Hooray! This article uses the term "turd burglar," one of my favorite nonsensical insults. It is another good day to be an American.

Today is a good day. On my way to work, stomach-tumor man said he liked my hair. And now it is actual spring outside. I went to get lunch without a coat on, just a hoodie sweatshirt (and a skirt, but no stockings!), and was not cold ever. This is Progress.

It's tough to remember it right now in the rain and the cold and the wind, but it was very lovely outside on Saturday. I took a long walk that took me all over town. On my way down Pleasant Street towards Valley Fabrics I was confronted with three happy drunk guys in their 30s, all boozy-smellin'. The ringleader was wearing a Red Sox shirt and bandana on his head. He was very, very happy.

Red Sox Guy: Hey, you have a nice smile. Can you answer a question for us?
me: Sure.
RSG, putting his arms around his buddies: Which one of us.... (long dramatic pause) looks the most gay?
me: Hmmm.... (they crack up as I settle on the smallest one who has kind of long-ish hair) I've gotta say him. But none of you look gay, really! [for one thing, they'd be much better dressed...]
(The other two head off arm-in-arm to Northampton Lodging. RSG decides to keep talking to me, saying that he wants a TV show where he asks questions to random strangers on the street. I say it sounds like a good idea. He peppers me with questions.)
RSG, condensed: So what's your name? Are you in school? Have a boyfriend? Pining over someone? Man, I've been hung up on someone for three years. She's already had a serious relationship and had it end, and I still haven't dated anyone!
Me: (Minimal noises of sympathy.)
RSG: Let me ask you, how old do you think I am?
Me (Considering I can't see his forehead and he's all puffy and beer-bellied, it's actually hard to say, but I am always careful with this question, so:) Um, 28?
RSG, very proudly: I'm nearly 40! Come on, you didn't really think I was 28, did you.
Me: Well, it's hard to tell, plus, y'know, I was being polite.
RSG: So where are you heading right now?
Me: I'm going up to the fabric store, because I'm making some clothing for my niece.
RSG: Wow, so you're one of those people that, like, finishes stuff. I wish I could do that.
Me: ... Okay, well, I'm going to get going.
RSG: Deb, do you mind if I holler at you the next time I see you on the street? I'll be like "Hey Deb!"
Me: And I'll be like "Hey, there's that crazy guy!"

And that was that. I have a soft spot for the friendly drunks. It's probably smarter to just ignore them and keep walking, but I don't mind engaging in stupid banter with them. I don't entirely blow them off unless it feels semi-threatening or too creepy. I mean, RSG was coming onto me, but he didn't seem dangerous or out-of-control drunk (wasn't slurring his speech or swaying). And I'd never, say, go "party" with them, or give out any personal information off any kind. So what's the harm? Maybe someday I'll be getting robbed in an alley and RSG will lurch out of the shadows and tell his buddy to stop mugging me because I'm a friend of his. I'm just sayin: You Never Know.

I just wrote something about my hair over at Craftytown. Don't all stampede over there at once, their server might crash.

I finished watching season one of Deadwood last night. The last episode, The One Where They Do It (note: not official ep title), was awesome. Like the other HBO series on DVD, I became so addicted that it was very hard to not immediately start a new episode after the previous one was finished, no matter the time of night or what other plans were waiting. Also, I tend to become so engrossed that I start talking like the people in the worlds I've been watching (moreso with The Sopranos, lesso with Six Feet Under). With Deadwood, this means I have a strong desire to call everyone a cocksucker, and to start calling women "pieces of strange" or just simply "strange," as in, "So, are you going to Hugo's tonight to find some strange?"

I also want to speak in sentences so long and well-planned out that they could only have been written down first. But then I'd have to write everything down first, and that's just going a little too far, cocksucker.

Also, a line I want to find a place to use: "Whoa, slow down honey! You got a stage to catch?"

Finslippy (see links) is trying to decide if she should move her young family from Brooklyn to the NJ suburbs. I am adamantly opposed. I really just want to believe she can work it out, that living in the city with kids can work. I think it can. The suburbs were absolute hell for me. I hated where I grew up in New Jersey; there was no downtown, nothing but other houses within walking distance. We were lucky that we had sidewalks; incredibly, more modern developments don't have them. Two close relatives of mine live in the suburbs in NJ, different from the one in which I grew up, and I hate those suburbs too. Northeastern New Jersey is very crowded, but unlike in the city, there's no "we're all living together, so we have to get along" feeling. It's much more isolating to have your OWN yard and your OWN personal method of transportation, especially when your yard is small and butts against three other yards and your personal car has to share the road with heavy traffic all the freakin' time. It garners a selfish, xenophobic mentality that I find depressing. Growing up, we almost never spoke to our neighbors. Of course, the loud, screaming fights my sister and I would have, even with the windows open, might have something to do with that. And why were we fighting? Because we were bored and isolated from everyone and everything, because we lived in the suburbs. See how it's all connected?

The whole discussion makes me want to keep my move to the city a temporary one. This is worrisome. On that subject, I was told I'd have an actual answer and an offer during the first week of April. And the move could happen soon after that. So there's some news for you.

