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.

It's been a while... I have been busy. I went up to New Hampshire and got my grandmother's car, a Toyota Camry. It's very matronly, but I am enjoying the automatic locks and power windows and working rear speakers. Now I have to deal with the extremely annoying RMV about it. Apparently "grandmother" is not considered "immediate family" ("That is INSANE" I told the bitchy RMV lady) and so I cannot use the "motor vehicle transferred within a family" form. No, instead I need another form that says that the vehicle was a gift, a donation if you will, and that form requires my nursing-home-bound, 3-hours-away grandmother to sign it, within the week. So not only am I going to have to get "her" to "sign" it, I also have to say that she received no money in the transaction. Which, um, she didn't! I am not implying it was not a gift, sirs! Please don't take my car away!

The Oscars were the very definition of "eh." It was bland and toothless. Chris Rock had some good lines early on, but most of the time he was way too restrained. And the less said about the music, the better.

And no word about the NYC thing yet. They've failed to meet their answering-me deadline yet again. My head is gonna asplode soon.

This group, Improv Everywhere, does commando performance art pieces. Sort of like what happens on Trigger Happy TV, but it's not filmed for television. I've only read a few, but I can tell at least my musician friends that they must read Best Gig Ever, and then the Band Response. I also loved No Pants 2002 and the MP3 Experiment. Both made me very happy to live in a world where such things happen. Thanks to Agent Roberts for the link.

Being the artsy little fucker I am, I had to go down to the city to see Christo's Gates in Central Park. I knew it would be crowded and crazy and it was. It was also strange and beautiful and festive. I created an Ofoto album, my first one. These were all taken with my fairly crappy little camera, but they give you an idea of what it was like.

Also included: bonus koi footage!

So I heard something, but it was not at all what I expected - not even in the imagined realm of possible scenarios. I am not allowed to talk about it. Suffice it to say, I may not be moving after all. I feel like I've been knifed in the heart. Or kicked in the stomach. Or bludgeoned, in general. Not much more to say. I will know more next week but wheels are turning well out of my control, making the arrow point towards "no move for you." It'll be a miracle if I can move to NYC now, with the job I was offered.

Apparently, Superman is a total dick. Check out some of these old DC comics covers.

Most of these are also exceedingly strange. One of my favorites:

It's now been more than two weeks and I still haven't heard about the job thing.
I did a major clean yesterday, and during it I sorted through some old college papers, including a folder of contacts and cover letters and job leads all relating to getting a job at a museum or a gallery in New York. I never got one, obviously; there just weren't any openings, and I couldn't afford to work for free as an intern, so. And here I am 11 years later, working for the man in a field that's not art-related at all. Pretty damn depressing. My relocation momentum is slowing way down. Maybe I shouldn't move at all. Maybe I should try getting a full nights' sleep again, somehow.

No, I still haven't heard anything. Sigh. There's an office clean-up afternoon scheduled today, and when I heard about it a week and a half ago, I thought, "Great! That'll be a great time to get rid of a lot of the free junk I've accumulated over the last nine years, in anticipation of my leaving the office." But no. I mean I can still do that, but it won't have the same triumphant feeling. Plus I have a headache from not sleeping. (The past few nights, I stay up until 12:30, at which point I am very sleepy, then I get into bed and my brain starts whirring, and I can't fall asleep for an hour or more.)

I was in NYC visiting the sister and the baby for most of the past week (well, four nights; Sat-Weds.). I had been hoping to also look for apartments while I was there, but since I HAVEN'T HEARD YET, I couldn't. There was another reason for my visit, though, a reason I didn't tell anyone here, because I figured you wouldn't understand. But I feel compelled to tell you now.

I went to a fan convention for The Amazing Race.

TAR, being the most entertaining and least-loathesome reality show out there, is one of the three shows I try to catch on a weekly basis (and unlike with Lost and Arrested Development, I usually succeed). Television Without Pity (see links at right) recaps the episodes, and also organizes a mass viewing of the final episode; somehow the website is popular enough that they convince the Amazing Race contestants to show up. This particular event was known as TARcon6 (for the sixth season of the show) and was held at Play by Play, the sports bar inside Madison Square Garden. My sister and I went, and even though we came a little late we lucked out and managed to score some seats at a primo table with a friendly trio of ladies (two middle-aged, one teenager). The place was packed with about 350 people.

