OutrageousChaos

Pillbugs and French Toast.

2011-04-23T12:30:00.004-04:00

It's a cold and rainy day. Dreary, even. There's a cold North wind, and this morning when I escaped from a night of haunting dreams, I heard the rat-a-tat of hail against the windowpane. Tiny, like the size of a grain of quinoa. Because in Vermont, that is a valid size reference.

I made myself a giant mug of thick and dark coffee. Sank my head into it, but it didn't help. Even 20 oz of caffeine can't jump-start me today. I decided that every Saturday that I'm home, I will make myself a new and exciting breakfast sandwich. Today's was a Monte Christo.

It was awesome.

I've spent the last week resting, recovering, breathing evenly and with purpose. Knitting. Cleaning. Receiving the love of my friends. But tomorrow, my staycation ends. I go to Boston. From Boston, I go to Virginia. And from Virginia, I come home to start a new job.

My first and second grade teacher was Mrs. Robinson. In general, I found her to be a shrieking harpy of a woman. She'd hug you one minute and then scream in your face the next, with no apparent motivation for either action. Our classroom had huge, vaulted cathedral ceilings, and at the roof she had made a calendar which listed the months in order. Just a line of them. January-August was on the North wall, and Sept-December was on the West wall. To this day, when I think about new beginnings, I think of that calendar: come December, you'd have to twirl around to see January again. There are breaks in time which feel physical. Chapters. Episodes. And at the risk of sounding (totally uncharacteristically, of course...) overly dramatic, I feel like this chapter is ending. New job. New scars. New strength. New center.

All of this is to say: despite my obscenely large mug of coffee, despite my awesome sandwiches, despite the fact that I need to finish packing, and make sure my furry roommate has enough kibble to last her a week, today I just want to curl up like a pillbug. Listen to Joe Meek (see below...). Complete my chrysalis stage. My wings aren't quite strong enough yet.

Why Easter Matters (the gospel according to Boots)

2011-04-22T14:11:00.007-04:00

My parents and older sister moved to my hometown when my sister was 8. The elementary school we both attended was tiny -- two classes per teacher per classroom. The total population of the school at any time was between 80 and 100 kids. There was one bus which would go on two runs a day: one to the south end of the island, and one to the north end of the island. Every Wednesday, the bus would drop half the bus at the Catholic church for catechism, and half at the Methodist church for bible school. My poor little 8 year-old sister would sit on a near-empty bus, with the Porters, who were the only Jewish family in town.

After a few months of this, my sister arrived home and announced to my parents that they needed to choose a church. She wasn't sitting on an empty bus, her outsider status on display for all. My father was raised Catholic, and had been divorced before he met my mother. My mother had a child out of wedlock. With a Jewish man. For these, and many more reasons, the Catholic church was not an option.

So they became Methodists. Methodism is fairly lax as far as dogma goes. Methodists take Psalm 98 literally: Make a joyful noise unto the Lord. In Methodism, that means singing. A lot of singing. I grew up singing loudly every Sunday. Say what you will about Christianity, or religion in general, but for the last 2000 years, some of the most gorgeous music created was in worship. Hymns are just plain pretty. I learned to sight-read music from hymnals, I sang in the choir. I liked the Old Testament stories, and recognized them for the archetype they are: explanations of human nature thinly veiled in magic, mystery and an over-arching plan. I never believed in a big old Judgey God, but I did (and do) believe in a something. To quote Hamlet: "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio/Than are dreamt of in your philosophy."

Christmas, for me, has always been a pain. It's always stressed me out. But Easter, I have always had and continue to have, a special place in my heart for Easter. It's not the Christan "He has risen!" sort of place. It's the part of me which always has, and always will, believe in magic. Those other things in heaven and earth. The things which our philosophies can't explain. To me, that's the mystery of being human, of being intensely aware of the mystery of the world.

It's not an original concept. In Egyptian mythology, Osiris was killed by his evil brother Set, who cut him into pieces and scattered them into the Nile. Osiris's wife, Isis, gathered the pieces and used her magic to resurrect him just long enough to conceive her son, Horus. So we have resurrection and virgin birth thanks to the Egyptians. Buddhism, too, obviously has plenty of resurrection/reincarnation aspects, as well. And there are plenty of correlations between the life of Siddhartha and Jesus. Which is to say, these stories are part of our human story. They are stories of our human need for archetypal need to fight against the dying of the light. Because the idea of death is what drives people to live.

After surviving a long Vermont winter, one needs to celebrate life. Badly. So badly, that my mother (and the mom in that sole Jewish family) created Chicken Day. Because, you know, we might have gone to church every week, but we Moo-Doos were never really one for dogma. But even Chicken Day didn't do for me what Easter did. First of all, Easter baskets are awesome. I love finding things, I love seeking things. I would hoard my Easter candy until well into the summer, parceling myself a tiny bit at a time. I'd nibble the ears off my chocolate bunny slowly, slowly.

But there's something else to Easter for me. New beginnings. Evolution. Rebirth, renewal. Everything spring represents, but with the addition of magic. A magical beginning. The chance to become something more then you've been -- the chance to reinvent the very fiber of your being. Crocuses, daffodils. Bunnies, chicks. And the songs. Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee is a favorite of this agnostic.

"Hearts unfold like flowers before thee,
opening to the sun above.
Melt the clouds of sin and sadness;
drive the dark of doubt away.
Giver of immortal gladness,
fill us with the light of day!"

Say what you will about the belief in God, but as far as I'm concerned that's some damn fine songwriting.

My mother grew up in Philadelphia, where the Easter parade was a Very Big Deal. She'd get a new hat and dress every year, and would walk in the parade. So every year, we'd get dressed up all pretty-like for Easter. But we weren't terribly flushed, so our Easter outfits were considerably less impressive. Still: Easter bonnets. They were the Ben Franklin craft bonnets, which we'd decorate ourselves. But they made me feel pretty.

Check out the shoes.

And then our family Easter traditions. We'd watch Easter Parade every year, while wearing our bonnets. My older sister would sing along to every song, and I'd yell at her. We'd eat deviled eggs, made from the eggs we'd dyed. My mother would make a lamb, which grossed the future vegetarian in me out. I'd refuse to eat it every year. And my mom would serve it with mint jelly, which also struck me as disgusting. But even the disgusting parts were comforting. It meant spring. It meant mud pies and it meant the creek that ran through my front lawn would flood. It meant I'd make dams of dirt and mud and leaves until my fingers became numb from the icy water. I'd put on my rubber boots (we here in Vermont refer to them as "shit-kickers") and trek into the woods to find wild Irises. No one knew how they got there; I found them on a spring adventure one year, and had to drag my father out to the middle of the woods to prove that they were there. It meant lake-swimming, creemees, sunburns and lightning bugs were around the corner. In short: Easter meant that everything wonderful was beginning again.

That said, my mother was never one to take these things too seriously."Eat eggs...and like that." Because magic and humor go hand-in-hand, the way I was raised.

A Woman of Absolutes

2011-04-14T09:41:00.005-04:00

I've reached a conclusion over the course of the last year. A drum which, now that I've discovered it, I find difficult to stop banging. I am a woman of absolutes.

I like rules. I rarely feel comfortable without firmly defined roles and situations. Grey areas strike fear into my gut. Sometimes literally. I like things the way I like things, and I do not like things I do not like. To be fair, I am apathetic about things I haven't experienced. I either like something, hate it, or simply haven't formed a decision yet. I've realized I've always been this way, even as a wee me. It's just part of my logic board.

Whilst discussing high school with Shots, my faux-braux, I remembered something. I came to terms with this Woman of Absolutes thing within the last year, but it was obviously evident to others in high school.

There were around 250 kids in my graduating class. There were around 15 superlatives handed out. I got two. I guess I was secretly popular in high school. Must have been that pair of pleather pants I got in Germany and wore to class in senior year.

I was voted Class Actor. Which was funny, because I was only in three productions. I chalked it up to my riveting portrayal of a very drunk Dorothy Parker in AP English. My teacher singled me out, said "Do what Brooke just did." I had not prepared a speech, I just swilled ginger ale in a flapper dress, called the kid who was presenting Ernest Hemingway an anti-Semitic bastard (When he arrived to a party in Paris, he had asked where "that fat little kyke" was, because Parker was horrified at the brutality of bull fighting. Parker later threw a typewriter off an ocean liner at him, aiming for his head). I called the girl presenting Zelda Fitzgerald a "neurotic loon." She almost cried. I screamed "And YOU, Scott! Remember that time we fucked? Sure, you don't. But I DO." I did, however, speak kindly and affectionately to the guy presenting Falkner. He was always kind to Dottie, and she had taken him under her wing and introduced him to writerly-types. Basically, I swore extensively, accused fellow students of all kinds of debauchery, and swayed extensively. It was quite the sensation.

But the gravy was the other superlative I got. The one I actively campaigned for. I wheeled, I dealed. I promised Fitri Sudrajat, my Indonesian exchange-student friend who taught me to insult and swear in Indonesian (I can still say "You are a monkey-face,") that I would convince 10 people to vote her "Best Smile" if she got 10 people to vote me "Class Extremist." This was brilliant, because Fitri DOES have a great smile, and people with great smiles tend to be good at convincing other people of things.

My campaigning was successful. In all honestly, I wanted that title so badly because I was a sometimes goth-punk kid who hung out in the stairwell by the auditorium with the goth gay kids. I wanted it to Stick it to the Man. It was definitely the strangest superlative, and one no one really understood. I felt strange and misunderstood. Most kids in high school do, but I wanted to celebrate this truth. And I was successful.

I think those are two of the most flattering pictures ever taken of me. You can take the girl out of high school, but you can't take the extremist out of the girl.

The superficial things which bring me joy: part the first

2011-04-12T10:35:00.003-04:00

I am a superstitious person. I always have been: as a little kid, my parents would fight most of the time and constant bullying in school left me a nervous and scared tiny person with very little stability in her world. So I created my own false sense of stability.

There's a county highway department garage across the woods from my mom's house. It's where the county's snowplow are housed, along with three hangers full of road salt. My sister, her friends and I once broke into the garage at sunset, stood in front of the hangers (which are left open) and screamed at the top of our lungs. Deep screams from the pits of our beings. Angry, lizard-brain screams. Hundreds of pigeons flew out, like a bat cave. I was terrified and enthralled and intoxicated with power.

The garage was across the woods from my house; maybe 1000 feet or so away. When I was four or so, I remember staring out the window toward that garage and seeing the single street light that illuminated the parking lot through the trees. It is still the only street light on my mother's street, which had a total of four houses on the 1/2 mile stretch of road back then. But when I was 4, somehow I decided it was Tinkerbell's light from Neverland, and as long as I could see it, she was OK and all was right in Neverland. Captain Hook was being kept at bay, and that damned terrifying Tick Tock was not eating any Lost Boys. This was a great comfort to me, and I'd check every night before I went to sleep. Secretly. I'd wait till my dad came in to give me a "mummy-tuck." He'd tuck me in by gently shoving the blankets beneath me, so tightly that I'd lie with my arms at my sides, unable to move. I would wait until he had kissed my forehead and recited my nightly poem ("Good night/sleep tight/don't let the bed bugs bite. And wake up bright/in the morning light/to do what's right/with all your might/and so goodnight!") and had retreated, having left the door open a crack to keep the monsters at bay. Also, as I later learned, to let some of the heat into my room from the wood stove in the livingroom, our main source of heat when I was small and we were what my mother liked to call "upper-lower class." I'd wiggle out of my mummy-tuck carefully, as not to destroy the cocoon, check Tinkerbell, and wiggle back, content that all was right with the world.

I was 12 the time I saw a castle in the clouds. It was the damnest thing: the whole horizon was filled with clouds that were completely squared-off like the battlements of a castle. I'm not talking a couple one-off clouds, it was the whole sky. I remember staring at it slack-jawed and thinking "This...this is VERY good luck." That day was great but the next was horrible. Something bad happened at school, but I don't remember what it was. I do remember, at the end of the second day thinking "That castle in the clouds held off the bad for at least one day..."

To this day, when an eyelash falls out, I wish on it. But I have to be very careful it's not an eyebrow hair, because I decided long ago that wishing on an eyebrow hair will bring you the opposite of what you wish for. Shooting stars are wishable: during the Perseids this year, I went to Huntington to watch them in Randy and Rob's backyard. We counted 27 before 12:30 when I decided the 45 minute drive home had to be attacked. On the way home I saw a brown bear (in the road! It reluctantly sauntered out of the road for my car...) and a fox. That is good luck.

Rainbows are good luck. Seeing birds of prey is good luck. Dolphins are VERY good luck. When Serita came to visit me last summer from New York, during a time of change and flux, I took her to my favorite hidey-hole by the lake. You have to scale a tiny cliff to get to it, but then you're hidden from the trail. We were sitting in my hidey-hole, smoking cigarette after cigarette, trying to fix ourselves when an otter scurried up a sheer cliff with a wiggling fish in its mouth. For 30 of my 31 years, I've lived within 1/2 mile of Lake Champlain, and this was my first otter-sighting. Serita and I both decided it was terribly good luck.

When I'm driving, if I make it though a yellow light, I gently brush the roof of the car. When I see a car with a headlight out, I smack the roof of the car, and if there is anyone in the car with me, I scream "pididdle." If I am alone, I just think it.

My mother believes that an itchy nose means you're going to get into a fight, and itchy palms mean you're going to come into money. This comes from her mother, which comes from her Irish and somewhat-crazy mother. So, my great-grandmother. At one time, she was institutionalized for "spells," and my mother has suspected she was bipolar.

When I lived in New York, I decided a rat on the subway tracks meant the train was going to come faster. I suppose logically, this was flawed: rats would feel the vibrations and run. I mean, they're RATS. They know what's up. But every time I found myself in a subway station late at night, somewhat drunk, somewhat concerned for my safety and well being, waiting a half hour for that FUCKING GODDAMNED G TRAIN to come, I'd scan the tracks hopefully and a special sense of delight would strike me when I saw the frenetic scurry of a rat. Of course, I had to alter that belief when I got on the platform one evening and saw (no lie) 5 rats feasting on an overturned garbage can 20 feet away from me at the end of the platform. I almost vomited (see: somewhat drunk most of the time) and moved to the opposite end of the platform. That night, I decided rats on the tracks equal good luck, but rats on the platform equal VERY BAD LUCK. To this day when I'm in New York, I search the tracks for my little filthy omens.

But I have totems of good luck, too. These are the objects that I treasure with a somewhat unhealthy level of love, objects that I firmly believe will bring me peace and food fortune. I've been trying to document them on my Instamatic account, but today's is extra special.

This is my mother's belt. Hand-tooled and hand-painted, I poached it from her closet in high school (with her permission). I have no idea how old it is; drugs and booze have eliminated my mother's ability to remember details like that. She frequently says "If you remember the 60s, you did them wrong." My guess is late 60s or early 70s. My sister was born in '72, and I feel this belt came first.

It's cut down, and I can't remember if that's something I had done or if it came to me that way. I seem to think I had it done, and I seem to think I was warned it might be a bad idea by the leathersmith. "You can't undo this," I seem to think he said. That could have been another belt; I have a firm memory of a leathersmith warning me about the dangers of rash belt-cutting decisions at some point. But the decision to alter an object onto which I had imbued so much magical belief seems radically impulsive, even for me. In its shortened state, it barely fits my hips on the second hole, and the pointy nubbin of belt that is left isn't long enough to slip through the buckle properly. But I still wear it. I feel it protects me. I feel its age creates a protective force field, a barrier against the world. This belt has seen some TIMES. Sometimes I feel that it whispers to me: "This -- all of this -- is temporary."

It's also entirely possible my mother had it cut down. In the 70s, she was addicted to diet pills. Calling them "diet pills" seems like a euphemism: they were speed. She is my height (she claims to be an inch taller, but that has never been true) and looked much like I did when I lost 20 lbs two summers ago in a not-healthy time. Skeletal. Gaunt. But my mother was and is a stunningly beautiful woman, so she just looked like a model. When she would go out on the town with her friends, my godfather would tell men in bars she was a Playboy bunny so they'd buy her drinks. It worked. I just looked terrifying, and eventually got tired of hearing how bad I looked.

This belt knew my mother's waist, and now it knows mine. When stretched flat, it arches ever-so-slightly into a subtle curve from being stretched against both our hips. The surface of the leather is crinkled, but not cracked, an effect which somewhat resembles the Shabby Chic paint-treatment they feature on the DIY channel. Desperate housewives putting a lot of time, effort and money into making something look like it's been abused and neglected. But my belt is wrinkled with age, but not from abuse. This belt has been loved, and today I wear it to both hold my drawers up (because the handsome President says to [see below]) and to hold me up. Upright, proud and true. It's a ring for my hips; it's my inheritance.

MTV Shows

I'm only happy when it rains.

2011-04-11T17:14:00.004-04:00

I love the rain. I always have.

I love the fat droplets that fall to the sidewalk like grenades, impacting with a visible splash. I love summer rain that breaks through the cloud of heat and haze. I love the lashing rain, when it rains so hard that it looks like it's falling in ribbons. I love staring into the sky when it rains. It makes the rain look like the view from the Millenium Falcon whilst hyper-jumping. I love when it rains so steadily that a river flows down my street in neatly scalloped scales. I love puddles, leaping into and over them. I love the air when it rains. I once heard that right before an electrical storm, the air is ionized and has more oxygen in it. That melted electrical storms and rain in my mind, and I still think the air feels easier to breathe when it's raining. I love it when it rains so fast and hard that you take cover with other strangers, and point with your thumb out at the deluge and say "Nice weather, ain't it?" out of the corner of your mouth. I love that feeling of "Well, this sucks, but we -- the people under this awning -- are experiencing the same suck at the same time." Commiseration is a powerful comfort.

There's a story, and I can't recall if I've written it here, that my mother tells. I'm unclear as to whether this happened when my mom was a child, or near the end of my grandmother's life when my mom was 26. I don't think it matters much either way.

My mother and grandmother were in a Natural History museum. I don't know if it was Philadelphia or New York, but they were walking along, and there was a display of Native American royalty. In wax, I think. They were walking down the line nonchalantly, when my grandmother stopped dead in front of a princess.
"That was me. Before this. That was me in my last life." The princess's name was She Who Walks in the Rain.

I never got to meet my grandmother, but she's an endless source of strength and love for me. My mother is a very vivid and emotional storyteller. I think she and I would have had a lot to talk about. We are both floaters and we are She Who Walks in the Rain.

Jenga.

2011-04-11T13:34:00.006-04:00

I get nervous when things end. Even bad things. As a New Englander, the devil I know is better then a strange new world. As the daughter of both an Irish-Catholic, and a fake Jew, I know better then to rock the boat, even when the boat is leaky and taking me down with it. There's a line in Fiddler on the Roof: "If you spit in the air, it will land in your face." Similarly, my mother's step-father used to say "Don't let a bird poop in your eye." Course, I've always rebelled against that. In my little quote book that I've kept since I was 12, I have a quote from Da Vinci: "When once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return." And one by Oscar Wilde: "We are all of us living in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars." Which is to say, I am mixed up a lot of the time. Trying to turn my eyes skyward without a bird pooping in my eye while sitting in my gutter, searching for the stars.

But I've been experiencing a jen-u-eyene bouleversement lately. Relationship/heartbreak-trauma with little hope of any satisfactory resolution, two jobs ending within a week of each other (only one of which is voluntarily, the other due to budget cuts), one new job (phew!) which, while exciting and awesome, will barely cover my financial bases until October when it goes full-time. Big, epic travel plans, spanning two weeks and four cities. One -- maybe two -- of those things would normally strike fear into the depths of my soul; all of them at once leave me dizzy and confused. The way I feel after getting off a spinney carnival ride: disconnected from the earth and slightly nauseous.

I intimidate myself on a regular basis. My whole life has been a lesson in being passive until pushed to the limit of my capacity to deal, and then I lash out in an attempt to defend myself. To keep myself safe. I've been very not-safe before, physically and emotionally, and the survival instinct is strong in me as a result. Some of the time this is to my benefit. Most of the time, it's to my detriment. But there's plenty of things I don't love about myself; the ability to fight back when I perceive myself backed into a corner, unable to breathe, suffocating and drowning, isn't one I can hate that much. I know it's cost me a lot, but, to quote my friend Melanie: "Do what you can do until you find you can do a little more."

I need to stop taking whatever I can get. I need to stop acting like that's all I'm worth. But it's hard to envision a world you've never known; it's hard to imagine feeling safe and loved when feeling panicked and lonely is the norm.

Sometimes, I just wish I were normal. Boring. Stable. I wish I were an accountant (wait, I sort-of am...I should say a content accountant) who married an insurance salesman and had three children with perfectly ordinary names. Names that come on pencils and erasers. Names that come on bike plates. But I don't even know how to begin to imagine actually living in that world of normality. I'm a game of Jenga, played on a roller coaster, not a game of Scrabble played on the kitchen table. It's time to accept that.

Crayons are a girl's best friend.

2011-04-01T13:34:00.005-04:00

I have never trusted April Fool's Day. Don't get me wrong - I love jokes. All kind of jokes. I am a particular fan of "That's What She Said" jokes; my humor cannot be described as particularly sophisticated. So, theoretically, I should love practical jokes. I do not.

Harmless pranks: fine. Great, even. Somewhere, my manager acquired a Halloween decoration of a witch riding an ear of corn. Predictably, the ear of corn looks more then a bit phallic. There has been an on-going battle of wills for years between my manager and my co-workers. The doll has been hidden in his house when we were there for a retreat; he retaliated by hanging it by fishing line 20 feet above my co-worker's desk. Back and forth, when you least expect it: there is the witch riding a dick. See? Harmless. No one is left feeling humiliated or disappointed.

Maybe my resistance to prank comes from years of being bullied to the point of tears on a daily basis, maybe it comes from the knowledge that there are SO many funny things in this world (Platypus! Goats that climb on top of shit! 30 Rock!) that I don't see the justification in making one person feel embarrassed for the purpose of amusing their peers. Use your words. Tell a joke.

I was four years-old the first time I learned that April Fool's Day is a day to tread upon lightly. My older sister was 12. When I sat down to breakfast that morning, there was a box of crayons sitting at my place at the table. A NEW box of crayons. We were solidly in the upper-lower-class to lower-middle-class income bracket at this point, so I NEVER got exciting luxuries like new, sharp crayons. My coloring books were full of carefully avoided edges, knowing that I could only make it into those tight nooks and corners with a sharpened crayon. I had tried using a crayon sharpener, but as anyone who has been a 4 year-old is aware, crayon sharpeners are bullshit. They just eat up your crayon and do absolutely nothing to get you into those nooks and corners in your coloring book.

I was obviously delighted with finding crayons for breakfast.

"Who is it from?" I asked.

"It's from me!" My sister gleefully replied. This seemed very suspicious.

"Why do I get a present?" I asked.

"Just because!" She was practically jumping out of her skin at this point. Vibrating. But, never one to look a gift box of crayons in the mouth, I decided to bank on the random acts of kindness that can sometimes be discovered in this crazy mixed-up world.

"Thank you SO much!" I cried, with genuine gratitude and joy in my tiny voice. My sister looked torn. She is not a cruel person. But April Fool's Day is nothing more then a free pass to psychologically torture siblings. She smiled kindly.

"You should open the box."

"Well, I don't want them to get broken," I said. I've always been very good at hoarding candy and treats. Best to save them for when I emotionally need them, rather then just use them because they're there. I had a plan for these crayons. Nooks. Corners.

