Celebrity Mince Machine

Behold the beautiful English jazz singer Amy Winehouse; she of the hazel eyes, full lips, tousled-because-she-just-had-a-wild-romp-in-bed-with-a-man hair and perfectly, fantastically-shaped eyebrows. People-- this girl can wail. Her voice is sexy, deep, and it's got a sound behind it that's soulful and worldly. Perfection!


But look what happens when a woman gets ground up in the celebrity mince machine:





Sweetie, what the hell happened? What is that thing on your head? Where did your tooth go? Why do you have that mildly horrified, yet simultaneously crazed and amused look on your face?


Please correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't dental work free in England? I'm pretty sure it is. Honestly, Amy... go get a tooth put in.


Looking around on the web at pictures of Amy, I see that she's also succumbed to the self-inflicted starvation that seems to follow on the heels of celebrity status. Apparently she used to be a size 14 (she looked stunning) and she has recently starved herself to a size 3 or less. Amy shared with the press that she does a strenuous workout 6 days a week, then walks the 25 minutes home afterward, not to mention the 25 minutes' walk to the gym. Exercise into oblivion.


That thing on her head. I squint at the pictures and try to figure out how it's attached, where it starts and ends. It's all swirled and curled and very elaborately worked into her own hair (and not in a good way). Amy's secretive hair reminds me of this guy's:





Combed back to front? Front to back? Where is his hairline? When Donald comes out of the shower, is his wet hair hanging down past his shoulders? There's just so much length and it's like Amy's; all sprayed and brushed and fluffed.


Here's a picture of Lindsay Lohan gettin' her Anne-Margaret on:




Wow.


Later, Lindsay after the celeb mince machine gobbled her up:




No! Who told her she should be a brassy blonde? Where are her boobs?

Did Lindsay's boobs and Amy's tooth go get a place together?

More of the mince machine's handiwork:




Clearly she's as stupid as a sack of hammers and can't take care of herself.

What's mysterious is these people who crave attention finally get the adulation they've been seeking, then they come unhinged. What is that?

The Amazing Weasel Boy

Once a week, for the last three weeks, I've emailed my former Lust Object (now known as "Weasel Boy") asking him to return the Ken Burns' Civil War tapes which he borrowed. He responded to the first email, "Thanks for reminding me. I'll get them to you." The second email didn't generate a response. The third email prompted this: "They're in my car. I'll get them to you."

Today I came home from work and on my voicemail was a message from Weasel Boy saying, "I'd like to drop off those tapes tonight. Give me a call and let me know if you'll be home after six." So I called and told him I would be here. He said, "Okay. I'll be there after six and drop off those tapes." He actually used an emphasis on those words when he spoke them. Gosh-- is he trying to let me know that he'll be dropping off the tapes and that he won't be staying for a visit?

Okay, okay-- I get it. Jesus Christ, Weasel Boy.

So, I've gotten into the spirit of all the dropping off that's going on around here today. I want to make sure he understands that I understand he doesn't want to see me, nor do I want to see him (because I'm not convinced he realizes this). I shall leave a note on the front door that says, "Weasel Boy, please leave the tapes in the stairwell and shut the door when you leave. Thank you."

Just another "getting-the-upper-hand-and-trying-to-outsmart-the-other-person-and-show-this-guy-that-I'm-a-okay-without-him" joust.

I hate participating in this kind of crap. I wish I didn't care about him, but he doesn't need to know I do.

And truthfully? I really don't want to see him.

Forgive Them Father, For They Are Child-Molesting Freaks

After announcing the $660 million settlement reached between the Catholic Diocese of Los Angeles and the victims of child abuse at the hands of some bad-apple priests, the Plaintiffs' attorneys held a brief press conference. After a statement in behalf of the victims, Plaintiffs' attorney mentioned that the church representative would not be joining the press conference to make a statement regarding the settlement, as was previously planned.

Of course they didn't show! All the church officials and their little minions had to go into a tight little huddle and figure out-- in hushed, scholarly tones-- what the fuck they're going to say to everyone!

I'm happy that the victims have received some kind of recompense for whatever horrors they've lived through, however, I do wish the victims would have refused settlement and taken those assholes to trial. Obviously, I am not privy to the inner working of this case, but I do believe if it had gone to trial, there's a distinct possibility that the Catholic Church would not have recovered.



The powerful, secretive Catholic church chose to keep those priests under its protection by allowing them to stay put in their current parishes, continue counseling the parishoners, continue to ask for money on Sundays, all while intoning the word of God. These priests, under the church's protection and then therefore with its permission, continued to get whatever it was they wanted from those kids.


Now that the church's secrets have been held up in plain view for everyone to see, they are still trying to strategize and posture and justify. Truth is, church officials should be afraid because they have handled this in a clumsy, bad manner from the beginning. Just now, the church is beginning to realize we (the general public) see their ineptitude. Why else would the church representative be a no-show for a press conference following the settlement?

From the Archbishop of Los Angeles down to the lowliest priest in that Diocese, they are all a bunch of cowards. The priests molested defenseless little kids and the church covered it up because they were scared of the repercussions. The church made minimal effort to remove these maniacs from their service; rather, the church made the weasly, underhanded choice and simply shuffled the perverts, hoping no one would be the wiser (moving a child molester to a new town does not make him stop molesting children; it just provides him with a fresh batch of kids from which to pick and choose). I doubt the church will hold an honest, open discussion with their members about these recent events, because they are busy trying to cover their asses. They'll never implement or share with the members of their church a plan to ensure that this will not happen again, because it's too hard to change things that aren't working properly. In short, fear, subterfuge and greed will keep the church from doing the right thing, which would be acting like empathetic human beings. Tell me: where the hell is that priest who stands up and shrieks, "We are doing this all wrong! We are hurting people! We have to stop this right now!"?

Oh. I forgot. That kind of stuff only happens in the movies.

You can bet your britches that if suddenly it was discovered that a pack of elementary school teachers in Los Angeles were molesting hundreds of their students, we would be horrified and demand that the root of the problem be found pronto. We would say that there is something in the system that has allowed this behavior to flourish, and because of that, the system must change. Then the changes (good, bad, or indifferent, but the key word here is change) would be put into motion. With this analogy in mind, it's easy to recognize how the church must react, but I sincerely doubt they will.

Reality Taps Me on the Shoulder and Says, "Hey. Over Here."

I've changed.

I've reached the limit with My Lust Object. He is no longer an issue. For this I am truly thankful and kind of amazed.

Before, in thinking of My Lust Object, my thoughts were muddy. I was unable to remove myself from the situation and think clearly, the way I should have been thinking about him all along. Inobjectivity pushed me to act in ridiculous ways. I had no pride, I had no boundaries. I rushed forward to get a drink from the mirage that lay ahead. What I thought was water was dust.

