politically active (they may not even vote - who knows) and are liberal have a hard time getting past the whole conservative thing. Stop and figure that one out for me. Thanks ever so much, muah.

muse and abuse me

Muse? Yeah, I'm totally feeling it right now. Loving it, in fact.
I'm in a major moment of self-deprication at the moment (I'm a doofus!) and won't be able to write anything that is even close to being worth readhing at this point.

I want to crawl out of my own skin and find a little, dark cove to live in. A tree perhaps. Yes, a big gnarly tree that some old owl would be found habitating. I'll throw the unoffending owl out on his ear and live in the tree. I will be monica the monkey owl tree liver inner.

I'm taking a nap. I don't want to think about anything right now. I'm tired of thinking instead of doing. It gets old after awhile, y'know?

walking with scissors is better then??

There are one million two hundred fifty-eight thousand seven hundred and ninety-four things in my life that will be harder than anything that I think is hard right now.

There are forty-two billion two hundred seventy-four million six hundred eighty-seven thousand and fifty-five people on this earth who will live lives far more extraordinary and difficult than mine.

I have ten fingers, and ten toes (albeit weird looking little fuckers, but ten of them just the same), a nose that is not too big, family that lives overseas, tickets to a concert next weekend, a stack of books that I have yet to read, and a dog that I like to call 'pooper'.
I want to be extraordinary. I don't want to be like everyone else. I don't want to be driven by the same things. I want passion, but for passionate things only.

My life is good.

empower this

It's fourth of July weekend and I just ditched my brother and camping at the shore. I'm such a miserable sister.

Part II

We lost the suit, but it will go on to supreme court. It's a groovy thing that we have those 500 faxes into this blasted office supporting the lawsuit. Blech.

Amanda's shoe is missing and I'm not the one who swiped it. Who steals ONE stiletto heel? Not I.

HEADLINE: Judge sides with governor on borrowing plan

BYLINE: JOHN P. McALPIN, Associated Press Writer

DATELINE: TRENTON, N.J.

BODY:
Borrowing $2 billion to balance the state budget is legal because the New Jersey Constitution gives the governor broad powers to determine where the money should come from, a state judge ruled Thursday.

Gov. James E. McGreevey and Democratic lawmakers need the loan and about $2 billion more from higher taxes and fees to balance the $28 billion budget he signed Wednesday.

Republican lawmakers, without enough votes to scale back the record spending, filed a lawsuit claiming the loan violates state laws requiring a balanced budget. Proceeds from the loan will be used to cover state operating expenses in the coming year.

McGreevey raised taxes on cigarettes and boosted surcharges for bad drivers, guaranteeing that the money will be used to pay back the loan over the next 20 years.

Superior Court Judge Linda Feinberg said Thursday she struggled with the GOP argument but ultimately decided that it was permissible because the law broadly defines revenue.

Unlike an accountant or homeowner, the governor can label money coming in from a loan as revenue rather than a liability.

By adding the proceeds of the bond sale to the incoming taxes and fees, the state will have enough money to cover expenses for the year.

"There is no hole there," Feinberg said.

Republican lawyers said they planned to appeal immediately and expect it to go to the state Supreme Court.

... as i slip into my best suit

McGreevey has a lawsuit on his hands and we're to blame. nyah, nyah!
So far we have about 350 participants since Monday and the fax machine is still ringing...

I am pro-active (sometimes)
I love my job (most of the time)
I was late this morning (as always)

fair fare is fairly rough fare to find

I'm flying to Minneapolis in a few weeks (woohoo! minnesota! land of 10,000 lakes and 20,000 mosquitos!) for manny and megh's wedding. I've been eyeing airfare like the nasty little air-fare eye-er that I am and happened to notice when the price had dropped by sixty (60!) dollars the other week. I was all over that fare like a fat kid on a donut, like scott on a cute intern, like the GOP on propaganda... I was on it.

exactly one week later that same fare dropped an additional $114. Can you believe that?! So I'm flying to Minnesota for $114 more than I really ought to be. At least I'm going to be in good company.
Manny will sport a monacle with his tux, the Grey Goose Society will be out in full force, everyone will be faded like bourbon street, and the [mariachi] band will play on like the good, wholesome patriots that they are. Cha cha cha... it's going to be a good time and well worth the superfluous $114. I've been busying myself with their website, their save-the-dates, yes folks - even their campaign-like wedding favor buttons that proudly announce the "candidacy" of Thein/Espinoza 2004 (you like that idea? yeah, I thought that was just nifty).