I had a social weekend, as I like to do. At one point I was talking to a friend of mine about a boy I know who has taken a shine to me.

me: We have nothing in common. Well, that's not true - we both like me! Ha ha!
(pause)
me: Just kidding. I hate me.


Thanks everyone, I'll be here all month!

Other funny and awesome blogs that I've had in my personal favorites file for literally years but for some reason have never made it into my links list at the right:

The hardly-ever updated The Excitement Machine.

Chez Miscarriage, which is actually quite funny at times.

Good ol' Defective Yeti. The current post (30 things...) made me laugh out loud in my cubicle.


This will have to do in lieu of a post right now. Sorry, peeps.

It's St. Patrick's Day, I guess. Time to avoid the ex-City Cafe. Thinking about this faux-holiday reminds me of a sign one of my sister's friends was joking that he'd seen: "Welcome to our ool. Notice there is no "p" in it. Please keep it that way" and below, in small all-caps letters, "NO IRISH".

I know it probably makes me a bad person, how funny that is to me. I could explain why it's funny and not offensive but I am sure you dear readers are savvy enough to understand.

First day of work, back from the pox, and everything is inexplicably annoying. If one more person asks me how I'm feeling, I'm going to rip their frickin' throats out. People, stop having side conversations during the meeting! Even if the particular agenda item doesn't concern you directly, those it does concern can HEAR YOU and it's VERY DISTRACTING, not to mention rude as all hell. And lady, you are my friend, but please, I beg you, stop whistling the first bars of the "Jeopardy" final-question-thinking tune every five minutes.

I have seriously been thinking of saving up a bunch of money (if I move over to the new job and an increased salary; my resolve is weakening every week) and quitting my career entirely. Instead I would make things and sell them, while doing freelance writing on the side. I know my current magazine would love to pay me to write for them, though I think I have to wait until the next fiscal year or some such legal shit. And um I dunno about health insurance, I just won't get sick, ha-ha! Since my resolve has been weakening about moving permanently, I have been at least looking at my options for staying around here. I no longer like my current apartment, so I've been looking for others, including some cool apartment-like condos to buy. And I have found a few (including a loft in Holyoke). So there's that.

I guess all of the people who always say that "life's too short to not be doing what you love" have been getting through to me. Overcoming my fears of becoming destitute will be a huge challenge, as it goes against everything I learned from my fiscally uber-conservative father. But man oh man, to not have a regular 9-to-5 office job? To get things done on my schedule? To be working on things I am excited to work on? What could be better than that?

Last night was really, really rough. I was so itchy and prickly that I could keep still, which made sleeping a bit of a challenge. I seriously thought I would go crazy. Imagine a hundred tiny elves each holding a pin, and each elf would tickle you a little with the pin or jab you with it, or just wait a few minutes and then tickle or jab you with it, for hours, at random, all over your body. Today (so far - I got up at 1:38, certainly a record for me, though I didn't fall asleep until dawn) I feel better. I am still itchy and I still look horrible but I don't feel like I'd rather be on fire. I still have a sore throat and a very minor fever (between 99 and 99.5) but nothing that's going to put me in the hospital, knock on wood.

Since I last wrote, so far I have watched Whale Rider, To Have or Have Not, three Mr. Show episodes (two of them a second time with commentaries on), and on TV I saw most of The Matrix, the second Austin Powers film, Survivor, The Daily Show, Futurama... The Apprentice is on behind me, but the sound is off, so that hardly counts.

I also made myself some turkey chili (with groceries provided by H and L, part of my Team of Heroes) and did dishes twice and worked more on the Space Invaders quilt; the top is almost done. I had three oatmeal baths and one normal shower yetserday but have only needed one shower today. I might take a bath later, though. My manager at work is coming by tomorrow with a small care package, because my co-workers are nice.

Earlier I took out some food trash and got to breathe fresh air for the first time in two days. It was nice.

A pox is upon me. Quite literally.

Did I ever tell you that I've never had the chicken pox? Well, I haven't, until, you know, NOW. More than three decades old and I have the chicken pox. I live alone and I have the chicken pox. I just got two special deliveries (Team Ex-Boyfriend is Go!) so I am all set with oatmeal bath, comic books, and DVDs. Food is another story, since we're in the middle of blizzard #396 of the season, and I don't want to endanger any more lives by sending others on errands. I don't feel that bad yet - I mean, I feel ill, like I have a head cold, and I'm a little itchy, but I can control myself and not scratch. It can only get worse, though. I only have a couple of spots on my face, yet (I have tons on my torso).

When I went to the docotr this morning she had me wait outside in the car, and then she came outside and into my car to examine me. So I had to lift my shirt to show her my pox, sitting right there in the parking lot in the snow (with the car motor running - I'm not crazy). She was amazed that I had never had them before and that I had never gotten vaccinated. I think adults aren't asked about chicken pox immunities until they're pregnant or about to be, or are going to have close contact with young kids (kindergarten teacher, say). Since I'm on the road to spinsterhood and I work with grownups, a doctor has never had a cause to bring up the subject. (Plus I heard that it might leave you open to shingles later. I'm just saying.)