Watching the show was quite fun, with everyone booing the more hated players and cheering the more beloved ones. Most of the people there looked like they could easily have been friends of mine - for the most part, I didn't get any creepy uber-nerd vibes from anyone. It helps, I think, that TWoP is very snarky and cynical. However, there was a stout gentleman who kept standing in front of us and heckling the people on the television, then turning around to see our reactions. Some of the crap he was yelling (at the people inside the TV) was over the line and too angry, like "Just shut the hell up, bitch!" I made a point of not making eye contact with him, though I did let him high-five me once.

After the first hour of the two-hour finale, I noticed some hubbub nearby, and realized that Charla, the little person from one of the teams last season, was about ten feet away. "Look! It's CHARLA!" I said to my sister. There was no hesitation on my part - I WOULD get a photo with her. Years of working my very particular media job have made me quite comfortable at being pushy enough to get my photo taken with various semi-well-known strangers. I got a nice one of me crouching next to Charla, who was very nice. (I also got one of me and my sister with Charla, but my sister is blushing a lot, and she'd hate me if I posted it).



(You, dear reader, likely have no clue who I am talking about. This is why I didn't tell anyone about this before. Feel free to stop reading, as it only gets worse.)

Near the end of the show, the final detour challenge the players had to do was to finish a smallish-size deep-dish pizza. Which was very lame. "Aw, COME ON!!" shouted the stout fellow. "This is BULLSHIT!!" A couple who were not the crowd favorites won the million bucks. It was sort of a let-down.

After the show was over, we hung around waiting for more racers to show up. My sister was a bit unsure about approaching them but I was all gung-ho about it, instigating all the photo ops. We left our seats and went to the entrance area, where a roped-off recieving line had been set up. The racers would walk past the line and then enter the bar and hang out for a while, talking, taking photos, and drinking. For fans who had the time and the right questions to ask, they could get some behind-the-scenes dirt on the show. We were not those fans.

The first people we saw were Chip and Kim, the much-loved winners from last season. I grabbed Chip and got someone to take his photo with us. I said, "I was rooting for you guys! I actually cried when you won!" (This is true.) "Aw, that's so nice! Thanks for your support!" he said.



Like most of the racers we encountered, he seemed to be having a total blast. After all, these people are just normal people who happened to be on a TV game show for a little while, and we're all treating them like they're big stars. The whole thing was absurd and hilarious, yet I couldn't stop taking pictures. I took photos of most of the racers who showed up: Lena and Christy, the girls from Queens whose names I can't remember, and:

Aaron and Hayden:



MaryJean and Don:



Hera and Gus:



The bad, bad Jonathan and Victoria. When they came, most people ignored them.



But the show's recap writer, Miss Alli, really got into it with Jonathan. I couldn't hear what she was saying, but he was not happy:



Adam and Rebecca:



... and finally, me and my sister with the very attractive Kris and Jon. Her boobs were blindingly perfect, and she was sweet as the dickens.:



We had a great time, it was all very surreal and fun. We really didn't know exactly what to expect, but it was as great and as weird a time as I had allowed myself to hope it would be. Hooray!

Well, not that any of you cared (you know, WHATEVER), but here are the answers to my Disney word list below (1/31 post). After I posted my list, and made up four words, I decided to see if anyone else had come up with the same ridiculous (ridicutacular?) words I did. Here are the results.

Magication: The first google hit doesn't count as it is for a humor piece, a made-up interview with the makers of Clutch Cargo. But then you find that Magication writes how-to books for magicians.



You can also go to magication.com in order to get "magicated." I'm at work, so I declined.

Playtorium: My favorite hit is this story about this casino/restaurant/bowling alley in Kentucky, which eventually crumbled under mob pressure (though apparently the bowling alley is still open).