Anyways... NeWaYz...haha

Alright, seriously. For real now. Let's get down to brass tax and talk about the $6.31 tuna sandwich I just purchased across the street at Lombardi's. Where do we live? Beverly Hills?! Nay, this is Jersey City folks. JERSEY CITY. Most people have no busines in line at McDonald's ordering off the dollar menu, let alone spending a whole $6 and 30/100 of another dollar on a tuna sandwich. Oh. they threw in some lays chips as well. so I guess that covers most of it, right? heh.
Y'well the sandwich was mediocre at best. It tasted like tuna (amazingly), nothing else. Just plain old tuna. I was expecting something really special - perhaps some dill - but, not so much. Oh well. I know now why I stopped going to lombardi's.

I'm picking up Alejandra from the PATH station in approximately 10 minutes and I'm itching to fly free from this office. It's been a good day, but it's been a day just the same and I want to head over to Nanda's house and make brownies. Enough of this work business.

I love to hate it.

This is stupid. I'm leaving.

A carefully sorted assortment of sorts

a car has been named after me. i feel so honored! my buddy just finished up with round 1 at police academy (is there a round two? not sure) and has just informed me that once he gets his police cruiser, he's going to name it "monica". impressive, eh??

I'll finish this later. I'm out the door for a huge ass meeting.

work. blech.

my (musical) theory (on life)

nearly two years later, i rummage through her things as though she's just in the next room. Garage sale price tags all over everything, it felt normal. this felt like the day-to-day mundane.
the kids wanted everything gone. all of her furniture, her cd collection, her kitchen appliances, her music. boxes and boxes and BOXES of music. there was tons of it. Cristina told dan that we would take all of it home with us, sort it out later.

walking up the front walk to the house felt strange. i had not been there in 5 years or more. dr. K was happy, pleasant, jovial even. he smiled and waved, let us into the house, showed us where everything was being stored. "it all has to go girls. take what you want."
i felt dazed; and so strongly so that i thought i would pass-out. emotionally, i was already dealing with my own issues and this was overload, just a bit.
seeing some of jan's things that i had completely forgotten about - it brought her back to life for a minute. everything was out of place though. that table was supposed to be in the front hall, with those photographs on top. that figurine was on the end of the piano, along with her coffee mug of diet coke. that couch was in the piano room, that other couch in her bedroom. it was like a virtual tour of jan's home in helter skelter disarray.
after cristina decided it would just be easier to pack up ALL the music and take it home rather than sorting through it all in their living room, dr. k brought us a collander and told us that the blueberries needed to be picked (this was not a metaphor). he is moving in about two weeks down to florida and apparently hasn't had time to pick the blueberries off all the bushes out back and offered us as many blueberries as we could carry home with us.
cristina and i stomped through the high grass to the blueberry bushes and began picking. the sun was perfect today. i could feel it soaking into my skin and for a brief moment today it actually felt good to be alive. jan is dead. we are alive picking blueberries in her back yard.
i haven't had really any time alone with my sister since she came into town. alex, for once, was with someone else. we picked in silence and even the silence felt good. i felt like passing out for a moment, but pushed past it. i was wearing my black skirt. she was wearing her perfect white trousers. gosh, she's gotten skinny. she looks good though.
we began to talk. we talked about jan and the kids. they look good. beth has lost some weight. boo looks so much like her mom now. where's brooke? why is she not here on father's day?
i asked her a series of really personal questions for no reason at all. they came out of nowhere. i had just been curious. she averted her eyes, but surprisingly answered. short, one syllable answers.
the blueberries were so perfect! perriwinkle and beautiful. they don't look like this when you buy them in the store. i wanted to take pictures of them they were so perfect. i couldn't shut up about the blueberries. for reasons unclear, it was so amazing to me. cristina thought so too.
we picked again in silence and it was nearly therapeutic. therapeutic berry picking.
for some reason, i felt the overwhelming urge to cry. i didn't.
the baby laughed inside and from somewhere, debussy was playing; wafting out the window, through the air, and to our ears over by the blueberry patch. i missed jan immensely right at that moment. i wanted her to know that cristina was married, and had a son. i wanted her to know that i had lived in washington and moved back. i wanted her to know that her daughters were doing well. i wanted her to know that dan hadn't given up on writing.

