I earned another gold star today. A big fucking one. I've earned so many gold stars for good behavior that my little book is almost totally filled. Maybe once it's complete I'll stop judging and second-guessing myself all the time. Most likely I'll just add the book to the pile and begin work on filling up another one. I forgive other people a million times before I'll forgive myself or forget a flaw for even an hour.

I should have a little medic-alert bracelet that says "Caution: Wearer is extremely tender-hearted. She may appear retarded or aloof; please treat with kindness."

Just a quickie to point you all to my homegirl (well, college homegirl) Avani's blog: Places I Go. She is in the middle of an intense business school experience, and she is rad as hell. Go read!

I am sorry I have not posted. See, I have to write something for work, and I keep waiting for the "muse" to "hit me over the head with something heavy" so that I can get down to business, but it has not happened. Also I was in NYC for a meeting yesterday. We drove. It was rainy and trafficky. I actually had to take Bonine on the way home. Ugh. But we did get to eat ultra-hip lunch at the ultra-hip W hotel, which is sort of ultra-hip circa 2000, if that makes any sense. They play techno-dance music in the elevators, for god's sake. I had grilled shrimp on baby greens; I think some aspect of it was "lime-infused." Like many things on the menu, it was totally carb-free (because all super-hip people are on deprivation diets), which is just not enough food for me. So I got some crazy couscous thing on the side. Also on the menu: a breadless BLT. My no-nonsense co-worker ordered it "with bread." Because really, people at the W. Get over yourselves.

This morning my bedroom passed through a warp coil or a ripple in the space-time continuum or something. I was putting my black velvet shirt away in the closet, and I realized that my black velvet shirt was already in the closet. In other words, I was holding my black velvet shirt outside of the closet, while seeing it hanging inside of the closet. I have only one shirt of this sort. "What," I said aloud, as I pulled out the shirt from the closet, comparing the two side by side. Same shirt. Same exact tag (some weird, cheap brand of which I have no other clothing). One tiny difference: one is size XS, and the other is size S. I had gotten the size S as a hand-me-down from a friend a few months ago. I have no idea where the other one came from. If this isn't due to some tearing of the fabric of the universe, it must mean that my shirt has asexually reproduced, and the new shirt hasn't grown to full size yet. How else could it have happened, since I look in my closet almost every day, and have never noticed the two identical shirts? I don't have so many articles of clothing that a duplicate shirt would not stand out. Is one of you playing a trick on me?

I'm back. The eagle has landed.

So there's this Pixar movie coming out November 5 called The Incredibles. There's already plenty of merchandise for sale, and being interested, I checked it out. The teenage daughter is voiced by Sarah Vowell, and I'm a fan of hers. However, the merchandise was depressingly one-sided. As it always is.

Here's what they had:

Small plush dolls of:
Mr. Incredible
Flash (the son)
Syndrome (the [male] villain)
Frozone (Mr. I's buddy)

There are also big talking versions of Mr. Incredible and a babbling baby Jack-Jack. (There's also an interactive Edna doll which gives out fashion advice. She's voiced by Brad Bird.) They also had 5-inch action figures, but guess what - the only Elastigirl and Violet figures came packaged with Jack-Jack and Flash, respectively. The only way I could have bought a Violet is by getting her as part of a set. There are two women in the five-member Incredibles family but they are nowhere to be seen on store shelves. Fuck you, you marketing bastards, for deciding that this is a movie "targeted" for boys, and for assuming that boys don't want to play with female characters, even female characters that have awesome superpowers (Elastigirl as a toy is a no-brainer; make her be a Stretch Armstrong-type thing). Keep on perpetuating the stereotype of men=action and women=all about doing nothing but looking pretty, even when the movie itself has the opposite message. Fuck. You. Seriously.

I'm gonna be away from the officecomputer for a few days as I'm going away on business. I'll be back Thursday, but in the meantime, perhaps you'd like to revisit some past posts in the archives, or try one of the pre-approved blogs linked at right?

I got a nice piece of spam today. Very poetic!:

For example, buzzard defined by ribbon indicates that power drill inside necromancer write a love letter to insurance agent around ball bearing.
When about cashier is niggardly, cloud formation of give secret financial aid to spider behind.
Where we can slyly fall in love with our mirror.
Indeed, living with bride bestow great honor upon defined by piroshki.

Dude, if spraying Summer's Eve on my "personal area" makes it glow as brightly as a lighthouse, I'd rather go without it. (Props to Some Girl for the link.)

My twin sister is stopping by the office with her baby tomorrow, on their way to Brooklyn from New Hampshire. I am excited beyond all reason. I get to show my little niece to all of my work-friends, as if to say, "Hey look at what a pretty baby I'd make, if I had, you know, a husband and a more stable living situation! Ha ha! No, really, I'm looking forward to going home tonight to my bachelorette's apartment and my cat. This is just where I wanted to be at 32!"

I kid, I kid. My personal female-role-enforcing demons are fond of poking at me occasionally, but I'm trying to ignore them and just live my life. It's a pretty good one. I will say, though, that non-twins don't really understand the subconscious comparisons that constantly occur between my sister and me. It can be a lot of pressure, even though we've discussed, aloud, the pros and cons of our current, differing lifestyles.

Anyway, who needs a baby anyway? They need constant attention, they drool a lot, and they stink sometimes. Stupid babies.

This has already been blogged to death, but in case you haven't seen it: Last night during the debate, while deflecting Edwards' criticism about Halliburton, Cheney invited people to check out the facts at Factcheck.com. Unfortunately for him, he meant to say Factcheck.org. Factcheck.com was an available domain, so within an hour George Soros bought the site and had it redirect people to his website, titled "Why we must not re-elect President Bush." Hee!

Try it out here:

www.factcheck.com

www.factcheck.org (which, by the way, is none too pro-Bush/Cheney either)

Edit: I gots to fact-check myself, it seems. So Soros actually had nothing to do with the redirect. Lifted from elsewhere:
Cheney cited FactCheck.com, a for-profit advertising site based in the Cayman Islands. The company decided to redirect traffic to the Soros site after it became inundated with hits -- about 100 a second after the debate, John Berryhill, a Philadelphia lawyer for FactCheck.com, said Wednesday.

"This was to relieve stress on the service and to express a political point of view," said Berryhill, who spoke with the site's administrators shortly after the debate ended.

They picked Soros not only for his political views, Berryhill said, but because the billionaire could afford the costly deluge of hits the site would receive in the wake of the debate. Plus, the site administrators didn't want to point surfers to a candidate's site that was asking for money.

My cat is now on a special diet (Limited Ingredient, which in this case is cat food made from duck and green peas - and nothing but) so that I can rule out any possible allergies that may be causing her coughing problems. She's also on steroids for her inflamed bronchial passages. Her new diet/meds is having one major side-effect, and that is paint-peelingly-stinky poops. This morning she came into the bathroom and laid down some pipe in the litterbox as I brushed my teeth, and the stench was so horrible I could almost see it. And even now that I'm at work, it's like my nose has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, because I keep thinking I can still smell it, even though that's totally impossible, unless some stray scent molecules managed to hitch a ride on my clothes. Lord have mercy.

Read Fafblog's post-debate pre-debate. It's exactly how I think this debate shit is going to go. I think Krugman is right; it doesn't matter how well Kerry does tonight, the Republican-run media will convince everyone Bush did better.

Rain, rain, kiss my ass. Seriously. One of the few benefits of living up here is that don't have to deal with hurricanes, so Jeanne should take her worn-out rain someplace else. Bitch better step off right now.

Hi. So yeah. I've been busy at work. It's what we call "crunch time" here at the office, because calling it "gritting your teeth, tearing your hair, and mainlining candy to keep up the frenetic pace" is kind of a downer. However, we are getting free lunch tomorrow.

Tonight is the first of three presidential debates. Since I physically can't stand watching or listening to our nation's current leader, I had plans to watch The Daily Show's live coverage at 11 tonight, but it turns out the nice rock show I am planning to go and see starts at 10. So something has got to give. Probably the TV/politics. The rock show is yet another of the excellent valley showcases held at the Iron Horse, and tonight it's Peel, Spouse, and Spanish for Hitchhiking. I don't know the order. It's only 5 bucks, and I can tell you with 100% certainty that at least 2 out of 3 of those bands are awesome. Like making you dance and cry and maybe even both at the same time kind of awesome.

I suppose I should do an update on the ear thing. The nasal spray stuff seems to have worked, because I felt better a day or two after I began using it. Plus stuff started draining, so I think (I hope) that my ear problem was just sinus related. Knock on wood. I can still feel the tiniest difference in my hearing in my right ear, but it's almost back to normal. I am also sleeping with two pillows beneath my head because I read somewhere that you should to that if you're having vertigo issues, but my neck and shoulders hate it and I may return to a uni-pillow situation tonight. Thank you for your concern, my peeps!

The School for the Dead CD release show Saturday night was da bomb. I love seeing bands at PACE because everyone is quiet and paying attention and you can really hear the music. It was hard to not get up and dance, though. And I missed out on the activity pages, which were confined to the cafe area before the show began. Other than that I have no complaints. I loved the opening act, which was comprised of 13 musicians playing one song each, with the musicians playing in random order (names were literally picked out of a bucket; stressful for the musicians, superfun for the audience). Our little valley is filled with amazing talent and just plain good people. Our rockstars are not ego-trippin' assholes, is what I am saying.