"Just open them!" She said, with some urgency. In retrospect, her guilty conscience was betraying her at this point. She knew that the joke was only acceptable on one day of the year. If I opened them tomorrow, she knew she'd be emotionally responsible for my disappointment. But, on April Fool's Day, no one is responsible. It's not the fault of the prankster, it's the fault of the day.

Wanting to make my new benefactress happy, I opened the box. I was expecting to see all the crayons, points upward, in color spectrum order. Neat. Orderly. Perfect and unsullied. What I found was a box of broken chalk. Plain, white chalk. Stubs of chalk.

"This is full of chalk." I said, evenly. I was still naïve. I assumed it must have been a simple mistake, because what monster would play with the emotions of a child this way?

"I KNOW!" My sister leapt from her chair, and began gleefully leaping around the kitchen table. "APRIL FOOL'S DAY!"

Very funny, I thought. But she got this box somewhere. There are 6 sharp crayons somewhere in this house. And I wanted them.

"Where are the crayons?"

"There aren't any!" She said while continuing to Tigger around. "JUST CHALK!"

"Where did the box come from?"

"It's an old box! I found it in the junk drawer."

My lower lip, most frequently the initial chink in my poker face, started wavering. I realized that the emotional roller coaster I had just been put through had been designed and intended to disappoint me. My emotions were toyed with. For the amusement of someone else. Then the tears started. Big, fat, real tears.

"There…there aren't ANY new crayons?" I choked between sobs. My sister had stopped bouncing around.

"Well, I mean…I'm sure there are…at the store." A tsunami of tears broke from my face. A torrent of disappointment, humiliation and betrayal.

I've never trusted April 1st since that day, and plan to regard everyone I see with the suspicious, Judge Judy stare for the remainder of the day.

I emerge from my Platonian cave.

2011-03-31T10:13:00.006-04:00

I don't know where to start. I suppose I should take a cue from those loveable Von Trapps. "Let's start at the very beginning/A very good place to start."

...but I've never been one to listen to the advice of nuns. (sidenote: The Herrmann's, our Austrian circus/Lipizzaner family-friends, claim Maria was a MONSTER. Like, awful. Mommy Dearest style...)

My sister and her family (and my mom) are going on a trip to DC this weekend. I have funny DC memories. I've always had oddly clear memories from a very early age, visual and emotional. I remember what my eyes saw and the way that made me feel. I've been told from a developmental standpoint that suggests very early language development, but I don't think I started talking particularly early. I do, however, remember the moment I spoke.

So we go to DC. I'm around 3, although I've never been able to get a firm age from my parents. That's what having stoner parents does for you, I suppose. Details like age are lost in the ether, and I'm left doing the math based on the years Kodak printed on the back of pictures.

I don't remember things chronologically. But in no particular order:

We walked through the cherry trees, which were in bloom. My older sister (at that point, my only sister) was skipping through them, proclaiming how BEAUTIFUL and MAGICAL the blossoms were. I clearly remember thinking "Well, she's being awfully dramatic about this." Not in those words. Just that emotion.
We went to Monticello. I don't know why, but I remember peacocks there. I can't find any evidence of peacocks at Monticello, so perhaps that memory is filed wrong, but my whole family remembers the experience the same way. Never-the-less, whilst standing in front of a male peacock, (which are GIANT birds to a 3 year-old) he suddenly unfurled his tail in front of me. I was in awe. It was a wall of beauty from a bird who simply blinked at me as if saying "Ain't no thing, little girl." I also remember chasing peacocks, which I was yelled at for. I just wanted to hug them! Dumb peacocks, playing hard to get.
We went to the White House. I think I had a picture book about Ling Ling and Hsing Hsing, the pandas that China gave to the US as a show of Cold War good will. The president (Nixon) accepted them, which to my mind made them pets of the White House. So I fully anticipated a dog house on the South Lawn with two pandas rolling around, just waiting for 3 year-old Brooke to arrive to roll around and play with them. My disappointment at finding no pandas was soul-crushing.

Strike one, Reagan.
I also assumed we would meet the President on the tour. Initially, I expected that we'd go to his house, knock on the front door, and I'd ask to play with the pandas while my parents were invited in for a tour. We did not knock on the front door. The president did not answer the door. There were no pandas. Ok, thinks me. Well, they'll end with the president then. I mean, we're in his house. We're his guests. Why wouldn't he just take a minute to say hi? If someone comes to my house and I hide in my room and don't come downstairs to say hello, I am being rude. The president wouldn't be RUDE, would he?

Strike two, Reagan.
We went to Busch Gardens on the trip. This was exciting because I could not yet swim, but they had a BALL POOL there. Imagine! A pool you can't drown in! A pool that doesn't involve putting your face in the water, which I found VERY SCARY at that point. I had seen the ball pool on commercials, and I knew it would be the highlight of the trip for me. Especially given the White House debacle. When we got to Busch Gardens, we had to stand in line. And there were two nuns in full habits in front of us in line. "Well. That's odd. It'll be funny to see the nuns in the ball pool." See, I just assumed that's what EVERYONE was going for. Not roller coasters; BALL POOL. When we eventually made our way to the ball pool (it took FOREVER) I joyously flew down the slide, expecting to be cushioned by a pillow of balls (TWSS), which I could throw in the air. I would swim across that ball pool like Scrooge McDuck in his money pit. And when I hit the balls...it was not what I expected. First of all, it was 3 feet deep. I expected the ball pool to be over my head. I expected to be buoyed and supported. In actuality, I was just sitting in pit slightly larger then a sandbox with hard balls in it. Yawn. I demanded cotton candy to sooth my wounded soul and called it a day.

All-in-all, the trip taught me to not have expectations. Of anything. Ever. I am, and always have been, a dreamer. I'd get yelled at in elementary school for staring out the window and day dreaming instead of listening to the teacher, which taught me to day dream and listen at the same time. That way, when I got yelled at, I could just repeat what she had said most recently word for word, thus making an authority figure look foolish. I learned that the world doesn't live up to the expectations I create for it. I learned to want for nothing, and therefore be endlessly delighted and surprised when the world presents gifts to me.

I still, 30 years later, struggle with this. I study Taoism, and there is a passage which reads "A cup is useful only because of its emptiness." Freeing myself of expectation, I've learned, is the best way to avoid disappointment and pain. In Taoism, you cannot have good without bad. You can't recognize and appreciate joy unless you have experienced pain. You cannot have balance within yourself until you welcome the darkness into yourself with as much enthusiasm as you welcome the light. Because if you only expect happiness, you will be endlessly surprised and disappointed by the sadness which inevitably partners with the happiness. You learn to seek balance, contentment. Not happiness.

My father gave me my first copy of the Tao. When he returned from Vietnam a deeply physically and emotionally wounded 19 year-old, who was initially told he would never walk again, he was given the Tao. I don't remember who gave it to him, I'll have to ask him. But it helped him. There are many passages about war and destruction in the Tao; many passages about letting go. There is a passage about how when a river encounters an obstacle in its path, it learns to flow around the obstacle, and in time, this simple action of non-violence results in the obstacle being worn down. Slowly. Passively. Nearly unintentionally. The Tao is about self-acceptance and being still, without being disconnected.

Buddhism is much more rigid in its teachings, much more about desireless. Taoism isn't a religion, it's a philosophy. In Buddhism, if you don't live a good, honest life according to the teachings of Buddhism, you are reincarnated as a lessor creature. Taoism doesn't have a cause-effect system as a philosophy. It's much more of a "If you're not happy, try this. No worries if you don't, though."

So. I try to be free of expectations. I try to be free of need, of wanting. Of desire. But despite the 30 years of knowing that expectation leads to heart-wrenching disappointment, I still dream. I can't help it. I am hard-wired to drift into revelry.

Hulu tags amuse me.

2010-03-14T22:00:00.013-04:00

I recently discovered that tags in Hulu's movie descriptions can be unintentionally hilarious.

I'm not going to lie to you. I am definitely watching this soon. Stoned. In all seriousness: I don't get how a movie rated R could also be rated XXXX. What the hell IS that, anyway? It's one X worse then XXX. So...shit that's only legal in Japan? Dammit, now I REALLY want to watch this. GOOD WORK, TAGS.

Somehow, I find the spirit behind these tags an ironic counterweight to the subject of the movie. Perhaps had they been able to finish watching the movie, they would have embraced passivity.

It's like reading the ingredients on the back of a package. BOOBS is the first, and therefore most prevalent ingredient. Also: boobs AND cross-dressing? I wanna travel back in time to go to THAT high school.

I am not sure if this movie is about the Left Behind movement, but judging from the tags, it's not worth my time either way.

"Just, you know. Your AVERAGE Culkin. One or the other. Not the blonde one that screamed in that Joe Pesci movie and hung out a bit too much with MJ. The littler one. YOU KNOW. Oh, screw it. We'll just tag it 'Culkin' and call it a day."

In the realms of the unreal...

2010-01-02T20:49:00.001-05:00

I am taking a break from the breathtakingly beautiful "In the Realms of the Unreal." It leads me to think about my own realms of the unreal, the worlds I create that I alone venture into. Falling asleep as a young girl, bored with the prospect of falling asleep and waking up into the same world, I'd imagine myself falling asleep on a pirate ship, rocked to sleep by the waves. I'd imagine myself in a down-filled, 19th century homemade mattress on the prairie. I'd imagine myself covered in furs and velvets, as befitted my imaginary royal self. Once, my father was scolding me, most likely for not picking up my room properly.
"What do you think you are, some kind of princess?" I threw my head back, and with all the regalement I could muster, I said:
"YES."

I suppose this ability to create alternate worlds to live in, like a transparent overlay on top of an existing background, could be considered unhealthy. But because I have, over thirty years of practice, become so adept at maintaining control over my own imaginations, that they never take control of me without my consent. With so many smart people floating around, unaware of the transparencies they throw against their own world, unaware or unwilling to admit the delusions they create and foster are their own, I can't help but feel grateful that I recognize reality in all its glory.

My world is my own. Your world is your own. I can't possibly understand what your eyes see unless you tell me, and you can't hope to fully comprehend where I go when my gaze drifts into daydream unless I trust you enough to share it with you.

Lynn Barber wrote an eloquent and beautiful account of her affair with a much older man in The Observer. I suggest reading the whole piece, it's horrifying and compelling much like a good slasher flick, but relies on the emotional carnage she suffered instead of bloody bodies.

I learned not to trust people; I learned not to believe what they say but to watch what they do; I learned to suspect that anyone and everyone is capable of "living a lie". I came to believe that other people - even when you think you know them well - are ultimately unknowable. Learning all this was a good basis for my subsequent career as an interviewer, but not, I think, for life. It made me too wary, too cautious, too ungiving. I was damaged by my education.

It's a bit odd to turn a decade older the year that we all enter into a new decade. I have entered my 30s as the year turns 2010, and that logically leads to contemplation. Who I have been in the past 10 years as an adult. Who I thought I'd be by now. Where I've failed, and where I've succeeded. The best and worst I can say about myself: I have tried to do right as much as I can, and have tried to admit fault whenever I've felt responsible. I do the best I can, and I keep moving.

It's hard for me to disengage. I feel things passionately, and my gut has never pointed me in the wrong direction. It's hard to not trust that. It's hard to trust other people instead. I suppose, if a new year's resolution is necessary, that it will be to be grateful for the trust I have in people, to observe and recognize it, and those people who inspire it, in the moment I feel it. To appreciate what I have when I have it, with the full knowledge that all people are temporary, that all relationships are ephemeral, and that the only constant and enduring support I have is found within myself. To only spend time or energy on those who make room for me in their lives, who care as much for and about me as I do for them. To not be used as a therapist and wet-nurse for sad-sacks, who forget their convalescence as soon as they are well again. To give joy and love and expect it in return.

November boots

2009-11-21T10:17:00.003-05:00

The clickity-clack
With which my boots
Attack
The bricks beneath my feet
Make me feel powerful.
My feet make noise,
Therefore I am.
And the November winds
Are why my eyes are wet,
Not tears. Never tears.

click. clack.
clickity-clack.

good day, sunshine.

2009-11-10T14:54:00.011-05:00

I got my $30 glasses (frames AND lenses!) from Optical4less.com today! They have not paid me, nor given me any other incentive to tout their praises. Tout! Tout! They're nice and from Hong Kong, and their website has adorable Engrish mistakes. Took about a week and a half to get my new specs. I kind of love them. And before you get all "Hey! Sweat-shop labor! Blah!" I'd remind you that your glasses were likely also made in Hong Kong, but I bought directly and didn't have to pay any middle-men/importers, so there.

If you are like me, you will listen to this podcast about Lord Byron, and immediately fall in love with him. But just in case you are too lazy to listen to a 15 minute, awesome podcast, I'll give you the highlights:

While enrolled in Trinity College at Cambridge, he discovered they didn't allow dogs. He was a life-long animal lover, and he didn't like this dog-business. So he got a tame bear that he kept on campus. No. Really. The college couldn't do anything about it. ZING!
He was a slut. Men, women, whatever came his way. He slept with this one chick, Lady Caroline Lamb, and she got all nutters on him when he dropped her like she was hot. She hosted a bonfire, invited the village maids, where she burned an effigy of His Grace, burned letters and gifts he had given her, and they danced around the fire. Snap. She also would show up to his house unannounced, alone with no chaperon, sometimes disguised as a man, and once attempted to kill herself at his house with a sword before His Grace and a friend of his wrestled it away from her. Oh, and she may have sent him a letter containing her pubic hair. Given that he had this nut-ball on his hands, what did he do? He married her cousin. Of course. ZING. The cousin, Annabella, eventually sought a divorce because she claimed Lord Byron was sleeping with his half-sister.
He once shot an eagle.

If those aren't good reasons to listen, I don't know what is...except that he very nearly won the war for the Greeks against the Turks, and maybe would have been made King of Greece, had he not died of a fever which was likely caused by doctors bleeding him. Lame.

Hannah cut my hair tonight! New hair and new glasses and Lord Byron. Good day.

Nerd.

2009-10-22T06:39:00.006-04:00

Here is what I've been nerdy about lately:

I figured out an article about Egypt was a joke, on the basis of the wall-carving depicted. I had a friend insisting it was archeological fact...that proof of zombies had been discovered. Despite the fact that the entire concept is ridiculous, he was adamant that THIS WAS SCIENCE, and I was able to use my way-slick-Egypt-nerd-skillz to prove him wrong. The Pharaoh in the carving was wearing the crown of Lower Egypt, and the city THE FUCKING ZOMBIE INVASION supposedly happened in was the capital of Upper Egypt. Unification happened there, and the crowns were combined. So a Pharaoh of Upper Egypt would either wear figure B or C, but NEVER A, which is the crown he's wearing. KABLAMMO! Are you not BLINDED by my NERDIDITY?

I watched The Atom Smashers on Netflix. So here's the situation, as I understand it. We have a particle accelerator, which has the totally awesome name of the Tevatron. It's the biggest working accelerator in the world, which is important because the larger the microscope, the smaller the particles it can see. Except Bush slashed the funding for scientific research, so a bunch of physics got laid off. And you know where they're gonna go? The LHC, at CERN in Europe, which is an even BIGGER microscope-of-sorts. If it ever works. Which it really hasn't so far. Here's where it gets insanely awesome: both are trying to find the Higg's Boson, which, to quote Wikipedia:
The Higgs boson particle is one quantum component of the theoretical Higgs field. In empty space, the Higgs field has an amplitude different from zero; i.e., a non-zero vacuum expectation value. The existence of this non-zero vacuum expectation plays a fundamental role: it gives mass to every elementary particle which has mass, including the Higgs boson itself.
Woah. It gives mass to massless particles! It is the reason objects have mass, ergo it is the reason we have form and shape, or anything has form and shape. One could argue the Higgs Boson is GOD. And if they smash up enough photons, they might just find God. AWESOME. Except that if they ever get LHC working, the Tevatron will be obsolete and shut down. And thus ends the US's position of being a leader in science. Thanks, Bush. I want scientists to find God in the tiniest part of being. I also want to go visit the Tevatron, although I'm assuming they don't give tours of it. But they do have a buffalo herd who lives above it! Rad.
For the next week or so, I'm working 10 hour days. It's weird, the more I work, the more energy I have. But my feet hurt. Yesterday, I woke up at 6, walked to the chiro (takes me about 20 min, but it's on Adam's Street...uphill from me) and then walked to pick up my car, but the battery was dead. Walk on to work, about 4 miles. Make the money go-right for Burton for 5 hours. My car was delivered to my job! Try to cancel the kind offer of a ride, but he left his phone at home and didn't get my message in time. Rats. Skibble home, 4 wheels attached to my car, and put on eye makeup. Work at Old Gold until 6. I reorganized the Cowboy Boots by SIZE. Giving order to things makes me happy. Then I came home and I perfected my version of the Crispy Green Beans they serve at Single Pebble. If you're nice, I'll make them for you. They will make your mouth quite pleased. The weird thing is, I still had ENERGY at the end of the day, I didn't fall asleep until after midnight, and woke up around 5:30. I might knock myself put tonight just to make sure I don't get sick.
I saw Where the Wild Things Are. Before I continue, I feel I should try and impart to you how much that book means to me. My refrigerator is covered with WTWTA magnets my sister gave me. I had WTWTA checks made up for my previous bank account (the one I have now gave me free checks. Snore.) which made paying rent more RUMPUSY. When my sister reads the book to my niece, she sings the same song during the Wild Rumpus that my mother sang to us, and that I sing whenever I read the book aloud. That book was in a rotation for bedtime stories (my parents were both once teachers. Bedtime reading was not optional) for the first 10 years of my life. I commented on Facebook to my friend Melanie's assessment of the movie thusly:

I think the book is about how childhood is equal parts SUPER EXCITING ADVENTURES around EVERY corner...and the only period of life where we are constantly learning to fear new things every day. It's terrifying, and you have no control. And when people don't feel like they have control, sometimes they dissociate and run away. It's called a Fugue State, like in music. They run away, and forget their former lives, their need to escape is so great. That's the other thing I have always (since birth! I can recite the book from memory!) felt about the book...like all good children's literature, it's about being a kid, but also is about being human.
So I feel the movie hit the points that mattered to me. I was disappointed that the forest did not actually grow in Max's room, and that the monsters were human. I mean, I get it. Reflections of his personality. But...they are MONSTERS. With HORRIBLE EYES and TERRIBLE TEETH, not neurotic extended family members. I remember very vividly being read that book, under a pile of blankets (our house was wood-heated for the first few years of my life) cuddled under the wing of a parent, exploring a very Jungian exploration into the psyche of a kid. And I related. I still do.

Here is what I've done

2009-10-21T19:27:00.002-04:00

I learned how to shoot guns.
I downloaded and was impressed with the desktop version of Picasa. It's neato.

I started working a lot at Old Gold. It's fun, I work with neat people, and get to play with cowboy boots. A lot of cowboy boots. Best part-time job EVER. I've only adopted one pair.
The driver's side ball-bearing gave out on my car. That means the wheel fell off. It's like if your shoulder dislocated, and there wasn't any skin holding it together. Like that. My mechanic is awesome, and I have the car back 2 days later, fit as a fiddle.
I babysat an adorable 2 year-old and her 7 month old brother, who is the happiest, most relaxed infant ever. He just wants to cuddle, and enjoys being told he is handsome.
I taught my sister how to use Skype! Seriously, it's amazing how much more REAL a conversation is for me when I can see the other person's face. My sister, my niece and I had a virtual dance party via Skype. Awesome.
It's October, which means Ian is celebrating Octgoreberfest. There are many rules involved, but the most important are as follows:
1. No horror movies are to be seen during the month of September (unless they are seen on the big screen at the movie theater)
2. At least one horror movie a day is to be watched in October. Preferably more.
3. Halloween is to be viewed on Halloween.
I've never been very good at Octgoreberfest; I lack the commitment, as I've been reminded repeatedly by Ian and Tiffany. But I have watched a number of them this month. Teeth is really awesome. And Trick 'r Treat is perhaps the best movie I've ever seen which was never released in theaters. Seriously. It's clever and not stupid at all. Check it out.
Yep. It's all coming together, kids. As soon as I'm done at OG, I'm going to see about volunteering for the Guardian Ad Litem program, which advocates for abused and/or neglected kids. New plan: I'm thinking about becoming a lawyer. Seriously. It's the first idea that I've had in years for a career I think I'd be legitimately good at that doesn't make me want to throw up, and that I don't think I'd be bored with. Please give me money for law school. Thanks.

I hope you're well. Let's run around before the snow makes our feet cold.

Three Wolves Pumpkin!

2009-10-15T00:15:00.004-04:00

Me and the gays carved pumpkins tonight. I was informed that the quality of my result gave me "Honorary Gay Status." FINALLY.

I used to spend hours in High School sitting at a light table with an exacto knife and white-out, touching up and correcting plate negatives for the school paper. I found it meditative and relaxing. That's what pumpkin-carving is like to me...I enjoy it. Perhaps I should become a whittler.

Put it down.

2009-10-13T00:12:00.003-04:00

I once heard a story. This woman had had a hard day at work, one that was emotionally draining. Safe at home, she burst into frustration tears. Her daughter, 3 years old, toddled up, confused and puzzled.
"What's wrong?"
"I just had a heavy day," she said, smiling and patting her daugher's head. The girl paused, and cocked her head.
"Well, if it is heavy, why don't you just put it down?"

I bought a pair of boots yesterday. They are pure cowboy/motorcycle magic. Speaking of which, my father has promised to teach me to shoot this week. Pumpkins WILL be exploded. Rifle, shotgun, pistol. I convinced him by telling him that it was irresponsible, as a veteran and a gun-owner, to allow his daughter to turn 30 without having used a firearm. Also, how will I know what to do in the event of zombie invasion? He agreed my logic was flawless on both points.

I am making a habit of crying in public. It grows less embarrassing with time. At this point, I consider emotional vulnerability a disability on par with my vision. I can't see awesomely, I carry my glasses around. I burst into tears suddenly, I carry tissues. For I am a girl scout. (OK, or was...) Nah, really, it's more surprising for the people I'm with then disturbing to me. Man, invisible tears would be great. Emotional catharsis with no red-blotchies or puffy eyes!

This is what I am reading right now. Ian got me a signed copy at Harvest Market. Seriously. It's sort of amazing, and I'm not trying to be cute here. She grew up as a 2nd generation Lithuanian Jew, living in Salt Lake City. That's bound to make an interesting person. It does make me want to wash my brain out with Dostoevsky, but in the best way possible.

An invitation

2009-10-09T12:34:00.002-04:00

I wish to visit
Many mysterious places
Wanna come exploring?

Winchester Mystery House
Oregon Vortex
Gurdon Light
Greenfield, MA Gravity Hill
Booger Mountain (I want to go to Booger Mountain especially badly...it has the additional advantage of being in Cumming, GA. I love unintentionally dirty town names!)

2009-10-08T20:18:00.002-04:00

Too busy to haiku.
Sorry. Life happens sometimes.
Occasionally.

My greatest fear is
Being too scared to finish
Any tasks at hand.

Sometimes I am brave
When I'm more mad then scared
Can't count on that, though.

I am going to
Go get a free beer from the
Keg in the bath-tub.

ow.

2009-10-05T08:42:00.003-04:00

I wake with jaw pain.
Caused by dreams: teeth cracking nuts;

A wish for true strength.

For the next week, I will update only in Haiku form.