The thought entered my mind: "Am I behaving this way because I think I will be rewarded with him one day, or am I behaving like this because I am trying to convince myself I haven't wasted my time and effort on him?"

I didn't like the answer, but I accepted it.

BANKRUPT!!! The Musical

Both my mind and my time have been thoroughly occupied these last four weeks with my impending bankruptcy.

I'm representing myself in this bankruptcy, called pro se in legal parlance. In my former life as a legal assistant, I remember the extreme annoyance I'd feel getting a document back from the attorney with yet another revision-- the 50th in a series of revisions to that same bit of information. Now I understand why the same snippet was revised over and over and over again-- because the client (in this case, me) keeps changing their (my) damn mind and keeps supplying the attorney (me) with new, previously forgotten information (because I'm a ditz).

***Curtain up***

(Open scene in filthy apartment. Large clots of cat hair drift across floor. Moldy dishes in sink. Chain-smoking, tense client (T-Bone) hunched over broken computer, attempting to finalize bankruptcy papers. She wears her thick-lensed glasses, black yoga pants covered in cat fur, and an ill-fitting cami which fails to cover her white, fat stomach)

***Overture (T-Bone sings)***

"Someday I'll be free
of hateful papers haunting me;
Happy days are soon to come
If these revisions soon are done!"

(Stage right door flings open and Attorney T-Bone, played by Kristin Chenowith, rushes in with large stack of papers in arms. She sings)

"T-Bone, you shall not be free

Until the revisions are done-- you see?
Once again you gave me a list

That fails to give me the full gist!"

(Client T-Bone slumps in chair. Lights another cig. Faces Attorney T-Bone and sings)

"Ah yes I forgot that house I cleaned
and the transcript that I typed
Income I felt did not deem
a mention on my taxes-- Oh cripes!
What shall I do? What shall I do?

I'm tired of schedules and disclosures

Of exemptions and drafts and laws and rules

When will this crap be over?"

(Cherubs float down from the ceiling as Attorney T-Bone sings)

"T-Bone, do not fear

Your work is almost finished here.

Just one more draft for these tired eyes

and from your desk you may rise."

(Attorney T-Bone and Client T-Bone link arms, smile at one another, and are lifted above the stage slowly, while music swells)

... and... scene.

My computer took another crap.

I won't be posting for awhile. Thanks for checking back and continue to do so, please!

Meanwhile, here's a picture of my new husband Damian Lewis.

*big sigh*




If you haven't seen "Band of Brothers", drive yourself to Blockbuster and rent it. Damian, of course, is fabulous in it as Major Richard Winters, but it's also memorable for other reasons-- the cast, the writing, the acting, the story itself.

Happy Fourth of July.

Jeanetta

At work today I had a phone message from Sylvia, which said, "T-Bone, please call me. I have some wonderful news."

I returned her call and she said, "We found Jeanetta."

**********
Three weeks ago I spoke to Sylvia for the first time, and she had a story to tell me that was filled with tragedy and regret. Her sweet little voice belied the facts.

"I'm looking for some cemetery records, and I hope you can help me. The person I'm looking for is a family member. She's my cousin, and her name is-- was-- Jeanetta." Here Sylvia paused and her voice began to quaver. "She kind of had a tough time of it. When Jeanetta was born, her parents divorced and she and her older sister stayed with her mother, which is what happened in those days. They lived Next Door. They were really bad off, because the father left town and they never heard from him again. Jeanetta's mother worked as a waitress, and you can guess that they didn't have a lot of money.

"Well," Sylvia continued, "One day the three of them were driving somewhere, and they got in an automobile accident. Jeanetta's mother and sister both died. Jeanetta was only seven years old at the time, and she had terrible head injuries from the accident. She survived, though, and my parents took her in, and raised her with me and my sister for several years. Then the state came and took her away. Jeanetta became a ward of the state."

Sylvia's voice broke. She said, "I don't know what they were thinking, but the state institutionalized her and wound up removing part of her brain, thinking it would make her better. It didn't. It certainly didn't.

"So the years went by and we still visited her, but my parents passed away, my sister and I both got married. Jeanetta's health kept getting worse and worse during this time. Eventually, my sister and I moved away from the state with our families, and," Sylvia starts sobbing now, "we lost where Jeanetta was! I don't know how it happened! They moved her, and they wouldn't tell us where she went, because we weren't immediate family!

"The closest we can track her down is about 20 years ago, and it's an address in The Hamlet." Sylvia mentioned the address. "She was so bad off the last we saw her, I'm just assuming that she's died sometime within these last 20 years, so I thought I'd check the cemetery records with The Hamlet. Can you help me?"

Oh, Sylvia. If you'd only known at that moment who you were talking to-- a person OBSESSED with vital records, geneaolgy, cemeteries, mysteries--

"Of course! Hold on just a second while I go back to get the books," I told her. I fairly skipped to the back safe, where we keep the books, listing everyone buried in the little cemetery I love.

Back at my desk and on the phone with Sylvia, I flipped through the pages. Jeanetta was not listed in there.

"Sylvia, you mentioned Jeanetta was at that address in The Hamlet. You know, I've lived here just about my entire life and frankly--"

Then a memory from long ago came to me.

Hiking beside the creek in the valley below our house, near the cabins! The CABINS!

"Oh! Oh my gosh! I just remembered! There was a facility below our house! It was a kind of compound where developmentally disabled adults lived! It was called The Lodge, but I don't think it's open anymore." I looked up The Lodge on the internet. "Nope, it merged a few years ago with some healthcare facility. But here's the name and phone number of the director of that new facility," I said, giving Sylvia the information. "Sylvia, I just know that's where Jeanetta was. I will bet you a million bucks that's where she was!"

With a promise to call me back and tell me what she'd learned, if anything, Sylvia and I hung up the phone.

Minutes later, Sylvia called again. "I spoke to the director of that facility, T-Bone. She remembers Jeanetta! You were right-- she did live there! But," she said, "She's lost track of Jeanetta too. The last time she heard of her, about 15 years ago, Jeanetta was living in Metropolis up north, so it looks like I still have some work to do." With another promise to call with any news, Sylvia hung up the phone.

For three weeks I kept the notes from our conversation on my desk, because I knew I'd hear from Sylvia again.

***********
Sylvia was crying, I think with happiness and relief. "We found Jeanetta. She's alive and well. She lives in a mobile home park in California. Apparently, she has a social worker who comes in twice a week to check on her. She also has a kind of helper who comes in once a week to straighten things up around her house.

"The best part is, we are flying out in August to accompany her back here for a family reunion. Can you imagine? After all these years? We'll finally get to see her. I don't even know if she'll remember us, but won't it be great?"