SFTD played wonderfully as always. It's hard to come up with new things to say about them, because they're always great. Um, there were a couple of new song transitions. I dig that shit. I haven't listened to the new CD but I am enjoying the drawings (by henning!) throughout the CD booklet. Go get yourself a copy. The New You, it is called.

P.S. Scotty B also has a good take on the show, complete with many links.

So, this morning I went to the walk-in, no-appointment-neccessary time at my doctor's office, where a nurse practitioner declared my problem not an infection but most likely just allergies or a virus. She was pretty sure that my estrucian tube or whatever was clogged and not draining properly, because my ear was fuller of fluid than it should be. However, there was nothing she could do about it. She said to take Sudafed (I have been, doesn't seem to work) and I asked her if I could try an antihistamine nasal spray and she said sure and gave me a free sample. (I used it, it was okay.) I just have to ride this crap out. I said I was worried I had Meniere's Disease and she said, "you don't have it right now ... will it turn into Meniere's? I don't know." Great.

It will probably just slowly clear up and no permanent harm will be done. I hope.

I'm freaking out a little. I think I have Meniere's Disease. It's an inner ear disorder, I guess. It's marked by a feeling of fullness in the ear, a loud low buzzing (like tinnitus) with hearing loss, and dizziness/vertigo. And there's no cure, per se, though there are things that can calm it. I have been getting episodes of this about once a year (or less) ever since I used a hand-held metal grinder with no ear protection in college, because Mt. Holyoke had none. I should have sued those fuckers. I was deaf with tinnitus in my right ear for a week, though it slowly improved. I think that was the triggering event that created this disorder.

I've never barfed from the dizziness, and in fact it's usually been the kind of almost-pleasant floaty sensation one gets when one is battling a high fever. But the past two days have been pretty crappy. My hearing is almost back to normal but I've been feeling more nauseous. Not good. I hate rushing to the doctor just because my ear "feels funny" (see: an awesome Roz Chast cartoon about hypochondriacs) but this seems like a real and definable thing.

Okay. Here are an unprecedented TEN photos this time, of the Franklin County Fair last weekend. And yes, I know the Big E starts this weekend.

There was an entire building filled with prize-winning vegetables and flowers and baked goods (and many runners-up). This carrot won for Longest Carrot! And I got to see it with my own eyes!




As I mentioned there was a Baby Animal Barn. And so here is a genuine pig pile:




This poor lamb is suckling on a metal bolt! Don't feel too bad, his mom is just out of frame. This lamb is just stupid.




And there were also baby goats. Very cute. I like this photo a lot.




But not all of the animals got to just laze around! These little pigs are pro RACERS! And man, could these little guys move. They ran and dove and swam super fast. All to get a couple of cookies.




And then it was time to walk around the midway! The rides are fairly safe, but only if you always listen to Mr. Safety!




It looks so sane and calm when it's like this, in broad daylight, not groaning and creaking and whirling.




This one was pretty.




Here's a shot of the underside of a ride that resembles a giant roulette wheel. It turns and twirls around and up and down like a spun quarter.




You could also put little girls on a couple of bungee cords and send them into the air.




And that was my day at the fair!

So I know my posting has been slacking a little. I've been busy, what with the county fairs and the singing and the apartment-cleaning and some very occasional TV-watching. Last night I got to see former local boy Ari Vais on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. He was great, kind of nervous and flustered and talkative, yet well-spoken; the perfect kind of guy for the queer guys to play off of. The part after the queer guys leave and he puts the meal together is particularly hilarious. The "event" at the end of the "day" was a big show for his band, The Pelicans, after which he got some advice from a record label guy and a Rolling Stone writer. The advice was "write stronger material" and "look at the audience more." Okay! He's all set then. You can read a recap of the show here.

And local folks - including not-local-anymore folks such as Lord Russ and Ari (screen name: OhDee) himself, are talking about the show on Soundboard.

Operation Fair/Play is going along swimmingly. On Saturday I hit the Franklin County Fair up in Greenfield. It's a bit bigger than the 3-County Fair. They have a small barn that is nothing but baby animals [swoon] (though there were also some fancy pigeons. They may have been adolescent pigeons, though; who can tell?). I touched a goat. And a calf. And a bunny. This fair also had a better midway than the previous one; more rides, and a greater variety of them, though there were no wimpy-grownup coasters. We chose not to spend our money on tickets, instead heading for the long line of food booths with their siren songs of fried-food-smells and flashing lights and colorful signs. I was looking hard for some chicken on a stick, but there was none to be had. Gotta wait for the Big E for that, I guess. I got a semi-healthy chicken pita thing, and some Mountain Dew from a soda fountain machine that made the same noise the Showcase Showdown wheel makes when the contestants spin it on "The Price is Right." There were also onion rings. And a perogi. And soft-serve ice cream. Delish.

L and I also signed up to win a hundred bucks from some country music station. The catch was that you had to be there at the station's booth/trailer at the stated times in order to be in the running. They did five drawings; we made it to two. For the first drawing, the winner was there on the first entry drawn. For the second (half an hour later) it took about 15 tries before the chosen person was there. We had noticed that in the first drawing, the winner did not show any form of identification to get his one-hundred-dollar bill. So we figured we could just say "yep, that's me!" to whatever the next female name was. Unfortunately, we discussed this idea quite openly in the middle of a crowd of people also waiting to see if they'd won, so we thought it wise to not put the plan into action.

More details later, so I'll have something to say in my photo captions after I post said photos here.

New bumper sticker: Vote Bush/Cheney OR DIE!!
Yesterday Cheney warned supporters that voting for Kerry would put the country in danger. I like that he's basically saying "Nice country you got here... You wouldn't want anything to, ah, HAPPEN to it. Because sometimes things happen, to nice countries like this one."

Man, I do not know what I will do if these assholes win in November.

I hope he gets called on this, and hard.

Borrowed from another political blog's comments (Atrios or Daily Kos), we see that Dick has resorted to terrorism, under his own definition. Let's find him where he hides and trains!:

USA-PATRIOT ACT:

(a) DOMESTIC TERRORISM DEFINED.—Section 2331 of title 18, USC, is amended....

(5) the term ‘domestic terrorism" means activities that
(A) involve acts dangerous to human life that are a violation of the criminal laws of the United States or of any State;
(B) appear to be intended—
(i) to intimidate or coerce a civilian population;
(ii) to influence the policy of a government by intimidation or coercion;

Please check out Tallulah's blog over in the links, as my sister has FINALLY updated it. There's a special treat inside the post, a link to a short movie showing the baby making her growling noise. More! More!

Get out yer "my car is better than my wife" t-shirt and yer cowboy hat, because it's time for the Three-County Fair!

It was 80's day at the sheep barn.These two ewes were totally tubular. Note the lens flare from the super-shiny spandex:







And here's a mad-mouse-style roller coaster I went on. Note all of the structural parts they had left over:




Cool 70s-80s font here:




This ride was disappointing for the kids. It looks like you should be able to turn the cars around, since they're all rotating around the center at odd angles, but they were all stiff. The children had to resort to dangerous stunts to keep from being bored:





And here is a night shot of my spooky nemesis, a ride that has haunted me since the first time I saw it at a fair in the soccer field behind the local Catholic school. I cannot stop being amazed that people enter it willingly. It is what I am forced to ride in my nightmares. The Zipper:

Yo peeps. I added a couple of long-overdue links over there to the right. One is Dooce, for obvious reasons of rockingness. She really writes the way a diary-like blog should be written (i.e. awesomely). And the other is Jennifer Myzowski, a local blog-friend who is also unfailingly honest and blunt in her writing and usually quite funny to boot.

Dooce has been amazing this past week or so; her postpartum depression got so horrible that she checked herself into a psychiactric hospital. After I read her post about the decision, I was so sad for her that I was almost crying, and I was depressed for hours, worrying about her. I also had this awful feeling: if it can happen to her, it can definitely happen to me. Luckily I've never felt quite so low as that. Well, once I did, years ago, but I was still able to go to work (but do little else) and I was able to overcome my depression through other means. (Those means? Systematically hunting down and slaughtering those who had wronged me.*) Anyway, Dooce found a great doctor at the hospital, and things are looking optimistic. Thank god.

My birthday was swell, thanks. Lack of sleep and lots of driving made me so woozy for my dinner out that I felt I couldn't avail myself of any complementary wine. I did go to Cold Stone Creamery, but for an account of that experience you'll have to read Craftytown and Eye on Northampton. My birthday really started this past Sunday, when I opened all of my familial loot, and will continue into this weekend, when the three-county fair happens. (Two words: Demolition Derby. Aw yeah.)


*Just kidding! Ha! Ha! Do not worry, I did not kill anyone. No need to go poking around in the wetlands next to Stop n' Shop on King Street! Nosiree bob!

Flappy Mirfbay to Me!

I am still in Brooklyn, and will be returning home later today (Tuesday). I already got loot from my parents, sister, and bro-in-law. I am now the proud owner of an iSight web camera, which means that if you IM me and I am feeling okay about it, I will invite you to a video-conference and you can watch me type messages to you. It gives one a thrill, like, "omigod we are totally LIVING the FUTURE!"

I also got a nice bracelet and some yarn and other craft supplies and tools. Also the Modest Mouse CD everyone has. And a salad spinner. And my mom made me one of the stained-glass-in-cement garden stone things she's been making for a couple of years. So that was all quite nice.