2009-10-04T23:03:00.004-04:00

Started at Old Gold
Surprisingly, I had fun.
Then I babysat.

Petunia: BE QUIET.
We played with blocks and puzzles.
Now I feel cash rich.

GOD, Petunia! SHHHHH.
Anyhow, today was good.
Distracting, and good.

2009-10-01T07:40:00.004-04:00

I had a dream last night that a snail fell out of my nose. It was brown and white and quite pretty, had it not dropped out of a body cavity. I was horrified and surprised, and immediately ran to the use my Neti pot, which is when I woke up.

If you tame me, then we shall need each other.

2009-09-22T20:50:00.003-04:00

The moon is orange and skinny and sickly-looking tonight, but beautiful. Orange and thin, like a sinewy elderly woman, desperately grasping to the straws of her youth, wearing too much blush. Too much eye-makeup. Too much everything. There is a certain celebration that comes with too much, sometimes. A release of control, because control isn't needed when the Id rules supreme. And then it gets too much, the rush becomes a flood. I've seen Intervention. I know this to be fact. It never starts out badly, it just turns out that way.

I feel lucky tonight. And grounded. And rooted. And while the ground beneath me is sand, I feel as stable as a body can, standing on sand. Have you ever read The Little Prince? You can here.

"I am a fox," the fox said.
"Come and play with me," proposed the little prince. "I am so unhappy."
"I cannot play with you," the fox said. "I am not tamed."
"Ah! Please excuse me," said the little prince.
But, after some thought, he added:
"What does that mean--'tame'?"
"You do not live here," said the fox. "What is it that you are looking for?"
"I am looking for men," said the little prince. "What does that mean--'tame'?"
"Men," said the fox. "They have guns, and they hunt. It is very disturbing. They also raise chickens. These are their only interests. Are you looking for chickens?"
"No," said the little prince. "I am looking for friends. What does that mean--'tame'?"
"It is an act too often neglected," said the fox. It means to establish ties."
"'To establish ties'?"
"Just that," said the fox. "To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me. To you, I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world . . ."
"I am beginning to understand," said the little prince. "There is a flower . . . I think that she has tamed me . . ."
"It is possible," said the fox. "On the Earth one sees all sorts of things."

In the fall, I turn to baking savory egg pastries.

2009-09-20T20:48:00.006-04:00

Cheese Custard Pie
Just be sure to precook your pie crust. Also, it usually takes mine an extra 20-30 minutes to bake.

Gorgonzola Popovers

1 tablespoon unsalted butter, melted and cooled
4 3/4 ounces all-purpose flour, approximately 1 cup
1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt
2 large eggs, room temperature
1 cup whole milk room temperature
3 tablespoons crumbled Gorgonzola cheese
Rosemary, Basil and Oregano to taste
Also:
This stuff (it'll make your life sooo much easier. Trust me.)
A real Popover tin (the cup needs to be deeper then it is wide to get the maximum pop)
1. Preheat oven and tin to 375
2. Whisk the eggs until they're frothy. I prefer to use the whisk attachment on my hand blender. Beware of over-whisking, you don't want to damage the cells of air bubbles.
3. Add milk, butter, salt and spices. Mix thoroughly, but gently.
4. Sift flour into egg mixture. Fold until you get an even consistency. The batter should be similar in texture to melted ice cream. Ish. Add flour as needed. (dependent on the size of your eggs, you will likely need to add flour).
5. Fold Gorgonzola into the batter.
6. Remove tin from oven, and thoroughly coat each cup with spray.
7. Ladle batter into cups, filling them 3/4 of the way up. If you have any empty cups in your tin, fill them 1/3 of the way with water. This helps facilitate steam in the oven, which helps get huge popovers.
8. Bake for 20 minutes. DO NOT OPEN THE OVEN during these first 20 minutes. Keeping steam trapped in the oven is key to the popping.
9. At 20 minutes or so, the popovers should have risen, but should still be a custardy and white. CAREFULLY spear each popover on the side with a knife to release steam. If you don't do this, the steam trapped in the popover will deflate when you take them out of the oven for real. It is sad when this happens.
10. Reduce heat to 325, and put the tin back in the oven for an additional 10-15 minutes. You can check on the popovers as much as you want now (I mean, let 'em bake, but don't worry about deflation) but wait for them to take a golden color and crispy consistency. They'll be at their most impressive looking immediately after removing them from the oven, but if you released the steam before, they should retain their height as they cool, making delicious little shells for all kinds of yummy fillings.

Gorgonzola popover stuffed with fluffy scrambled-and-herbed eggs.

I miss this person already.

2009-09-18T19:15:00.003-04:00

My sister and her family packed up and moved to VA today. I am sad. This is why:

Also this:
Also, my sister is a master at wrangling people, making them feel comfortable and loved and they're only gone for four years, but dammit, I dislike it when people move away and who will bake my birthday cakes and also? I'm lucky to have family whose lack of presence is a distinct and painful loss.

I am an onion, full of layers of conflicting emotions.
Go ahead. Peel me. I'll make you cry.

I love historical reenactments!

2009-09-13T14:39:00.013-04:00

Here is what I like: when people are very very very passionate about things. It doesn't matter if I, myself, have any vested interest in the interest at hand, I just love listening to people talk about things that THEY are excited about. My dad is a Vietnam vet and a history buff, so on our way to the Dutch Mill for brunch today, when we simultaneously spotted signs for a Civil War Reenactment, we both excitedly pointed and cried out, and Dad pulled a U-turn.

Check out that bone saw in the top right corner. Also, I enjoy the realistic blood-stains, even if they are a happy red and not a realistic brown.
The Union forces advance on the Confederate Calvary. Boom boom.

A Union soldier "dies." Dad and I laughed, and then realized we were supposed to be taking it seriously.

The Confederate camp, which the Union forces were attempting to capture. The Rebels were not happy about that.

Calvary RETREAT! Apparently, the Civil War was fought using Napoleonic battle strategy, which involves close combat using tight formations of soldiers. Horses weren't all that useful, because there wasn't a lot of battle ground to cover quickly. But they're pretty.

The Confederates attempt to draw fire away from their camp. They hollered a lot, and I appreciated the theatrics of this. Then I got "Rebel Yell" by Billy Idol stuck in my head.

The Union advance was costly. Every time someone died, Dad and I continued snickering.

The Union advance was successful, the camp was invaded, but the only remaining Confederate soldier kept on shooting and hollerin'. I respect his gumption. Then my Dad's back started hurting and we hobbled home.

The End.

What I did on my summer vacation.

2009-09-12T18:27:00.005-04:00

My Free Will Astrology horoscope this week seems wise and eerily apropos...

"That which can be destroyed by the truth should be," wrote author P. C. Hodgell. I wish there were a gentler way to articulate that wisdom, but I can't think of one. Instead I'll suggest a way to apply it so as to make the end result more graceful than shocking: Don't pour out the whole truth all at once in one big dramatic gesture. Do it gradually and tenderly. As you do, keep in mind that when the truth has finally dismantled the thing that could not endure the truth, you may be able to use the debris as raw material to build something new that the truth will feel right at home in.

I've been doing a lot of work lately. Figuring out why I blame myself for things for situations I didn't perpetuate or create, figuring out where the line between what I can do and what I cannot do lies, and trying to work toward acceptance of that line. Thinking about why it feels like a defeat to accept realities instead of fighting against them. Trying to decide where my own line between active passivity and oppressed resignation lies. And trying to calmly align myself toward changing the things I can, and allowing the things I cannot to deteriorate or evolve on their own, without my input or help. Challenging myself to be OK with powerlessness, which can be frightening. I was taught to fight. And now I have to teach myself to lay down arms and call a truce with myself. I'm turning to Taoism more, a practice of active passivity filled with strength.

But I'm trying. Struggling and trying. Waking up and trying and falling asleep and trying some more. I've witnessed the number of people I can expect support from dwindle, and I've learned to pick myself up. Or I'm learning. I'm trying.

float. float. f.l.o.a.t.

2009-09-06T22:39:00.005-04:00

I've been thinking a lot about self-fulling prophecies, especially in regard to the perceptions of others. In assuming you are disliked by another, you become less confident around them, and since we herd animals flock to the confident, you create the dislike you previously imagined. So we should all smile smile smile and laugh laugh laugh and oh, tell me more of that game last night, and this will be confused for confidence and people will like us, and eventually perhaps we will learn to like ourselves in turn.

But I can tell when people are lying. It's just a thing I can do, like curling my tongue and skipping backwards. Maybe because I watch for it, I have taught myself to see and seek it. But the noise of the lying I hear, it deafens me sometimes. Like chipmunk chatter of false confidences. And so I surround myself as best I can in a blanket of silence, to keep the wasted words and air away. Because in my mind, lying by omission is not a prettier, neater or whiter lie then substituting one reality...for another.

I hold my breath, and stay underwater as long as the air in my lungs let me. Because there is nowhere quieter then underwater. But eventually, I run out of air. Surfacing is never a choice, always necessity. And I'm forced to throw the blanket off and kick kick kick to the surface, born into a loud and jarring world for as long as it takes me to suck fresh air into my lungs and sink again.

Sometimes, I just float on my back, ears submerged, arms outstretched. I can float for as long as I'd like this way, eyes closed, face warmed by the sun as the rest of me bobs above and below the water. My only concern becomes that others will think me hurt, dead, or odd. Because what kind of a person needs to float like an upturned goldfish for extended periods of time? It's unusual at best.

In my apartment, I do not have a bathtub. I have a stand-up shower stall, and I hate it. I miss filling up the bathtub, when nothing else will help stop me from what my father once termed "vibrating at a high frequency." I'd climb into the water, and leave only my face in the air. It was my own floating-tub, right in my house. A failsafe. And it was comforting.

Moomstruck

2009-09-04T20:46:00.003-04:00

My whole life, I have remembered things I shouldn't. I'm not terribly smart, not terribly inventive or original. But I do have a memory recall which, according to child development and logic, I just shouldn't have. Which, I've found, can be enough to get by.

Before I was old enough to think in words, I thought in images. When I recall those memories, they flip like slides. And the first slide in the box is me speaking my first word.

I'm not sure how old I was, but the windows in my mother's bedroom are about a foot and a half off the ground. There are two, one facing East and once facing South. And in my mind's eye, I can see myself small enough to hold onto the window sill, staring into the Eastern sky. I remember feeling in awe, amused by the beauty of a full moon, in the same way I'd be amused by lightning bugs and fireworks. I remember pointing to attempt to communicate the import of what I was seeing to my parents. And I remember frustratedly saying:
"MOOM!"

Maybe it's a placed memory. My family is Irish, we love telling and hearing stories. And I'm sure I've heard the story of my first word many times. And I'm sure I, being somewhat versed in the art of creating an inner landscape, have fashioned images to the stories I heard.

But it doesn't matter. Tonight, sitting on my porch, my face formerly warmed by the late Summer sun, I stared into the Eastern sky, and that memory -- real or placed -- comforted me. And connected me to the person I was when I was smaller and less afraid, more curious, more excited. I saw the man in the moon tonight, and it made me feel whole again, is what I'm trying to say.

Tune Wedgie

2009-08-28T13:23:00.004-04:00

Sometimes, I like to pay attention to the songs that get stuck in my head. Sure, there are the ones that are just straight-up musical-crack, but there are some that seem to get stuck in my head as a sort of soundtrack. I haven't heard them anywhere, they just fit with what's been going on in my head. This week, it's this:

Mostly, this song confuses me. Always has. He's singing that his lady-friend has told him that she is being cruel, but because she loves him. It's a song about emotional S&M. She's not being cruel to be kind, Nick. She's being cruel to control you. The song is a hymn to codependency in the worst sense, but with a cheerful tempo, so you don't notice.

Still, it's been stuck in my head all week. Could be worse. It has been taking turns with Million Dollar Bill and that damned Miley Cyrus piece of shit. But still.

Maybe the song is about setting boundaries. Maybe she's not being cruel, she's just setting limits, which are perceived as cruel. It's hard to tell. It always is, when people withdraw and aren't honest as to their motives. I've been guilty of this. But when I examine my actions, my motivations, my nervous ticks and what causes them, I realize that I take responsibility for my decisions as often as I can. I make an effort to be genuine and authentic. And a lot of my frustrations are that other people don't put energy into that effort unless it is requested of them. Which I perceive as straight-up laziness.

Still. The song is still stuck in my head. Maybe I need to be cruel. Maybe I am trying to explain away the cruelties of others; trying to rationalize their actions in a way that make sense to me. Maybe I recognize that honesty, when it isn't the honesty you want to hear, can be crueler then any insult. Or maybe I just am hoping that selfishness doesn't always have to be the explanation for cruelty.

I wish I knew which questions to ask, and who to ask them of.

weasel attack

2009-08-16T19:19:00.005-04:00

Well, I have a car and I have a part-time job. It's almost like I'm functioning again. No, I am. Mostly. And at least I learn from my mistakes, which is something that apparently is a rare character trait. Drama, rinse, repeat. Yawn. I guess whatever makes people feel self-important or something. I'd rather have integrity and the ability to know I made healthful decisions for my own well-being, but I guess the idea of autonomy is too intimidating for some.

I am sunburned. My sister and her family are staying a month extra! Hooray! My niece has invented a game. She sits in the water, on someone's lap, and sweetly sings a song she makes up.
"La la laaa la laaa la laaa" and then she pauses.
AND THEN SHE THRASHES AND SPLASHES LIKE A TOTALLY BITCHIN' FINNISH METAL SOLO FOR FIVE SECONDS COMPLETE WITH HEAD BANGING! WHILE LAUGHING MANIACALLY!
And then she resumes her la la song. It never gets old.

Everything is OK for today. As long as no one invades my world with fury and fire, I can commit to breathing evenly and often for an extended period of time.

But the thing is, people always invade. And I just keep building my levees back up against their tide. Cause the thing about floods is: they are rarely beneficial to me.

Friday night. Nothing to do, no one to hang with, I sat on a bench on Church Street just watching people. Minding my own business in a sundress. Out of the corner of my eye, I spy a man making a determined stride toward me. This cannot end well.

He was wearing a button-down oxford shirt. Short sleeved, blue plaid print tucked into high-waisted khaki shorts. He was small and weaselly, with a mustache that suggested a love of Magnum PI which in no way was ironic.

"Nice night, huh?" He said. This is the first time I have voluntarily left the house in a month. I just want to be left alone, specifically by this guy.

"Mmmhmm," I say with no eye contact. He stands there. Just stands. 20 seconds go by.

"Are you waiting for someone?" I should have lied. But why put effort into lying? I either just tell the truth or don't bother telling anything.

"Nope. Just sittin'." I say, hoping my Palin-esque folksie-ism will scare him off. I should have known better. His eyes lit up, I swear his mustache quivered.

"Oh, just..."

"Watching people." I said clearly. Then turned away. He stood. I could sense him working his courage up, god bless his Asbergerian-inability to read commonly understood body language.

"So, um, this is an obvious question, since you are in Burlington, but...you come here often?" I stare. I stare at him as though he has just inquired as to the condition of my labia. No one actually SAYS that anymore, do they? Did they ever? Seriously? Have I magically been transported back in time to Cheers? While I always make a point of being polite and kind whenever possible, I do have issues when people don't respect my space.

"Yes. I do." I turn back around, as much as I can, to try and turn my back to him. Nothing else is working. He appears to try to start to speak again. SERIOUSLY? I haven't been out of the house in a month, and I'm sorry, but this is doing my ego no favors. I am being persued by a crazy weaselly guy who won't leave me alone in peace to watch the people zoo. After standing there, not speaking staring at me for 30 LONG seconds, he mutters something and moves away. I nod politely. And when he walks back up Church Street a few minutes later, I am on my phone, preemptively.

Sandbag sitting on Church Street if I want to be left alone, I guess.

self indulgence

2009-07-23T00:37:00.004-04:00

I haven't been posting lately. To be fair, I haven't been doing anything. At all. Here's the short version: I was temping, I got rear-ended in traffic, the insurance company cut me a check for my car (which I had put $1000 worth of work into over the last 6 months) and I promptly got the word that they had hired for the job I had been temping at. No job. No car, and given that I have no income, I am hesitant to do anything with the money. Like buy a beater which will cost more to upkeep then it did to buy it. Then I got very sick, and couldn't get out of bed for a week. Sinus infection, but it spread to my inner ear. And with no insurance, I kicked it on my own with a Neti pot, steam, and a lot of tissues.

So, in short, things have been rough lately. There's been some bright spots, my niece continues to be awesome, I went to NYC and spent 3 hours in the Egyptian wing of the Met, spent a lot of time with two of my favorite folks, and spent money I shouldn't have. Brooklyn was publicly mourning MJ. I was reminded of why I love and hate New York.

I've not posted because despite appearances, I am trying very hard to NOT be entirely negative about life. Sure, I have no goals, no motivation, no idea what I'm doing with my life! Sure, I've become a recluse who only leaves the house for food! See, when you put an exclamation point at the end of something, it makes it positive. Feeling nothing has been preferable to feeling the weight of the lack of any movement in my life.

In short, I have entirely lost myself. I am experiencing a level of disconnection from myself, my people and my community unlike anything I've ever known before. I don't feel sad, I don't feel discouraged. I just marvel at how I got HERE.

And I am constantly worried. I've been under a lot of family pressure to go back to school; a great plan if only I was confident about what I wanted to go back for, how to pay for it or even where to go for it. My older sister and her family have been a God's send in these last few months, getting me out of the house when no one else can and cheering me up immensely. But they have to move to Virginia in a month, for 4 years and not seeing my niece weekly (and my new niece/nephew, ETA January) makes me unbelievably sad.

I am not sure what can make me happy anymore. The person I used to be feels entirely foreign to me now. And I'm talking 4 years ago, not 20. I know the things that used to make me happy are unavailable to me now. I need to get away, and I have no ability to do that. And it's frustrating as all hell.

I only write this because I need some evidence that I'm not fading away. That I exist, that I matter. I've gotten past the not-mattering-on-a-daily-basis-to-anyone level, that's just the way it is. But I'm beginning to not matter to myself any more, and that scares me. And no one outside of my family seems to notice. And that is telling.

I'll regret posting this tomorrow. I don't like calling attention to my many faults. No one does. But I've banged on a drum called Total Self-Honesty for too long to not remind myself later of how rotten I feel tonight. And I mean that literally. I feel rotten. Invaded by bacteria and decay.

I need to go somewhere. I spent some of the money I don't have on getting new tires on an old bike, we'll see if I can get on it tomorrow. Maybe it can take me away.

Sorry I'm boring and don't have stories anymore. Maybe you can tell me some and I can listen for once. I don't have energy for much else.

strangers say the nicest things.

2009-06-20T22:42:00.004-04:00

"E'scuse me, ma'am," he interrupted his own conversation with himself to say. "Can I buya cigarette?"
"This is my last one." Cue: an apologetic shrug and a sip of bourbon and ginger.
"I got a long walk ahead o'me and I ain't got no smokes..." he said.
"I'm sorry, I am. But this is my last..." Shrug: intensified.
"Oh, no. I'ma sorry. But I'll tell you one thing." he points with his not-cane holding hand. "You. Are. Beautiful." The hand drops. He turns and walks away. He gets 10 feet away and says: "That's fo'so." And I take my 15 remaining cigarettes, my lighter and drink. Stub out the cigarette. Exhale.

I guess we all lie, once and a while.

My mind resembles a junk drawer of a pack rat.

2009-06-19T14:40:00.008-04:00

When I was 5, my father was yelling at me for something. Most likely, not cleaning my room. I've been messy since birth, and likely will remain so for the rest of my days. Frustrated with me, he committed a mistake many parents (or anyone who hangs out with young children) make: he asked me a rhetorical question.
"What do you think you are, a PRINCESS?!" He said, exacerbated. I threw my head back (had I been allowed long hair as a kid, I likely would have tossed it...) and said one word:
"YES!"

I've gotten over that. Now I expect people to get away with as much as I allow them to. I expect them to Bogart my ideas as their own. Not all people all the time, but as an average, I'd say people tend to take what they can get without regard as to how deeply that communicates a lack of respect. I think respect, in general is lacking. And I think people underestimate each other. A lot.

I am usually overly dramatic. It is a symptom of feeling things intensely. Living life in technicolor. It does not make my life easier. But at least I am being honest with myself and giving the time that I have weight. This does not make me dramatic, because at this point in my life, I've learned to keep my 3D view of the world to myself.

I embedded my Tumblr onto this blog. You can see it in the sidebar to the left, nearish to the top. If you are into rss, you might want to add this to your reader. I will be updating it frequently, as I spent the majority of my waking hours aimlessly looking at the internet. Don't worry. They pay me to do this.

Gifts I've given myself this week:

A 1st gen 32gb ipod touch. I was stupid and cheap and didn't lay the extra $10 down for 2 day shipping. I feel foolish. I want. Now.
A plane ticket from NYC home in a couple weeks. I'm using the tail end of my vacation to visit some people who deserve visitin'. And I include the Burroughs of Manhattan, Brooklyn and Queens on that list. I miss them a lot.
I've been car shopping. I haven't found one yet.Tomorrow I drive to Groton to investigate a Tercel.

Things I will buy myself as soon as I deserve them:

When I land a real job, I will buy myself this.
I will buy myself this when I get to NYC.
And I will go here
And here
And here
Last time I went here I spent $200 and 4 hours. I hope to spend as much time and (maybe?) much less money.

Assorted notes on the bathroom stall that this blog as become:

Quit kidding yourself, kid. You're just as superficial as the people you pretend to have distaste for. Admit it and quit feigning modesty. You're not fooling me. PS: this undermines the rapidly eroding respect I once had for you.
Your passivity doesn't make you modest. Quit loading emotional responsibility on other people to make up for your own irresponsibility. Grow the eff up.
I'm framing your drawing today. It's the best present I've gotten in a long, long time. People tend to forget about the presents they promised me, so getting one from you means a lot. I'm working on ideas of something that I can make you which will make you smile as much as I did when I opened yours. NBFF.
Grow up and take responsibilities for your actions and how they have affected your "loved" ones. It's hard to feel loved and abused at the same time. It's hard to feel loved and not be able to trust. I am not grown up yet, dammit.
I don't miss you less, but I miss you less often.

I am tired of this week. I am ready for next week to be over, already. Please. No one go jogging. It slows down the rotation of the earth.

Where fun goes to die.

2009-06-16T15:44:00.004-04:00

I have kept myself entertained today reading about abandoned Theme Parks.

Enchanted Forest
Ellicott City, MD

Spreepark
Berlin

Kinderland, Scarborough

Santa's Village
East Dundee, IL

Lately, the cottonwood has been pretending to be snow. Do not be fooled. It does not melt on your tongue. Do not be fooled by deception. Everything is exactly as it seems. There is no snow in Vermont in June. Just cottonwood and strawberries.

My car was deemed a total loss. That is the good news, I get a fat check to replace it. But now I am tasked with finding a replacement. Hopefully, something better then I had. Buying a used car is frightening. Especially when you are distrustful of strangers. Exhausted from the car-search, I snapped and bought an iPod Touch, which I am currently cyberstalking. It's currently in Reno.

I have declared a drama-free zone of three feet surrounding myself. Not invited: addicts, liars, people who ask me to lie for them, opportunists, people who are two-faced. I will start beeping and my eyes will turn to warning lights if these people enter my safety-zone. Then I will explode.

I go on vacation in a week and a half. Family thing in PA. I might try and get into NYC for a few days toward the tail-end. I need to hug some people there.