Sylvia, it will be great. Jeanetta has her family again.

"I lost nine of my best friends."

CNN reported today that nine firefighters died while fighting a warehouse fire in Charleston, South Carolina, when the roof of the burning warehouse collapsed on them. A Charleston firefighter said, "I lost nine of my best friends."


I've met lots of firefighters, including a particularly heroic group from New York City, who were at the World Trade Center on 9-11 (where they lost 343 firefighters). When you talk to these guys, they speak with a complete lack of pretension about what they do for a living. They just do it. They don't analyze it; they don't question it; they aren't maudlin about it; they just have a job to do, and when they are asked to help, they are right there putting their lives on the line to get what needs to be done, done. Going in, they don't think about the danger facing them; rather, they think about rescuing people and animals trapped inside the building, getting the fire out, and making sure they watch their buddies' backs. The last thing on their minds is their own skin.

The firefighters I met didn't dwell on the events of that morning, at least in mixed company. When they did speak of their friends, they recalled something funny they had said or done; they talked about what a great guy he was; they shared what a wonderful father or husband he was. Then they'd raise a glass and have a drink in their memory. Then they'd raise another glass, and another.

One of the Charleston firefighters stated on Tuesday, "I lost nine of my best friends."

Bravery like that is something I can learn from.

Simpituosity.

When I was a very young girl, I enjoyed singing along with commercial jingles on the radio. There was one jingle in particular that I loved. It was for BOAC, or British Overseas Airways Corporation (now British Airways).

"BEEEEEE OHHHHHH AAAAAAA CEEEEEEEEE
TAKES GOOD CARE OF YOUUUUUUUUU
TAKES CARE OF YOUR MON-EEEEEEEYYYY"

This is how I would sing it:

"BEEEEEE OHHHHHH AAAAAAA CEEEEEEEEE
TAKES GOOD CARE OF YOUUUUUUUUUU
SIMPITUOUS HIGHWAY!"

I have no idea how I created that word or what it meant, but my lyric fit very nicely in the phrase of the jingle, don't you think?

My sisters, of course, pounced on "simpituous", and now in family lore, it means "fake word or phrase used in a manner which suggests correct usage of word by the speaker/singer, ALTHOUGH IT'S A FAKE WORD OR PHRASE".

President Bush is a master of simpituosity. His two most famous simpituous words are "strategery" and "decider". These are excellent examples of simpituousness, executed according to Family Lore Guidelines.

Another great example of simpituousness is a person who called into a local radio station and confessed that she used to think the hook for INXS' Suicide Blonde was actually "soup and salad bar." Imagine Michael Hutchence writhing on stage and growling:

(bass line) DUH DUH DUH
SOUP AND SALAD BAR
DUH DUH DUH
SOUP AND SALAD BAR
SOUP AND SALAD BAR
WAS THE COLOR OF HER HAIR... etc.

From Jimi Hendrix:

'SCUSE ME WHILE I KISS THIS GUY

Lesson: when listening to a song, it's key to consider context.

I'm interested in hearing my readers' personal examples of their simpituosity. Please share in the comments section below.

Nuts.

At work, we love it when crazy people call us. We'll save the messages for those who don't have access to an office phone, such as our maintenance crew, then play back the message for them on their breaks. We also forward these phone calls to others at City Hall, so they can enjoy them too. We can enjoy the crazy phone calls for weeks. Boss has a phone call on his voicemail message system that's eight weeks old, and like children asking for a bedtime story, we'll ask Boss to play the message back for us. Unfortunately, most of my calls aren't forwarded to voicemail, so I talk to the crazy people directly.


"City Public Works-- this is T-Bone. May I help you?"

Woman with German accent: "I vent to pick up my son at school today, and there was rain flooding the gutter next to de curb, and ven he got in my car, he lost his shoe!" She was very agitated.

"Gosh, I'm sorry he lost his shoe-- how can I help you?"

"Vell, de shoe washed down de street and into de drain. I vant you to stop water from flowing tru de system and get the shoe."

I envisioned our rain-swollen creek and my boss running alongside with a butterfly net, trying to rescue this kid's stupid shoe.

"Ma'am, I'm afraid we can't help you with that," I said apologetically.

"Vell, dey are his favorite shoes! I can't keep buying him a new pair of shoes every time he loses one in de drain! I just bought him dis pair-- he lost another one in de drain before! Dey cost $17.00 a PAIR!"

Maybe she should just buy a new kid-- one who's a little less klutzy getting in the car.

"Well," I explained, "The shoe is gone from our water system. Why don't you call Next Door's Water Department? They might be able to help you find your son's shoe." When in doubt, dump the pissed off German ladies with Next Door. They can deal with her.


Recently, we received a letter from a citizen saying that her tires had been damaged by a pothole at the intersection of Y and Z. She wanted reimbursement for these tires, due to The Hamlet's "refusal" to fill this pothole. Boss informed me that this particular intersection is Next Door's responsibility, as it is just outside our city limits, which is why we didn't fix the pothole. I wrote the citizen a letter advising her of such. Two weeks later, she* called.


"This is Betty. I'm calling to report a pothole."

"Okay," I answered. "Can you tell me where it is?"

"It's at the intersection of A and B in The Hamlet. I blew out two new tires on this pothole and," her voice winding up, up, up, like a generator, "I want to be reimbursed for them! They cost me $100.00! I'm on disability and I don't have the money for this! I want money for my tires today!"

"Ma'am, I'm sorry-- can I put you on hold for just a moment?"

"I guess," she said, exasperated.

I pulled her letter out of my file cabinet. In the letter, she specifically stated that the potholes that ruined her tires were at the intersection of Y and Z, located in Next Door's city limits. I got back on the phone with her.

"Ma'am, thanks for holding. You sent us a letter about this about two weeks ago, didn't you?"

"Yes. I. Did. I never got any kind of response from you people about it! You just don't want to take responsibility for blowing out my tires! I want my $100.00 for those tires right now!"

"Ma'am, according to your letter, it says that the potholes were at Y and Z, which is Next Door. We don't fix potholes for Next Door."

"Well, I'm telling you right now, the pothole is at A and B! I want my money," she concluded stubbornly.

"Ma'am, I'm very sorry-- but we sent you a letter the day after we received yours in the mail. Did you not receive that letter?"

Betty, overwrought and apparently really confused, starting crying. She said, "Well, I just don't know where my tires were blown out. I just moved here from another part of the city, and I'm all confused and turned around. I know those potholes were outside my house."

"Ma'am, did you receive our letter?"

"Well. I suppose I did. But later I thought about it and realized that the potholes that caused my tires to go flat were the ones outside my house, not those other ones."