Aw. I am sad. Here's an email from my mom alerting everyone to the death of the last remaining family pet that lived at my parents' house while I was living there too. She was a little tortoiseshell cat we named Thermos, and she was 15 years old:

We helped Thermos pass on today, so that she can pursue voles in the next
dimension. She wasn't pursuing any in this dimension -- she couldn't really
walk any more, couldn't digest food, and had become very quiet in the last
day or two.

Thermos was an excellent cat. She stuck to her own rules and maintained her
own domain. She had many favorite places around the outside of the house
and was a deadly hunter. In the last year or so she decided to sleep on a
pillow just behind and above our own pillows, so that she watched over us as
we slept. Sometimes she put a paw on my head. I've always felt that the
best thing she did was teach Debl how to teach a kitten how to eat solid
food.

(It's true, I did.)

I am a nice person. My good deed for the day was sending this message to someone who keeps contacting me thru the personals:

Thanks. I'm not interested in chatting with you, but thought I should write you back since you've contacted me several times. I hope you don't mind a piece of advice. Putting photos of your naked body in your profile and in initial emails to strangers is never a good idea. Most women find it creepy and a little too aggressive and narcissistic. I'd delete those, and save them for when you've got an email exchange that's heating up and there's already a connection established with someone - but even then, I'd think hard before sending them.

I hope you take my advice. Good luck!

EDIT: Not ten minutes after I sent off that missive, I get this in response from the guy! I guess he didn't like my advice...

Hello,

Thanks for getting back to me.

I'm certainly not narcissistic. Sharing tasteful nudes on an alternative lifestyle web site is common place and certainly not attributable to being narcissistic. If you feel as though you can label someone from that~ you're mistaken. You're probably the only woman that I've sent them to that hasn't complimented me and suggested further communication.

As well~ I didn't write to you for your advice and find it a bit pompous and condescending. You're cute but you're not that hot as though you need to be making suggestions to me on how to meet a woman. Thanks, but no thanks!

I'll stick with grown ups!


I wrote him back with just two words this time: Good luck!

Yikes.

I went to Transperformance last night and had a lovely time. The theme - animals and insects - managed to produce a really great lineup of acts. And everyone did extremely well. I took a few photos (until it got dark, and my camera pooped out).


Lo Fine were T Rex. One of the best things about Transperformance is watching all of the little kids dancing near the stage, and this girl was totally grooving on the T Rex.




The Fawns were Sheryl Crow. Here she is now! (It's a little blurry, I know it.)




Here's Spanish for Hitchhiking being Echo and the Bunnymen. I was surprised to know two of the three songs they did.




And hey hey it's the Monkees! Being played by School for the Dead! Reportedly, a 7-year-old audience member was convinced they were the actual Monkees, or at least "the guy with the curly hair, DEFINITELY" was one of the actual Monkees. And there was a big guy in a tour shirt checking out the action.

Quoted from an article about last night's John Kerry appearance on The Daily Show, of which, strangely enough, I can only find a transcript of here (scroll down a little):

Kerry said the debates would be a challenge. "The president has won every debate he's ever had," Kerry said. "He beat Ann Richards. He beat Al Gore. So, he's a good debater."


Did you see that? Kerry was THISCLOSE to calling Bush a master debater! Ha ha ha!


Ha!

A lot of people took the last quiz I linked to. Let's see if this one is as popular. Somehow I doubt it.

width="238" height="196" alt="Sophia Petrillo" border="1">
target="_blank">Which Golden Girl Are You?

So, hello. Man am I tired. I got into my usual weekend sleep scheme where I nap in order to stay up really late, and then come Sunday night I can't go to bed before 1 a.m. And then I'm all a wreck for Monday morning.

I had a fun weekend though. First there was a great show by The Fawns on Friday night, where I also whupped a little ass playing pool (only because I was playing someone who was, incredibly, slightly worse at pool than me). After the show I got to watch a crazy thunderstorm from a second-story porch. On Saturday I lazed about until it was time for dinner at Osaka, at one of their hibachi tables. I've done these before, a few times, but it's been a while. As soon as the chef came to the table I started giggling. He was funny, funnier than other places I've gone where the emphasis was on wowing you with skill instead of being goofy. Our chef did this thing where he'd shake a can full of sesame seeds or salt over the food, all the while thwacking the edge of the metal table with a metal fork, as though the shaker was making the noise. I laughed every single time. The food was great. In the other places I've gone, they give you noodles, but here it was fried rice. It was very tasty and the texture was perfect, but it's damn hard to eat rice with chopsticks (forks were only given when requested). I got the shrimp and scallops, and all was delicious. Our party of seven had to share our table with one other couple who seemed a little bit grim during most of their meal. I later heard that they had been having conversations about child molestation or rape or something equally depressing and not-hibachi-table-like.

After the food, L and H hosted another lovely shindig at their place, which ended up in a rousing game of Taboo. I laughed till I cried, several times. I think my team tied for third (out of five teams...); as I sobered up I could tell I was getting way better at it.

And Sunday I went (courtesy of H and L, who drove/provided the car) to the new shangri-la of home furnishings, Ikea in New Haven, and after that I went to Target and failed to find the thing I wanted, and then to Trader Joe's where I bought so much that my freezer is now officially full. And after that I finally did my dishes and vacuumed my apartment, and then I worked on a couple of artsy projects while watching Insomniac in Tokyo and a bunch of Adult Swim. And now here I am at work after not enough sleep. ZZzzzzzzzz.....

I know I owe y'all an actual post. In the meantime, I wrote two Craftytown posts this morning. One is a mildly snarky thing about the ugly new lamps they're selling at the store-formerly-known-as Beyond Words, and the other is about How I Became a VIP at HOT. Also, I re-added a site meter yesterday, which had vanished when I switched to a new template a couple of months ago.

Hey, so apparently I am this San-X character:



What San-X Character Are You?

Here's something fun. Go to this site, scroll to the bottom, and hey look, it's that band I like!

My brother-in-law is good people. Last night he said (and I'm paraphrasing here), "If you saw your friend getting beaten up, would you just stand there and not do anything about it? No. Then why are you treating yourself that way?" That is right on. Why is my first impulse to try and figure out what is wrong with ME? Why do I continue to believe someone else's criticisms of me, when I've always known that they were bullshit?

I need to be kind to myself. Like I was my best friend. It's sad that I have to remind myself to do such things, but there it is. When I take a step back, it's totally obvious that I've done the right thing and will be much better in the end for it.

Things are looking much brighter and calmer today. Thanks for reading and continuing to care about me, your cyber-web-friend.

This letter could have been written by me.

EDITED TO FIX THE STUPID BROKEN LINK

Things are happening in my life that I can't blog about. They are both bad things and good things. There are about three hugely bad things and one or two good things, so the balance is way off. Overall I've been wanting to flee, but to where? I've got to stick it out for now, so I Don't Let The Bastards Win. (Whoever they are; I've never met them.) What sometimes helps is to throw myself into some projects at home (and out) so I can feel more whole and less lost. I need a purpose in life beyond gathering a paycheck every week and watching the occasional TV show or drinking the occasional drink out with a friend. So it's time to turn back to making art in a more serious vein. At the very least, it will make me remember that I have mad skillz. At the most, I'll get a show together and a website and start publicizing myself. This will take time and energy, but September always acts as a catalyst for action - it's the school year permanently hardwired into my brain.

Getting more regular amounts of sleep wouldn't hurt. And if the fucking weather ever clears up, things will probably seem a bit less dismal.

Okay people, I never promised to be timely.

Here are some shots from my vacation in the Adirondacks a couple of weeks ago:


This is where I was:




This is who I was with for most of the time:




She might have foot n' mouth disease. But don't tell her parents.




And I wore my new shirt! It was an awesome vacation.





THE END.

My brain is very brave, but my body is a total coward. Whenever something exciting is about to happen, some big change that I've been anticipating., my body decides that it needs to go into "fight or flight" mode and never ever leave it. Thus, I don't sleep enough, I don't eat enough... which ends up making me even more clumsy and wan than I already am. It's like my primal brain can't let my cultured brain do what needs to be done. It takes effort to wrestle it into submission.

cultured brain: Look, something new is happening! It looks like it could be totally awesomely rad!
primitive brain: Something new, you say? "New" means carnivorous predators, falling rocks, or drowning. RUN AWAY!
cultured brain: But do you see that this new thing is not dangerous in any way? I'll even sit down and reason this out with you. ... See? No possible way anything scary will happen.
primitive brain: Yes, BUT WHAT IF IT DOES? Look at you, all ready to roll over and bare your tender underbelly! You shameless fool. Someone's got to be looking out for our survival!
cultured brain: *sigh.*

Seriously, people, it's a wonder I ever get to leave the house at all.

(p.s. This page has the best web poll I have ever seen.)

Howdy readers. I'm feeling pretty great today. I went out a bunch this weekend, which helped distract me from my first dog-less days off. Friday night I went to a show at the Elevens, which I ducked out of to dance to the Drunk Stuntmen over at the Horse. After the bars closed I ended up at an after-party at a hair salon, where I got drunk-shampooed (and drunk-conditioned, luckily). And then we dancercized. It was awesome, as you can imagine.

