active ingredient

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

tooti-frooti

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

caterpillar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

blackberry bushel

Kosher for Passover: A Recent Exchange

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

http://www.sentfrommydelldesktop.blogspot.com

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

But, you can read all about it yourself.

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

cheers.

on the curb

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

That is all.

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

why i'm so brown these days

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

why i'm so brown these days:

mas fuerte

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

Not quite.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

beneficence

Two times.
That's two (2).

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



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

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

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

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

When did I get so sappy anyway?

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

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

have an OK day

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

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

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

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

Kids.
BAH!

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

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

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

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

daydreams involving alejandra

Alejandra says:

Hey love

Mónica says:

hola

Mónica says:

What’s up?

Alejandra says:

want to hear something weird?

Alejandra says:

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

Alejandra says:

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

Alejandra says:

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

Alejandra says:

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

Mónica says:

Yes…

Alejandra says:

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

Alejandra says:

(this is all last night)

Alejandra says:

ok

Alejandra says:

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

Alejandra says:

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

Mónica says:

That’s interesting…

Alejandra says:

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

Alejandra says:

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

Alejandra says:

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

Alejandra says:

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

Alejandra says:

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

Alejandra says:

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

Alejandra says:

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

Mónica says:

Good heavens

Alejandra says:

lol

Alejandra says:

yeah but get this

Alejandra says:

i Googled him

Mónica says:

Naturally

Mónica says:

Who is he? Some major record exec?

Alejandra says:

he's the Label Manager for Eighteenth Street Music

Mónica says:

Holy crow. Of course.

Mónica says:

I should know him, I think.

Alejandra says:

i know!

Mónica says:

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

Alejandra says:

he's awesome

Mónica says:

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

Alejandra says:

Moe, don’t hate.

Mónica says:

Alejandra, why have you stolen my life?!

Mónica says:

WHY?!?!?!?!

Alejandra says:

i'm a pod person

Mónica says:

A POD PERSON?

Mónica says:

HA!

Alejandra says:

you sound so dramatic in caps

Mónica says:

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

Mónica says:

A FOOD CRITIC! YES!

Alejandra says:

HA

Alejandra says:

YES

Alejandra says:

we can trade lives

Mónica says:

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

Alejandra says:

it's so weird though

Alejandra says:

that i'm just chatting with this guy

Alejandra says:

while listening to his music

Alejandra says:

very strange

Mónica says:

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

Mónica says:

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

Alejandra says:

of courrse

Mónica says:

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

Alejandra says:

HAHAHHAHA

Mónica says:

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

Alejandra says:

mmmm i love mac and cheese and hotdogs

Mónica says:

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

Alejandra says:

HAHAHAHA

Mónica says:

And we won’t tell a single soul…

Alejandra says:

except for our hot husbands

Mónica says:

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

Mónica says:

And you to Monica Natacha

Alejandra says:

Natacha!

Mónica says:

Well, yes, our husbands would know.

Mónica says:

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

Mónica says:

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

Alejandra says:

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

Alejandra says:

Wait, Scott STAPP!?!?

Mónica says:

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

Alejandra says:

God, i hope i have more imagination that that

Mónica says:

No! Wait! Benji, from Good Charlotte!

Alejandra says:

hmmm

Alejandra says:

Nick Lachey?

Mónica says:

NO

Alejandra says:

please?

Alejandra says:

damn

Mónica says:

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

Alejandra says:

i'll hook you up with the brunette from TaTU

Mónica says:

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

Mónica says:

Fine, you can have Nick Lachey.

Alejandra says:

Yay!

Alejandra says:

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

Mónica says:

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

Mónica says:

You end up with Enrique Iglesias, and Nick Lachey

Mónica says:

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

Mónica says:

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

Alejandra says:

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

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

hiccup

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

Breathe, Moe. This is fresh air.



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

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

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

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

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

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

feliz ano nuevo a todos.

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

he said "maybe"

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

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

I have been pelted with Jujubes.

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

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

I knew I should have been an artist.

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

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

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

blank

click here for the time of your life

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

this is where my mom is from

Midlands Most Wanted

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

RODNEY DANE HIGGINBOTHAM

• DATE OF BIRTH: July 29, 1965

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

• WANTED BY: Lexington County Sheriff’s Department

• CHARGES: Third-offense criminal domestic violence

• LAST KNOWN ADDRESS: 232 Stagecoach Road, Gaston

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

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

simply basic

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

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

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

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

I hope so.

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

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

But then, there are always places to begin.

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

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

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

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

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

Days 8 & 9: The price for governor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


***

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

My neck hurts.

To be continued...

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