Man.

2009-06-11T21:32:00.006-04:00

Today I raced home from work to put on my bathing suit and race out to Williston to sit in a hot tub. But there was a box by my door.
"Crap," thinks me. "Did I order things off ebay while on muscle relaxers again?"

I did not. It was a care package from the astoundingly amazing Undead Molly.

It contained:

One issue of News of the World. It is the predictions issue! This is good, because the eczema spot that had formed RIGHT on my third eye chakra has gone away. I need to see into the future (and into souls) somehow...
One copy of "The Prisoner of Tordesillas." It purports to be "A smoldering novel of love's madness and its power of destruction." The cover has a woman falling out of her bodice, a sword fight, and a Conquistador. I can't wait to read it.
NERDS! They are special Nerds. Giant Nerds. Like us.
Cat Breed playing cards!
Jangly bracelets. I don't have any in my Egyptian arsenal!
A Siamese cat doll. I suspect Petunia will soon claim it as her own child, despite my (and the vet's) decision to take away her right to choose.
Ladybug socks!
Two cat toys. They are a triple-whammy: sisal, feathers AND mouse-shaped.
And last, but definitely not least...quite possibly the best present ever...
I am getting it framed. Tomorrow. And I plan on hanging it so that it will be the last thing I see when I fall asleep, and the first thing I see in the morning. I need to be reminded that everything will be okay a lot.

More evidence that Molly was right: while I STILL don't know the dollar amount of the pay-out, I have been told by my mechanic that they are totaling my car. That means that the cost of repairs would exceed the value of the car. I don't know how much I'll get, because they have to pay me what the cost would be to replace the car in our local car-buying market, which is higher then most. As soon as I get a check in my hands, I'm going to the car auctions.

My neck has been hit-or-miss. I went to the chiro yesterday, and she adjusted me. I woke up this morning with TMJ-type stiffness in my jaw. But I sat in a hot tub tonight until I started to get dizzy (low blood pressure. I am a delicate little flower) and that helped.

I am going to watch some meerkats fight now.

I am delicate, but I can grow out of the concrete.

2009-06-07T17:34:00.004-04:00

I've spent my weekend cleaning. My landlord is replacing three of my windows. And my cat is illegal. She and I will be in the car driving to my father's house where she will hide for the day tomorrow, while I drive in from Fairfax, go to work for an hour, go to the chiropractor for an hour and a half for my initial consult on the whiplash, go back to work while my car is appraised for insurance damage, finish working a full day, get back in my car and drive back to Fairfax to pick up my yowling bundle of joy because (hopefully) the window dudes are supposed to be done in one day, drive back into Burlington, and collapse into bed.

I do not like to be over-booked. It makes me itchy. Or maybe that's just the dust I kicked up today.

I know this is not a real problem. But my capacity for reasonable flexibility has been stretched past the breaking point.

Pop.

Brooke's Guide to Non-Douchebaggery

2009-06-05T12:23:00.010-04:00

I've run into Regina Brett's 45 Life Lessons floating around the interwebs. A couple of them were right-on, but overall...eh. As someone who tends to lead a solitary and contemplative life, I have my own list of personal commandments which I live my life by, and try (with appropriate degrees of understanding, flexibility and compassion) to hold others up to, as well. I've never tried writing them down before. This is a first draft.

Brooke's Guide to Non-Douchebaggery

You can't control your emotions, but you can ALWAYS control your reactions to your emotions.
People can only do/be what they are capable of, on their own timeline. People's capacity can change as they evolve.
The potential you see in other people is your own creation. You own it, you build expectations, and you put people on pedestals. No one is responsible for living up to your standards and expectations. You are responsible for keeping them realistic.
The majority of people whom you come in contact with in a given day don't even register your existence on the planet. Don't believe me? Take an hour, and look at EVERY SINGLE PERSON you pass on the street. It will make you, and them, uncomfortable. Most people are too wrapped up in their own inner-commentary to even register the existence of strangers.
No one is entitled to your time, your energy, your emotion or your thoughts. Those are yours. Let people ask permission to be let in, instead of assuming they want access.
It is your responsibility to set boundaries for your physical and emotional well-being. Do not allow other people to use you. If you feel used by someone, consider your own part in allowing them to use you.
Logic is subjective.
Choose to either trust people 100% or to not trust them at all. Half-trust and compartmentalization are both examples of YOU anticipating what YOU feel other people are capable of handling. It's patronizing and insulting. Trust other people to set their own boundaries; don't do it for them.
Don't trust addicts. Don't trust abusers; physical and emotional. Don't trust manipulators in general. Don't trust anyone who begins an argument with "Trust me," "Believe me," "I'm telling you the truth, " or "I've changed." Trust their actions, not their words.
Own your own failures before they own you. Don't take your failures out on other people.
There are two kinds of fear: the fear that keeps you from doing potentially dangerous things, which is the fear that keeps you safe, and the fear that prevents you from doing something you anticipate failing at. Learn to differentiate them. Don't pay attention to the second kind of fear.
We, as Americans, are promised the PURSUIT of happiness, not the actual real-deal. Quit feeling entitled to happiness. It's unbalanced and unrealistic to expect happiness without preparing for sorrow. Aim for balance. Aim for contentment.
Don't lie. If you do this, you won't have to worry about keeping your stories straight.
Don't steal. If you do this, you won't ever have to worry about getting caught.
Don't attempt to gain from the suffering of others. If you do this, you won't have to worry about people figuring out your motivations.
Not telling the whole truth, when it is requested of you, is lying by omission. It is not less-damaging then out-right lying. Please see #13.
To quote my Nana Dooley: "It's Nice to be Nice."
Don't attempt to use someone as a tool to feel better about yourself unless you are paying them to do so.
Apologize out-loud when you've made a mistake. When you know you are wrong, admit it. Your bluster doesn't fool anyone.
We're not in high school anymore. Quit labeling and categorizing people. It's insulting and small-minded of you.
Appreciate the following things: potable water; toilets that flush; toilet paper; showers; supermarkets; public transportation; flowers; grass; sunsets; stars (when visible); laughing until you cry; the people in your life that you can rely on RIGHT NOW.
Appreciate people while you have them. They will not last forever. Neither will you.
Don't expect other people to do all the work required in sustaining a relationship with you. You're not really that special. You're just $4.50 worth of chemicals, like anyone else. Use any of the myriad of communication methods afforded to us by the internet to stay in touch with the people who reflect positive self-images back onto you. Lose the people who make you feel badly about yourself. They'll find someone else to trash. They always do.
Do something nice for someone else every day. Do not expect or seek out recognition for it. If you're looking to be recognized for what a good person you are, then you are not a good person.
Use your words. When you do not use your words, you force other people to place their own assumptions onto your behaviors. This can lead to miscommunication and confusion. When you're angry, say "I am angry." When you are frustrated, say "I am frustrated." If you do not know why you are angry or frustrated, admit that aloud and take responsibility for figuring out the root of your emotion yourself.
If you do not know how to figure yourself out, pay a therapist to help you. You're not crazy. You just need to learn how to communicate with yourself, and in-turn, communicate to others. It's skill-training. You will not figure that out on your own. I don't care how smart you are. You can't learn French without speaking/listening to a person who speaks French.
You don't have to believe in God, as long as you recognize your own smallness in the universe. If possible, find something else that is suitably large to compare yourself to; science, music, children. Instead of worshiping the largeness of these things, use them to make yourself feel comparatively small, your problems seem minute and temporary, your anxiety disproportionately inappropriate for your smallness. Small is not unimportant, or useless. See Swimmy.
If you find yourself making decisions you are not comfortable with, STOP MAKING BAD DECISIONS. If you don't trust yourself to make only good decisions, DON'T MAKE ANY DECISIONS. Think about why you feel uncomfortable. Think about what inspired you to make bad decisions in the first place. Fix the root cause, don't treat the symptoms.
Not everyone is entitled to a soul-mate. If they were, we wouldn't have fairy tales written about the phenomenon. If you believe you have found one, appreciate how rare it is. If you don't, quit trying to figure out why or what about you is at fault. You just didn't win at Keno. It's not something all creatures are entitled to. Get over it, and appreciate the other aspects of your life that HAVE worked out.
Appreciate that not every relationship will work. As people grow and (hopefully) evolve, they may evolve in non-parallel paths. No amount of work, no amount of fixing or counseling will heal the situation: you just evolved at different rates or in different directions. In fact, it might devalue the period of time when you were parallel to try and force the square peg of a relationship though the round hole of your shared current reality. What was correct at one time and place might not work in another: that's timing. Let it go. Move on.
Don't expect a partner to be your everything. That's putting a lot of pressure on one person, and leaves you no contingency plan if you both evolve at separate rates. Find someone who compliments your own life, not someone who completes it.
Recognize your own patterns of behavior. Don't consider them good or bad: they make you who you are. Question whether they are serving you or counteracting you. This may help you break the patterns that are working against you, and prioritize the ones that are serving you well.
Don't ask people to keep your secrets. Trust their discretion, or don't confide in them. Better yet, make decisions that you stand behind, and don't do anything you have to keep a secret. If you have a lot of secrets, question what it is you fear from the judgment of others. If you do fear the judgment of others, maybe you shouldn't be doing whatever-you-are-secretly doing. Keeping secrets doesn't prevent truth from existing; it only prevents you from talking about truth in an honest and forthright way. Keeping secrets creates conflict.
Remember when you went to the doctor's as a kid and got a lollypop? Or went to the dentist and got a new toothbrush? Instead of buying yourself whatever you want whenever you want it, try only rewarding yourself when you do something that deserves rewarding. It'll feel more special that way. Having a bad day deserves an ice cream cone. Take care of yourself so other people don't have to take care of you.
Admit you have weaknesses. They make you human and interesting. People who think they don't have weaknesses are arrogant and kidding themselves. Also: they aren't fooling anyone.
Doing something unpleasant just because no one else will do it is enabling irresponsible behavior as much as handing an alcoholic a drink is enabling. Break any codependent cycles in your life. Now.
Don't make yourself into a martyr. Don't make yourself into a victim. Shit happens, and the drama level of that shit can vary. Sometimes really bad shit happens. And it happened to you because you were there, at that place, at that time, and for no other reason. Quit trying to affix some cosmic reasoning to everything. Shit just happens. Roll with the punches, no matter how hard they hit. Your job is to get back up again. Do your job.
Hold adult-type people accountable for adult-type behavior. Don't hold kid-type people up to adult-standards.
Don't treat children as though they are stupid. Treat them as fully-formed humans who have not experienced the repetitious patterns of behavior that have taught you what you know about the world. They lack language skills, not smarts-skills.
Sometimes the best offense is no-fense. Rivers don't stop at obstacles in their path, they reroute around them, eventually wearing down the obstacles in their path. This is Taoism. You should check it out.
Get into the practice of stopping at least 4 times a day, and asking yourself "Do I have everything I need, (not everything I want, but everything I need,) right now in this moment?" Alternately, a good way to counteract panic is to ask "Am I physically safe in this moment?" Do not do things that make you feel unsafe.
Never let anyone make you feel ashamed for your passion, your interest, your job or your hobby. Instead, pity their lack of enthusiasm. Consider what boring, judgmental, uninteresting lives they must lead.
People are only interesting after they have experienced conflict. Pretty people experience less conflict in their lives. They are therefore less interesting people.
Optimistically, you've got 70 some-odd years on this planet. That's not a lot. If you think 70 years IS a lot, pick up a rock off the ground and consider how long that rock has existed, how it's changed. Consider that it probably used to be liquid, for onesies.
Allow yourself to be jolted into reality on a regular basis. I prefer jumping off cliffs, but I understand a physical plummet into icy waters might be too literal a leap for some people. This is the one time I support doing what you are NOT comfortable with, (#41) as long as it's physically safe.

Oh, Paul.

2009-06-04T22:40:00.001-04:00

What am I, JOB?!

2009-06-02T05:05:00.006-04:00

Picture it: Colchester. 2009. I found myself sitting at a stoplight in front of St. Michael's College, listening to The Mojomatics, at a complete stop. I had been rubbing my neck, which has been giving me problems of late. I was literally thinking: "Man, my neck and shoulder are SORE. I really need to start going to Mer's Svaroopa yoga class..." when...KABLOWWHATTHEFUCKWASTHATFUCKINGA. That, boys and girls, is the sound of me getting rear-ended. By a pickup truck.

He claims to have been doing 20 MPH, which sounds a little on the shy-side. My only immediately recognizable injury was a broken nail. But he smooshed the back-end of my car in, and broke the casings on my brake lights. We pulled our cars over into an adjacent pizza joint. His Ford Ranger: totally fine. My car: trunk smooshage, brake light damage, fender damage. It looked like a truck rear ended me. I immediately called 911, reported a fender-bender, stood in awkward silence with the dude who crashed into me. I passed the time watching the firemen return from a call with a ladder truck. That was fun. I like firemen. *

The rest is pretty standard, police report, insurance claims. I haven't gotten a call back from his adjuster yet. And I'm leaving early to go to the doctor's today. My neck is stiff, and given that I have a tendency to get neck spasms, I am taking it seriously. Maybe get the car looked at, get a quote and all.

Later that evening I'm at Ian's, commiserating with he and his roommates about how-- OK, it IS actually kinda funny that my Contour was rear-ended by a Ranger. We revel in adolescent humor. That led to the story about how, in high school, Ian had a variety of Columbia House accounts, one under the name "Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Big Vagina."He insisted they printed all of the Reallys on the label. That's 8 Reallys. His mother was unamused when the CDs and DVDs started getting delivered at their house. From there, the conversation spiraled into the definition of a Reallyx8 big vagina, and my declaration that active labor begins when the cervix is 10 centimeters dilated. Obviously, being ugly Americans, we have no basis of knowledge for meteric measurement. A race to find a ruler began, and I happened across Ian's paper slicer, which had a ruler on it. For the record, 10 centimeters is exactly the distance between my pinky and index finger while I throw the Sign of the Devil. (METAL 4EVA!!!) Ouch. While laughing hysterically about all of this, and while playing with the aforementioned paper-slicer, with ice on my back, 4 ibuprohen and 2 tylenol w/codene in my belly, I SLICED THE HELL OUT OF MY THUMB. Which made me laugh more. As blood began pooling. Ian declared that he didn't want my Hep C (which, for the record, I do not have. Nor do I have any transmittable diseases.) and I wrapped my thumb, which at this point was bleeding quite a bit, in toilet paper and held it over my head, which was hard because it's the same shoulder that had the ice pack on it and was aching from the accident...seriously.

In unrelated (and good!) news: I am now eligible for vacation time. I get ONE WEEK though the temp agency, and that's a week longer then I had anticipated ever getting. That means I get to go to NYC when this temp gig is over, assuming I don't get a full-time job here. HOOOORAY! Plus, I get paid holidays now! HOOORAY!

*(Speaking of which, you should watch Rescue Me. The first 4 seasons are free on Hulu. Susan Sarandon guest stars as a sort of painfully-awesome-who-I-aspire-to-be-one-day-except-for-the-kidnapping-part-type-lady.
)

whirrrrr chirp click.

2009-06-01T08:23:00.002-04:00

I am not good at sleeping through the night. I've never had the ability to fall trustfully into the arms of unconsciousness; like a high-school mandatory ropes course with people one doesn't trust, I jerk awake just before the fall. Mix in a restless Siamese roommate and the pushy and encroaching sun, and there you have a recipe for zombie living.

I tell myself "don't worry, self. You can sleep in! You work around the corner!" In this way, I tell myself lies. I hate lies.

Here is a piece of advise: if you are confused about why people do the things they do, you should ask me. I am always right, and I know why before they do. Or before they are prepared to admit it. I see through veils and armor, like x-ray vision. No one is safe from my gaze of fire. This is not arrogance, because it doesn't make my life any easier. But it is fact. I am Brooke. I have brown hair that is unruly and curly, my eyes are blue and see the truth.

If you wake up at 6 AM on a weekday and decide you deserve breakfast out, even though you have everything in your house for breakfast in, and don't have anyone to dress or feed or speak to gently in the morning, you might find yourself in a diner at 7:30, showered and prepared to face the day begrudgingly. And when you find yourself in that diner, I predict you will be the youngest person in the room, physically, by 40 years. But you have a book in your hand which speaks more truth and beauty then the mumbling man sipping water at the counter, whose queries the bubbly waitress patiently and consistently answers with one word responses. He has a camera phone. It confuses him, and her, and you are inspired by her kindness to him. It is all well and good to be kind and patient to the people who are respectful and gentle. It is a feat of moral strength to treat detached noise created by the grinding of weight of loneliness against the soul with grace.

Can you cover for me this week? I need to give myself time away that I cannot afford. I wish I had a robot who looked like me to take my place. No one would notice, not for a few days. I'd program it to occasionally and randomly spew historical facts about Egyptian royalty and no one would be the wiser. Akhenaten was Tutankhamen's father, and a heretic that worshiped the sun and the sun alone. I wish to follow in his footsteps, please. I need a weekend from my weekend.

I hope you saw the rainbow yesterday, in the midst of the wind and hail and rain. It all seemed terribly metaphoric.

I am going to close my eyes for 15 minutes. I don't care if it's a mistake. I make them all the time.

you will know me by the bustling winds I bring.

2009-05-31T18:10:00.002-04:00

I watched small ladies throw each other around today, and emerged to a short-lived, but impressive windstorm. I have always loved violent winds, somehow I relate to them. Nothing but air, destroying trees, rustling hair and whipping skirts around.

I'm glad I live in a place that affords me easy access to chocolate-covered ginger.

This is how I feel:

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when the 3 AMs are biting...

2009-05-30T02:43:00.003-04:00

I guess falling asleep at 9 was a mistake, she thinks at 3 AM. Which follows suit: making mistakes and ending up awake at 3 AM is something familiar.

Here is a picture of the crawfish etouffee at The Good Times Cafe in Hinesburg one rainy Saturday.

It was seriously good. I need to go back and eat some Key Lime Pie.

New mysterious ailment: hives! My right hand seems to be the epicenter. I need a bubble. Pronto. I am very good at not knowing my limits until my body starts rejecting itself.

I'm gonna start an Egyptian documentary and hope I fall asleep soon. Wedding dress shopping tomorrow. Don't worry. I'm not the one wearing it.

This is me, retreating into tombs of stones from the dark 3 AM of the troubled soul.

True Story

2009-05-19T07:27:00.009-04:00

I had been running in the park. For firsties, this is odd. I don't run. My knees are bad from dancing, and they have been known to get swollen, un-bendy and clickity when abused with high-impact strain. It feels like New York. I am in a little enclosure in the park: benches arranged in a circle. A dude walks in, tall and blonde and painfully handsome. He stands near the entrance and checks his watch. As I walk past him to continue on my run, he stops me.

"Hey." It is frenetic and desperate and, I could tell, also against his better judgment. Alright, I think. Let's see what he comes up with. I turn around and raise an eyebrow. "Um..." he pauses, suddenly unsure of himself. ..."a bird pooped on me today." He holds up his left arm. Sure enough, he has a suspicious grey stain on his arm.

"Really?" I said, pursing my lips, cocking my head to the side. "Bird shit is really the best you could come up with?" He smiles and shrugs.

"I panicked." I laugh. We exchange names. We exchange basic info, the type you give to a stranger in the park with bird shit on his sleeve. He suggests we take a load off on a bench. We transition from small-talk to thoughts, revealing tiny parts of ourselves in the process. 'Here's a bit of me, do you like it? Well then, here's a tiny bit more. ' Eventually, I put my feet on the bench and he wraps them around himself. It's comfortable, which surprises me; I have a pretty well-defined personal space bubble, and a pretty firm distrust of strangers invading it for any reason. It just felt right to have my legs curled around this strange man with bird shit on his arm.

Rounding a corner, I see M. She's my oldest friend, someone whose respect and feedback I am endlessly grateful for. She's got a solid head on her tiny shoulders. She sees me just as I spot her, and I realize how this must look, especially to someone who has known me for 25 years. Someone whom I had tea with last week, who knows I have no partner and no track record for public displays of affection. He can't see her, she's approaching from behind his field of vision. She and I make eye contact, and she gives me a very clearly communicated 'WTF?' look.

"Hey..." she says, her voice trails off in bemusement. He cranes his head. I can tell he's disappointed that I am letting someone else into our circle of benches. I can tell he's disappointed I am real, and come with ties to a world outside this enclosure in the park.

"This is my oldest friend M. I've known her since we were 5. We took dance class together, and she used to tease me about my baggy leotards." She shoots me a 'Dude, too much information, abort! ABORT!' look. I realize instantly that she is correct, and so was he. He was right in not wanting people to invade our bit of park. We put on a show when we're around friends; a different show every night. And before she arrived, with my legs curled around him, I had felt safe. I hadn't felt the need to put on a show. And I had felt him thawing in a similar manner. "And this is...Jessie..." He bristles, his forehead wrinkles and a I realize that I have let my mouth say words my brain had not yet gotten around to vetting. "Jamie. Ah. Fuck." I attempt to cover it with a laugh. It's higher-pitched then my usual laugh. A nervous cackle. It fools no one. M looks from me to him, eyebrow raised, attempting to figure out what was going on without breaking the boundary of having to ask.

"Hah. OK. Let's get tea soon, lady. Nice to meet you, Jamie!" She winked at me and continued on.

"Fuck, I'm sorry about that. I am horrifically bad with names. Embarrassingly bad," But I am digging myself deeper. It's not that I am so self-absorbed that I don't care about learning names; it's that I sense other peoples' uncomfortableness more intensely then normal folk do, and that makes me uncomfortable, and then I'm so focused on not doing something stupid that I don't stop to THINK before my mouth waggles on. It's a problem that I've been aware of for some time. But none of that matters. Defending myself and my failures is a purposeless battle. I am an asshole and I screwed up his NAME. And because of that, he's already figuratively left the building. I can feel it. He's deflated. I've disappointed him just like other women he once held hope and excitement for. I've done it. I've broken it. It had been warm and simple and comforting and comfortable, and I cracked it by letting my life in and then I broke it by being forgetful and insensitive and imperfect and I hate myself for it. I should have known better, at this point in my life.

*INTERMISSION* *

Suddenly, we're at a table outside with two elderly people. I think they might be his parents. Maybe a very trusted aunt and uncle. We'll assume parents at this point. He's nervous. I'm nervous. I was running in the park before, and now I'm being introduced to parents. There is a six pack of beer, which the father cracks open and pours for us into chilled glasses. There are three beers remaining when he's done this.

Another elderly couple approaches the table. They are old friends of the family, and haven't seen Jamie in a long time. They assume I am a Longtime Girlfriend, and that is not the case. No one corrects them, and that makes me feel legitimately cared for. I feel like time has passed since I met stranger with bird shit on his arm and incorrectly to my oldest friend, but I don't know how much time or how I wiggled my way out of misintroducing him.

The couple sits down at the table. Jamie's father cracks a beer and pours them both glasses. It's strange that we're outside (it feels like the park still) drinking beer from glasses with two elderly couples. I squeeze his knee. He grabs my little finger and gives it a quick "I know! I'm here! I'm experiencing this, too!" tug. Soon, we are out of beer. I notice how much more comfortable the parents seem with their friends there. I realize they were nervous around me, as much as I was around them. I decide this means they like me, or at least I intimidate them. I can work with that.

Jamie's father pours the last of the beer into a glass for the female half of the friend-couple.

