hoopla

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

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

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

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

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

God bless Tom.
And God bless MySpace.

the flesh eaters

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

***

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

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

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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

sacridiculous

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

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

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

Don't know what that is, do you?

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

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

respectacle

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

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

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

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

Here we are, mom.

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

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

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

high molesterol

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Currently listening : Neon Bible By Arcade Fire Release da

the lovely gnomes

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

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

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

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

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

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

It feels good to be here.

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

re: buttle

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

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

She has.

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

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

Currently listening : Wincing the Night Away By The Shins Releas

a certain game that i have

Monday January 20, 1990

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

School was really confusing! Math is as confusing as someone telling you that theres a corner in a circular room!

I hate math! but I love, spelling, English, & art!

Cecilia is cleaning up her mess right now.

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

Kitty bit me twice!

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

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

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

Well Gotta go!

Love,
Monica

Memory Verse – 2 Kings 13:3

Breakfast – Oatmeal

Lunch – Chicken Cardon Bleu

Dinner - Soup

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

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

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

This is… well, it’s embarrassing but very funny and almost sweet (dare I say?). And it makes me realize that I think it’s become pretty easy to forget that I've grown up. After all, there are no clear boundaries drawn between the age of 10 and the age of 27 until I come across an old journal, or photos from summer camp, or a letter from a pen pal that I haven’t heard from in ages; there is no line in the sand from that time when I made the decision to grow up. I never received a date stamped receipt for my purchase of adulthood.

In fact, the debate is still out on whether I’ve actually yet become an adult at all.

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

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

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

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

I still (at least mentally) compartmentalize my day into digestible fragments.
I still hate math (some of you know this first hand), and find it completely frustrating.
I still love art and enjoy the English language a great deal.
I still keep obsessive tabs on the food that enters my mouth in a given 24-hour period.
I still don't care for cats.
My Uncle Fred is still crazy, and Cecilia is still cleaning up her mess.

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

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

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

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

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

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

*** Psalm 1:1

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

exploring harmony

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To get more skinny on skinny action, click here.

Currently watching : Funny Face

go wild

I think I'll start writing again.

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

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

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

Read on...

and in the meantime, read this. Or this.

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

musicians duet better

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

They were always appreciated, but somehow never missed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

here comes little nocturnal me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You might recall.

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

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

Mothers.

These were MOTHERS completely pimping out their daughters.

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

You know what? I don't know.

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

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

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

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

dirty skirty

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

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

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

And it takes a lot for me to feel lonely.

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

Hmmmm…

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

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

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

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

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

I am good.

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

insperspiration

I sit here completely inspired by sweat.

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

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

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

I digress (but not completely).

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

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

This was only partially a good idea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

nourishing our world

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

A grown man.

In a suit.

Driving the latest model of nice car.

He picked his nose. And he ate it.

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

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

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

I digress.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you. You're all amazing people.

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

Pilar * Becky * Moe
2006

Pilar * Becky * Moe
1988

Currently listening : A Certain Trigger By Maxïmo Park Release date: By 31 May, 2005

lather, rinse, repeat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

officially

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

atlantic pity

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

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

I've had enough of this joke.

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

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

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

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

Damn, it feels good to be a hamster.

just a thin colored wall

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

$8/ticket, 21 to enter

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

it's prettier than risk

And today was a scorcher, right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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