"Ma'am, I need to ask you this and I'm sorry if my question upsets you-- but how do you know that for sure?"

"I DON'T KNOW THAT!" she screamed, "I don't know! I just know that my tires had to be replaced and I can't afford it!"

God, she is losing it, poor thing, I thought. But I also wasn't going to let her try to pilfer us out of $100.00 because she wasn't sure which potholes caused this. I tried one last question, hoping she'd give me the answer I needed to help her.

"Ma'am, did you file a police report or an insurance claim or anything that'll tell us exactly where your tires blew out?"

"Nooooo! I didn't!" she yelled.


Oh well. I tried.



Following is the eight week-old message on Boss's voicemail. What started off as a credible, run-of-the-mill call quickly turned into something... not so credible and yes, a little creepy.


"This is Sue. With all the rain we've been having lately, I'm really concerned about all the erosion. I live near the mountain and lots of it is washing down the street-- lots of dirt and mud and lots of other stuff too. One thing I'm really worried about are the bodies buried up on the mountain. You know, I've heard all those stories about people being buried up there, and then washing down the mountain when the rains get really bad. I just want you to know that I'm keeping an eye out for those bodies, you know. There's lots of stories around town and lots of people who bury people up on that mountain, and I want you to know that I'm watching for them-- the bodies-- because did you know that there is no statute of limitations on murder? All the people in The Hamlet know about those bodies. So I want you to know that I know all about it and I'm watching for them. Because there's no statute of limitations on murder, you know. Have a good day!"



* Why are the barking mad callers always female? It's perplexing.

Doc Brown, More Like.

Tim the Enchanter had a good idea: we should meet for dinner before the "date" on Saturday. I felt this was a good idea, as I was imagining shaking his hand and introducing myself for the first time early Saturday morning, then holding on to his waist for the next 12 hours. Not a very comfortable situation.

I walked into the restaurant and:

I will say that he's a very nice man and I enjoyed eating dinner with him, but I just wasn't feeling it, so today I rung him up and cancelled for Saturday.

Life's too short to spend an entire Saturday with someone, wishing you were at home, reading a book.

Thingies to Share.

THE HOVEL

I've been ignoring the state of The Hovel, dear readers. The previous two-and-a-half years' worth of neglect have finally registered in my little pea-brain. Last week I looked at the cobwebs hanging in the corners, the filth collecting under furniture, the fossilized cat puke, the unfinished paint job in the bathroom, the dirty wood floors, the dust collecting on the baseboards, and the broken lathing on the deck, and I thought, "This place really looks like shit!" So I'm committed to tackling my home improvement list over the next several weeks. Soon my home will be tolerable to visitors! The thing I hate about these kinds of projects is the inevitability of the Pandora's Box flipping open once a task is started. For instance, this weekend I decided to do the paint in the bathroom. The water-damaged wall from last spring had been repaired, so a simple fresh coat of paint was needed to make it look decent. Hahahahahah! I'm so naive. Instead of just slappin' some paint on there, I needed to spackle, sand, wipe down, prime, mask-off, THEN PAINT. What a pain in the ass. No wonder I chose to live in squalor. Anyway, it's been painted and I'm very pleased with the result. Perhaps when my family shows up for Thanksgiving-- five months from now-- I won't be embarrassed to let them in.

WORKING WITH GWH

The Brunette thinks that GWH isn't stalking me; rather, he's a socially inept person who happens to like me a lot. I think this may be the case, as the last couple of weeks he has been seen rarely around my office, nor has he been found skulking around places I happen to be. I can tell you that this is a relief.

BIKIN' GUY

I have a "date" this weekend with a friend of a friend.

His name is Tim, like Tim the Enchanter in The Holy Grail, but instead of a wand, he has a cane. Apparently he suffered some kind of injury and needs the cane to help him get around. We will be taking a ride on his Harley this Saturday, then have dinner afterward. I hate blind dates, but I will tell you that I've spoken to Tim on the phone and he does sound like a nice guy. We'll see how it goes. If it's anything like the blind dates I've had in the past, I'll be sitting right here afterward, sharing some horrifying tale with you.

Okay. That's my update and I'm sticking to it.

High Hopes

Today, I daydreamed.

I haven't done this in a long time, readers. Months and months.

I daydreamed about my life, my possibilities. I daydreamed about things I want to do, things I want to accomplish, things I want to overcome.

In thinking of these things today, I felt hope and happiness.

The old me is sputtering to life again.

Jew Food

I'm lightening my tone today, dear readers. Today I shall share with you an email the Redhead and I call JEW FOOD.


Jew Food burst from my brain as a result of a forwarded email. This email asked we list, from A to Z, particular things in our life that we enjoy. I forwarded the email to my desired recipients, dutifully deleted the existing answers and added my own answers. After hitting "send", I had several responses from those who had received my forwarded email, and they supplied their answers in kind.


The Brunette, under Y, shared that she had recently fixed a Yummy meal-- "Swedish meatballs with latkes with lingonberry sauce" as something she'd made recently for her boyfriend and my nephew. It does sound good, doesn't it? But of course the Redhead and I couldn't just leave it at that. Rather, we honed in on the Brunette's idea that we have Jews in our family tree* and instead of saying to one another, "Wow. That does sound like a nice meal!", we started to feed off of one another about the Brunette fixing latkes.


Following is my A to Z list, originally prepared for the Redhead, of our purported Jewish heritage.

A- Anadama bread, which Marcy makes. She's a Jew.

B- Babushka, which our ancestors in Russia wore, and balaliaka, an instrument our Jewish ancestors probably played.

C- Cossacks, soldiers that raped and pillaged our Jewish ancestors in the ghetto in Russia, where we came from.

D- Dreidl, for Max.

E- Eastern Europe, where our ancestors probably walked on their way to Germany.

F- Frankincense. Gift for Jesus, who was a Jew.

G- Gifelte fish, which Jews eat.

H- Hannukah, which we celebrate right before Christmas, because we are part Jewish.

I- Israel, the holy land where our ancestors are from.

J- Judaism, which I practice around Hannukah.

K- Kosher kitchen, which I keep.

L- Latke. Good with Swedish meatballs and lingonberry sauce.

M- Moses, head Jew, and Madonna, studying Kaballah, mystical Jewish text.

N- New York. Lots of Jews live there.

O- Ohio. Not so many Jews.

P- Purim. Holiday that us Jews celebrate.

Q- Quest. That's what the Jews where on when they were in the desert for 40 years with Moses, head Jew.

R- Rabbi. Guy at temple on Saturday night.

S- Sandwich. It's what Jews eat for lunch.

T- Torah. The thing we read at temple on Saturdays.

U- Uvula. All Jews have them.

V- Verklempt. Yiddish word for how I'm feeling.