"Oh, no, I couldn't!" She protests. She's slammed back two already. I somehow suspect she can. I've been nursing my glass of beer. It's cheap beer, Michelob or something that similarly appeals to both the elderly and hipster-set. The last people I want to introduce my Irish liver are his parents. But dammit, I'm thirsty, it's warm out. My mouth starts to get the tacky-nervous-dry-mouth feeling that tends to precipitate panic. Why am I never the type of person to bring a bottle of water with me wherever I go? And a pen? And a hair tie? And lip gloss? ARGH.

"Oh, now, Elaine." Jamie's dad says. "I just bet you can." She laughs, and I think how nice it is: the generational-specific ability to flirt with your friend's wife completely innocently. The trust in fidelity that used to be a given with marriage. She slides the half-filled glass toward him, he slides it to his wife, she slides it to Jamie. He slides it to me. We laugh, and I see his parents exchange a look. I assume it is about me. This is going well.

And that is when I wake up. Now I have a dream hangover, and feel like the old lady in Titanic. The End.

* Then there was a dream jump. I know now that these happen because you faze out of one REM cycle (Dream PART ONE) and into a NREM cycle where you don't dream. Happens every 2 hours or so. When you phase back into a REM, your brain sometimes tries to continue the story where it left off, but it forgets details that help continuity.

More Lost theories...

2009-05-18T15:10:00.005-04:00

I went thrift shopping this weekend. I purchased much golden costume jewelry (Egyptian Nights!), lots of baby clothes for my niece, and assorted treasures and gifts. I also aquired a totally sweet velvet painting of a matador, which the man who sold it to me got in 1967 in Mexico. He really wanted me to hear that.

SHW and I have been working on Lost theories.

For firsties, I was totally right about Taweret. Suck it, yall Egypt-haters! People snort, people scoff, people think I'm nuts, but damned if my obsessive infaturation with ancient history has relavance. I LOVE BEING RIGHT!
I found this while poking around looking for Egyptian stories I hadn't heard before. Sound familiar? Yeah. To me, as well.
SHW and I were discussing what ABC.com's recap describes as "the man in black." I don't think they're talking about Johnny Cash. Although it would be totally awesome if they could work Johnny Cash in there somewhere. And not in a Use-The-JC-Cover-Of-Hurt-To-Illustrate-Some-Loss way. Television dramas have ruined that song for me. Anyway, that made me try to remember my Bible school lessons on Jacob. See, Jacob was kind of a snake. His fraternal twin brother, Esau, was a hairy dude. And Esau liked to hunt. So Jacob waits till Esau is hunting, throws the hide of an animal around him so that their blind father, Isaac, will think Jacob is hairy old Esau. It works, Isaac blesses Jacob instead of Esau, and Esau vows to kill Jacob. More evidence the Man in Black is Esau: when "Locke" first appears to the Ajira Air survivors, he is carrying a boar on his back, which he flops to the ground while saying "I brought dinner." There is some debate on the translation an interpretation of the story, Esau might have sold his birthright to Jacob, he might have been starving at the time, and Jacob might have been an opportunitst in that sense. Additionally, post-the-death-of-Isaac, Esau and Jacob still went on hating eachother. I've heard theories that ideologically, this is the basis of the Israel/Palestine conflict: Palestinians see themselves as decentants of Esau, who was screwed out of his rightful inheritance by Jacob, who was sneaky and greedy. I've also read anthropolic theories as this being the basis of the stereotype of Jews being sneaky and greedy: an old testement story. Additionally, from Esau's Wikipedia article:
In the Book of Jubilees (which is neither part of the Jewish nor most Christian canons), Esau's father, Isaac, compels Esau to swear not to attack or kill Jacob after Isaac has died. However, after the death of Isaac, the sons of Esau convince their father to lead them, and hired mercenaries, against Jacob in order to kill Jacob and his family and seize their wealth, (especially the portion of Isaac's wealth that Isaac had left to Jacob upon his death). In the ensuing battle, Jacob kills Esau with an arrow. The sons of Jacob then defeat the rest of the attackers despite overwhelming odds.
Some of the sons of Esau are spared, but they are sworn to serve and pay fealty to Jacob.
I wish I could make a living interpreting the classical Mythological influences on modern television.

In which I nerd out about Lost and Egypt

2009-05-14T07:41:00.003-04:00

I can't figure out how to make jump-links in blogger. I'm sorry. If you don't care about Lost or Egypt, you shouldn't be my friend and you shouldn't read this. Love, me.

So here's what I've been up to: being an Egypt nerd. My Netflix queue is filled ONLY with Egyptian documentaries, I have two purses which I alternate between (one big, one little) both of which are covered in suitably historically accurate Egyptian art, I wear at least one piece of Egyptian-themed jewelry a day (usually many more, they were not a minimalist people), and I spend my down time at work reading up on Pharaonic history and attempting to wrap my mouth around the harder-to-pronounce names. (Hatshepsut is a MOUTHFUL) I own two pairs of golden sandals. I do not fuck around, yall.

This all started when I was 12 or so and took an Egyptian art class at the Fleming Museum. My mother, who learned to drive at age 35 and has a driving "phobia" would get over it once a week to drive me to the museum. I loved it. I got to look at the mummified cat the Fleming keeps hidden, and learned to read hieroglyphs. Ish. At least some of them. When we used to visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art, as a teenager, I remember politely requesting that my family continue onto the rest of the museum and leave me in the Egyptian wing, staring blissfully at the Temple of Dendur.

All this is to say: this Egypt obsession ain't new. I just knew it was nerdy to passionately care about something you have no real cultural tie to, so I shut up for, like 13 years. As with so many other facets of my life recently, I'm tired of shutting up, and as I approach my 30th later this year, I am beginning to really not give a flying fuck about the judgement of others. Like, for real. Not like when I used to be a punk in high school.

So. Anyway. Last night, SHW and I melted a pound of cheese, and dipped delicious bread and potatoes and MOZZARELLA STICKS DIPPED IN BUFFALO WING SAUCE (that's right! Double dip, suckas!) into the molten-hot-smokey-delicious cheese. And watched Lost. And within the first 5 minutes, we see what the four-toed statue used to look like. I took screen shots.

So we've got what appear to be ankhs in either hand. That's not too helpful, the ankh was the symbol of eternal life, and generally appears everywhere you see Gods, because mostly what we have left are funerary tombs. Which obviously are focusing on eternal life. But Wikipedia says...

The ankh appears frequently in Egyptian tomb paintings and other art, often at the fingertips of a god or goddess in images that represent the deities of the afterlife conferring the gift of life on the dead person's mummy; this is thought to symbolize the act of conception.

OK, now that gets interesting. Cause Jacob lives in that statue. Like a physical embodiment of whatever whomever made that statue is. The island is life, Jacob is the island, the island is life everlasting. Or something. I dunno, Rose was looking pretty good three years after she crashed and was dying of cancer.

So the statue isn't holding any identifying objects in its hand. Without a full-frontal, I'm gonna say that head looks like one of the two animals Egyptians had to contend sharing the Nile with: Crocodiles and Hippos. (Fun fact: did you know that more people are killed by Hippo attacks in Africa yearly then any other animal attacks? They have bigass, venomous snakes, and cats the size of dogs, and the aforementioned crocs. Nope. HIPPOS. They're territorial and mean as hell.)
The obvious alternate to these two would be the jackal-god, Anubis, who judged souls in the Underworld. Don't piss off Anubis. But the primary physical feature of all representations of him are the large ears a jackal would need to cool itself in the desert heat. And that statue has dinky ears.

So we've got the croc-god, Sobek. He was worshiped as a god with control over the water, especially dark waters. When stupid Set cut up his brother Osiris and scattered his body parts, Sobek gathered them from the river in a net and returned them to Osiris's wife Isis, so she could copulate (ew, I know...) and conceive Horus, who then engaged Set in a war to avenge his father's death, resulting in the loss of Horus's eye and Set's testicle. No. Really. Look it up. Anyway, Horus and Sobek were pretty tight, because Sobek helped Horus's mom bone his father's dead body parts. In mythological terms, they call Sobek a "consort" of Horus, who later became a sun/sky god. Someone already edited the Wikipedia article on Sobek to credit the statue with his likeness. I'm not sure about all that, because I think it would be more neato if it was...

TAWERAT. She is a hippo-goddess. Get this: she's worshiped as a goddess of evil AND fertility. How awesome is that? Most likely, it's because hippos are super territorial, and momma hippos are especially mean when their babies are perceived to be in danger. But as a fertility goddess, she's sort of knocked-up looking and the statue looks thin-hipped, and not preggers. Dammit. I had this whole grand theory about how the Incident caused the statue to tumble, causing the women to be unable to bring babies to term because the fertility statue was gone.

So yeah. Looks like Sobek. I will say this: when they show the inside of the temple, I've paid close attention to the glyphs on the wall, and they aren't realistically Egyptian. There are a couple symbols which are close, but with a show that is SO detailed and researched, I find it hard to believe they'd puss out on that. So yeah, the ankh means the statue is undoubtedly Egyptian-inspired, but I think the lack of accurate glyphs means that Egyptians weren't responsible. That's my theory. Yep.

Hooray Hooray!

2009-05-08T07:08:00.004-04:00

My friends are smart and creative and make things that are pretty to the eye and the ear. Also, it should be noted, they are all GOOD LOOKING. I'm in there, and I that's me you hear singing the girl-parts.

Many moons ago, some neighbors of my mom had a problem. Their daughters had chickens for a 4H project, and since the coop was unheated, they had survived the winter in the basement. Chickens are stinky. You want them out of your basement ASAP. Problem is, the coop was about 20 feet from the basement door. Doesn't sound like a lot, unless you are attempting to transport chickens. Whilst discussing this problem with my mother, a plan was hatched. (hah). They would have a party and line the pathway from the basement door to the coop with people, thus forming a human barricade. Then they would just parade the chickens into the coop. At some point, they realized they needed a reason to get people to their house to act as a human barricade, because that doesn't sound fun. Thus Chicken Day was born.

Growing up, I thought it was a real holiday. In the second grade, I asked the other school children (all of whom were related to each other, and all of whom hated me) where they were going for Chicken Day. They just thought I was nuts. It sure SEEMED like a real holiday. Every year, we'd dress in chicken-related costume (puns are always high on the list). When I was 11, I was King Cluck, and tried to make a King Tut headdress. (My love of Egypt maaaaay have started then). We'd go to the Porters' house, where we observed the Chicken Law that Mrs. Porter and my mother had come up with. As creators of the holiday, or "Chicken Mothers" as they insist on being addressed, they were allowed to add or subtract anything from the holiday at will. Generally, stuff was just added.

There is the traditional Chicken Day greeting ("Jolly Chicken Day!") The traditional Chicken Day dietary restrictions (Absolutely no chicken can be consumed. It is a day to honor chickens. Eggs, however are fair game and eaten in omelet form. Chicken Day is a pro-choice holiday.) There are Chicken Caroles, which used to be part of a Chicken Show. One year my sister and her friends constructed a giant paper egg which Kym LEAPED through dramatically to start the show. It was impressive.

There is the traditional Chicken game: Alaskan Chicken. The rules are explained to newbies as such: "Just follow the rest of your flock." But, by far, the most important part of Chicken Day is the Chicken Question.

See, my mother's fellow Chicken Mother is Jewish, my mother thinks she's Jewish, and Chicken Day (after the 4H chickens were long-gone) so the Chicken Question is derived from the Passover Questions. But Chicken Day is a creative holiday. Generally, the question is found on a basket with small slips of paper and a few pencils inside. You ponder the question (generally something philosophical) and answer anonymously with an appropriate Chicken-related answers. Here, again, puns are encouraged. After an appropriate amount of time, everyone is gathered around in a circle, and the answers are read aloud...and judged by the crowd. There is booing, answers are dismissed by being thrown over the question-reader's shoulder...it can get pretty harsh. The answers that get the most positive reaction are placed in a pile, and voted on by audience applause, tournament fashion. Eventually, a winner is selected and they are forced to stand and acknowledge their feat.

For the first time in a very long time, my mother has decided to resurrect Chicken Day this year. My sister and her family have to move to Virginia in August, and my mom wants to make sure my niece, who is ONE, gets to experience her first Chicken Day while she's still babyish. It's been a rough few years for my family, but everyone seems to be fairly stable now. It's time for Chicken Day.

Mom called me last night and asked me to take on a mighty mantle of responsibility: coming up with the Chicken Question. The best question, one that has been done repeatedly is "Why DID the chicken cross the road?" People quote Nietzsche, puns are everywhere, etc. I don't want to go old-hat. I need a new question. This is what I am pondering these days. Suggestions are appreciated!

Jolly Chicken Day to you!

2009-05-06T16:51:00.004-04:00

Things have been extra full of suckage lately. I know it’s not realistic, I know compared to the majority of humanity, I am living high on the hog. However:
• The only job I can get is a fucking receptionist job. A good receptionist job, but still. It’s embarrassing. It’s bordering on humiliating. I feel useless.
• My car decided to up and require $400 worth of repairs. Between that, and the money I’ve spent LIVING for the past two months with no steady income, I have depleted the money that was supposed to send me to India for my 30th birthday. I really shouldn’t be surprised, it was stupid of me to expect to be able to do anything awesome for any of my birthdays ever.
• My landlord, who cashed last month’s rent on April 20th, cashed this month’s check on May 5th. I sent him the check before the car repair business, and stupidly assumed I’d be OK until Friday because he took three fucking weeks to cash the check last month. Nope. Now I’m $200 in the hole, and accruing OD charges daily. Fuck.
• I am confused about 90 things in my life right now, and feel paralyzed when I consider acting on any of that confusion. I am tired of being the one to have to resolve shit. All. The. Time.

Obviously, for all of these whiny reasons, I am no fun to be around lately. I’ve been hiding in my apartment, which is horrifically messy. Like filthy. And the thought of actually CLEANING is so overwhelming that every time I’ve donned my little vintage cleaning apron and strapped on the gloves, I start hyperventilating and have to sit down. I almost fainted Sunday.

In short, I am a mess in every sense of the word. SHW and I have made a deal: if I kick him in his face, he will kick me in my ribs. We feel this will make both of us feel better.

I am tired of talk talk talk. I stop listening to words when mouths open and close and open and close and no action emerges from them. I am tired of being tired. I am tired of me. I am tired of my toes, and my hair follicles. I am tired of fighting, and I imagine I’d get bored without the fight. I want nothing more then to be left alone, and when the house is so quiet that I can hear the people laughing on the street, I feel abandoned and discarded. I know nothing I feel is real. I know nothing I touch is permanent. Best part: I’m not even original.

Symptom Recital
By Dorothy Parker

I do not like my state of mind;
I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn's recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the gentlest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I'd be arrested.
I am not sick, I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me any more.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men....
I'm due to fall in love again.

achoo.

2009-04-14T22:26:00.003-04:00

I dislike it when I have to sneeze and can't. It's like suffocating, but without the death.

Like a purgatory in your nose.

And then after a moment,

it is gone.
And almost suddenly, it's like it never existed.

Sorry I've all but abandoned this. I feel bad. I've kept a diary of some form or another with regularity since 2002. And I have diaries I started when I was 8. Usually, they say "Dear Diary. Nothing much happened today." I'm throwing stuff up on the tumblr blog.

I wish I was as brave as I expect others to be.

If you can play the piano, and want to be my accompiantist for Dolly Parton's Single Women, let me know.

Royal! Art! Lodge!

2009-04-04T00:39:00.003-04:00

I'm playing with dork toys. As such, I made a Tumblr blog. I think I'll just throw stuff in there that I find on the interwebs: links, art, stories and the like. I like Tumblr. It's satisfying as hell. I sort of freaked out about Royal Art Lodge, and am now going to attempt to find out WHY there are not prints of them all. ALL. Go ahead and add it to your RSS feed and remove it when I post too much.

I know it's predictable, I know it's understandable and I know it makes total sense. Things just seem exciting lately. Maybe I like instability. Maybe I like chaos and financial insecurity. Because I sure as hell have been happy, and ridiculously busy the last three days. Doing not-much. Note to self: I do need a real job because I do need vacation time because I do need regular vacations. Not long. Three days. le sigh.

I had two interviews this week. That's all I wanna say about that. Other then I fear rejection.

I went to bed at 3 AM. And woke up at 7:30 AM. Shhhh...little me. You're unemployed again. It's time to reset that internal clock. No nap, walkwalk talk talk book book baby baby, home again. And I've been clicking on art for a few hours and suddenly it's 1 AM and I haven't had a nap and am running on 4 hours sleep and oh, also: Mares was right about muscle cars AND MMA fights.

I got sunburned yesterday.

Oh, also: there was this 'incident' last weekend involving a stomach flu and me and yada yada yada, I'm in a hospital gown, making biscuts into an Umbra trash can, (my idea of a perfect vomit bowl) getting 2 pints of fluid and painkillers through an IV. It's a funny story. Have a cup of coffee with me in the middle of the work week and let's chat.

Crankies

2009-03-21T12:55:00.003-04:00

Every year in March, I get cranky. The entire winter is about surviving until this time...and it gets here, and it's spring, and it's glorious, and I am cranky. It makes no sense. It just is.

I've watched this video four times today as a result.

Fire Wedding - video powered by Metacafe

Over and over again. I want to be engulfed in flames with my husband on our wedding day! That, right there, is ROMANCE.

Egyptian Nights is coming along nicely as a theme. I have many, many deliveries expected.

I never want to be in a position of power. I just want to be the consligeri to those in power. Consligeri Burger! WOO!

Introducing my summer theme...NILE NIGHTS!

2009-03-18T15:13:00.003-04:00

What I need:

a litter
4 to 6 robust gentlemen to carry me around on said litter. For historical accuracy, I am leaning toward a posse of handsome Jewish men.
A hairless cat. Petunia will not be happy about this.
A pyramid built in my honor so that I may live out my afterlife in PEACE, for Ra's sake.
Goldgoldgold! And wheat!
A rug to roll myself in with which I will have the litter-bearers carry me about in when I want to make a particularly scandalous and dramatic entrance somewhere. They will unfurl me while trumpeting my arrival.

What it looks like to walk home from work for no reason.

2009-03-17T18:25:00.012-04:00

Well, I got laid off. I've been a temp there since June, and I knew this was a likelihood. I lasted three months longer then my end-date, so that's something. But my boss likes me, and we had discussed the possibility of this happening, and I had asked for notice, so he gave me till the end of the month as of yesterday.

So now I have employment for two and a half weeks, but there's a flipside: it's hard to do something menial when you know you're out. I have senioritis.

To feel less whiny and apathetic, I walked home tonight. If you don't live in Burlington...I am sorry for you. It was sunny and 50 and perfect. Slight breeze off the icy lake was brisk and made me feel alive.

Things I saw:
A tree that gave me vertigo to look up at its branches. I think it was the shadows.

Decorative marsh grasses that always make me want to brush my face against their softness. Is this a milkweed pod? I don't think so. I'm not sure what they are, but I did not want to brush my cheek with them.
One of his friends:

HI!
The lake is not yet warm.

There is a tree near my house which has produced baby toys instead of buds. There are three in this picture. Can you find them?

I'm gonna be just fine.

Just when you thought I couldn't get any hotter...

2009-03-10T10:58:00.016-04:00

Hot on the heels of high-necked collars and Boca Raton chic, I've settled on a new fashion scavenger-hunt: vintage Swedish clogs.

Why, you may ask? Good question.
1.) I love all things Swedish.
nuff said.
2.) I love comfort. As a tall lady, heels have never been my bag. Add 3 inch heels to me, and I'm 6 feet tall. I feel like I'm about to destroy Tokyo in heels. As a result, I've never been very nimble in heels. I also have a low tolerance for women who wear stupid heels despite their inability to walk in them...it just feels too foot-binding-ish to me. Combine all these elements, and you have me in flats most of the time. Occasionally, I'll wear low heels, or vintage pumps.
3.) They're so ugly, they're sort of cute. Kind of like manatees and platypai.

4.) Evidence as to why this will be the next hipster trend that is ripped out of my heart and thrown against the wall of Urban Outfitters:
a.) Celebrities are on-board.
b.) They're really hard to find. Like diamonds, or pink dolphins. At least in my size (a healthy 9 - 9.5, thanks for asking...) My theory is that because the last time they were OK was the 70s, people wore them until they literally fell apart. I've been scouting specific brands: so far my favorite is Olof's Daughter, which was sold out of a tiny shop in the West Villiage back in the day. I really wish these had backs, or that I had discovered the ebay auction they were sold in ONE EFFING DAY EARLIER. c.) If you can find them new and cute, they're not cheap. Just like hookers. These puppies retail for between $150 and $200. I'm uncomfortable paying that much for shoes I can only wear 3 months out of the year. Rats. Cause I really heart them. Apparently, they sell them at Sweet Lady Jane (finally, my cyberstalking skills are turned toward inanimate objects, and is therefore a skill and not a creepy quirk...) so I miiiiiight have to ask Raquel about that.
d.) But wait! Etsy! I miiiiiight end up buying these. Cause they're a little bit Swedish, and a little bit Transformers and a little bit cute and a little bit awesome. I wish I could try them on. They are sold like this.

See those little brads on the side? Those hold loops. And with those loops, you can take some ribbon (provided) and do whatever the hell you want with them.
e.) The old standbys still hold strong.ooooor I might break down and go for the brand that I know are gonna be walkable and comfy. Dansko: beloved by nurses and waitresses everywhere.
Or I might save my pennies and go to India. Maybe you should buy them for me.

PS:

I wish to own a hedgehog, so that I may name it Rilke.

2009-02-26T14:37:00.003-05:00

I am too alone in the world, and yet not alone enough
to make every hour holy.
I am too small in the world, and yet not tiny enough
just to stand before you like a thing,
dark and shrewd.
I want my will, and I want to be with my will
as it moves towards deed;
and in those quiet, somehow hesitating times,
when something is approaching,
I want to be with those who are wise
or else alone.
I want always to be a mirror that reflects your whole being,
and never to be too blind or too old
to hold your heavy, swaying image.
I want to unfold.
Nowhere do I want to remain folded,
because where I am bent and folded, there I am lie.
And I want my meaning
true for you. I want to describe myself
like a painting that I studied
closely for a long, long time,
like a word I finally understood,
like the pitcher of water I use every day ,
like the face of my mother,
like a ship
that carried me
through the deadliest storm of all.
- Rainer Maria Rilke
The Book of Hours
_________________________________________

I've been sick, I've been social. I'm not saying the two are connected, but I'm not saying they're not. I'm just observing two events.

For two days in a row, I've managed to peel a naval orange (NOT a tangerine or clemintine, those are easy) in one continuous peel. I am not saying this is a skill, I'm just observing two events.

My Real Astrology horoscope this week quoted Rilke. Then, in the car on the way back buying myself a Taco Bell taco salad (shut up, they make me happy, and I'm sick and deserve to be happy) Rilke was quoted on an NPR show about spirituality and depression. I've always liked that Rilke. Did you know that his mother used to dress him up in girls' clothes because his elder sister had died as a baby? True story. So yeah. Two Rilke references within an hour of each other. I'm not saying it's a sign, I'm just observing two coincidences.

I wish to curl into a ball,
warm and safe.
I have the evolutionary instincts of a hedgehog.

Bob Z is the kindest man alive.