There are several Playtoriums attached to public libraries and the like. This article, about an elementary school (also in Kentucky) turning 150 years old, says the building's playtorium "is like a gym without spectator space." It was built, and I presume named, in the 1980s. Figures.

Wonderquarium: No matches! I thought for sure this one would get lots. New England Aquarium, call me - I have a genius concept for you.

Teenspiration: There's a Christian youth group based in California by this name, at www.teenspiration.com no less, but I can't access it for some reason. Instead, you can find teenspiration at ezeeDiabetes. And I quote: Hey Teenager!! ...get on over to Teen Central: Real Teenspiration is right >here.< (Sadly, the linked page doesn't appear to contain the word "teenspiration," though it does provide lots of inspiration for diabetic teenagers.)

I also came up with Animazement, but did a search before I posted and found it's the name of a big anime con. And after that happened, I thought I'd be better off not searching...

I met a new guy last night. His name is Miles.


He was tiny, and kind of orange, and didn't talk to me at all - how rude! He is only three days old, though, so. I had forgotten how weird newborns are: So small, eyes usually closed or rolling around all uncontrollably, little squeaky noises of complaint, skinny chicken legs, easy to fold into a compact swaddle sausage. Miles has a nice head of straight hair on him. Dad Max said I could brag on my blog that I was the first of our friends to meet him, so here I am. (His parents haven't even met the baby yet, because his mom has a cold! That must be KILLING her. I think my mother would have exploded if that had happened to her.) Mom Anya says Max is the best dad ever, which I do not doubt. They both seem tired and a little bit put-upon with having to deal with the anti-jaundice electric light machine and supplemental feedings, but they are very happy. And cute! They are a cute little family now. And did I remember my camera? No I did not. Max and Anya had given me a big grocery list over the phone before I came, so I went to Stop and Shop and got important supplies like trash bags, cans of soup, and 12 Stonyfield Farm yogurt smoothies (effectively cleaning out the store). That was my mission, which made my tiny single-tasking brain forget my camera. So. Pictures will be taken next time.

I wrote this for a message board to which I sometimes post:

Seven most common dreams:

- I finally consummate a previously-unrequited crush I have [not the same person every time, of course], and it is glorious. This dream is especially sad to wake up from.
- I am in a massive, multi-stall public restroom that's completely disgusting, and am trying to find a stall with a toilet I can use without getting shit or blood on myself.
- If I concentrate really hard and use my muscles in just the right way, I can fly.
- I have a baby. Where did I get it? Something's wrong with the baby; it is extremely tiny, or moves strangely. I feel helpless and overwhelmed.
- I am still in college, where it is really quite embarrassing for me to still be there for so many years. I am also not spending enough time in my allocated studio space on campus. I am alienated and edged out, belonging nowhere.
- I am on an adventure, hiding from bad guys and running through strange buildings and it's all very exciting and fun.
- Some criminal types kidnap me or try to rob me, and I end up befriending them with my kindness and wit.

Hello. Here is a nice photo of me on New Year's Eve, early in the evening when some little kids asked me to dance at the Center for the Arts.

I still haven't heard any details from the Powers That Be about my new job. I am picturing a lot of pounding on the table: "I need debl! You must give her the money she's asking for!"
"But we don't have it in the budget! We'll have to fire the janitor to make up the loss!"
"Then do it - I'll take the trash out myself, if that's what it takes! I must have debl working for me!!"

In reality it's probably more like "She's asking for, like, a 50% raise, which is just ridiculous... Let's find a way to break this to her gently, okay?"

And, somewhat unrelated and in a stolen-from-McSweeney's format, I give you:

A LIST OF DISNEY-INVENTED WORDS ALONG WITH FOUR I JUST MADE UP

1. Illuminations
2. Buffeteria
3. Philharmagic
4. Magication
5. Funtertainment
6. Panoramagique
7. Imagineer
8. Playtorium
9. Skytacular
10. Streetmosphere
11. Wonderquarium
12. Fantasmic
13. Teenspiration
14. Dreamflight
15. Innoventions


Answers later. Any guesses as to which ones I made up?