i took two things from the house today. cecilia took several things. tons of stuff that i have no idea what she's going to do with. lenox pieces that i'm sure were originally very expensive, mirrors, figurines, anything that reminded her of jan, for they wanted it all gone.
cristina, of course, took all the music, several cd's and books, a table.
i took her bible. i poked around quite a bit and saw several things that reminded me of jan, but for some reason this was HER. her notes, her outlines and highlights. the thought of reading the bible accompanied by her insight was great. it wasn't so much of a nostalgic selection as it was a... i'm not sure what kind of selection it was. i'm just trying to avoid making this sound overly nostalgic and cliche. i just really wanted her bible, simple as that.
i also took the wooden magazine rack that she used to keep by the piano for extra piano music. it looked so well used and broken in. it's heavier than it looks.

i came home and lied down. i was absolutely exhausted, not having gotten much sleep the two previous nights. i (finally) took out my contact lenses. they've been in for three days straight.
i felt like i should cry. it felt appropriate. i contemplated forcing tears. i was sick of being emotionally void. with the collaboration of everything this weekend, i ought to feel SOMETHING, but i sort of felt like i felt nothing, which made me sad, which made me cry. i fell asleep that way: feeling nothing and crying about it.

it's interesting. sometimes it's good to be a crying girl.

and i'll use punctuation when i feel like it, dammit.

I'm gonna sex you up(state)

The city is dirty today. The humidity is seeping from the cracks in the concrete. I don't want to touch anything because everything seems moist (shiver. I hate that word. its sound is incredibly grotesque) with something unpleasant. Moist with hot dog water perhaps (something equally gross, if you could think of it, would also suffice).

I walked to the bank earlier and had a hard time breathing. It wasn't the "I'm out of breath because I've been sweatin' to the oldies" type can't breathe. It was the asthmatic type can't breathe. Strange.

No, moe, you don't have asthma.
And quit talking to yourself for pete's sake.

truth (half truth)

I once had lunch with Dan Quayle (and taught him how to spell potato)

I've been in the West Wing of the White House on numberous occasions (and caught Prez Bush reading UN delegate flashcards in the Oval Office)

I once witnessed a state arrival by the President of Poland 30 feet away from the President of the United States (and crossed the velvet rope)

My recently former roommate is a special agent for the State Department (and she's a he)

I've been on CNN, MTV, and various web based news sites (and had something intelligent to say on all of them)

I have interviewed the FBI and been interviewed by the FBI (I didn't inhale)

I turned down a date with the heir to the Nordstrom throne, Adam Nordstrom (and did it again three months later)

I bumped into Julianne Moore, Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins at a hip NYC restaurant a few months ago (and made them weep with my "Shawshank Redemption" monologue)

My boss will be Governor of NJ next year (if I have anything to do with it)

My brother has had beers with Willie Nelson and the boys in their trailer, watched Beyonce and her dancers change out of their stage clothing while watching 'The Simpsons' on their dressing room television, told Ricky Martin to "Fuck off", and discussed stock values with Martha Stewart (and knew who every single one of those people were when he did it)

I wear a size 10 shoe and my natural hair color is dark blonde (I wish this weren't true)

apparently my blog titles are misleading

I live with air conditioning. This may not sound like much, but it really really is. The house I grew up in - this groovy little place in this funky little town in... new jersey - has never been air conditioned. Having no basement and little attic space to speak of, it never seemed very conducive to conditioned air.
Somehow
Miraculously
amazingly
spectacularly
wonderfully
my father managed to pull it off. The Cool Air Boys (moniker by moe) showed up last week and crawled about our upper regions for three days in the boiling heat in order to install a state of the art central air system.
It was stuffy, the temperatures soaring to 90* (I think) and one of the dudes flat out fainted up in our attic. His foot went through the ceiling and we now have a nice sized hole in the dining room. They're patching it up for us.
As fate would have it, at the height of my father's excitement and bliss over an actual (gasp) air conditioning system, the temperatures dropped to about 70* the day the installation was finished. Bah!
He was so antsy to use the damn thing, that he used it anyway. I slept in my ski parka that night. The ice-blue one with the faux fir around the hood and a Molson's Canadian patch covering a rip on the left pocket. I wore my socks with toes (all twelve of them).

It was warm-ish last night. I got home from work around half past nine. The air was dripping with the remnants of... something wet and gross. It was muggy enough to make my glasses fog up anyhow.
I walked in the front door and... and... AND - it was cool. Wow. Pretty groovy. Something I've never experienced before. Quite literally.
I slept comfortably last night, without any ice packs to keep me company in my large, lonely bed. It was nice. I like air conditioning just fine.