2009-02-23T10:26:00.005-05:00

I had a whirlwind social weekend. Friday night: impromtu dance party. I did an improvised routine to Prince's Kiss, which (and I don't think I'm being dense or vain) was sort of amazing. Prince was made to pop and lock to. Saturday I got gussied with my Best Wing Chicks and slinked about town in a skirt that Joan Holloway would approve of. The night ended with Retronome. It was adorable.

Yesterday, I cupped coffee with some gays. It was one of the most interesting things I've done in a long time. I learned lots about how coffee is harvested, dried, roasted, stored and ground DRAMATICALLY changes the flavor. I have a sensitive palate, for I am delicate little flower.

Then scurry scurry home again. Makeup makeup hairhair what shall I wear? It's OSCAR night. I settled on two nightgowns on top of each other, which I decided equaled one dress. Champagne, Bollywood dance of joy, laughlaugh, string theory, and an hour of Roseanne. Best weekend in a long, long time.
BOB Z FOR PRESIDENT OF AWESOMELAND!

symetery of stillness

2009-02-14T00:52:00.002-05:00

...and in all things
and all places,
I remain
full
and
rich.

two moments of jumpy zen.

2009-02-10T08:02:00.001-05:00

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Holy cow.

2009-02-09T19:30:00.004-05:00

So I was bored last night, and I have Netflix, and I a documentary called :
Heavy Metal in Baghdad

I don't care what your stance on politics is. I don't care if you don't like Metal (although I will judge you for that opinion, I'm not gonna lie) or not. This is a human story unlike any other I've ever experianced. These dudes are DUDES. They're also dudes who shred. They're not what we envision when we think of Iraqi refugees, a relatively new population to the area, in which Burlington and Winooski are designated Refugee resettlement areas.

When the Ohavi Zedek Synagogue Thrift Store is open, it's a gift. The clothes are great, and the woman who is generally there to run it, Kay, is sassy and awesome. The first time I went, a young man, pregnant woman and young child in a stroller were shopping as well. The wife's English was shy and very broken, and the husband struggled to understand Kay's questions. They were there shopping for sweaters, hats, anything to keep warm. That was in the fall.

At one point, the husband went outside to smoke a cigarette. Kay asked him how he liked America.
"Good! Good! America: much better then Iraq."
"And how do you feel about President Bush?"
" President Bush! Good!" And Kay smiled and said
"I really should know better then to discuss politics here..." under her breath.
"They're just telling Americans what they think we want to hear." At one point, she was explaining to the husband what this place was, a Synagogue. A church for Jews. He seemed very surprised.

The members of Acrassicauda don't fit the stereotype of "refugees", and that's because they AREN'T foreign. Their accents are American, they love metal, and they're DUDES. And, as of Feb 5th, they're living in Elizabeth, NJ. And they met Metallica. And to that, I say...shit. Well, ain't THAT America?

I'm also contacting the Vermont Refugee Resettlement Program. There's plenty of families who need help, and I'm tired of feeling helpless.

I breathe, and the colors become part of me.

2009-02-07T09:45:00.003-05:00

Recent events have rubbed me raw. And I'm not sure it's a bad thing. When I was searching, and young, and wide-of-eye, I read Buddhist teachings. I read "Life is Suffering." I thought: what a strange concept, to admit that the bad is as much a part of life as the good. To give it equal weight, to expect it and not fight against it. To live peacefully next to your demons, instead of endlessly fighting them. What a quiet, peaceful way to live.

I've been numb for a long time. I'm not sure how long, because I can't remember the last time it felt OK to feel this open. I do what everyone does, cope as best as I can, with the skills I have acquired, and the support of of the people who love me. Sometimes, they love me for the potential they see in me, the person they think I can become. It's flattering, but I like it better when they love me for all of my broken pieces, glued back together. Cracks showing, glue unevenly distributed. I'll say this now: I wish to be loved for my flaws, not in spite of them.

I like asking people about their scars. Not because stories of woundings interest me, but because stories of healing interest me. The path a person has taken to journey to the position they are, that interests me.

Things:

Petrova is the best pet hat-bunny a girl could ask for. In typical Russian form, she asks for nothing and her silence fills the room.
I have begun ordering vintage clothes off Ebay so that there are presents waiting for me when I arrive home at night. I have a new favorite sweater.
I like listening to The Beat Authority when I drive to the bank on Fridays. Don't worry. I'm still not a hippie. It's just a solid show. Yesterday, he played Jens Lekman. His over-pronunciation of names is annoying, but the music is solid and varied, but almost across-the-board good.
Buffalo Mozzarella Sticks are the best thing. Ever. In the world.
The Ted Bundy Wikipedia article is damned interesting. He was a sneaky pete. Seriously. I don't want to ruin the surprise: just read it. Ian and I have dubbed it February of Serial Killer movies.
I jump off cliffs. I used to think that meant I was impulsive. Now I think it's evidence that I do believe in a faith, different then a devotion to a god. Mine is faith in the universe, faith that what will be will be. And feeling raw, open and utterly alive on the way down...it's worth testing faith. Always.

Oh, Sparky. I know how you feel.

2009-02-05T23:30:00.004-05:00

Ladies and gentlemen: Meet the little lady I'm gonna call Sparky.

Careful, Sparky. Never trust them when they tell you lightning never strikes twice.

If you catch me crying, don't go and think it was about you. Just buy me Buffalo Mozzarella sticks and say "the storm's gotta let up eventually, eh?"And I'll make a brave face and sort of laugh and sniffle a little and you'll pretend you never caught me crying and we'll tell each other stories. OK? Thanks.

This what today was like...

2009-01-28T21:42:00.004-05:00

2009-01-25T10:24:00.004-05:00

This week, I bought one faux-fur mad bomber hat...
...and was given a real fur hat. As a vegetarian for 13 years, it sort of settles strangely in my morality. On the one hand, I'm steadfastly opposed to fur. On the other hand, it came from Russia, so they're pinko-commie bunnies. On the other hand, should the political affiliation of bunnies reflect upon their right to life? On the other hand, typing the phrase "right to life" made me gag a little in my mouth, like when you have a hair stuck in your throat. I didn't pay for the hat, it was inherited, it's pretty and warm, and I feel like Anna Karenina when I wear it. Go ahead. Call me a hypocrite. I'll just fold down the ear flaps and won't be able to hear you. TAKE THAT. It's super heavy and sort of gives me a headache to wear it, so I'm not sure I'll be doing that much, anyway. I still love it.

In other non-hat related news, I got my pair of gen-u-ine sailor pants in the mail this week. They're wool and have 13 buttons and no zippers and are extraordinarily hard to remove when one needs to do one's business. I don't know how sailors do it. But so far, I've worn then 4 times this week, and so I guess that means I love them. I even wore them to the Rough Francis show on Friday, which was in a basement two blocks away from me. It was a very Burlington event, where everyone comes out of the woodwork and brings their own cheap beer which they hide in corners and SHW almost got violated by a groupie. True story.

Sorry that's short and shakey, but I had to jump around and pump my fist wildly. Had to. After a 2 hour nap at 7 PM, it didn't look like I was in the mood to fall asleep ever. So SHW and I went to Denny's at 3:45 AM. I had Mozzerella sticks and a strawberry shake. He had a Western Burger. It comes with BBQ sauce on it.

In other news, I was woken up this morning by my downstairs neighbors blasting Puff the Magic Dragon at 9:30 on a Sunday. I hate loud neighbors. If you can't afford to live in a house, then you can't afford to be loud. Case closed.

Also, I just spent some quality time reading everything that has been posted at I Bang the Worst Dudes. Amazing. I feel like whenever anyone gives me that pitying "Oh, poor single thing. All alone in the big, cold world..." look, I'll just give them this website and say "Trust me. I'm making the right decision."

In which I talk about fear. (part 74)

2009-01-19T17:23:00.002-05:00

It's hard for my mind to grasp with that fact that today -- Martin Luther King's birthday -- and tomorrow,--Obama's Inuguration-- are back-to-back. I am a good New Englander, one who anticipates the worst when things are at their best. We fear the turning of Fortuna in the North East. And right now...things feel like they make sense in this country again. This makes me nervous.

When I was 16 and went to Germany (stop me if I've told you this one before) the group of us, half American and half German went to the town hall in Hannover. It had been a munitions city durring World War II, and the tour went like this...
"ZZZZee bwitcks for this chwurch come fwom the nowrthern bwick aweas in Germany..." (yes, the tour guide sounded like the minister in The Princess Bride...) and then "ZZZITH chwurch was bwilt in 1444 and was DWEESTROYED by the Allied Fworces in 1942." We went to 5 different churches in Hannover that had differnt "Built a long-ass time ago" and "destroyed in the late 40s" dates, but their stories remained the same. At some point I mumbled "Well, to be fair, they were NAZIS at the time..." to my friend.

Anyhoo, we're in the town hall in Hannover, and they have this scale map of city. Lots of them. One from Hannover, circa 1400 or so, and one of Hannover right before WWII, before the lake that Hilter commissioned was human-dug as part of their social initiative, and one right after the war. The city has been completely leveled. Destroyed. But there's a new lake there.

My friend Nikki and I were standing, looking at Hannover 1945 with a German student who insisted upon us calling him "Putzi." Nikki shook her head.
"That's a shame," she said. Daniel, cheerful, bright, most definately a closeted homosexual at age 16, said very sharply, and in very crisp English
"No, it's not. It's their own godammed fault." Nikki looked at me quickly, and sort of frightened of the can of worms she'd just opened. The whole time we were in Germany, or the German students came here, we had never discussed the question which had always been burning in me: "How do you have pride in your nationality, pride in the society you choose to place yourself, when you can't have pride in the actions of your government?" But, because I'm slick, I said "Can I ask you about that? How is it to be a German and see this kind of destruction? To know that is a part of your history?" And Putzi shook his head, and at first I thought he was angry at the question...
"It makes me ashamed. These people, my grandmother and grandfathers, what that generation did took away my right to ever be truly proud to be German. They stole that from me. It disgusts me."

And that was a mind-blowing concept for me, an American, to be confronted with. My parents were lefty-liberals from New York City who moved to Vermont in the 70s to wear overalls and grow a beard. (OK, that was just my dad...) My dad is a Vietnam War vet, has a healthy distrust of the government as a result, and my mom is a deeply empathetic person who raised me to FEEL for other people. But I couldn't imagine what it must be like to not feel proud to be your nationality. It's so something we are raised with, especially if you grew up in a small town where the 4th of July is still the only parade in town all year.

Well, here we are 12 years later. And I can't believe, starting tomorrow, I get to be proud again. I get to point to my leader and go "Yeah. That dude. He was my dude." I have trust in the voters in this country again.

My favorite image from Election Night was this one, of Jesse Jackson crying.
This is the man who heard Martin Luther King's last words before he was shot. And a moment like that makes me appreciate how effective a movement can be. And it makes me proud to be an American, and not in a Johnny Couger way.

But as a good New Englander, that warm, glowey "Hey, they're not all homophobic, racist, bigotted assholes, from Jersey to LA!" doesn't last long. Soon, I'm thinking "OK, realistically. Manna is not going to fall from the sky here. Lions, likely, will not be laying down with the lambs. And no, it is not the Age of Aquarius." We, the embittered, liberal, media-controlling middle class have perhaps won a battle, but we're still engaged in a cold war.

History will have to record that the greatest tragedy of this period of social transition was not the strident clamor of the bad people, but the appalling silence of the good people. - Martin Luther King, Jr.

A Group Project!

2009-01-16T19:29:00.007-05:00

Ladies, gentlemen, CHILDREN OF ALL AGES. Gather round, because today I feel like revealing...party MAAAAAGIC!

It's been a fall-back conversational topic at parties or bars where I find myself trapped by an uncomfortable conversation lull; an escape hatch of a question. I have a few of these secret-weapon-questions up my sleeve, and maybe if you are friends with me long enough, you'll learn the others. This one obviously isn't appropriate for all (or most) social dynamics, but in certain situations, it's just what you need to break the "we know each other well enough to THEORETICALLY have something to talk about with each other, but are not familiar enough yet to just LAUNCH into personal detail" level of polite conversation.

Today's lesson:
"You know, I've been trying to come up with a good stalker mixed CD." pause for nervous laughter. "No, no. Not for any REASON, you sillies. Just because I heard a song the other day and thought 'LORD! I wonder if anyone has ever LISTENED to the words to this song? I mean, it's SUPER WEIRD..." insert example here. Look seekingly toward the person immediately to your left for backup. This is why one should always check to be sure the person to your immediate left be a young person of whatever your sexual preference, ideally one whom is looking to raise their own status in your eyes, by impressing you with their superior twisted wit. They will leap in, eagerly, and throw their own example of a CREEPY STALKER SONG into the circle.

Use your own examples, optimally. But if you get really frozen, try some of mine:

(Ok, that last one is just mildly creepy, but I am unapologetic about it making me want to weep every time I hear it. Seriously.)

Followed by another! Phew! Uncomfortable silence avoided. Notice how people are lively and telling stories of their own too-attentive-former-mistakes and laughing. Pat yourself on the back. Another awkward silence defeated. You're welcome, America. (leave your own suggestions in the comments. And no being OBVIOUS. The Police, Blondie, and ABBA are all too easy.)

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2008-12-23T20:55:00.003-05:00

I've been full of good ideas lately.

You know those shirtless pictures of our super-hot president-elect frolicking in the surf of Hawaii? (WE HAVE A SUPER HOT PRESIDENT, YALL!) It inspired me. White House Swimsuit Calendar. I mean, Rahm Emanuel used to be a ballet dancer. You KNOW he's ripped. This is how we end the recession. Sex sells.
I'm not sure, but I came up with a pretty amazing idea for the most amazing candy ever. More on that later, after some trial runs.
Man, I had more updates, but I can't remember them.

Today is Festivus. I'm probably the only dork in America who remembers the date of Festivus. I wish I had an aluminum pole to decorate.

Ian, Meara and I got silly and watched Maury last night. "Well, we FOUND that Asian man..." might be the best line of television dialogue I've ever heard.

Way anti-climatic though, right? So we never get to find OUT who the Baby Daddy is? LAME.

I just called my mom's, where both my sisters currently are. Apparently, Maya's crawling has reached new heights, and the cat is terrified of her. BEST CHRISTMAS EVER.

Fine. Presents now. Shut up.

I'm staying at my mom's house this year. That has caused a good deal of strife to be thrown around. I've done my best to avoid getting struck by the strife, but unfortunately, some causalities have been sustained. On the plus side, I get to hang out with my mom, which will be awesome.

I am anxious. It's probably because I haven't wrapped my Christmas presents. I started, and then Christmas in Hollis came on, and I had to dance around my livingroom for a while.

Then I was tired.

And by "started" what I mean is I took all of the presents from the hall (there's not even that many, it's been a REALLY slim year. I think that's why I'm putting this off, because I'm embarrassed) and put them in a pile in the livingroom. Then Run DMC interrupted my work. Jerks.

For someone who lived there a measly 6 months, I have an alarmingly degree of excitement about anything regarding Queens. LIC REPREEEEENT.

2008-12-15T20:31:00.005-05:00

Oh, MYSPACE. Just when I've counted you out, you give me the gift of Limited.

Clicking on these images will make them larger, so you can appreciate the full awesomeness that is Limited, and his car. From three angles.

I went ice skating yesterday. It was supposed to be like The Cutting Edge, but gayer. Except Glen totally showed me up. It's been 10 years since I was on skates...but STILL. I was WEAK. And today I hurt more then I should. Not because I fell (which I did NOT) but I had forgotten how much skating isolates certain muscles in one's legs. Which, apparently, have atrophied since I was 8 on the back pond. I need to whip my instep into SHAPE.
In short, I had mad fun.

In a month, my job might be ending. The reality of this hit me today. In other words: I've been better. But I'm talking to my boss later this week to suss out the situation, and I'm going to attempt to stop crying uncontrollably until then. I'm taking good steps to take care of myself this week, and that feels...responsible.

Monkeys!

2008-12-12T22:46:00.002-05:00

Hi. I've been sick. I got new antibiotics, but I left them at work. Because I'm silly, is why. Now they're trapped in the snowboard prison, until I try breaking in to get them out. It'll be just like the greatest episode of Charlie's Angels ever, Angels in Chains.

MASHED POTATOES.

I've spent far too long tonight staring at pictures of great apes. No. Really. I don't know anything about the photographer, other then she really likes apes, and takes awesome pictures of them, and appears to be Dutch. The following is the original caption of a portrait entitled "Sangha."

She is most of the time alone and looks always a little bit sad.

That is all.

Weekend of Awesome.

2008-12-07T17:36:00.011-05:00

This has been an exciting weekend.

I got my high-waisted Naval Denim Trousers back from the tailor's! I had gotten them hemmed so that I can wear flats with them. Because at 5'9," I don't really need much of a boost Don't worry. I can dance in them.
I also had a revelation that I've been wearing the wrong bra size for the last 15 years. Upon coming to this conclusion, I marched down to Bertha Church, declared my epiphany to them, and they agreed and had me try on about 15 bras. Yep. Dramatically wrong. Now I have one which does the job it's supposed to, and I feel this will impact my posture, my chronic back and neck spasming issues, the migranes I sometimes get as a result of neck spasms, and will just make me look and feel better all around. I say this because if you are lady, I highly suggest rethinking whether or not your ladies are getting what they need. No, I am not going to post pictures of that purchase. That's for subscribers, ONLY.
I was reading Jezebel.com, as is my wont, when I came across one lady suggesting this stuff called Magic Powder for hair-removal. I'm all for new products, and so I googled it. Turns out, this stuff is a dipilatory powder designed for African American men, who tend to get razor burn and bumps more easily. So ladies of all ethinicities have discovered that if it was designed to make coarse hair fall off of someone's face without burning it, it's good for pretty much everywhere else, too. Whilst reading reviews, I choked on my coffee and snorted some of it up my nose whilst reading this one:
AWWWWW!!!!

By Mike Robinson from Alexandria, VA on 6/12/2007

Cons:

It burnt my skin off

Bottom Line:

No, I would not recommend this to a friend

I put it on and then I felt it begin to burn, at this point my girl told me to wash it off, but i was going to wait the recommended 5-7 minutes, to get the best results. I thought the burning was the fact that this "MAGIC POWDER" was working, little did i know... i washed it off, it burtn my face, i now look like white person, i was rushed to the ER and was given medications!!! I HATE THIS MAGIC POWDER!!!

Given that this stuff costs $2 a can, I find the fact that this guy insisted on leaving it on, despite the fact that he was experiancing a chemical burn, is hilarious. The majority of the other reviews say glowing things, and one person pointed out that it clearly says not to use it if you already have razor burn, which is sort of a no-brainer. I'll report back results. No pictures of that, either. Sorry.
I went to the Jazz Guys/Blowtorch/Rough Fracsis show at the Monkey House last night. I knew it would blow my socks off, and it did. I didn't expect the show to be as emotional as it was, there was a lot of Hackney familial pride and appreciation, which was entirely well-deserved. Mr. and Mrs. Hackney were in attendance, and they played with a picture of Dennis Hackney, who has passed away and was the musical mentor for Death, on the stage. At one point, Bobby held it over his head and showed it to the audience, and I nearly cried. At a punk show. The music was EFFING AMAZING, the place was sold out (read: maybe, they might have let more people in, because they knew what an amazing experiance it would be) and there was a rep from Drag City there. I felt increadibly lucky to have experianced it, SHW looked like he was having the effin' best time of his life, and I got to thank Mr. Hackney after the show for making amazing music and fantastic humans. If you missed it, I'm sorry for you. But you can see Rough Francis on Wednesday at Metronome, as one of the myriad of bands at White Wind. It sounds super neat, all the bands set up, and you move from band to band.
Today SHW and I ate lots of breakfast foods at Sneakers. Then it started to snow. I walked up Church Street and I looked like this:
And I met Myesha, and we walked around a bit. It started to snow harder. All of a sudden, it was a full on snow squall, and it was awesome. By the time we got to Emily's house for baby oogling and tea, we looked like this:

They had a really neato picture of The Lord.
Now I'm cuddled in my warm apartmenthole, Petunia is snoozing, alternating between sleeping on the radiator and moving to the chair, and she's inspiring me. I forget how much I like winter in December. By February, it has invaded the darkest parts of my soul, but in December, it chills my face and the light from the snow blinds my eyes, and I think "Maybe winter is sort of not-awful, after-all."

2008-12-04T21:53:00.009-05:00

It's been a long, long, long week. The type of week that makes me wish I was a woman of means who could throw her hands in the air and declare she needs a BREAK for LORD'S sake and take to a spa to try and "get more centered." OH, or a yacht in the Caribbean in the 70s, listening to Brandy (You're a Fine Girl) on repeat, being served Mai Tais by Magnum-era Tom Selleck.

Oh, MAGNUM. Look at you there, with your space-age phone that DOESN'T HAVE A CORD.

It's a hard time of year. Especially when things don't feel particularly better this year. Still directionless, still scraping by. Except it seems this year, it seems I have trusted the wrong people over and over again. It's disappointing. And makes me feel disposable. Here's a general public service announcement: show the people that you care about that you value them. You should do this by being present in their lives.

Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off--then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.

Melville, Moby Dick

I wish I had me a sea. My eyes are red and tired. And the rest of me just wants to stare out over a endless, steely grey expanse, and let the wind pierce my layers, and pinch my face. I want to breathe the ocean, and taste the salt in the air. I think that would be a deep breath.

SHW charmed his way into some tickets to see Ra Ra Riot last night, and I snapped up that extra ticket lickity split. Ra Ra Riot was alright, but the mix was off and the cello player reminded me of the Orchestra Mean Girls. You know, that chick who gestured with her violin case so no one could mistake how SMART she was (because everyone knows; only brains are in orchestra...) flipped her hair like ALL THE TIME and was super mean to her slubby boyfriend, the valedictorian, and tries to pretend no one is friends with her because they're jealous? That's what she reminded me of. AND, OH MY GOD. There was a chick at the show wearing GOLD, glittery FACE PAINT on the bridge of her nose and on either cheek, under the eyes. It was the stupidest Hipster piece of idiocy I've seen in a long time. Believe me. I've seen (and perpetuated) my fair amount. I wanted to march over to her and say "Oh, hi there! How's Reikyvek these days? Oh, what? I'M SORRY. I totally had you MISTAKEN for BJORK. How embarrassing. For ME." and walk away. But then I remembered that would make me an Orchestra Mean Girl and I opted out. SHW was disappointed. The first band, Princeton was sort of awesome, though. What I presume to be twin brothers, and they totally cite a Jens Lekman video under their influences.
Princeton - The Waves

Then I came home and fiddled with my camera.

There's other stuff, but I'm sure if you'd like to know, you'll call and ask. And if I feel like sharing with you, I'll tell. You should ask me about the dognapping, and also about Ian accidentally pretending to be an alcoholic who fell off the wagon via a lost cell phone. It's a good story. Oh, you should go see Rough Francis. Friday at 242, and Saturday at the Monkey House. Should be amazing. And loud. I'll be the one in the high-waisted trousers looking constricted. And hopefully, also super hot. I suspect it will be worth dressing up.

It's nearly Friday. Maybe I'll take a walk to the lake this weekend, and close my eyes and pretend I'm at the ocean. Stinging winds and the sound of waves might be a good deception to play upon myself.

Stuffin' Cakes

2008-11-30T12:02:00.004-05:00

Well, I'm a year older. Some lovely people joined me for my birthday. I didn't cry a bit at the party, and only twice at my sister's house for birthday cake. Don't worry. I annoy myself, too.