Saturday I walked to town to load up on corn, potatoes, onions, and lettuce at the farmer's market downtown, came home and promptly took a nap. As an aside, my relationship with my cat - now my only pet - is going through a renaissance. It's like a second honeymoon over here (without the dirty parts). For dinner I got takeout from Amanous and watched some episodes of Curb Your Enthusiasm. Then it was off to meet L at the coffeeshop, where I stupidly got a medium chai. I never drink caffiene at night, and here it was almost 9 p.m. But I knew I was going to fade fast if I didn't imbibe something soon. L and I sat on the courthouse steps and watched people go by. A few of them were people we knew, but we were hidden in a cloak of invisibility; I know I never look over at the darkened stone stairs when I pass the courthouse. Anyway, we met some folks at the Basement, which is becoming like a food-free, alcohol-serving Fire & Water. The caffiene started kicking in and I was all fidgety (more than usual, I mean) and feeling oddly floaty. Eventually we went over to Hugo's where there were some other people we knew. I couldn't stop picking at the label on my beer bottle, and I kept on getting up off my stool.

After last call, I stood outside and did the 1:10 shuffle with a bunch of folks. Then I did the most amazing thing - I walked home. It was lovely. Cool but not cold, with some nice moon action. I walked through tunnels of shrubs and trees and was surrounded by the noise of a thousand crickets. I saw a few other people on their bleary walks home. It was great to be free again.

The next day I went to the mall with L. Somehow our little trip turned into FIVE HOURS. It was crazy. I had slept very little the night before, and I still have no idea what powerful reserves my weak little kitten's body drew upon to help me make it through the treacherous ordeal. But we managed to not pass out or get mall-eyed or anything. It was just good times. A Chicken Ranchero Soft Taco helped me drive home without losing consciousness.

Then it was time to make corn chowder with ingredients from the farmer's market. I used fresh butter-and-sugar corn. It took me like three hours, but the end result was delicious. I foolishly used the faulty big burner on my electric stove. The burner goes from not-hot-enough to way-too-hot with just a tiny nudge. I have yet to figure out where the magic point of combustion is on the dial. So I burned the butter just a little. It was, and is, still fantastic soup. And that's the most any of us should ever ask for really.

I have a tendancy to over-share.

It's something I'm very aware of, so I try to stop myself before I go too far. Usually, I do a good job. Usually I do a good job of it on this blog.

But it's especially hard to not over-share when I'm feeling exceptionally aimless, lonely, bored, and sickly (still have a cold, and it's cramping my style) and it feels like if I don't talk to someone about it, I might die. I have some notion that doing so will help me out. Like the other person will say, "I hear you debl. I know a great guy with a big crush on you, here's his phone number. And I found a job listing for an artist, they want someone to make fun crafts for 100k a year, and it says the person must have 8 years of magazine editorial experience, isn't that odd. And hey, we're all about to go white-water rafting, followed by a clambake, at which we've hired The Pixies to play just for us. Come with!"

In reality, I should be the one to make arrangements for the amazing clambake, if that's what I want to do. I'm just so tired and gross-feeling with the cold I have that I don't feel up to doing anything, while at the same time, I really want to be feeling great and going out and having adventures. And as hard as I try, I can't will myself into getting over this cold. Stupid viruses, they're so frustrating.

If you people aren't reading my comments, then you are missing out. I'm just saying.

My birthday is at the end of the month. I was just going through my blog archives, looking for a particular post (read the comments!) and I found an entry about last year's birthday, where I said something like "being 31 is going to rock!" because my 30th year kind of sucked balls. 31 was definitely better than 30, but I can't say that I truly rocked 31. Plus, now I'm going to be 32, which puts me firmly into my 30s. 31 is kind of like 30, in that it's really just the top of your 20s.

I really shouldn't care at all. I am trying not to, and I manage not to most of the time. It's unattractive, or so they say, to care about such things. I'm supposed to be all confident and carefree and secure in my lovely fresh ripe-peachiness. Maybe that will be my goal for my 32nd year.

So have you seen the new Victoria's Secret ad where Tyra Banks is all "Take a look at my tits"? It's all about some really nice bra (really nice if you have really nice, big breasts already), and at the end of the ad text on the screen says:

"IT'S" HERE!

What?? Why are those quotation marks there? I don't get why they're emphasizing that word. That's not how you emphasize something, anyway! Unless they're being sarcastic about "IT," which makes no sense. Can anyone explain this to me? Because this is the kind of thing that makes us editor-types lose sleep.

Hi everybody, I came home. My vacation was fine; there was a little swimming, a tiny amount of kayaking, a couple of hours of crafting (I made an enameled leaf pendant), some puzzle-piecing-togethering, and a lot of rain-avoidance. There were also many salads and ice cream cones eaten. Due to a warning about a stomach bug going throught campus, I got all OCD about washing my hands for a few days (and I didn't get sick like that, though I now have a cold, courtesy of A). I spent most of my time in the company of my niece, who turned six months old yesterday. Man she is a heart-melter. I let her drool all over my shoulders and chomp on my fingers. I made her laugh a couple of times, the cutest sound in the world. It was painful to say goodbye.

And then I came home, and there was no L-dog to pick up, because she has been adopted by the piano teacher from Salisbury. She seems very nice and says she already loves L. Of course, she also sent me an email today saying L had torn up the kitchen floor this morning. She asked me for L's behavior history, for her appointment with a doggie therapist. I hope that all works out for L.

As for me, the debl homestead is seeming a little lonely. It's quiet, too; I hadn't really thought about how much I speak to my dog. But I used to say things to her all the time. Many were directives, sure, but also things a person might say to another person, like "yeah, it sure is hot up here," and "soon we will go swimming" and "it will all be okay," as well as singing little songs with her name in them. It's been even weirder at work, where I keep on looking over to her empty dog bed, and I have to stop myself from automatically saying "Stay, L" every time I go downstairs. I'm trying to get into talking to my cat when I'm home, but come on. She's a cat. There's just no comparison.

I also have yet to fully realize all of the new things that can happen now that I'm dogless. I can ride my bike to work, for example. I can put the cat's food on the floor. I can walk into town or drive to the store during daylight hours. I can sign up for yoga class again. I can put on my give-up pants (or keep them off, as the case may be in this heat) much earlier in the evening, since I don't have to go out for a late-night walk. Tonight, if I can get a nap in first so I don't feel quite so crappy, I hope to walk over to see a show at the Iron Horse (you should go too). Tomorrow I can ride my bike to Shape-Note singing (unlikely, since it's all uphill, but I could if I wanted to). So I've got all that going for me.

Hi y'all. So I said goodbye to my dog today. The new woman seems very nice. She has her for a trial period of a week, while I'm away on vacation. At the meeting place, within a couple of minutes of meeting her, my dog jumped into the new person's car and settled down in the back seat. That made it a little easier. I'm really missing her right now, probably because I'm a little woozy from wine and sadness. A few minutes ago I heard a noise that I thought was my dog doing one of her stretching-groans, but then I remembered that she isn't here. My heart feels all broken.

It was nice to be able to walk into town and have dinner while the sun was still up, without worrying about my dog baking in the car, or barking. I'm trying to focus on the reasons why I did this, but right now I think I need to feel bad for a little bit.

Thanks to everyone who commented. It helps.

So I'll be away this week, no blogging for you. Maybe you can take a walk down memory lane by reading through the Archives? I'm back Sunday, on August's Eve.

The time for a Big Decision has arrived. I put up a free ad for my dog on Petfinder.org, and someone actually responded, and she sounds like a really good match for my dog. Which means it's time to put up or shut up. When I got the email yesterday my heart unexpectedly sunk. How can I give up this close bond I have with my dog? The unconditional love I get? How can I let her down and break her heart, when she's been through so much in her life already? She helps me feel less alone, and it's very hard for me to ever turn away love of any kind. But a couple of things have happened in the past week that have made me pretty sure that my dog would do better elsewhere:

At Hugo's one night, my dog was (as she always has to be whenever I leave the house) locked inside of my car. And apparently she was barking so incessantly that a woman in a nearby building called the police, who loudly summoned me from the bar in front of a bunch of people I know. I had to walk out to my car and face the irate and exhausted woman who had called the cops. I was very apologetic. Luckily the policeman himself was very understanding, so all I had to do was move my car. But it was a definite low point.

This Sunday I didn't leave the house except to walk the dog. True, I amused myself by downloading a ton of my CDs onto my hard drive and then my ipod, making a couple of mixes along the way. But I didn't even have the option of, say, walking into town to grab a bite, or driving to Trader Joe's, or riding my bike to Pete's for ice cream.

...

I just had lunch with a couple of sympathetic co-workers, both dog-owners (one has a shelter dog), and they made me feel better about the whole thing. They agreed that if I was bringing her into a good situation, then it was the right thing to do in order to regain my freedom. There are two other people at work who are making me feel extremely guilty about giving her up... They don't know that I've started seriously looking for a new owner, but when I brought up the idea a few months ago they were both adamant that I keep her. One said that her anxiety will get worse with the new person, so to spare both the dog and the new person, I really just needed to keep on with the training (which I've been doing for years without success). The other said that she wouldn't be able to stand not seeing my dog at work every day. So why don't YOU adopt her, I was thinking, but I've asked her in the past and she can't or won't. Neither of these people, by the way, are ever willing to dog-sit for me.

So am I horrible? How horrible am I? The new person is arranging to meet with me this Saturday. I don't know if they will take her right away if things go well, or if they're going to wait a week (I'm going on vacation next week). And then I will be weepy and sad for a while. But then I will start to remember that I can once again ride my bike and walk everywhere I need to go in town, and I can do anything and go anywhere at any time of day, and I hope I'll realize I made a good choice.