Professor Coldheart was a fascist pig

I seldom remember my dreams these days. I don’t know if it’s that I have so many other things on my mind that I simply don’t care to remember or if it’s that I never quite get the proper combination of sleep and rest (there IS a difference, see), causing me to wake abruptly every morning. This is the case most of the time and my first thoughts are not typically about whatever I had been dreaming throughout my (minimal) hours of dormancy; my first thoughts are to curse the day from the very start.
Involuntary exclamations usually occur. Among them, “shit!”, “dammit!” and “good grief!” are most popular (and yes, I’m aware that the latter most does not necessarily fit in with the two former, thank you very much).

At any rate, I happened to remember my dream this morning, even though I was waking with an abrupt start. It was strange. Weird. Different. Again, weird.

I wanted a tattoo (I’ve wanted one for years and years), so I went on a quest to acquire one. I found this tattoo artist who ran his five-star operation out of a trailer or mobile home. The “front” door of the mobile home was rusty and protested angrily when I pulled it open to walk inside. The racket of the door caught the ear of a snoozing boxer nearby. Luckily, I didn’t seem to spark his interest quite enough to abandon his mid-day snooze. The pooch twitched his ear back and then forth and then returned his eyes to the closed position.

The artist was found inside, in the back, near the over-glorified port-a-potty. The lighting was dark, yellow-ish, reminiscent of Fight Club. The tattoo guy was big, but not scary. Almost laughable actually.
I blinked and he was finished. I don’t even remember telling him what I wanted on my arm. In fact, I don’t remember telling him that I wanted it on my arm. But that’s where he put it. And before I knew it, there was a band-aid (yes, I know) on my arm and he was finished.
I woke the next morning (still in the dream) and found that I had a stained glass (ish) design of a tiger on my arm. The tiger was lashing out at… at, well… not sure. I guess whatever unsuspecting victim happened to be looking at the tattoo. It was huge. It covered my entire upper arm. Underneath the tiger the words “Made in the Philippines” had been etched into my skin. This part is interesting because Firstly, I was not made in the Philippines. Secondly... well, there is no secondly. That's it. I was not made in the Philippines.
It was so hideously ugly but so incredibly fascinating. I felt regret immediately though. A tiger?! MADE IN THE PHILLIPINES?! WTF?!!
So yeah, this is what I woke up remembering this morning.

I know that dreams are connected to whatever experiences we have during the day, but as I thought about it this morning on my drive into work (yes, it mystified me THAT much. I thought of it on my drive into work. I analyzed it even! Ha!), I realized that I had never made such strong connections to previous day’s activities. Let’s see the comparisons, shall we? Oh yes, I know you want me to list them here. Hoo-rah.

1. The Tattoo: A friend was over last night and we all discussed our long-felt desires to get tattoos. In an effort to be oh-so-pious and non-defiant (for my parents’ sake) I stated that I would not get a tattoo until I was married and away from their rule. I'm so clever, eh?

2. The Mobile Home: I was discussing yesterday morning with a friend my father's latest and greatest idea to sell his house and travel the country in a mobile home, spending his final days roaming about with my mother and a schnauzer. I do not support this idea.

3. The Tiger: I happened to be messaging a friend last night and called him "Tiger" and then I roared (as best one can roar on instant messenger. I believe it goes something like this: "ROWR!") *ahem*

4. Made in the Philippines: I was noticing yesterday and was quite mystified by the fact that there are so many people from the philippines on both Myspace and Friendster. The contrast really is quite stark (philippines dwellers vs. non-philippines dwellers). This might call for a chart of some sort, be it pie, bar, line, or otherwise.

Anything else mentioned in my dream synopsis has no bearing whatsoever on any other activity that I took part in throughout the course of my day. In fact, much of it was fabricated right here and right now (go jesus jones, go!).

This is far more fun than work, but really lends no assistance in accomplishing my professional goals. Hence, I should get back to the proverbial grind.

Haha. Who am I kidding?

stop government regulation in cyberspace

I really have a lot to say, but I'm not quite sure how to say it.
Moe is at a loss for words. Unbelievable.
Moe is referring to herself in the third person.
Moe is clearly an ass.