W- Why doesn't anyone believe I'm part Jewish?

X- Xray. Jews get these when they have broken arms.

Y- Yeshiva. Where rabbi studied.

Z- Zipper. We Jews have these on our pants.

* Which is fine, you understand. It is, however, unsupportable by any documentation we have of our family's heritage, which is why we give the Brunette such a hard time about it. We do love her very much, though!

Houston, We Have a Problem.

Years ago, I was living in Los Angeles and had the complete L.A. experience: I lived in a cute little bungalow off of Melrose and La Brea, had work as a personal assistant to society-type people and celebrities, and had the quintessential L.A. lifestyle accessory: my very own stalker.


This is something I would not wish on my worst enemy. Actually, my worst enemy is my former stalker, whom I christened "The Troll" (no need for fake names in this post, dear readers; that's just what I named the bitch), so I would wish a stalker on her, except she'd probably like it.


After leaving Los Angeles to escape The Troll, I had nightmares for years. Literally. The Troll reigned supreme in my nocturnal dramas, showing up in unexpected places, engineering evil outcomes to situations, sneering, laughing, conniving. You can imagine my joy, visiting with The Troll every fricking night, for three years after escaping from Los Angeles.


Well, that was twelve years ago, and dreams of The Troll have been dormant for a long time. What a relief.


However, something else came up last night and I'm fairly concerned.

Leaving a BBQ at about 10:00 p.m., GWH was across the street waiting for me.

"Hey purdy lady," he slurred, unsteady on his feet. "I was waiting for you."

"You were? How'd you know I was here, GWH?"

"Weelllll... I jes'... a little bird tol' me that there was a purdy lady up there at a BBQ, so I thought I'd come by an' see if I could escort you home."

Jesus Christ. Was he messing with me? Was it coincidence he saw me leaving (most likely) or did he really know where I was? I tried to think quickly and not panic. I had one clear thought: DO NOT LET HIM KNOW YOU'RE AFRAID.

"Well, sure GWH. If you want to walk me to my place, that's fine."

So we walked (rather, I walked and he staggered) down the street. He had been in Nebraska fishing over the holiday weekend, just got back this evening, was down at the local tavern where he "heard" I was at the BBQ. I told him nothing about my weekend, naturally. Anything I said was delivered in a neutral tone.

We reached my house.

"Oh! This's your place?" he asked. "Yes, it is," I answered, even though he knew full well where I lived. "Thanks for walking me down," I added.

"Oh, sure. Hey! I wanna tell ya that there's talk around the shop that I fried your cat. I dint fry your cat. I'm jus' a l'il 'lergic, thassal."

I said adamantly and firmly, "I NEVER said that to anyone. Never."

He replied, "Oh, well then-- they mus' jes' be teasin' me 'bout it. Can I have a hug before you go up?"

Don't piss him off. "Sure," and I gave him a quick hug, my skin crawling. "See you later." I unlocked my door and went it, shutting the door firmly behind me.

I went upstairs, drew all my shades, closed my curtains and turned off my lamp, leaving my house in total darkness. I kept walking to the windows, peeking outside from the shade's edge, hoping he wouldn't be standing across the street. I locked my slider. I performed my bedtime ablutions in pitch blackness. I got into my pj's and under the covers. It was difficult to get to sleep.

It's hard to know if GWH is toying with me, teasing me, or if he's telling the truth about knowing I was at the BBQ.

As far as Nicole the cat goes, I assume I'll never find out what happened to her. But I'll let you know-- when GWH mentioned the cat and that he hadn't "fried" her, then mentioned the guys around the office had been "teasing" him about her disappearance, it sent a chill down my spine. It makes me wonder just what kind of person I'm dealing with here.

A Note of Thanks on This Memorial Day.

Each morning on NPR, I hear Rene Montaigne or Steve Inskeep announce the day's number of deaths in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Hearing this number, I think of the families and friends whose lives have been irrevocably changed by a late-night phone call (because those calls always come when you're asleep, while you're safe in your bed).

Every day I think, "What are we going to do?", and every day a reply comes: "I don't think anyone knows what we're going to do."

"No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of
the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a
manor of thy friends or of thine own were; any man's death diminishes
me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know
for whom the bell tolls;
it tolls for thee."

-- John Donne

Last Night I Dreamt of You.

"... And a woman I used to know
Who loved one man from her youth,
Against the strength of the fates
Fighting in somber pride
Never spoke of this thing,
But hearing his name by chance,
A light would pass over her face."

-Sara Teasdale

Armor

A couple of years ago, I was having lunch with a man whom I'd just started dating. We were having a conversation about people and the possibility they may let you see only what they want you to see, and therefore, you will be unable to get to know them.

"Okay, here's an example," I said between bites of my sandwich. "If I'm feeling sick one day and have to go to work, I don't necessarily want people to know I'm not feeling well. Maybe it's for personal reasons or because of a work dynamic, but I don't want people at work to know if I'm sick. So when I get ready for work, I put on my armor."

He looked at me. "Your armor?" he asked uncertainly.

"Yes. I'll fix my hair, put on my makeup, and put on an outfit that makes me feel really good. Then when I get to work, they think I look terrific, and they don't know I'm not feeling well, because I have on my armor."

"So what you do to yourself to get ready for work, or to go out, or whatever, is a way of presenting yourself to the world that isn't necessarily truthful?"

Hm, I thought. He doesn't like this. "Well, I suppose that's one way of saying it," I said. "Don't you do that? Don't you have a suit you like to wear to certain kinds of meetings or doesn't the car you drive say something about you?"

"I guess what I present to the world is truly me," he answered, a bit frostily.

"Oh." I said, feeling abashed that I'd hit a nerve with him. "I mean, I'm being honest with you right now-- I'm not covering anything up from you. Just because I'm wearing this skirt and have my hair this way today doesn't mean that I'm trying to keep anything from you," I explained, smiling, afraid I'd hurt his feelings somehow.

But the damage was done, and he never contacted me again (which is okay).

Well, I still call it my armor, although I'm a bit more choosy with whom I share my theory.

Lord, I'm So Tired. How Long Can This Go On?

This getting-up-at-5:00 a.m.-to-get-to-work-on-time bullshit is beginning to wear me out.

Q: Why do teenagers sleep until noon?

A: Because they can.

A Terrible Suspicion.