Yesterday a co-worker noticed the black and white picture of a young and brooding Marlon Brando I've taped up in my cubicle. She sighed and I said, "Yes, wasn't he beautiful? And somehow knowing that he later became all tortured and anguished makes him even more beautiful." My co-worker nodded and said "hmm..." which could have meant either "I agree, sister, the bad boys totally do it for me," or "I think I've just figured out why you haven't found anyone 'good enough' during the past year."

Because this is the trick, the trick I and my girlfriends are trying to pull off: To find the guy who acts like a bad boy, but is a good guy in disguise. Who gets kind of introspective and cross sometimes, but never cross at you; and has done some things he regrets, but has learned from his mistakes; and who has had his heart broken a couple of times, so now he really appreciates the way you stroke his hair in a way that makes him like it, or how you laugh at the stupidest things as though you can't control yourself, or that you do things like find a pretty rock on the beach just to give to him. Because he knows by now that not all girls do that. So he treats you like a precious and rare creature, like a baby panda (they're endangered, you know).

And when he dresses up in a muu-muu and kisses Larry King on the mouth on national television, you will just shrug it all off, because he's treated you right and that's what's important.

I had a dream last week that I keep being reminded of due to the location and the celebrity guest-star: I was in the big back room of Essentials, the hip mod furnishings store on Main Street, lying on a bed with my sister as we watched and then listened to Freedy Johnston play a concert just for us. It wasn't meant to be just us, but it was early in the morning (thus the bed and the lying down) and he was charmed that we were there so he was doing the show. He was also simultaneously running a pirate radio station, and would occasionally take a break to broadcast some station i.d. or something. And of course he was helping out with the store. He was also acting a little crushed out on me. and in the dream this was uncomfortable: I had a feeling like I should really be enjoying the attention but instead I felt yucky and sad. (In real life, of course, I'd be all, "so when's the soonest we may marry?") During one of the songs he climbed up on the bed and was playing while lying next to me, staring up at the ceiling. The show seemed to go on forever, way past the point of my attention span. And when it ended, I noticed that a lot of my friends from town were there, having arrived late. So Freedy went over to talk to all of them. And I had to pack up a lot of stuff that I had brought while also rearranging the various things on sale at the store, and I was embarrassed about cleaning my cluttered mess in front of everyone. And that was that.


I do have a real-life Freedy story. Back when I was a band girlfriend, the Ms (I think...) opened for Freedy at the Iron Horse. We corralled him after the show and convinced him to go out to Bar 19 with us. And he said yes! A small crowd of musician friends gathered there and waited for a little bit wondering if he'd show, and eventually he did. We chatted about mundane things, and I think P got to speak to him one-on-one about the business end of making music. When it was time to go, the bunch of us walked from the bar back to the Horse (and our cars) together. It was all snowy and cold and gross mid-winter-ness, and Freedy was walking right in front of me, crossing the hump of snow between sidewalk and road, when he slipped and fell right onto his back. I let Freedy fall!

To this day I can point to the exact spot on King Street where it happened. Sigh.

What are you doing tonight?

You are watching the Amazing Race at 10 p.m. on CBS. If you missed the first one, go to Television Without Pity (in Links over there) and read the recap. TWP will make you love it.

What are you doing Thursday?

At 9 p.m. you are going to see Spouse, the Fawns, and Red Door Exchange at the lovely (and really way too small for this show) Bishop's Lounge. Because they are all beautiful, and I think the show is a mere 2 bucks, so you can afford to get one of their expensive fancy drinks.

What are you doing Wednesday?

That's up to you, sport. Take some initiative in your life for once.

I seem to have become unable to fall asleep in a timely fashion. I stay up too late, waiting until after the Daily Show to walk the dog and brush my teeth, and I'm yawning and bumping into things on my way to bed, and then I just lie there in the dark, wide awake. I'm not really even thinking about much, though I guess there's a general existential crisis. I think I'd sleep better if I didn't spend all evening inside my apartment, making crafts and watching TV and reading stuff online. It's almost like being half-asleep, doing those things.

Yesterday I did the very bad thing of taking a nap after work, which worked against me in two ways: It made me miss the show at P.A.C.E. I had wanted to see (and would have gotten me out of my apartment), and it made it just as hard to fall asleep later. Thank God the weekend is here to help put a stop to my secret shame.

Anyway. My blogging friend Jennifer wrote about her own overhearing-her-mom story, and you should read it because she is a hoot.

Remember way back on February 27th, when I went on and on about an old video game my sister and I used to play, and we couldn't remember the name of it?

Well it is found. It's called Agent U.S.A. I have my sister to thank. She downloaded a PDF of "Classic Gamer Magazine" from a link provided by the wonderful boingboing, and that zine had an ad for the game. I love the internet!

p.s. I was totally right about the "people" in the game being just a hat and feet.

Another highlight of the weekend was my sister and I overhearing my post-menopausal mother sing the praises of Astroglide to her also post-menopausal best friend. After she listed a few of the lube's various qualities, I blurted out "Oh my god, stop! We can hear you!!" They were standing not five feet from me, yet they acted surprised that we had heard. I blame the wine.

I spent the holiday weekend at my parents' house in New Jersey. It was fine. It was all very baby-centric, because my sister and her four-month-old was there. Which is fine, because I Believe That Children Are Our Future. I did remark at one point that I could lose an arm and no one would notice, which caused the people around me to joke, 'Yes we'd notice because then you couldn't hold the baby as well.' Ha ha. Ha.

We all went to a family friend's house for supper and fireworks on the Fourth, and because I had no choice, I had to bring my dog. The house is very close to the park where the fireworks are set off, and you can get a great view from the yard. I knew this would not go well. When the shells first started my dog just seemed startled, but then with each explosion she kept trying to back up, to get away from the noise and the flashing. Then she started panting and trembling, and I didn't want this to develop into a full-blown anxiety response (because I've heard other dogs who were upset by fireworks went on to become nervous wrecks during thunderstorms) so I took off. The group was busy seeing how my baby niece was reacting to the show, so I just told them I had to go, and we walked as fast as we could down the street in the other direction from the fireworks. Walking seemed to calm her, or at least give her a purpose, so I kept going. The friends' house is in a charming little town with historic buildings onstreets lined up nicely in a grid. It was cool to see them illuminated by the fireworks, the sidewalks mostly deserted except for the occasional person sitting in their yard watching the show. I turned onto the shadiest streets, trying to get some sizeable buildings between us and the noise. I kept walking and walking, onward and upward and away. By the time the big finale began, the dog was relaxed enough to stop and sniff at interesting things. So I turned us around and started walking back. About halfway there I bashed into the river of people walking home from the park. I had to swim upstream. When I got within a block my dad was waiting on the sidewalk as though he had been about to come search for me. "There you are," he said. My sister was worried I had been kidnapped, but my dad seemed more concerned that we were now unable to get a jump on the traffic. The drive home was slow and grim, the baby crying because we weren't moving (she had been calm throughout the fireworks show).

I was so good. I got into bed, lights out, before midnight last night. Finally, I was going to get at least 7 hours of sleep on a week night! My productivity at work was going to be phenomenal.

Then at around 2 a.m., I started dreaming that the city was under attack. I drifted up through a few layers of awakefulness and realized it was a thunderstorm. The lightning was non-stop. Flash, flash-flash! Flash, flash, FLASH-flash! And the thunder seemed to be rolling in both from nearby and far away, surrounding me. I had been in the deepest level of sleep, so I could barely move. But with my windows open all the way just a few feet from my head, I felt endangered by the violence of the storm. I live in an attic, after all - I'm high up and have nothing above me except a flimsy roof. So with all of the energy and adrenaline I could muster, in a desperate attempt to try to save my own life, I managed to turn over onto my other side and lay an arm across my head.

It seems to have worked, for I survived the night. But I did not get my full-night's sleep. Curse you, Thor!

This is all purely hypothetical speculation.

If a girl, hypothetically, has an online personals ad, and that girl's profile says she is looking for a certain age range (a range reasonably centered around her own, clearly posted, age), would you contact the girl if you were the same age as the girl's father, and seriously expect a response?

Similarly, would you expect a response from a girl if your "More about what I'm looking for" answer said only "a woman who knows how to pleasure a man"?

Say you're about ten years older than the upper end of a girl's age range. And you also say, without irony, that one of your favorite songs is the James Taylor/Carly Simon version of "Mockingbird." Would you still think you had enough of a shot to spend a credit sending a message?

Wow, has it really been five days since I last posted? So sorry, dear readers.

For my first step in becoming a celibate groupie, I went to Provincetown with some rockstar friends this weekend. H and L rented a huge 15-passenger Chrystler Behemoth (actually I believe the model name was "Express") for the occasion, though there were only 6 passengers out of an expected 8. No matter; we filled the vehicle with music and gaiety. We listened to B's Rio, which he claims is better than my iPod (though then he couldn't remember why). He had it on shuffle, which somehow translated into a lot of Mike Nesmith interspersed with "When Doves Cry" and "Birdhouse in your Soul" and that creepy Capt. Beefheart song about "the blimp, the blimp!"