So here I am, in my apartment for a week or so. Which means I will be staying inside this weekend, which happens to be the annual Western Mass Sacred Harp Convention. Dammit. I will be online a lot. Actually probably about as much as I am regularly (cough) but I will be in more need to human semi-contact. I am unclean! Unclean!

And if I ever find out which kid or kid's parent gave this to me, I am kicking his or her ass. A lot.

The work/moving thing? Still not resolved.

I discovered this weekend that I am too old to stay out until 4 (or later) two nights in a row. Man. My Sunday was a complete loss. I think I caught a virus, which made me weaker than usual, but still. My town just started a six-month trial period of letting bars stay open until 2 a.m. (instead of 1) on weekends. I have to say, I'd rather stick with the 1 a.m. Especially since with the new rules, if you leave the bar for ANY REASON after 1:00, you are not allowed back in. So, when two kind friends helped shepherd out a crazy, yelling, threatening guy from Ye Olde Watering Hole, and it happened to be 1:15 or so, the bouncer and owner would not let them back in, even though they did the entire bar a favor by stepping up and calming this guy down enough to get him to leave. Apparently the owner is himself a (Ye Olde Watering) 'Hole.

Hi. Why no, they still haven't made any decisions. I am but one of many whose fates are waiting to be decided, so I need to remember that and just chill out. It's hard to do so when I made this huge and very difficult decision a full six weeks ago, and haven't yet been able to get the green light to do anything official. I am trying to internalize my anger. It's what I'm good at.

Today I had a lovely, lovely morning at the RMV. I know complaining about the cranky old ladies at the RMV is like shooting fish in a barrel, but this time seemed excessively irritating. I had to go back after an unsuccessful try on Monday, having my "grandmother" "sign" the vehicle-as-gift form. After taking a number and being called to one of the desks, I proudly said that we had managed to get the plates off of my old car and as such would not be needing to spend $36 on new plates. The sour-faced, put-upon-seeming lady looked at one of the many forms I had brought and pushed it back to me, highlighting an error. "The insurance company didn't fill in this date of transfer, so you can't transfer your plates until they do." I protested that I had gotten my insurance transferred on Monday, and that I didn't understand why I had to go back . She repeated what she had just said verbatim. Because my incomprehension was not due to hearing loss, I was still confused. She sighed. The office had been open for a mere half an hour and she was already out of patience. "Okay, let me try to explain this again." I tried to stop her so I could ask my question in a different way, but she put her hand up. Yes, readers, this 60-year-old, pucker-mouthed white lady did a talk-to-the-hand. So I let her repeat herself a third time and then I said, defeated, "How about I just get some new plates?"

So then things seemed to be moving forward, the form was filled out some more and spanking-new plates were pulled from the Magical Cupboard of New Plates. She scratched out the old plate number that had been put on the form and wrote the new plate number over it. Apparently the RMV ladies have special governmental powers, because when I had to make a similar change, I had to fill out a special "I made an error" form and go to the UPS store to pay $5 to get it notorized. Then I asked her how much new plates cost, and she said $36, and then I noted with horror the sign that said they only accepted cash or credit. I said I didn't think I had enough cash, and she sat and watched me calmly as I counted the cash in my wallet. No, not enough. "There's no ATM in this building, is there." "No, you have to go to the center of town." "Classic," I said. "Can you just put this all aside for me, and I'll be back in five minutes?" With resigned disgust, she said, "No, we cannot 'put this aside' for you!" The RMV is a harsh mistress.

I grabbed my forms and she put the license plates back into the MCNP and I drove into town. I took out $75, more than enough. I drove back and went into the office and took a number. Five minutes later I was called to a different lady than the one I had spoken to (there are three possible "windows" but they're just desks right next to each other, everyone can hear everyone else). I explained to Lady #2 what had just happened, and she calmly went through each and every form again. "This 1997 Camry has only 23,000 miles on it?" Listen bitch, my grandmother is 87 years old. She only drove herself to church and the hair parlor. Now can I have my expensive new plates? She pulled out some new plates from her very own Magical Cabinet, and scratched out the first new plate number on the form; again, using the bureaucratic superpowers. And then she said, "That'll be $111." Say what? "Wait, I thought it was going to be $36, or $50, or something," I said, like a dope. "No, it's 36 for the plates, 50 for the title change, and 25 for the gift fee." ($25 FOR THE GIFT FEE? This is why people turn Republican.) So basically lady #1 had sat and watched me count my money and say I was going to the ATM, yet she didn't volunteer the information that my total was $111. You know, because why would I have found that information useful?

I told her that I would have to go back to the ATM. So I did. When I came back to the RMV, there was nobody else waiting, so I looked expectantly at the ladies. They averted their eyes; I had to take a ticket. My number was called immediately; I ended up back and lady #1. She pulled ANOTHER pair of new plates from the cabinet, firmly crossed out the other three licence plate numbers and added the new. I paid and got the fuck out of there. Once I get the car inspected I'll be all set. All of this money and I might be moving out of state in a month. I am a chump.