Last week, Boss came over to my desk and said, "You want another cat?"
"Oh my God-- no, but thanks."
"How many do you have?" he asked.
"Three. They rule my life. If I got another cat to upset the balance, they would probably murder me in my sleep," I said. "Why do you ask?"
"Well, there's a cat that's been living under the shed out back for the last couple of months. She's a nice little kitty. I'll take you to see her." Boss and I stepped out of the office and walked out to the equipment graveyard. We stood by the shed and called out to the kitty.
She slunk out from underneath the shed-- a beautiful silky-haired ginger tabby, with enormous paws, a long narrow face, and a long fluffy tail. She immediately came to me, and started rubbing her sides and face along my legs. Back and forth, this way and that. Awww! So sweet! I fell in love, instantly.
I asked Boss, "Do we need a shop cat?"
"Well," he said, "We sure do have a lot of mice in the water department. That building is infested with them. We could use a mouser, because those humane traps don't work very well."
"If I got permission from Dick, could we keep her in the shop at night and let her wander around outside during the day? I'll take responsibility for her food and water."
"Sure-- I don't see why not. We probably could use her, that's for sure."
During my lunch hour, I went down to the grocery store to get our new cat some food. Kitty was very lean from living outdoors and could probably use a good meal or two. While on my errand, I decided that "Nicole" would be the perfect name for her-- after Nicole Kidman-- being ginger-haired, long and lean.
After my return from the store, I talked to Dick, the supervisor of that department. "Sure, I think it's a great idea," he said. "I can't do it today, but next week I'll make a kitty door for her in the shop, and she can come and go as she pleases."
Later that afternoon, a guy who works with Dick in the water department found out we were going to have a shop cat. I'll call this guy "The Great White Hunter" ("GWH") for reasons I'll explain in a moment.
"Aw, we don't need a shop cat," GWH complained. "The last one we had died because it ate poison, and it shit and pissed all over the place. Who told you we could have a cat here?" he asked me.
"Dick did!" I said, pointing to him standing nearby. "The cat's not going to eat the poison-- she's going to have a cat door-- she'll go outside to go to the bathroom. You probably won't even see her."
"Well, shit," he said. "We just don't need one."
Dick commented, "GWH is allergic to cats."
I explained, "Well, she'll be outside, so I don't think you'll even notice she's been there." GWH, however, was not happy about Nicole living in the shop.
Now-- GWH travels all over the world to hunt. The water department is plastered with photos of him with his latest kills-- bush bucks, warthogs, zebras, deer, elk, ducks, and even a monkey (which horrified me). In the shop, stuffed and mounted heads of his quarry line the walls. A warthog skull sits on the kitchen table of the shop.
The thought crossed my mind that GWH would hurt Nicole, but I guiltily dismissed that idea.
Saturday, I stopped by the empty complex to make sure Nicole had enough food and water for the weekend.
She was gone.

Ding Dong

Jerry Fallwell died today.

I would be very interested to hear Jerry's conversation with God upon his arrival in Heaven, wouldn't you?

I have an idea that God is going to inform Jerry that while he was here with us on Earth, busy polarizing, preaching and pointing fingers, that he had been wrong to judge his fellow man; that same sex couples who love and respect one another are not committing a sin by being together; that divorces aren't sinful; that having a baby "out of the holy bonds of marriage" is not sinful; that indeed Jerry himself had committed many, many sins by stirring up hatred in those who refuse to understand the many subtleties of this life; that by his condemnation of sinners rather than letting God judge them, is in itself a paramount sin.

I hope that Fallwell, humbled, shaken and terrified in the presence of God, finally knows and sees and acknowledges his many mistakes. I hope he will finally know that he is not more important, more knowledgable or holier than anyone else populating that plane. I hope he realizes that now there is only a level playing field-- everyone equal, everyone equally loved, throughout eternity, and there isn't anyone there to impress or scare or bully or alienate.

The Waiting is the Hardest Part

I slept most of the day, being exhausted from the events of the last 48 hours or so.

If you want a cheery, funny post, you won't find it here! Gird your loins, readers.

The big event occurred Thursday evening. My girlfriend Hilly and I were sitting down to some wine that evening, both ready for a long-overdue chat. We'd barely finished our first glass when the phone rang. It was Mom's assisted living facility informing me that Mom wanted to go the emergency room, as she was experiencing pain due to (sorry to tell you this) constipation. The facility felt it was a good idea too.

Now, everyone gets constipated occasionally, but with Mom's particular affliction and her current physical state, constipation could be serious. So I told the nurse I'd be up there in about 45 minutes to take her to the hospital. Hilly thankfully understood that our visit would have to be cut short. I walked Hilly to her car, got into my own vehicle and drove up to Mom's.

After letting myself into Mom's apartment, I found her in the bedroom shaving her legs.

"Mom. Why are you shaving your legs?"

"Because they're hairy," she said.

I remember my few visits to the emergency room over the years and I have got to tell you, the condition of my legs were of the least concern to me. More on those hideous stories in a future post.

So I went about the business of packing an overnight bag just in case the doctors wanted to keep her there for observation. Mom interjected various suggestions (i.e., commands) while I was packing the bag.

"No, not that. I want the robe instead", "Don't forget to put my makeup bag in there." Apparently she was ready for a very glamorous visit to the ER. "I need a glass of water," she commanded. As an afterthought, she said "Thanks."

"My nails are a mess," she commented after finishing her legs.

"Who gives a shit, Mom?"

"I DO. Put the nail polish remover in my purse. I can take off the polish on the way down," she commanded.

"No. No, you're not," I said, envisioning her spilling remover all over my front seat. "I'll do it. Jesus Christ, Mom," I said, frustrated. 'Is she in pain or not?' I thought to myself. I knew that to refuse her would bring her easy tears, leave me feeling guilty and forever regretting that I didn't take off the nail polish as she wished, I would think about manicures for weeks, dream about nails, obsess about my SELFISHNESS and what a rotten daughter I am. So I removed the polish.

After about an hour and a half, with the night still young (hooray), she was in my car, seatbelt on, overnight bag and wheelchair in the back. Off we went to the ER.

Check-in, triage, then the wait. Poor Mom, sitting there in her wheelchair, hunched over, uncomfortable, practically starving to death because she hadn't eaten in a day or so, but not too excited about a snack or any kind of sustenance because she felt nauseous. Me handing her kleenex, giving her sips of water from the water bottle, engaging in chit-chat. Both of us watching the incoming patients, some crying in pain. FINALLY, a room and a bed in the ER.

Then... more waiting. Xray tech arrives with a cotton cover-thingy. "She needs to put this on," he said. "She can leave on her underwear and socks." Then he disappeared. I wrangled Mom out of her clothes and into the thingy. Wait, wait, wait. A young man came in. "I'm the vampire," he said, holding up a needle and vials. "I'm going to take your blood." "This is where I turn away," I said. While he took Mom's blood, I watched the crappy local news with the sound turned off. Boy, we have some unattractive people anchoring the news in this town.