We got to the Cape around 6:30 Saturday, and wandered around Commercial Street for a bit before dinner at the venue (the Squealing Pig). I lead the group to the salt-water taffy place and the Marine Supply Co., and on our way back to the Pig we walked right past M, who blended in so well we didn't even see him, dressed in a tight lavender t-shirt, gelled hair, and pink, heart-shaped, rhinestone-framed glasses. For dinner I took the band's recommendation for the lobster toastie (grilled cheddar cheese sandwich with fresh basil, tomato, and lobster meat: heavenly).

During set-up I wandered off alone. I had never been in P-Town after dark. The vibe is laid-back and fun and just a little libidinous and carnival-esque.

Back at the Pig, the Fawns and SFTD each played two short alternating sets, and both were extremely well-recieved by a diverse crowd. Groups of people kept arriving and then leaving and then re-arriving. There was a lot of freeform dancing, and simulated sex acts, and some singing along. The meme of "woo!"ing H's arm movements during "Omnivore" was perpetuated. It was loud and rockin' for such a small room, but it fit perfectly with the mood of the night.

After the show we packed the van, and then waited for our patron to come by after work so we could give her a ride to her home, where we'd be staying the night. There was some expectation of a party at the house, but everyone was tired and our benefactor had a plan to get up early for the Wellfleet flea market, so we stayed quiet. We took every available inch of free floor space for our beds. T and M got an air mattress, B and A got the absent-roommate's bed, and H and L got the fold-out couch (I was invited to share it with them, but frankly I have trouble sleeping in the same bed with people I'm actually sleeping with, so I declined). I ended up using three couch cushions, my circa-1980 camping mattress, and my sleeping bag to make a bed that just barely fit on the kitchen floor. I couldn't fall asleep for hours. When it started getting light outside I crept around the air mattress to the bathroom (noted: M sleeps on top of the covers), crept back to bed, and then had to creep back to close the bathroom door which kept clacking semi-shut in the wind. Then I fell asleep and woke up just 3 or so hours later to almost everyone all dressed and awake and going into the back yard to see the horses.

We had a bleary breakfast at a random place on Comm. Street. I got a short stack of blueberry pancakes, which was more like an extremely short stack. We walked to the shore and I took some band photos with H's camera. Then the Express took us to Race Point beach just so we could all touch the ocean and collect rocks and pile rocks and look at the amazing colors of the sky and the water and the dune grass. Then we headed home, stopping at PJ's for some soft-serve (medium twist, rainbow sprinkles). And then I couldn't stay awake. I am pretty sure that at one point I even made a pre-snoring "snerk!" noise, but my friends are too polite to say anything. (I wasn't the only one having trouble with consciousness.) Thanks for the fun adventure, everybody!

I had a really disjointed sleep last night. I think I may have been sleeping with my eyes open again. First, it took a while for me to fall asleep; every time I'd be about to slip into unconsciousness, my sleeping dog would start "dreaming," which means loud, closed-mouth barking. It sounds like "Mouf! Merf!" and is actually quite funny and adorable, though less so when it wakes you up on a nightly basis. Once I fell asleep, I soon woke up with a start to find myself staring into the out-of-focus darkened room, with what looked like bits of pink fluff or fabric floating through the air. I even reached out to touch them, to find out if they were really there. It's an unpleasant sensation, to wake up in the middle of the night and discover yourself hallucinating something in the room, even though it quickly coalesces into normalcy after I wake up enough to focus my eyes a little (in the case of the fluff, it just disappeared; in previous times, shapes that looked like people or looming objects turned back into the collection of pictures on the wall or my pillow). I did a tiny amount of online research on this eyes-open-sleeping phenomena today, and no, I am fairly certain I'm not being probed by aliens, nor do I take any hallucinogenic drugs, nor do I fall asleep drunk every night, nor do I have a thyroid problem. So I think maybe I'm just a little weird.

Laurel Park, the neat converted-summer-homes/former-Christian-camp housing development a little ways out of town, had a big tag sale going on Saturday morning, so I stopped by. The tag sale in the common house wasn't very inspiring, but about 8 of the little houses nearby were having their own sales. It was great to have a reason to just wander around. The houses are all slightly smaller than what you'd imagine a house to be, and most of them are very close to their neighbors, and so people have gotten creative with their gardens and with making the most of their space. They run the place like a co-op with monthly fees and community events.

One of the people holding a tag sale was a woman, she couldn't have been more than forty, with a ridiculous bouffant wig on her head. It was obviously fake. She looked like an early Loretta Lynn. And it didn't go along at all with her casual clothes and lack of makeup. The stuff she was selling was cool - some neat old books, just like the ones I collect, and some old wooden toys, among other flotsam. A shopper picked up a small red elephant pull-toy and asked how much it was. She said, "Oh, I don't know... I always have second thoughts when it comes to selling my things. I just really like old things, you know? They just have more meaning for me... Okay, let's say $5, because I don't care if I sell it." Later I bought a $1 book from the 1920s about women's sex lives, and she gave me a half-full pad of watercolor paper for free.

All right, the story's not that interesting. The point is that I could have been her, a few years down the line. A couple of years ago I contemplated buying a house in Laurel Park for $90k - a price unheard of nowadays for anything but a mobil home in this town - because, as I said, they're super charming and sweet, and perfect for one person, especially for the price. But I was too afraid I'd turn into crazy-wig lady: A single woman who spends a lot of time around her house making it all cozy and funky and interesting, while slowly getting older and lonlier and more isolated, losing touch with old friends until her only social activities are with the old ladies in the development. It is true that I do think it's just as likely that I could live there and have a ball and make it work, but the crazy-wig lady archetype is still standing there in the corner of my brain, fretting over the fate of her odd little collections. And I'm just too young to want to be her.

So I have just a few random odds and ends this morning, things that didn't seem important enough to be their own posts (like that's ever stopped me before. But seriously folks...).

The food bank collection box at my office is still there in the kitchen, still accepting donations. It hasn't been emptied/delivered in months. Inside of it right now: A bunch of pasta, a JollyTime popcorn ball maker (two hemi-spherical pieces of plastic), Stop n' Shop brand pumpkin pie filling, and the winner of worst donation of all goes to: An open, half-eaten jar of organic baby food (mashed squash, I think), which I threw away upon discovery.

If you are a person who does not blush, and you happen to meet and spend time with someone who does blush, let me give you this piece of advice: If your new acquaintence starts blushing for whatever reason, the thing to do is NOT to say "Hey look, you're blushing! Wow, your face is getting sooooo red! It's like neon red! Ha ha ha! Hey everyone, look at her blushing!" Saying things like this to me means an automatic sucker-punch to the gut. Then I will rain bitch-slaps upon your face, until I am able to stand back and triumphantly say, "Hey look at how red her face is! You look like a candy apple! Ha! Ha! HA!" A jury of people who blush would acquit me in a second. The correct thing to do: Ignore the blushing entirely.

A few weeks ago as I was walking my dog on my street, a car drove up slowly next to me and the window rolled down to reveal a late-middle-aged woman with fussy hair. She said "I hope you pick up after that dog." I said yes, I always did, I am a responsible pet-owner. "Do you have bags with you?" Yes, yes I did have bags. I'm very responsible, I always pick up the poop. She chuckles and says "But do you USE the bags? Because they're no good unless you use them!" Uh, yes, I always, always use them. (Didn't we go over this?) She pulls into the driveway of the house diagonal from mine. Her house is huge and expensive-looking and her lawn is weed-free. Now, every time I pass by it, I think about leaving a neatly-tied baggie of my dog's poop on her porch. This very morning my dog took a dump on her property, and I contemplated leaving it there out of spite; but I didn't. Because I am a responsible dog owner, not one of the many, many people who carry around plastic bags just for fun and fashion.

So the family torture weekend never became torture. I actually had a good time. It's true. I made it up to the New Hampshire house around 9:30 on Friday night, and dinner hadn't even been served yet. It turns out that my father's-father's side of the family are a bunch of fun drunks. Well, they aren't loud and crazy, but they enjoy the wine. At the house were my grand-uncle's children (four daughters) and several of the daughters' spouses and young-adult children. Their newly-widowed mother was also there. I really like her; she seems to be more optimistic and open than my grandmother, who has always seemed unhappy and disappointed (at least since I was a baby). Anyway, dinner was nice. I was under some questioning that put me on the spot, which I don't like, but I had decided before I arrived to enjoy myself as much as I could, so when I had the floor I was joking around a little, going with the flow. By the end of the night I was feeling like I was fitting in. The nonstop wine pouring might have had something to do with that.

The next day we drove up north to Sabbaday Falls (the name is from the early-settlers' slurring of Sabbath Day) and we met up with my parents and my grandmother. It was a perfect weather day. It's the very start of motorcycle week, and there were Harleys everywhere, lots of people riding on the curvy roads of the White Mts. National Park without helmets (Live Free or Die!). I was concerned that the "Impeach Bush" bumper sticker on my car was going to get me a punch in the face, but it never materialized. One motorcycle's licence plate frame said "MY OTHER TOY HAS TITS." You kind of have to admire these guys for resolutely staying put in the seventies.

At the Falls area, we wheelchaired the two widows up a dirt path to a place upstream from the head of the falls. We turned off and gathered in a clearing in the trees near the river, and a few people gave some readings: a couple of psalms, an e.e. cummings poem, and a letter my grand-uncle wrote to my grandfather in the 40s. Then it was time. My dad took the small cardboard box out of a paper bag and opened it to reveal a sturdy clear-plastic bag, tied with a plastic tie with a metal dogtag on it. Inside the bag were the white ash remains of his father. I followed him to the rocky riverbank, where he untied the bag, and calmy perched on some rocks and poured, slowly, the ash into the water. It's amazing how small a body becomes when all of the water is steamed away. How colorless, too. As he poured the ash into the stream, a large plume of white filled the pool below, and dissipated slowly on its way to the sea.