When you live alone and love breakfast, you come up with good ways to use up leftovers. Like stuffing cakes. I made this up this morning. It felt pretty damn awesome in my mouth.

Beat one egg.
Mix 1 cup or so of leftover mashed potatoes into the egg, until the mixture is the consistency of pancake batter. This generally works best if the mashed potato is room temperature or a little warmer (although you don't want it too warm, or else it'll scramble the egg...). I threw some garlic in there, too, because I'm crazy like that. Add a pinch of salt, or if you're me, tamari. Throw whatever spices you feel like in there. I did ginger and soy with a splash of rice vinegar one morning, and that was surprisingly good.
Heat up leftover stuffing with a teensy bit of veggie stock (or chicken, if you eat them. I don't.)
Mix the stuffing mixture (which should be damp, but not wet from the stock) into the potato mixture. Add a small handful of shredded cheese. I went with cheddar. Mix well. The more you mix, the softer the stuffing becomes, and the easier it will be to form your cakes in the pan.
Bring a non-stick frying pan to a medium-high heat. Drop medium-sized forkfuls into the pan, three at a time or so. Make them small enough to get a spatula under completely, as the pancakes formed are pretty delicate. After all, your binder is egg and potato.
Squish them as flat as you can get them, as you want to cook the egg in the batter thoroughly. Depending on the heat of your pan, give them roughly 30 seconds or so. Watch for steam rising from under the pancake and flip them. You should have a lovely golden brown on each side from the cheese. If you use a lower heat and cover the pan, you won't get the lovely golden brown on the cheese, but the egg will puff more, making a lighter and more delicate cake.
Serve with leftover gravy.

Yield: about 6 stuffing cakes the size of my fist.

You're welcome.

If you try it, let me know how it goes. And if you have other creative uses for stuffing (I have half a pan left to use up) leave a comment!

All I want is..

2008-11-25T20:04:00.004-05:00

Linus had his Great Pumpkin, my mother invented Chicken Day (that's another story), and I think today I have found my Great Mythological Symbol: The Birthday Megatherium.

What is a Megatherium, you ask? Good question. The Megatherium, or Ground Sloth was a Pleistocene-era mammal, potentially larger then a male elephant. It walked on two legs, ate meat, had dagger-like claws, and was all-around AWESOME.

You know who took guff from saber-toothed Tigers? NOT THE MEGATHERIUM!

Megatherium is all "Cat, you simply MUST get OUT of my face. You're BOTHERING me.

I will attempt to resurrect the spirit of the Megatherium on the yearly anniversary of my arrival into this world. That's when the Birthday Megatherium's magic is the strongest. All I'll say is this: if I am successful, I'll have the coolest pet EVER. I will document my attempts and share them with you. Stay tuned.

Also, while doing Megatherium research today, I happened across The Megatherium Club. I would have married any/all of them.

But, they were eventually thrown-out of their castle suites by the institution's secretary, Joseph Henry, who disapproved of the way members held sack races in the Great Hall and periodically serenaded his daughters.^{[citation needed]}

Sack races and periodic serendaing? Yes, please. HOW HOW!

These dudes knew how to party.

In other news, I'm having a fair amount of family stress lately. The kind that makes people go on daytime television and scream at each other. I'm glad I have my sisters to commiserate with. They're both neato ladies, and I am fiercely protective of both of them. Just like a Megatherium.

The best part of my birthday is the Birthday Megatherium. The rest of it tends to be me trying not to cry and my friends and family confused over why I'm crying, and then I get drunk and regret the whole affair the next day while I suffer an interminable hangover that reminds me what death must feel like. Quick. Someone give me a pointy hat.

But seriously. I might do something Friday night. Maybe. If I don't, I'll cry. If I do, I'll cry, but I might get presents. If you want to come, you should call me. And after a hard-sell like that, WHO WOULDN'T?

How How.

Best. Side. Effect. Ever.

2008-11-24T08:19:00.002-05:00

There's a drug called Xanatan that is prescribed for Glaucoma. It lowers the blood pressure in your eyeballhole. Also, it has the most amazing side effect ever:

XALATAN may slowly cause darkening of the eye color due to increased brown color, darkening of the eyelid and eyelashes, and increased growth and thickness of eyelashes. Color changes can increase as long as XALATAN is administered and eye color changes are likely to be permanent.

Increased growth and thickness of eyelashes! And don't that just 'bout make my blue eyes brown!
I can't wait till celebrities discover this, and we end up with a rash of brown-eyed blondes with amazing eyelashes.

I'm procrastinating taking a shower this morning because it's cold and I hate the cold walk from the bathroom to the bedroom, which is 5 degrees colder then the rest of the apartment, and getting dressed whilst shivering.

No, I don't pay for my heat.

Yes. It's sucks to not be able to get it any warmer then 67 degrees in my bedroom.

No, I can't go to work unshowered.

Fine. I'm going. Stop being a nag.

This post is a desperate attempt to not fall asleep.

2008-11-23T21:22:00.015-05:00

It's 9 PM. My sleep schedule has been off of late: wake up a few hours before dawn, stay up for an hour or two, fall back asleep, feel groggy all day, go to bed early, lather, rinse, repeat. So, in a desperate attempt to break stupid cycles, I'm forcing myself to stay awake.

I got my new camera! It's awesome.

Friday at work, I bought me a new hat. My little sister is buying me the matching scarf for my birthday. I love getting what I want, and feel surprises are overrated.

Friday night, I went to Taste. There were some fish there. These two were my favorite. They were a tiny school of two who seem to spend their time chasing one another across the tank. The other fish keep a wide berth. They are Punk Fish.

Also at Taste, were some Smittens. And Bob Z! But I was feeling quite sick. So I left earlish. Bob Z yelled at me the next day. When Bob Z is disappointed in you, an angel fails to get its wings.

The next morning, I went to the doctor, who kindly gave me a perscription for a Z-Pack. I have a sinus infection and potentially something "worrisome" going on in my chest. But we're kicking it out with antibiotics. SUCK IT!

Saturday evening, I went to some of those Smittens' house for an engagement party. For some reason, I didn't take any pictures. I need to be more bold. I brought a Cheese Custard Pie. I altered the recipe a little. Here's my advise: you might think it's just a quiche, but it's NOT. Especially warm. Stick to soft cheeses, though. The parm I added made a layer at the bottom of cheesy goodness, but the consistency was uneven.

Today I had brunch with Bridget before she takes to the sea (OK, just to Maine, but they have plenty of sea in Maine) then I came home and neatened up a bit. My sisters and niece came over for a lovely visit. We ate the Cheese Custard and drank tea and had a lovely time.

Maya ate all of her baby food in three bites. Kid can EAT. Then she moved onto eating her bib, so we had to get some yogurt into her, STAT.

I also knitted a new camera case. The two previously knitted camera cases were a pig and a rat, respectively. This time, it's just a nice, pretty box-shaped cosy. For an adult. Which I am.

You know what's good? Making a double boiler by putting a metal mixing bowl over a saucepan of boiling water. Pour some milk in there. When the milk gets warm, add chocolate chips. Scald the milk (don't let it boil, but look for whiffs of steam rising from the milk), whisk the chocolate quickly, add granulated ginger.

SRSLY.

Big week. I only have to work three days, Thursday will be spent going to at least two if not three Thanksgivings. And Friday is the annual celebration of the day I arrived mewling and confused into this world, so I might try and organize a dance party. Ian said he would DJ. His DJ name is DJ Conner. And AD and I might to go H&M on Saturday! I need new pants. None of my tight jeans are tight jeans anymore. A girl likes to have a pair on reserve, like a secret weapon. DEPLOY TIGHT JEANS!

OK, I think I'm allowed to sleep now. 'Night, slugger.

I am not complaing. I am SHARING.

2008-11-17T19:35:00.004-05:00

No, really, I am. I'm feeling like listening to music that reminds me of Postal Service, but is more late-Naughties (which is what I insist on referring to this decade as. People just haven't embraced it as readily as I would have expected) and less early-angsty-Naughties.

From 3Hive: +/- Snowblind.

It's a good song for walking to. By the end you may find yourself running. Just try and run towards something and not away from it, OK? Of note: the drums are awesome toward the end. I really respect a slow build to awesome.

Discovered via Pandora.com:
Her Space Holiday: Tech Romance

OK, since this album came out in 2003, I'm obviously behind the ball on this one. I knew about Her Space Holiday, but I think when this album came out, I was still in an early-Naughties Postal Service place, and only had room for one band of that ilk at the time. My bad. Of note: I like songs with purposeful studio-chatter left in. And strings. And self-referencing songs about love that include strings, and then talk about how love feels like strings. And movie kisses. Yep. This song makes me wish I was a less jaded person.

From Stereogum (via DZ):
Jens Lekman covers Boyz II Men...When The Water Runs Dry

When Ian and I were playing the Billboard Top 100 game for 1997, we were shocked at how well the strategy of guessing Boyz II Men or Puff Daddy for every unknown song worked out. Boyz II Men RULED 1997. It gave me a new respect for the Boyz. Of note: Jens Lekman is super hot and super awesome, and SWEDISH. And we all know how Brooke feels about the Swedes. Needless to say, had I been present when he was playing this, I would have personally laid the hurt down on the jerks who DARED to talk and mill about while he did rightful homage to the late 90s. Of course, to be fair: I, myself, would likely be found melted into a puddle of swoon. Of note: he takes the song totally seriously. Which is awesome. There is a short finger-snapping break. Which is awesome. His post-song banter: ADORABLE. I will marry the first Swedish man I meet who sings Brandy (You're a Fine Girl) totally without irony. I swear I will. You know what? I'm gonna go ahead and post the video for You Are the Light. I don't care if you're male or female, straight or gay, you might just find yourself throwing your panties at your computer. Or maybe that's just me. Whatever. Who are you to judge me?

Visual Clapping Joke! Oh, Jens, you sly fox, you.

Doesn't that video look nice? It's cause if you add "&fmt=18" at the end of a youtube URL, you can watch it in a higher resolution. No, really. It's magic. I've been watching episodes of Roseanne over at Surfthechannel. God, I'm Aunt Jackie. It's sad. But funny! If you want to embed high-res YouTube videos, you should read this.

I'm sure it's just the slight fever that I think I'm sporting (sidenote: WHY is it that I never have a thermometer?) that is making me want to share. I started coughing today, can we all cross our fingers and hope it doesn't develop into full-blown pneumonia again, please? Thank you. I accept soup and hugs. Even if they're out of pity. I'm going to go make some thereflu and continue trying to clean the egg shell. I couldn't bare to throw out the broken shell, but I'll say this: 7 year old preserved egg still smells rotten when broken. It may be silly, but it's all I have, and I am holding on to it until it feels OK to let it go.

note: if you are reading this on an RSS feed, and think "well, this post doesn't make much sense," then you're missing some awesome Flash content. Visit outrageouschaos.blogspot.com to get the real deal.

The advantage to outliving the rest of your band...

2008-11-17T07:46:00.004-05:00

So Paul McCartney is looking to release an experimental Beatles track from 1967. I am not a fan of improvisational electronica, and I'm suspecting that's how the other three Beatles felt when they didn't want it released, but Paul's being all chatty-like now.

If I'm ever in a band, I hope I outlive the other members, so I get to do this sort of thing. It's like his reward for all that vegetarian-clean-livin'. And, you know, not getting shot. It's like Survivor: Beatles. Cause we all know Ringo will just do whatever he's told.

In other news, my health isn't great. I'm really, really, really hoping it isn't pneumonia again. I don't get paid time off for sick leave, and I can't afford to take 2 weeks off from work again. I would sigh, but it feels like an ape is sitting on my sternum.
I'll stop complaining now.

It's just an egg.

2008-11-16T13:19:00.002-05:00

My mother left college in her junior year, and moved to New York City to see what she could see. She moved into an apartment in the Upper East Side, in Yorkville, and above her lived a tall, intellectual man who had emmigrated with his family from China during the revolution. His family had been wealthy merchants, and we all know how communists feel about THAT. So they moved to New York when he was 10, and his father cleverly purchased some real estate holdings in Manhattan in the 40s. Needless to say, he was financially pretty well off 20 years later. His name was Yuan. My mother introduced him to her college roommate, Jane, and they fell in love and got married.

Jane and Yuan were at the birth of my sister. Yuan was the first man to hold Kym. Eventually, my mother met my father and they moved to Vermont. Jane and Yuan never had children of their own, and their love of us was something that I've never experianced from anyone other then my parents. I recieved love from my aunts and uncles, but the way that Yuan treated us was full of awe and wonder. We were at the Metropolitan Museum of Art on one New York trip, and my little sister Hope was 10. She asked a question about a sign,and Yuan stopped in his tracks, his jaw agape.
"YOU CAN READ?!" he asked, increadulously.
"Yeah. Um, I learned in the 1st grade when I was 6."
"IT CAN READ!" He said to some passing strangers, pointing at Hope. "This one can READ!"

As I grew up, I'd visit Jane and Yuan every 6 months or so. I'd drive to New York, park in their garage, and they'd treat me like an absolute adult. Keys to the apartment, maybe a subway map, but generally just vague directions towards the closest train stop.
"If you get lost, ask somebody." Jane would say. "New Yorkers are the most helpful people on Earth." Yuan would generally take me for a big meal, and we'd discuss Chinese philosophy, and that would spiral into general philosophy and physics, and theory of every kind and shape.

We were driving to Little India in Queens once, and Yuan and I were talking about Taoism vs. Confucianism. We were at a red light, and the light turned green. Yuan had always been an exciting driver: my mother has a story about him hopping a curb and driving his VW rabbit on the sidewalk, so when the light turned and Yuan didn't drive, I wasn't too surprised. He simply wasn't finished making his point. He proceeded to speak for another 30 seconds or so, at which point the drivers in back of him drove around him whilst honking and showing him some of their fingers.
"I don't know WHY they are so upset," he said. "We're discussing thought here. That's more important then getting some place."

I had been ill the week before a planned trip to New York, but I decided to suck it up and head down anyway. I spent the first afternoon watching the Godfather trilogy with Yuan, who felt sorry for the Italians.
"They're just walking along, trying to get a Canoli...when BAAAAM! The side of their head gets blown off because there's a gun fight. It's gotta stink to be Italian." The next day, he took me on a tour of SoHo. He tried buying me a $500 dress (and attempted to set me up with a Parisian shoe-salesman), and when I insisted I wouldn't be comfortable WEARING it anywhere, he handed me $500 in cash in a Chinese New Year envelope. He insisted I take it, for missed birthdays. Then he took me to dinner at a Chinese restaurant where "You'll be the only round-eye in the place. That's how you tell if a Chinese restaurant is good. The number of round-eyes there. In fact, I'm sure when we get there, they'll look at each other and say 'WHO BROUGHT ROUND-EYE?' And I'll say 'I DID!'" Then we went for espresso in Little Italy, where we sat outside a cafe, ate hazelnut cake and talked for hours and hours. Then we went back to Chinatown (across the street) and picked up a bag of lichee nuts and some 1000 year old eggs. (they're just preserved duck eggs. They're not 1000 years old...not really). We ate one when we got home. They are black on the inside, and taste like vinegary hard-boiled eggs. He gave me one to take home.

Yuan was on kidney dialysis that trip. He insisted that it was fine; he got to eat whatever he wanted and it just got dialysised out. His health seemed fine, aside from the twice daily periods where he'd have to hook himself up to the machine.

Three weeks after my trip, I got a call at 2 AM. It was my mother, and she was hysterical.
"Yuan is dead." She said. The world collapsed on me. Breathing became hard. Words didn't make sense. I felt like I was dizzy. I found myself in a pile on the floor, a mess of legs that had stopped supporting me.

In between sobs, I learned that he had gone into the hospital to get the shunt changed. He did this regularly, but this time something happened and he went into cardiac arrest. He died quickly.

The next three months are a complete loss. I have no memories of them. Yuan had been paying my tuition to college, as well as my rent while I was in school. I now took on two additional jobs to the one I had, and the 18 credits I was taking, including a senior-level Biopsychology course. That class was supposed to test me to see if I could take organic chem, and if that went well: med school. Now I had no money, and no way of paying for anything. Yuan's money was tied to a trust, of which had been the executor. With him gone, the trust changed hands, and Jane was able to keep the building they lived in and not much else. My older sister and I were written out completely. He had no will, as the money he had was through the trust, not his own.

I have kept that 1000 year old egg safe for the last 7 years. I've treasured it, and treated it like it was the most precious thing I own. I miss Yuan daily. Having that tiny piece of the last time I saw him made it real, it was something I could touch and hold that was his.

Today, while cleaning, I knocked over a picture, which created a domino effect. It knocked that egg out of its stand and onto the floor, where it broke.

I am trying to save the shell by soaking them in boiling water, but even a preserved egg wasn't meant to last 7 years. It doesn't smell too awesome, but the idea of throwing it away hurts way too much.

Anyway, that's my day. Momo should be over soon to make origami balloons and drink tea. She'll understand what an egg means.

YOU GO, MINI!

2008-11-15T06:07:00.004-05:00

I fully support this mini-horse's run for freedom. In fact, if he lived on my imaginary miniature livestock farm, he could spend his days in the field, frolicking with the other mini-horses and perhaps some companion pygmy-goats.

Yesterday was not a BAD day, it was just an infuriating day. Not enough work meant I spent my day staring at the clock, willing the minutes to pass. On the way home I stopped at the mechanic's, who has had my car for A WEEK. He said it would be done LAST MONDAY. He also said it would be done Friday. He is full of lies. I wasn't angry when I was in his shop, but as I drove away, I started to get LIVID. I have to return my sister's car this weekend, which means I have no way to get to work other then to walk the 3 miles. Oh, and it's supposed to rain all next week. ARGH!

When I got home, the phone I had ordered from ebay to replace the one that burned my SIM card was here! Yeah! It is an unlocked LG slider. Sassy. Except it's not unlocked. It's still locked to cingular. The seller says they'll refund my money, but I'm too jaded to believe that fully.

Two days ago, I returned the camera that had arrived with a blown pixel, with the intention of exchanging it for one without a blown pixel. Problem is, that particular retailer's store prices are $10-$20 higher then online. I asked one of the ladies who worked there why that was (in a "hey, we're buddies now that you've shown me three cameras, and you don't have to tell me if it'll get you in trouble..." sort of tone) and she said it was for shipping. Except shipping to my HOUSE was $4. No way was I going to pay $10 more for a straight exchange, so I just returned their camera and went home. About 10 minutes from the store on the interstate, I realized that the 2 Gig Memory card I had bought for the camera was still inside the camera. So I had to turn around at the next exit (I did NOT pull a U-ie on the interstate at "rush hour," thankyouverymuch) and drive BACK. I got the card back with relatively little problem, and drove home only moderately annoyed with myself.

I ordered a new camera yesterday, and it was on sale! Yeah! And there was an additional incentive...free 1 Gig memory card! So I now have to return the 2 Gig card (no WAY I need two of them, I don't take that many pictures, and it's worth $15, which unfortunately is enough money to me these days to make it worthwhile...) which involved digging through my trash to find the package and the receipt. For once in my life, I'm glad I didn't take the garbage out, and am also glad that my neurotic fear of ick means I have latex gloves handy.

Then I attempted to go to the Visual History of American Hardcore show at JDK, but I poked myself in the eye with a liquid eyeliner pen, my eye turned red and angry, and sort of swelled up a little, I looked like I had been punched because of the smudged liner, and at THAT point, I knew the last thing I needed in life was to show up to a social event looking like an accident victim who was annoyed by life. So I stayed home, and went to sleep at 9:30. Thanks to the magic of Hulu, I had some 30 Rock and The Office to catch up on.

I don't think I'm gonna go to NYC for my birthday. After shelling out for the car and the camera, I'm broke, and while I am confident that I can have TONS of fun in Manhattan on almost no money, I am not so confident that I can have fun with literally no money. Also, I am Irish and superstitious, and things haven't been going super-awesome lately. I think I'll bag it.

I've been thinking a lot lately about how different I was pre-New York, while I was there and post-New York. I honestly don't think it was the city that changed me, I think moving back here aged me about 10 years. I think about who I was two years ago, and she just seems impossibly naive and wide-eyed. I trust the universe less, I trust people less, I TRUST less. I have less faith in the balance of things, and fairness. I feel constantly on edge, waiting for the ceiling to drop. And New York didn't do that to me...coming home did. Thanks, Wolfe.

Now it's 6:30 AM, and I've been awake for an hour. That's what going to bed at 9:30 will do for you, I guess. I think I'll go to City Market when it opens and buy some corn grits and make a grand breakfast for myself.

Oh, fer...

2008-11-10T07:25:00.003-05:00

So my car is in the shop getting a new timing and serpentine belt. Apparently taking apart an engine to slap some belts on is expensive. Yesterday morning, I bought a camera to replace the one the carney stole from me. It was a good weekend for trying to get things back to normal, after scrimping and saving for two months. I've been an annoying friend, unable to meet people for drinks or dinners out, whining about how I'm broke. But it paid off, I was able to save up enough for both the car and the camera. (To be honest, if I was super responsible, I would have waited on the camera a wee bit longer, but I really, really want to take pictures of my niece...)

So last night it appears the loaner phone I was borrowing from a friend who works tech support fried the SIM card on my phone. I charged the phone, and an hour later I glanced at it and it said "Insert Smartcard." I took the phone apart and looked at the SIM, and it looked...fried. There is irony involved in this happening last night, of all nights, given how I spent my day is not lost on me.

Hey, universe? It's me, Brooke. Listen, I'm real, real sorry for whatever bad karma I earned toward electronic devices in a previous incarnation. I get it. I will treat technology with respect and care. JUST PLEASE STOP THINGS THAT CLICK AND BEEP FROM BREAKING AROUND ME! I can't afford to keep replacing everything in my life in a cycle. Seriously. I want to be able to take a day off, I don't know...eventually.

Yeah, I know. Meow meow. Its a thing, not a person. I did get good news (somewhat) regarding someone's health recently, and that was a relief. Because it feels I've been fighting fires for three years, and dammit, all I want is THREE MONTHS where nothing breaks, no one gets sick, no one dies, no one breaks up. That's it. A three month respite from destruction. Even the things that don't count, the objects, the things, wear on me. It just feels like destruction breeds destruction. Arghblah.

This website calms me down. It's mostly couture fashion spreads. It makes me remember how awesome Vogue USED to be.

Games and the players who play them.

2008-11-09T15:41:00.004-05:00

My problem is that PBS children's programming didn't go far enough in their life lessons.

Silly Mr. Rogers. He's not a carpenter. He's a plumber. Duh.

These photos, via Boing Boing, are amazing. I love the ones of Obama taking what I can only assume is McCain's concession speech while his family, campaign staff and the Bidens celebrate.
Wait, is it Sunday afternoon? Where the eff did my weekend go? Stupid tequila.

"Oh, Marilla!" she exclaimed. "How much you miss!"

2008-11-06T07:50:00.007-05:00

I'll admit something I am not at all ashamed of, but rarely admit openly: as a child, I was obsessed with period fiction. The Little House books when I was little and the Anne of Green Gables books later. I felt like an outsider; the girl who would climb trees with a book to avoid getting surrounded by rednecks and teased about being ugly until she burst into tears. Anne lived in a world of her own making, and so did I.

So the lovely ginger-headed Momo hosted a viewing party last night. I think I was the only one who had seen the movies, oh, I dunno, 6 times or so in the course of my life. And read the books about that many times. When I obsess, I do it correctly.