The Vampire bade us goodbye and we waited for xray man to return. After a long wait, he came in. "You done your urinalysis yet?" he asked. Mom and I looked at each other. "No-- we didn't know about that," I answered. Just then a nurse walked in. "She needs a urinalysis," xray man said to the nurse. "Yeah, well-- she's not my patient, so..." she reached into a cupboard for a urinalysis kit and threw it on the bed. "Here you go." Then she left.

Xray man said, "Okay. I'll do xrays after the urine test. I usually don't do it this way," he said, all confused that his little schedule had been messed up. "Well, thanks for being so patient," I said to him. He left, saying on his way out the door, "I'll be down the hall and check on you in a few minutes."

Clearly, a nurse wasn't going to help us with Mom's pee test. In fact, we hadn't even seen our nurse yet. "Okay, Mom. I guess we're on our own," I said grabbing the pee kit and getting her into her wheelchair. I wheeled her over the bathroom down the hall.

The next 25 minutes were a test of my patience. Halfway through our visit to the bathroom, there was a knock on the door. I cracked it and looked out. A crying, fat lady stood there with her husband. "Nope, sorry," I said coldly, closing and locking the door in their stunned faces.

Finally we got the specimen. I got Mom back to the room, where we waited for the xray guy. He showed up about 20 minutes later. "Okay, ready for your xrays?" he said, wheeling Mom down the hall. They were gone for about a half hour.

Back into the room she comes. We wait. The nurse finally ambled in after another 1/2 hour or so. "Hi, I'm Bitsy (or whatever her name was) and I'm your nurse tonight. The doctor will be in soon to talk about your tests."

The doctor, young and energetic, came in an hour later. "Well, you bloodwork is terrific, your urinalysis came back great and your xrays are super! I'm going to prescribe you a laxative and I don't think you'll be staying overnight tonight."

He disappeared through the doorway. I got Mom into her clothes and we waited. And waited. Entrez Bitsy.

"Great news! We'll be discharging you in a few minutes!" She disappeared. We wait and wait and wait. I go out into the hallway looking for Bitsy and found her talking to some other nurses at their station. "Bitsy, my Mom is fading fast. We need to get her out of here asap," I explained. "Oh! Okay! Her paperwork is right here." She grabs the papers and accompanies me to the room. She asked, "Is she dressed yet?" "Yes, she's dressed," I say, between clenched teeth.

Bitsy went over the discharge papers with us. She went over the laxative we were to get for Mom. I took Mom out to the valet parking and there we waited and waited and waited for the car. Mom into the car. Wheelchair in the back. Buckle in Mom. Drive her up to Stepford. Take out the wheelchair, Mom in the wheelchair, take her upstairs, go to find the nurse to inform her Mom's home, she needs to get Mom dressed for bed and she also needs her meds. I go back in to Mom's apartment, hug her goodbye, run down to the car, light up a ciggy, and look at my watch. It's 1:30 a.m.

Oh good. I'll get a whopping 3 hours of sleep tonight. I'm so glad the ER doctor prescribed that laxative, particularly after all this effort. It really made the do-it-yourself visit to the ER worth it.

So Mom's "fine", I guess, until her next fit of constipation and the Nazis at the nursing home make us take her to the ER.

So after working the next day then meeting friends out for beers Friday night, I got home at about midnight. Needless to say, I spent virtually the entire day in bed on Saturday. I did manage to get to the grocery store Saturday night, so I did do something productive.

I've told both of my sisters, "Honestly. If I ever get as sick as Mom, I'm offing myself. Don't feel surprised or anything-- I'll just do it and there'll be nothing you could have done or said, I'm just not going to go through what Mom's going through. I won't do it." This comment isn't met with any kind of happiness, of course-- I'm their baby sister! They'll miss me because they love me. But I'm telling you... I won't go through it.

Work

My new job is going really well, readers. This is a relief after my year of unemployed discontent.
There is a large cast of characters up here, mostly men. I'm certainly not complaining.

Is it an office filled with smug, know-it-all attorneys wearing golf shirts and Dockers? No! It's a warehouse filled with men who have rough hands, muddy boots, windburned faces and trucker caps. They drink, they cuss, they smoke. They know how to use tools. They can snake a toilet or fix a car. They can stop leaks, divert a creek, replace a fire hydrant, blow up boulders. Most of all, they are very sweet and solicitous, opening doors for ladies and fixing coffee for the crew in the morning.

These guys, particularly those who serve in tandem on The Hamlet's fire department, have seen it all-- wasp nests under park benches, public toilets clogged by vandals throwing rocks in the toilet bowl, dead bodies, floods, fires, holes in the street, downed telephone wires and poles and trees, car wrecks, enormous rock slides, drunks passed out in the park, and bears ambling around the neighborhood going through trash cans.

These guys know all the gossip, too-- like the former city hall janitor who used to show up drunk on the job and currently sits on our city council. They can give you the scoop on who wants to, has, or is still screwing who, who is getting a divorce or a separation, who is filing for bankruptcy, who has a dime less than God, who manufactures meth in their garage, who's been arrested for DUI, possession or domestic abuse.

Because of this love of gossip, the boss has police radios turned on throughout the day for information's sake, but also for entertainment value. The guys love this stuff-- the car chases, the accidents, the suspected drunk drivers. Yesterday the PD was led on a high-speed chase through The Hamlet, which led eastward to Next Door. The policeman radioed that the suspect had turned westward to evade the police, and a cheer rose up from the guys congregated in the boss's office: "HE'S COMING BACK!" they crowed. "FUCKING A!"

I'm certain that over the next few months I'll have lots of stories to share. Prepare yourself, readers. These are your public servants.

I'll Put a Bug in His Ear

"Night Gallery" was a family favorite when we were growing up. My sisters and I would crowd in front of the TV to watch it, sitting really close to one another to keep from getting too scared.

One episode in particular left a lasting impression on the three of us. This guy goes on a trip and upon his return, he starts experiencing terrible headaches. He makes a trip to the doctor, who finds an earwig in his ear and explains to his patient, "They laid eggs."

Aaaaaccckkk! Oh, the thrill that coursed through us girls! How horrible!

A college friend, Linus, told me that when she was growing up in North Carolina, she awoke one night crying and feverish. Her mother took her to the emergency room where the doctor examined her and found in her ear canal: a cockroach. "It's not as uncommon as you'd think," he told Linus' mom.

At CNN's website today, they reported that a boy had two spiders removed from his ear. One spider had died, the other was still alive when they were taken out. Being a boy, he of course had the doctor put them in a jar and he now he keeps them in his room. The boy said when the spiders set up camp on his eardrum, they'd move around and they "sounded like Rice Krispies."

Another thing to add to my nighttime ablutions: "Put cotton balls in ears."

Hideous Eruptions

I obsess about my skin. I stay out of the sun, wash carefully, use really good products, do the anti-aging regimen. I think it's paid off over the years.