Then it was my grandfather's brother's turn to be laid to rest. His daughters opened up the bag of his ashes and they each scooped a cup and spread it on the ground. Then they took the remaining ash and cast it into the water, "so they can play together" my mom said. They were all crying, whereas my parents and I were more sober about it all. My grandfather died after suffering from Alzheimers for years, where my grand-uncle had died just two months after being diagnosed with cancer, so the pain was still a shock to them.

We each gathered a rock or two from the river (choosing some nice pieces of New Hampshire granite) and then made our way down to the picnic area at the bottom. We decided it would be best to wheel my grandmother down backwards, since she could lean back that way, and there were some giddy near-mishaps along the way. My grandmother was chuckling over it all, while being bounced around down the path.

After eating lunch I said goodbye to the main group; my grand-aunt (?) said it was nice to get to know me better, which was very sweet. My parents and two of my dad's cousins decided to go to Center Harbor and a huge fancy quilt store there. I made Mom ride with me so we could chat and she could see for herself how non-depressed I am. I think it worked. After the quilt store I drove back home, totally tired and almost driving off the road; I made it home just in time to go see my friends play a show at PACE, but I decided instead to relax at home and then just go to the after-party at 11:30. I stayed up until 4:30, which meant that Sunday was mostly a wash; I didn't really leave my bed until 2 p.m. But all in all I had a good weekend, despite (or maybe because of?) my cranky Friday venting.

I'll get to the weekend recap in a minnit. First here's a nice pic of me and my niece, taken nine days ago. My mom swears she looks exactly like we did when we were babies, which I can tell from looking at old photos of us. It's like my sister cloned herself. Although we were completely bald - including eyebrows - for our first two years of life, the hair grew in with a vengeance. See the photographic proof:

My weekend plans have been shot by the disintegration ray weilded by the matriarchs in my family. I didn't go out last weekend (I was in Brooklyn with the family instead) and I haven't gone out all week, so I was looking forward to throwin' a penny tonight. But alas, instead I will drive three hours to stay in the living room of some relatives I don't know very well, without the buffer of my parents or sister to help me. For my very old grand-uncle (who I've met twice) is dead after a long illness, so we must gather here in a remote part of New Hampshire, The Asshole State (it's on their license plate! really!), even though three out of four of the guy's children live in California, where he also lived, by the way. And instead of it being in the afternoon, like you might expect a reunion on a beautiful late-spring day to be (and which would allow me to drive there in the morning and drive home at night), let's have a dinner. Oh and since we're all going to be together anyway, let's scatter my grandfather's ashes (my freshly-deceased-granduncle's brother), but let's do it an hour and a half NORTH (i.e. further away from me) of the reunion site, because god knows there just isn't anyplace pretty enough in the middle of the state, even though that's where my grandfather lived for most of his adult life. And let's set out for the ashes-scattering place at 9:30 in the morning, because it might take a while, what with the stopping every half an hour so my octogenarian grandmother can pee.

So the schedule seems to have been made specifically to ruin both nights of my weekend. I refuse to let that happen, so I'm skipping the evening event and will attend the ashes-scattering/lunch instead, which I actually am interested in being a part of, and which will allow me to be released with time served. I know the plan that was formed has absolutely nothing to do with me, and there are a ton of other people involved. And I feel guilty bitching about it (I'm venting here, though, so I can be pleasant and charming tonight and tomorrow). It's just kind of a puzzle, the way the plans were laid. I blame the passive-aggressive elderly yankees in the family.

I might be happier spending time with these folks, most of whom are smart and somewhat funny and who lead interesting lives. But I had a series of poisonous interactions with my extended family growing up which made me dread all activities with them. When we had family gatherings, the children (and my sister and I were the only children; I have two cousins, and they're both below the age of 12) were expected to sit quietly with their hands in their laps, along with the grown-ups in the sitting room, as they made polite chitchat for a couple of hours. It was excruciating and impossible for us, and when we failed to behave, we were made to feel flawed and out of control and just oh so very bad and wrong. It wasn't until years later that I realized that it wasn't my fault that I hated those times so much; normal people, and by normal I mean not joyless middle-class WASPs, would let the kids go play in the yard, or at least give them a game or a puzzle or a book and let them do their thing in a corner of the room.

So you must understand how I feel when I tell you how jealous I am of my sister, who has a newborn baby to take care of and so is excused from attending. She got out of a horrible family reunion held in the middle of Louisiana several years ago, too, though I don't quite remember how (she's a slippery one). That reunion gave me PTSD, I think. So she owes me Big Time.

This mp3, a reworking of an old song by Eric Idle, is hilarious and satisfying. (It's for adult ears only, and not work-safe.) In it he sings about being fined by the FCC, though I searched the web and couldn't confirm it, so it might be creative license. Through my search I happened upon Howard Stern's home page, which he has turned into a liberal blog site (but with, you know, more stuff about boobies and drinking). Awesome.

At about 8 p.m. tonight I noticed that it was getting dark very rapidly. I left my one little refrigerated room in my thrid-floor apartment and went over to the window in my bedroom. Lightning was flashing and the trees were whipping around in the wind. I leaned over to rest my elbows on the windowsill and stick my head up close to the screen, to be as close to outside as possible. The screen smelled like galvanized metal, kind of salty and bitter. The rain was coming down just a little bit, huge drops well spaced apart. The wind kept changing direction. Leaning inside the window frame, I could feel the house breathing: cooler air, along with a smattering of drops, would hit me face-on, and then things would shift and slower, heavier, warmer air would exhale around my back. I watched the electric blue flashes get closer and more in focus, and the rain got so hard I had to close the window to keep out the flood.

And that was the highlight of my night.

I wrote a cranky post over at Craftytown about the parade I decided not to attend yesterday. It might have been fun, had I gone with a bunch of friends, or a boyfriend if I had one. I'm still a bit sick, very phlegmy with the coughing and the nose-blowing and the unforgiveable "haaawk!" noises that I sometimes make when I forget that I'm at work in an open-plan office and everyone around me is cringing in revulsion. I really only do that very very rarely, but I'm sure it's happened. But what am I supposed to do, leave the building every two minutes to blow my nose and keep from drowning? Stay home for a week and a half just because I have a slight cold?

So, you may have noticed I'm trying out a new template. The problem is that I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I'M DOING. Consequently, I shoved the links in wherever they could go (none of the templates have a built-in place for links. I don't know of a single blog without a list of links on the sidebar. What the fuck?), and the stuff I should be seeing on the right are way way down on the page. And I probably aren't available anymore on RSS feed or whatever it's called. Work in progress, please stand by...

Not much to see here - I'm sick as a dog. Cough, cough, hack, haaarrrrrck! I did find out that the Fahrenheit 9/11 trailer is online. I can't wait to see it. The film found a distributor, by the way - I think it's going to be in theaters by the end of this month. Rock.

Hi. Welcome back. I went for a hike yesterday. An illegal hike, up around the ruins of the old Mountain Park amusement park on Mt. Tom. I was actually looking for a series of letterboxes, but I couldn't find a single one - probably because after the most recent arsonist fire at the park, the city demolished the remaining structures, with the letterboxes in place, I assume. I had been to Mountain Park once when I was a kid, circa 9 years old, and all I remember is that it was night, and I rode a strange little train ride, and my dad talked my sister onto riding the roller coaster, and she came off of the ride crying because she hurt her toe on it somehow.

Anyway, I was very excited to check out yet another urban ruin. But I was not prepared for how intensely creepy the Mountain Park site is. It was about 3 p.m., with the sun shining, the temperature perfect, and yet I was nearly trembling from the icky feelings. But I was more fascinated than afraid, so I poked all around the overgrown cement platforms and old loading areas, all nearly reclaimed by the mountain's plants and trees. I saw many recent signs of human life: the usual smashed beer bottles and graffiti, but also a sodden pair of shorts, numerous paintball shells, and a condom. I saw three other people during the hour I was there; one was a man, one was a girl who was dressed like me (later I thought that I might have seen a spectral mirror image of myself), and one was a teenager holding a Big Gulp. They were all wandering alone, like me, and I avoided them. I was minding my own business, so they did the same.

Of course I took some pictures.


It's Always White here: (According to some of the graffiti I read, they sure wish it was.)




Once you hop the central gate, take a look to your left and you'll see the old parking lot slowly turning back into a meadow. In the intense sunlight, this place has a very post-nuclear-holocaust feel to it. I'm sure it'll show up in a nightmare or two:




This is the view from the middle of the midway:




Here is one of the many new-ish piles of rubble. Note the burned trees in the background, from the latest fire:




I think this is the remains of the Carousel House, which was the sturdiest structure on property. Some fans of the Park had wanted to preserve it somehow, but the building was ultimately abandoned. In 2002, someone set it on fire.




Duck underneath some vines and bushes and you'll get to the old "kiddie land" area. The tiny train ride wound up and around a mini-golf course:




There were tons of interesting things lying around. Here's a machine:




And I'll leave you with this. I hope it was for fried dough, my favorite fair food:





Thanks for stopping by. Come again soon!

It may be possible that I just hate Wednesdays.