But there were some things even creepily-obsessed-and-full-of-boring-facts-regarding-the-author I forgot...

Gilbert Blythe is a creepy stalker.

Anne and Diana are totally gay for each other. Good thing they live in Canada and not California.
Matthew Cuthbert is made of gold. Seriously. My great-grandfather has always been described to me as a man who rarely spoke, so when he did: YOU LISTENED. I wish I was more that, and less Anneish in that regard.
What's up, GunnySax? Anne's ball gown (best quote: Marilla saying "You'll have plenty of balls when you're grown-up, Anne.") has the puffiest sleeves for sure, but it's sort of silly looking. Like another redhead's dress I can think of...
Dance cards need to make a come back. In a bad, bad way. Male and female.
Note to self: end more conversations with "Good DAY to you!"

Good DAY to you!

I don't want to get overly emotional about this...

2008-11-05T18:27:00.002-05:00

I cried last night. I cried and I hugged my friends and I felt proud to be an American. It's hard to not sound cliched. So I'll stop. And let Sam Cooke do my talkin' for me.

Sam Cooke - Change is Gonna Come

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That said: brothers should be pulling up their pants!

2008-11-03T22:00:00.002-05:00

I'm not sure I've ever wanted anything as badly as I want THIS MAN to be our next president. I'm Not Kidding At All.

MTV Shows

BROTHERS SHOULD BE PULLING UP THEIR PANTS! Seriously. I wish Sway had hosted one of the debates. It would have been amazing.

Sigh...

2008-11-02T22:19:00.004-05:00

UCLA Film Libraries is a good place to lose time. I initially went to look for pictures of celebrities (Marilyn, naturally) but got side tracked by Monkeys.

I really, really want a monkey. Don't tell Petunia.

Also, this one is pretty amazing:
It is entitled "Maria Escalera with her son Leo on her 126th birthday in Los Angeles, Calif., 1949"

That lady looks surprisingly like a 70 year-old. I'm suspicious.

Boo 2: Revenge of Boo...

2008-11-01T16:17:00.002-04:00

I just found this online, via Jezebel, via Filmmagic. If I have to explain why this image is awesome, you are not my friend.

Boo.

2008-11-01T13:27:00.010-04:00

Every few years, I'm struck by how odd Halloween is. The first time I questioned our sanity as a society was in high school, when the school was involved in an exchange program with French students. They don't do the Halloween thing in France, so the students were quite confused by the whole affair.
"Children go door to door and beg for candy from strangers?" They'd ask, their adorably accented voices heavily weighed by concern. "And the children wear MASKS?"

One year, a fresh-faced psychology major, standing in line to get into Pearl's (sigh) on Halloween, I had the sudden, drunken epiphany that Halloween is the night that everyone's Id is exposed. The nerdy intellects have a nerdy, intellectual costume no one gets, the women who are a bit shy, insecure and uncomfortable with their sexuality become a Sexy Whatever, and there's always that creatively lazy guy who just wears his regular clothes, but INSISTS he's something else. On this particular night, I was busy deconstructing the now visible Id of everyone around me, when a dude bumped into me. He was dressed as Oogie Boogie from A Nightmare Before Christmas. I had no idea what that said about his inner dialouge, but it looked cool as fuck.

When I worked in the bar, Halloween was one of the Hell Nights. These are the evenings we referred to as "amateur hours," along with New Year's Eve and St. Patrick's Day. It's when people who don't normally drink go out with the specific purpose to get belligerent. Because they don't go out often, they don't know social etiquette, like tipping a minimum of a dollar on each drink, or vomiting only in the toilet. Additionally, when you serve booze for a living in Vermont, you are personally liable if you serve someone who later gets in a car and kills themselves or someone else. The law is in place to prevent over-service, and it's a good law. But Halloween is Hell Night because it's nearly impossible to gauge someone's level of intoxication when they are wearing face paint or a mask, and they're more likely then not bar-hopping. So by the time they get to your bar, you can't tell how much they've had previously. It's also where my mild distaste for chicks who opt for Slutty Whatever costumes reached new levels.

Last night I had by far the most fun and surreal Halloween of my life. We drove over to the Lakeview Terrace bash, six of us squeezed into a car that would comfortably fit three people and one Storm Trooper. Instead, the car contained, in no particular order, Tippi Hedren, Charles Bronson, The Swedish Chef, a Silent Starlet, The Brawny Man, and (of course) a Storm Trooper. We imagined the amazing story that someone would be able to tell if we got in an accident.

The party felt like exactly what I imagined a grownup party would feel like when I was growing up: drunkenness, everyone in amazing costumes while I felt comfortable, warm and pretty dressed as a silent movie starlet and dancing wildly to ODB's Shimmey Shimmey Ya. I looked around the room and thought "Yep. This is how a Halloween party should look." A dude who legitimately looked like Obama (his costume was just a suit) declared "I should just try and sleep with everyone here." and proceeded to drink half my glass of water. The bathroom line was slow moving, and as I got to the front, I realized this was because there was a tank of nitrous in there. The dude before me took it with him. DZ started an Abba dance party in the garage, Ian yelled at a lot of people, I didn't get too drunk and people seemed to dig on my costume.
I wish it were Halloween every weekend.

...but WHY?!

2008-10-27T18:32:00.005-04:00

Teeps posted this on Facebook. I've watched it like 9 times.

You should spank your children. Jesus says so.
PIRATES!
VISIONS OF "ORIENTALS!"
"Boat people."
Christian electropop!
I was unaware that Jesus loves Vietnamese refugees in short-shorts.
That dude on the left is out of sync towards the end. He doesn't love Jesus enough.

SHW is from the future, and in the future, a pudding bowl isn't what you think it is.

....and finally, this article sort of made me almost cry. All this Obamania sometimes feels overly optimistic -- we need a John Kennedy as a country right now, so we found one -- but then I read about how a country that was decimated by genocide and rape is in the process of rebuilding, very Phoenix-like, from its own ashes and it does give me Hope. And it makes me feel like maybe there is hope. And it makes me look forward to the world a week from today.

Here's a picture of me and my little Hope.

That's my ballet teacher, Katya, taking the picture. She is from Switzerland and would sometimes have Swiss chocolate.

Vanity Smurf (alternate title: FashionShowFashionShowFashionShowAtLunch)

2008-10-26T21:38:00.004-04:00

I dropped off the projector today. It was sad. We had a good run together, but the projector belonged to another, so there we are. Like so many other things in life. Anyhoosits, to make myself feel the sting of loss less, I swung by the Ohavi Zedek thrift barn. Goodness, gracious, that place is a trove of riches. And it's open on Sunday, because, you know, if you're Jewish, you go and pray on Saturday. I also chatted a lot with the nice lady who runs it, and she was helping a young couple who are Iraqi refugees and spoke VERY little English. They were sweet, she was sweet, even when she said "You know President Bush?" to the husband, who excitedly said "Yes! Yes! Bush Good! Win War! Good Man!" Then the woman shook her head and said "I really should learn to not talk about politics."

Anyway, I cleaned up on the clothing side. I got one Mandarin, cotton shirt.

One wool circle skirt, which will be good for the few remaining Autumn Tromps I can muster. It didn't photograph well (ever since the carney stole my camera, all I've got is the webcam in my Macbook) but it's navy and green. And pretty:
One canvas circle skirt, which makes me feel like a first grade teacher from 1975. All the stripes are piping, which is marginally impressive, and the buttons are, indeed, multi-colored:

Then there's THE skirt. See, what with my penchant for high-necked blouses lately, I've faced the problem of how to wear them without looking like a marshmellow. Answer: high-waisted pencil skirt. It's slimming! And geometric! And has sassy leather straps on the sides!

It looks good with black...
And it does, indeed, look sexy-librarian-hot with a high-necked blouse:

I found this lace dress, which is 1 part Angela Chase and 1 Part Great Gatsby. Also, I got the totally hot peep-toe, gold heels you see in this shot that I've been passively looking for since The Summer of Boca Raton began.

Then we have the REAL find. The tag reads "Casa Bellezza" with "moda italiana" under it. I can't find anything about the label, and "casa bellezza" translates to "house of beauty" so that's pretty generic, as far as Google goes. The tag is vintage, yellowed and the font is script and vintagey. I'm guessing mid-60s. The fabric is in MINT condition. Not only that, it just feels expensive. I could be wrong, but I'm pretty damn sure this dress cost a pretty penny in its day. And it fits me like a Roman Holiday.

That is all the fashion show you get for today. Good day, sir. (or ma'am, if you're hung-up on gender...)

Poor, poor John.

2008-10-26T08:37:00.002-04:00

I'm starting to feel bad for McCain. He's acting exactly like a grandpa who didn't get his afternoon nap, and now is fuzzy on things like names. Which, come to think of it, he is.

I'm sick. Mostly, it just makes me cranky, until my daily dose of Thereflu. Then I get 1/2 hour of a wonderful, floaty-time before passing out into a blissful sleep. I haven't been sick in a long, long time, and ran out of the Probiotics that I had been given. So yeah. If I seem crankier then usual, that's why.

Ian and I saw Happy-Go-Lucky last night. I couldn't decide if I wanted to slap Poppy or not. Mostly, I think I did. It strengthened my resolve to be sarcastic. I hope that was the point of the movie, but I suspect it wasn't. Her outfits were awesome, though.

Yep.

John McCain Hates Women

2008-10-22T22:54:00.002-04:00

In related news, there's a protest at work tomorrow. I'm a proud feminist, but this whole thing is BS. A.) I really think there greater women's issues to be protested then selected images on sporting equipment. B.) WHBW lost 1/4 mill of federal funding last week. That has led to reduced services for survivors of domestic violence. That, to my mind is a far greater and more disturbing local issue. And it's directly tied to the issue of violence against women, and how services that provide a direct and measurable difference in women and children's lives are devalued, both locally and nationally. Unlike, say, any empirical evidence linking sexualized imagery on SPORTS EQUIPMENT to domestic violence, which is the reason Mark Redmond has cited in dissociating Spectrum Youth and Family Services from the Chill Program. Ian worked at Spectrum for 4 years (I worked there for a year) and when I passed that article along to him, he became LIVID. "The Chill program was the ONLY thing those kids had to look forward to. FUCK Spectrum."

So yeah. I'm not a fan of that particular line of boards. I'm not a fan of their descripitive tag lines. But I also think the amount of media attention devoted to this "issue" is revolting, given the larger problems out there. Feel free to argue with me.

PS: John McCain said "Cunt."

you must destroy the image in order to destroy your enemy.

2008-10-20T22:32:00.003-04:00

This evening, Teeps, Ian and I dined on Pumpkin Zucchini Chocolate Chip bread and watched Enter the Dragon projected on my livingroom wall.

Bruce Lee's birthday was the day before mine. Neato.
My favorite sub-genre of film is Blaxsploitation Kung Fu.
I love Kung Fu. I have the pop culture tastes of a 14 year-old boy.
I totally love this projector. I have it till Friday. I am accepting suggestions for other movies to project. I voted for Popeye, but Ian shot that down.
Petunia loves projection night AND Kung Fu. She attacks the wall and tries to catch the image. Poor love. She's always chasing ghosts. Just like mommy. I hope she paid attention during the mirror scene.

Sleep well, my loves.

pumpkins like stereos...

2008-10-19T22:44:00.005-04:00

I walked home a few blocks this evening, and looked at the stars. It was a fine evening for that, cold enough to chill just the tip of my nose and the tops of my fingers. Cold enough so that smells seemed suspended, wood stove smoke, various food smells. And the sky was clean and bright, except for the steam from my breath. I considered throwing myself onto a hill and star gazing, but I remembered I was tired and it was cold. And I am a grown up. I know that is the worst reason for not lying on someone's greenway and attempting to find Orion in the autumn, but I'm afraid it is the way it is. I think with age, I have grown to like comfort more. When the world felt new and exciting, I knew I had to fit as much adventure in as I could. Now I attempt to search for Orion while walking, which rarely works because I get vertigo and get dizzy and have to look at my feet so I don't faint.

But while I walked and stared starward as long as I could before the blood rushed from my brain, I listened to some new music I downloaded. Including this one, from Avoidance Theory.

Don't worry, they're sharing it, not me. It's a perfect song to walk home to on a chilly October evening, while doing your best to stare at the sky as long as you can.

One can of pureed pumpkin is a good ingredient for two loves of pumpkin zucchini chocolate chip bread and 15 pumpkin spice popovers. For the record.

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Awesomely unlikely bands

2008-10-17T07:34:00.002-04:00

Mr. Hopkinson's Computer is a British Mac that sings cover songs. Here he is with a band. I'm not sure why I find this appealing. It's rocky during the chorus, and the computer rushes vocals, but the band valiantly attempts to keep up. It's oddly awesome.

I love metal. I love the Bee Gees. I can't believe I didn't think of this. Ladies and Gents: TRAGEDY!

One time, I was living in New York. I was dating this dude who worked security at a well known, medium-sized venue in Tribeca. Employees get $1 drinks there, and as his special lady friend, so did I. So I would meet him, he'd get off work and we'd drink. One evening, we were in the bar, sipping our whiskeys, and he asked me if I wanted to check out the band that was playing the main stage.
"I dunno. Who is it, and do they suck?"
"Um, some Beatles/Metallica cover band. Beatallica, I think." My jaw dropped.
"You. Are. Shitting. Me." He shook his head.
"Jesus Fucking Christ. What are we doing HERE, not listening to that glorious mess?"

When we hit the main stage, we immediately both burst into laughter. When they went from a speed metal intro into "For Horsemen," I lost it. Tears streaming down my face, the strange part was that we were the only ones who thought it was funny. And by funny, I mean TOTALLY AWESOME. Their between-stage banter was adorable, thick with Wisconsin accents. When they finished, I turned to my escort, and he looked RELIEVED. We didn't last long after that.

Fuck Skynard, indeed.

You should come over tonight. I'm projecting movies onto my wall. It's a very big wall. The Watcher in the Woods and Something Wicked This Way Comes. I rarely invite people over, and very rarely invite groups of people over. It's an event. Assuming people actually show up. I'm going to hopefully make pumpkin popovers and spiced hot cider.

Best. Cover. Ever.

2008-10-12T12:19:00.004-04:00

Via Jezebel, Via my new favorite blog (and the only street fashion blog worth spending time with) Advanced Style, via some other blog that they found it on, I give you the most amazing cover I've ever seen IN. MY. LIFE:

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN: THE ZIMMERS!

That's them singing My Generation in the Abbey Road studios. I think the next time I'm feeling down, I will watch this. Because it just made me cheerfully giddy.

Yesterday I went to Applefest, got sunburned, went to my mom's for dinner (which I didn't get to eat, because it was homemade tomato soup made with chicken stock) and was very tired when I came home. But I got LOTS of time with Maya. She is 6 months old now, and does this thing where she puts one hand on either side of your face, and sloooooowly pulls her tiny head towards yours until she can...put her mouth over the tip of your nose. She's learning to give kisses! It's sort of frightning, like watching Jaws sloooooowly approach. If Jaws was toothless and adorable.

I'm going mad with cleaning. This place will be AWESOME soon.

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Oh, SNAP!

2008-10-10T23:10:00.002-04:00

I'm working on a project with a friend. It should be awesome, assuming we can collect the myriad of ideas we have and distill them. Under her suggestion, I watched The Best of Everything on Hulu. It's only there for a couple days. It's wicked good. It has Joan Crawford, awesome outfits, and loose women. Also, it has one of the best wronged-woman speeches EVER:

I've been focusing on trying to be soft lately. OK, Carolyn there in that clip isn't soft. But who can blame her? When you've been knocked around for a while, you learn to anticipate the hits until all you are is rigid all the time. I'm trying to unlearn that. I'm reading the Tao Te Ching again, for the millionth time. I think everything I believe is in there.

Chapter 78

Nothing in the world
is as soft and yielding as water.
Yet for dissolving the hard and inflexible,
nothing can surpass it.

The soft overcomes the hard;
the gentle overcomes the rigid.
Everyone knows this is true,
but few can put it into practice.

Therefore the Master remains
serene in the midst of sorrow.
Evil cannot enter his heart.
Because he has given up helping,
he is people's greatest help.

True words seem paradoxical.

I'm trying to be soft, but being soft isn't being passive. Being soft is acting, not reacting.

Tomorrow I will pick some apples and nibble on some baby fingers and hug my friends and my family.

My heart is breaking...

2008-10-09T08:06:00.004-04:00

I spent a good couple of hours playing with the 4 up setting on my Macbook's Photobooth the other day. If you hit File ->Export, you can save it as an animated .gif. I love animated .gifs. They remind me of 1996.

Whilst perusing the free section on Craigslist today for treasures, I spotted this:

Dwarf (pigmi) goats (MT. Holly VT)

Reply to: sale-871611239@craigslist.org ^[?]
Date: 2008-10-09, 4:42AM EDT

Brother and sister looking for a loving home. Our kids lost interest and we just don't have the time to take over for them. They are 7 months old and VERY FRIENDLY .
Please call (802) 259-3990 To pick them up or for more info. Ask for Charity or Francis

Yes, they spelled pygmy wrong. But AHHH! 7 MONTHS OLD! I would totally name them Charity and Francis, and I would be That Lady With the Goats. Hopefully, as my responsible saving continues, I'll be eventually able to rebuild my credit and buy a house. A farm somewhere that I can fix up and fill the barn with minature livestock. And lie on the lawn and watch the stars.

I had a long talk last night with a friend about being softer to ourselves. Kinder and more gentle. Not weak, but soft. But not too soft, so that you're ignoring screaming advise from hundreds of inter-strangers.

I do not feel like going to work today. That's the first time that's happened with this job. I suspect that I have a sinus infection, and the left side of my face is sort of aching. But I can't take the time off, because I can't afford to, and because I don't qualify for sick time, so I'll pop some advil and do all my homeopathic-witchdoctor cures when I get home. Neti pot, probiotics, spicy foods. Lather, rinse, repeat.

I'm working on a plan to get a projector and some creepy movies to my house. You should come over and drink pumpkin beer. More on that as I organize it.

Burqas are an aging woman's BFF.

2008-10-06T19:42:00.005-04:00

Holy crap. Grace Jones is awesome. Note to self: when one starts to show one's age, one should slap on a Mardi Gras mask in a solid color that matches one's outfit. Problem solved. THAT is how you age...GRACEFULLY. She's a genius.

I made some presents tonight. My sewing machine nearly made me insane, so I took a cue from the Project Runway handbook: hot glue is a cheater seamstress's BFF.

I'm feeling all wiggity lately. Like those squirrels who are running around like Kamikaze pilots. I almost hit three of them on my ride home.
"BOB! GRAB THAT NUT! COME ON, BOB!"
"I can't, Eunice. There's a car coming."
"PUT the NUT in your MOUTH and GET IN THIS TREE! It's getting colder, and I am NOT spending another winter stuck in here staring at YOU all hungry-like. MORE NUTS."

Drove to Jeffersonville to pick up my sister's car, which she is most-kindly lending me for a few weeks while I save up the cash to dump into my car. It was a nice drive. The trees appeared to be aflame. But not in a scary way.

I have to go get pretty now.

It's a trade off...

2008-09-30T06:56:00.004-04:00

It's funny, almost consistantly in my life, when I decide to make a concerted effort to get my ducks in a row, the universe likes to throw curve balls at me.

I have a spare room. When I moved in and took over the apartment, I ambitiously called it my "craft room." It's a smallish bedroom, really just big enough for a bed and dresser. Right now, it's the nexus of my disaster-universe, chaos piled on chaos with lots of shoes thrown in for good measure.

Petunia is obsessed with the spare room. She loves the piles of fabric to lay on. She loves staring out the window. Since my landlord replaced half the windows in the house, we have these fabric-screens which are not a cat-owner's friend. She likes to pull the putty that holds the screen into the window out and play with it. Then I find her, and yell at her sternly and she runs away, I fix it, and she does it again later.

In the spare room, tired of fixing the window multiple times, I simply closed the bottom window and opened the top sash. Done and done. The top sash is easily 5 feet off the ground, and there is a roof we sometimes use as a porch (shhhh) right out the window...

So I'm setting into bed last night. I had just watched the 15 second intro to Ian's TV show for class (it's gonna be on public access, I think: Stan Dymes' Hollywood Hot Seat, and it's definitely going to be amazing) and was prepared for a full and rested night. When suddenly there is a knock at the door. I throw a robe on, and it's Ian's roommate, holding Petunia. She looks guilty.

"Holy shit! What? Where? Ah!"
"She was outside my window. Yowling. I kept telling her to go back whichever way she came, but she wouldn't..."
"Yeah, cause she JUMPED OUT OF THE TOP SASH!"
______
One time, when Petunia was still a kitten, the ex-Fella told me that she reminded him of me.
"Loud and needy?"
"No, friendly, and curious, and affectionate, and cute..." and his voice trailed off. I considered this.
"Do I yowl?"
"Um, almost never."

I wonder if she's learning new tricks from me. Like how to take a blind leap of faith into a world you've never known, only to find that yourself trapped. How finding that trading off one evil for another tends to come out in the wash. At least inside, where the boredom lives, there are kibble and belly rubs.

My car is in the shop. I am on the broke side. I'm going to have to figure out a way to fix it all. Who is good at alchemy? Anyone?

On the plus side, I've been cleaning my house like a crazy person, and it's almost presentable. The best part is that I'm not doing it because I'm hosting a party, or to attempt to convince some dude that no, actually, I don't live like a lazy frat boy. I'm doing it for myself. Just like Kylie and Danii.

High-necked love.

2008-09-27T12:11:00.006-04:00

I bought the absolute best blouse off eBay. SERIOUSLY. The NECK! The SLEEVES! They are Anne-Shirley-worthy Puffed Sleeves. With NARROW CUFFS!

I tried taking an Isadora Duncan ballet shot to show off the cuffs, but I am not a fan of the profile shot of me.

You can sort of see the cuffs there. You can also see how I actually wear it without looking like an insane woman: cropped and tiny blazer. Also,when I make a cocktail for myself to drink whilst watching Project Runway Australia, it's a fuckin' COCKTAIL.

I've been listening to Dylan on Pandora non-stop for three days. He's the only music I remember my father ever listening to, which he did (and does still) constantly. So when I'm feeling blue, listening to Blonde on Blonde is like wrapping myself in a blanket of poems and hiding from the monsters in the closet. But I think my current Dylan phase is waning. In a good way. I've been really productive lately, cleaned my house and cracked down on budgeting, and have been cleaning my head out. It isn't pleasant to snap on the rubber gloves and dive head-first into an emotional mess, but it feels awesome to snap them off at the end, and dust your hands off with a "job well done" head-nod of assurance.

So I'm feeling pretty awesome. And I don't need to listen to Highway 61 Revisited on repeat. Now I've transitioned. To the Magnetic Fields. Which, I know, might seem a baby step away from melancholy imagry-filled ballads, but I think it's a step I'm happy with. It's not as though I've just discovered a band that's been around for a long, long time. It's just that I'm back to loving them. Again.

Busby Berkley's Dreams makes me want to dance. I love the concept of owning your own memories; of taking control of the ghosts of your past and commanding them to perform instead of allowing them to take control of you.

The Nun's Litany might just be my new theme song. I used to be a bit...reckless, and the naive glamorizing of recklessness in this song is exactly the trap I let myself fall into.
"I want to be a brothel worker
I've always been treated like one."

::cue slow applause::

So that's what I'm up to these days. Breathing in, and breathing out and feeling like I'm awake again. Can we play soon?

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