I hate when things just plain suck. But does anyone really like it all that much?
Life is good (grand, in fact).
I am happy (bordering ecstatic).
Work is fine (doing pretty well these days).
I've met some really cool people (the coolest, in fact).
This particular thing sucks though (I don't like not having what I want).

That is all.

Sar-chasm

Today my skin doesn't fit. I don't fit. I'm stretching, nay, pouring out of my skin. I'm too big for this frame. My mind is reaching out beyond my physical existence and touching everything outside of the self that I have known for quite some time.

And it feels great to stretch.

When I do not fit in my own skin, it can feel terribly awkward. A spotlight shines brightly and shouts my deepest secrets to the whole world. The light uncovers me and exposes every crevice, every mark, every blemish. My body shakes and quivers with a nervousness resembling 3rd grade humiliation. Times ten.

Vulnerability unmasks my egotistical motivations. It forces me through a process that I would otherwise never force myself through. Shockingly, amazingly, fantastically I come out clean, unfettered, whole.

This past weekend was good for me. Awkward. Vulnerable. Terribly humiliating even, but good. Sargeant Pepper good. Tootsie Roll good. Various 90's pop culture trends good. I'm glad that I went. I'm glad that I evolved into this new thing that I am.

Who am I kidding? I'm just a kid, who watches cartoons and eats too much ice-cream in one sitting (enough to give me a belly-ache even). I will resort to biting if I am losing a wrestling match. I will wear two unmatching socks if the washer ate one. I will eat pudding with a fork if there are no clean dishes. I will give the camera my middle finger if I think it will be funny. I will flip my eyelids inside out if provoked.

I am not deep.
But I'm really not shallow either.

opalescence

If I can't live, I can at least dream, right?

I love people watching. This office of mine, on the corner of 2nd and Monmouth is so incredibly conducive to people watching and this makes me glad. Happy even.There's a very large picture window in front, and just beside that a heavy glass door. I sit inside, not such a long distance from either the window or the door, but almost completely clear from eye-shot for anyone walking past. It's not the direction they would think to look. It is one among many picture windows. One of several heavy glass doors entering dozens of poorly-lit offices.

This office is poorly lit, but is redeemed by the ever so jovial spirits that work inside.

There is a woman who walks by several times every day. Her short, spikey hair is chartreuse. It is brilliant. She is always wearing funky tights under a short skirt or dress. Black and white Dr. Seuss stripes are a popular choice as are fishnets. She has a dog. I don't know what kind. A cute little mix. She sometimes stops next door at the Pet Shop Boys (not their actual name, just a moniker that Amanda and I bestowed on them) to pick up tasty comestibles for her precious little pooch. She's fun to watch though. I want to bump into her one of these days. I don't think she smokes. Smoking is always a good way to meet strangers.

There is also a picture window directly behind me. In fact, it is so close behind me that if I, mid-day, decide to perform a full-body stretch (the double arch back in your seat, arms completely behind you type of stretch) I will hit the shades with my arms and make a big ruckus. haha. ruckus... anyway,there is this picture window behind me and it is at street level. There is a traffic light. So if I so choose, I can look at all the cars all day that stop at the traffic light, or at the very least, listen to whatever tunes they have selected on the hifi.
Just now, there was a large, red SUV parked at the light. Two gentlemen controlled the vehicle as (I'm assuming) pilot and co-pilot. They had those nifty spinning rims on tires that were roughly the size of a fourth grader. Their music was loud. L-O-U-D. The window was rattling it was so loud. This garnered the attention of Amanda, who came to survey the obtrusive vehicle and its obnoxiously loud sound system. We beat our heads back and forth to the rhythm of whatever indecipherable hip-hop track was playing. And then we laughed as a police cruiser pulled up behind the truck at the light and the driver promptly turned down his music.

"What music, officer?"

Sometimes I really like Jersey City. Other times it is just a city, that is in Jersey.

cultivating seeds of lightning

I'm ready. I'm ready for it. Waiting even. HA!Not quite waiting, but I think I'm at least ready.

This weekend I will drive up to Saratoga Springs, New York for Parker's wedding. I went to the dinner party five weeks ago celebrating her and Todd's pending nuptials, and it turned out great. Much merriment. Many much fun and merriment indeed. Is that how you spell merriment? I have no idea. At any rate, I will drive up to Saratoga Springs and attend Parker's wedding. The entire weekend is going to be like one, big College Republican (old school) reunion. I don't know if I can deal with all the politics. I'm carpooling with HPG and his girlfriend Karen. Now, see, THIS should be interesting. As I stated earlier, however, I feel ready. HPG and Karen are staying at my house in NJ Sunday night. I don't even know where yet. We're pretty much at full capacity right now and HPG is a big guy. He's somewhat likened to the stay-puff marshmallow man, I'd say.