Anyway, it's Thursday now. It's time for a little spring cleaning of my links. I don't know what happened to sweat-flavored gummi, but her blog seems to be gone. I hadn't checked it in a few months, but it's still odd. Anyway, sadly, off she goes.

Also, the rabbit blog hasn't been updated since mid-April, and I haven't looked at it in months either. So another link bites the dust.

And I just rediscovered Girls Are Pretty, which is difficult to describe, but I love it so. Go and read it. Now. Your day will be improved.

After feeling fine for almost a week, I am feeling fairly sad today. Maybe it's the weather, which has been grey and cold for several days. Maybe it's the impending weekend with its lack of structure and the possibility of lots of alone-time. Maybe it's the failed override vote in my town and the subsequent triumphant squealing of the money-grubbing jackasses who only look out for themselves. Maybe it's the new terror alert warning that we're all being issued, for all events everywhere all summer long. Maybe it's the extremely icky hyper-realistic dream I had last night.

I think those are some pretty valid reasons.

The day started fine, and I can tell that just by looking at myself, for I decided to wear my attention-getting poncho I knitted out of truffula trees (at least it looks that way). Plus I've been singing Spanish for Hitchhiking songs. (I can finally admit it: I've loved you for my whole life.) So I think I might just need more wine, and more hugs! Hugs for everybody! Kittens, too.

I know it is not at all cool to admit to liking Douglas Adams, but I have a good defense. Our family rallied around each Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy book as it came out in print, and I was a mere wisp of a girl when I started reading them (and not yet out of high school when I stopped). Our sci-fi-lovin' parents even got us to watch the BBC TV miniseries based on the book, and we listened to the entire BBC-produced radio series. So when I think about the movie Disney is releasing next year, and that they are producing it with the "tween" market in mind ... well, trepidation is not strong enough a word for how I feel.

So when I came across this official cast list, I was kind of okay with it (Mos Def as Ford Prefect? super-cool), until I realized that the odd photo of the short and cutesy white robot thing I was looking at was supposed to be Marvin, and that Marvin was being played by Willow. And I threw up a little, inside my mouth.

This, of course, is nothing compared to what will happen a few months after the Hitchhiker's Guide movie comes out, when Disney releases the first film in their Narnia series. When I think about how potentially awful it could be, I get dizzy and nauseous. This must have been how Lord of the Rings fans felt when they heard a movie was going to be made of their books. But they had genius Peter Jackson on board, as well as a studio behind him that supported creativity, and the results were wonderful. This is sadly not the case with Narnia; for example, IMDB lists SIX producers (and three of those are executive producers, no less) for the film. Heaven help us all.

Alright, already - People, I am fine. And by people, I mean my family. In the past 24 hours I have gotten two phone calls from them - one from Mom, one from my aunt - and I very rarely hear from them (which is both good and bad). They both left messages, and they both had this "I hope you're okay, and don't have your head in the oven at the moment... please call me and reassure me that you're still among the living" kind of a tone. They don't really have any reason to be worried about my happiness level — unless they are reading this web log, which I made them promise never to do. I know, it's impossible to police this, but once they discovered this blog, I asked them nicely to respect my privacy and to not read it (I gave them Craftytown as a distraction/consolation prize) and they agreed, and I felt satisfied that my faith in them would build a protective wall of guilt that would sheild my blog from view. Or so I thought.

I am fine, in fact. The weekend was amazingly drama-free. My patented Avoidance Technique seems to be protecting my mental health, as planned.

Could I BE any more depressed right now? Well, I guess I could be, since I am actually functioning and at work and not sobbing at my desk. But still. Things are not good. I am starting to think this could be my Worst Spring and Summer Ever, which gets me all kinds of more depressed since I live here because it is so beautiful this time of year, and then I need to remind myself that Spring and Summer come back with fair regularity - say, once a year or so - and that not fully enjoying one years' worth of lovely weather, because I'm staying home lying curled up in a ball and staring out the window, is not going to kill me.

Speaking of life or death situations, today on my way to work I passed by the ambulance that's set up in front of City Hall all this week for the EMTs to talk to kids about safety or something. They have a costumed mascot, I think it's a bear, or an otter, or maybe a dog. Anyway, today I saw a woman putting on the head of the costume - in plain sight, right there on Main Street! Talk about destroying the magic! I was shocked. And then I thought, I could blog something funny about this. And then I thought, I'm too tired and melancholy to be funny. And now here we are.

I went to the big rock show last night at the Iron Horse, and it was really really great. First, Silver and Gold was all loungey-cabaret: a too-tall guy in an ill-fitting suit singing standards about love and loss, with another guy tickling the ivories, and it was all kind of irony-laden and funny, but also maybe serious because the guy (a local I see slouchin' around at shows all the time) had a really good voice. His performance reminded me of Ducky in Pretty in Pink, because I am 15 years old and it's 1988.

Then an acoustic trio, the core of the Ray Mason Band, played some songs, and they were wonderful and countryish and they had a little mandolin, which I like, as well as one lady dancing who turned into three.

And then there was Ribboncandy playing their Last Show Ever. Ken mentioned onstage that the last time they played (at the Horse, I think he meant) was when they opened for The Maggie's first CD release party, and at that I made a little "a single tear is falling" gesture to my friends as a joke, but then I did start to feel actual sadness. I am old, and times have changed. Ribboncandy was excellent. Total rockin' poppy hooks and funny, hip-reference-laden lyrics. It's great to see Ken, who plays like a musical genius while in the background of every band he's in, as the leader in a band.

And then there was a pause while all 12 members of the King Radio orchestra set up, and then the music started. I am a total sucker for strings in rock songs, so I really enjoyed the set. I spent some time pondering how the four string players became involved, since they looked quite professional and were dressed all grown-up and they had music stands and everything. Did they answer an ad on a lark? Are they getting paid for this tour? Do they get 1/12th of the take like the other members of the band? Besides the four strings, there were two people on piano, three guitars, one bass, and two percussionists. It was a little crazy, but it was all arranged very craftily. There were a few sound problems but much, much fewer than I was expecting, given the tiny stage and the number of performers and instruments. All in all, an incredible show, with an amazing once-in-a-blue-moon lineup. Rock.

Rest in Peace, Tony Randall. Shit. I hope to see a retrospective on Letterman tonight.

At the park last week, I got my fortune read from one of the old coin-op machines ("Esmeralda's Prophesies") they have there. Here's the first one:

You have had a lot of trouble, for which others are largely responsible, but you are now reaching a point when you will be able by your own efforts, to control your own affairs. You are not easily understood, as you keep much to yourself. You are fond of fine arts and like to be alone a great deal. You sometimes have a desire to destroy things, especially in your young days, for which you are sorry afterward. Be careful when the figure 7 appears on any money transaction, and keep your eyes open to some of your "would be" friends. Drop another coin in slot and I will tell you more.

I swear I've gotten that fortune before, which is a little eerie. So I put in another coin and got this:

There is very little I can tell you, because you are so good. You have a great gentleness, and pure moral principles, a merciful affectionate and constant heart, slightly melancholy. Inventive genius of mechanical arts, are independent and have little patience with conventional ways of living. Lover of music, very changeable in opinion. After middle age you will inherit a fortune, which you will have to defend in court. I predict that you will have great success in life, in general, very small changes in your daily routine are necessary to bring you to the top of the ladder. Drop another coin in slot and I will tell you more.

I figured I couldn't do much better than that combination, so I stopped there.

I had a nightmare last night so frightening that I actually woke up. That hasn't happened for years, though it used to happen with disturbing regularity. The dream involved Buffy (yes, the vampire slayer) making a very bad decision, and then me and a friend (unidentified in the dream) having to go along with the coverup.

Buffy needed a strip of human skin to help heal a friend of hers, so she pretended to be a doctor and peeled a long rectangle of flesh from an overweight, middle-aged patient who had been admitted for some minor surgery. And now the patient's wife and adult son (could have been a brother, it was unclear) were demanding to know what the hell Doctor Buffy had done, since the man was now lying on a bed in a side room, looking very gory and moaning and thrashing in pain (she had not sewed up the flesh, just left it open and raw). Buffy just kept repeating that he had some fucked-up venereal disease, and that doing this had been the only way to save him, and that it was all complicated doctor stuff they wouldn't understand; her attitude was, don't blame me, your father/husband brought this on himself. But the anguished man and his family would not let it alone, and kept hanging out in Buffy's big rambling mansion. We would think they had finally bought the story, and the lying could stop (it was excruciating, lying to them, when what Buffy had done was so utterly unethical, and she just could not tell them the truth, because what she had done was so awful) then they'd come back inside to yell and complain some more. I was questioned repeatedly but I kept claiming I knew nothing, I wasn't a doctor, and I'd walk up to my guest room and pretend to pack.

But then the man's family brought him inside the house to where we were hanging out, and he looked horrible, blood and gore bulging out of his side, moaning and looking pale and sick, and his family saying, look, clearly whatever you did is not right, look at him. And I fled to my room, but then the man was lying in the bathtub there, dead, with blood all over the shower curtain. Apparently the body needed to be saved so that an autopsy could unearth whatever faux V.D. he had. And so I had to go downstairs to the basement to take a pee, where I found my mom folding clothes, and my dad's cousin had filled the bathroom sink full of dirty dishes from her hummus recipe testing. And my sister somehow happened upon the dead man's corpse, and her very loud scream woke me up.

Let the psychoanalysis begin!