Amanda and I have been working hard, trying to empower as many people as possible lately. Sometimes though, we feel like sticking up a big, middle finger and saying "EMPOWER THIS!"The B-Dawg went and spoke to a group of young home-school students yesterday afternoon. Damn, those kids are so well behaved. My sibs and I didn't fall under the 'well-behaved, quiet, meek and obedient home schooled type children', if there is such a category. We were more the 'obnoxiously loud, annoying, ADHD, disobedient home schooled type children'. A stark contrast, I believe. We turned out pretty OK though, I think. There's always room for improvement, mind you, but we're OK as far as home schooled rejects go. We don't collapse under the pressure of relatively new social scenarios, none of us are terribly unattractive (at least, I'd like to hope so), we're familiar with a plethora of pop-culture references that most fundamentalist, home schooled children would never absorb. I'm incredibly impressed with our ability to function outside of our homestead bubble and interact with society and culture as a whole. Oh, and we're not all that bright. A lot of home schooled children are really smart. We're not. So you see, we've really beat every angle there is. I'm pretty proud. I DID graduate valedictorian. I really abuse my whole "I was home-schooled" crutch. I abuse it entirely. I use it for everything.

Cut someone off on the interstate? "Sorry! I was home-schooled!"
Misspell a word? "Oh! My bad. Yeah, I was home-schooled."
Jab someone in the gut with my cue stick while playing a round of pool? "Oh man. Dude, sorry 'bout that. I was, you know, home-schooled."
Pulled over for doing 85 in a 65? "Officer, I didn't know any better... I was home-schooled."

This blog is really amounting to nothing much. I apologize, you know, I was home-schooled.

***Lying, smiling in the darkshooting stars around your heartdreams are bouncing in your headPure and simple all the timeNow you're crying in your sleepI wish you'd never learned to weepselling dreams you should be keepingPure and simple all the time***

statistics show, overwhelmingly, that you SUCK

I'm a brunette! Yes, that's right folks - Moe has altered science and nature yet again and has come out a brunette (with blonde skunky stripes in front). It's very fun, I must say.

Happy memorial day.

The district was fine, fine, fine this past weekend. It was nice to see familiar faces again and trip about my old stomping grounds. Part of this included turning my hair a new color.

I had brunch with Jeremy on Saturday morning at Eastern Market. I feel like everyone in DC is perpetually having brunch (dahling). It's crazy, but that's just what you do in DC on the weekends. You have brunch. And if you can't seem to beat off all the brunch invitations even with a rather large and obtrusive stick, you might end up eating brunch numerous times both Saturday and Sunday. This is fine, just be certain to order the never-ending mimosa at each stop and you won't even remember if you had pleasant or unpleasant interactions with each of your brunch dates. In fact, you might not recall brunch at all. Depending how long or arduous your Friday night out was, this might be best.

I'm scraping wallpaper glue off of my walls right now and the chemicals are making me slightly retarded. It's sort of good, but not quite. I mean, the buzz could be phenomenal if not for the fact that I can no longer breathe and feel as though I might asphyxiate myself in the process. I did make a rather groovy discovery in the meantime, however, and that is that these walls, many moons ago (probably 25 years or more) were painted yellow. Still are, I suppose - just under all the layers of spackle and wallpaper. I've only gotten one wall scraped and i've been doing it all day. And that wall is the one featuring the doorway and the closet - so I can see how long it's going to take me to do the rest of this bedroom. Approximately 728 years or so. How many dog years is that?

Speaking of designer shoes: I got a killer pair of heels for the wedding this weekend. Hoo-Rah. I'll be that girl with a short skirt and a looooooong jacket.

I wish I had an MG to trade for a white Chrysler LeBaron.

I'm back to glue-scraping and asphyxiation. I know it seems like the stereo-typical Memorial Day activity, but I thrive on being terribly cliche, what can I say?

Loverly

Sunday morning, rain is falling
Steal some covers, share some skin
Clouds are shrouding us in moments unforgettable
As you twist to fit the mold that I am in.
Fingers trace your every outline
I paint a picture with my hands
Back and forth we sway like branches in a storm
A change in weather, still together when it ends.