Unfortunately, despite all the good things I do for my skin, once in awhile it rebells against me and I get a Vesuvi-zit. For me, one Vesuvi-zit cancels out every moment I have spent cleansing, moisturizing, fretting.

For the last several weeks I have a zit that's been gurgling under the surface for awhile and has finally surfaced. It's red. It's angry. It's on my jawline. Worst of all, it's not getting any better despite my best efforts to hold it at bay.

I loathe the Vesuvi-zit, those pimples that are so enormous and hard and refuse to come to a head. It's like a teeny-tiny silicone implant on my face. Worst of all, I keep touching it and I check on it in the mirror throughout the day.

If I were to leave it alone, how long will the Vesuvi-zit stay? I'll never know for sure because I try to perform surgery on these things before they get out of control. Would it stay for six months? A year? This one started forming two months ago. It's worn out its welcome. BEGONE!

Bubble, Bubble, Toil and Trouble

After my recent notes on The Hamlet wherein I expressed doubts about the existence of witchcraft, sorcery, satanic worship, and general skulduggerous goings-on within these environs, Whoever Is In Charge decided it was time I see with my own eyes irrefutable proof of the mischief.

Here.

In The Hamlet.

Occurrence Number One

While at the gas station on Sunday, the kid parked in the forward gas pump had pentagram decals on the back window of his Subaru.

Occurrence Number Two

After my visit to the gas station, I pulled into my private parking spot and lo! On the ground in the parking lot lay a crushed and dirty (not-so-pointy) witch hat.

Coincidence? I think not.

Hamlet

My little Hamlet, a delightful splice of Cicely, Alaska and Bedford Falls, is tucked into the base of the mountains. I cherish the extreme beauty and character of this spot; the colors of the dirt, trees, scrub, and sky are as familiar to me as the color of my own eyes and skin.

Here, the mineral-laden underground springs gurgle upward to spit out of fountains, and this water is thought to have numerous healing properties. Centuries ago, the Native Americans believed these springs to be sacred. In the 19th Century, scores of Tuberculosis patients moved to The Hamlet for the beneficial healing waters and extreme dry air. The patients occupied "T.B. cabins", which are still scattered around town, now inhabited by modern-day residents.

The characters around town are easily seen. Folks here don't necessarily try to blend in-- all eccentricities are honored. When I was a child, there was a man who wore a Santa suit year-round and gave candy to all the kids (I know it sounds creepy--he was really nice though); the guy who dresses like D'Artagnan, who one day swept his hat off his head, bowed, and gallantly offered to assist me in carrying my groceries up the stairs ("Mi'lady" he called me); the man who dresses like General Custer and has long flaxen hair and a sharp goatee (I asked him how he was doing one morning and he answered "I'm still walking and talking, so I guess I'm good!"); the guy whose early 70's model Ford pickup is completely covered in hand-painted text of biblical references, poems, and quotations; the couple who keep two llamas on their property and take them and their dogs on daily walks; the man who rode an enormous mule up my street, and when he dismounted to chat with me, the mule blissfully rolled on its back in my front yard and munched on some flowers; a beloved local artist, whose tall, lanky figure you can see moseying around the streets of The Hamlet,wearing a blue cotton shirt, black pants and suspenders, his long, flowing white hair and grizzled beard making him look like an Amish farmer/prophet.

For years, rumors have persisted that practioners of the black arts populate The Hamlet. People from our neighboring city ("Next Door") discovering I live in The Hamlet often ask, "Oh, you're from The Hamlet. Seen any witches?" One guy said to me with perfect seriousness, "Yeah... I wanted to buy a house in this area and did some research on The Hamlet. I found evidence of lots of witchcraft, so I didn't buy there." An odd statement, I thought. Having grown up in The Hamlet and lived here for many years, I have yet to see any "evidence" of witchcraft. Where did he find this evidence? Did he drive through The Hamlet and see little dolls made of twigs hanging from the trees? Did he visit a realtor's website and its 360-cam panned over a bloody altar? Apparently he knows something I don't.

The privately-owned shops in The Hamlet are run by proprietors proud to be off the big American retail corporation grid. They sell antiques, souveniers, handmade musical instruments, pottery, handblown glassware, and custom-designed jewelry. Most Hamlet stores cater to the tourist trade and during the winter months, storeowners will tell you that money is tight. Their businesses rely almost exclusively on out-of-town visitors the summer months bring.

There are many Victorian homes in The Hamlet-- some updated, some shabby. The influx of well-off young professionals are eager to renovate these homes (understandably). Developers are attempting to upgrade The Hamlet's purported housing shortage by building over-priced homes and condominiums, knocking long-time residents out of the housing market. Despite these changes, most long-time residents want to stay in The Hamlet and jealously defend the time-worn, shabby charm on display here. They are suspicious of change.

The politics of The Hamlet is a very hot topic for the locals. Over beers at any one of the local bars, you'll find residents discussing the state of the roads, the ridiculousness of the "upgrades" being given to our town in the form of faux-Victorian streetlights and wider sidewalks, the ineptitude of The Hamlet's council, the Barney Fyfe-esque police force, etc. Overall, the political climate is quite liberal here, unlike Next Door, which is heavily populated with fundamentalist Christians, homophobes, and the like.

The Hamlet locals have a decided snobbishness about our side of town (because it's so cool) and avoid the "East Side" as much as possible. My girlfriend "Gwyneth" calls the East Side "The Brave New World" and we joke about the poor bastards who have bought brand new, quarter-million dollar homes directly under the flight path at the airport. The East Siders love it out there; it suits them perfectly. There are mega movie theatres, strip malls, chain restaurants and big department stores that suit their every need. On our side of town, we tend to see movies 1.) at home or 2.) venture to Downtown Next Door's old renovated theatre which typically features art films or film festival winners. At Christmas, we try valiantly to shop for gifts at our locally-owned stores (this is very difficult to do, but it IS possible. Sometimes, though, you do have to make a run to Toys-'R'-Us or Borders; it's practically unavoidable). When we eat out, we tend to gravitate to family-run places, but once in awhile we go to the dark side and eat at Next Door's Olive Garden (because of the salad dressing, don't you know, and those fucking heroin-laced breadsticks) or other chain-type places.

Of course I love our cemetery, as it is small and quaint. I visit it quite often not only because I like cemeteries, but also because many people I know are buried there: Lisa's grandmother, Delphine, who could make me laugh until I cried and who also had a perpetually perfect manicure. Jamie and Jeff, both plagued by depression and who both committed suicide. My brother-in-law, who died on a terrible Christmas Eve ten years ago, and the top of whose tombstone is still smeared with the long-ago lipstick of my sister's kisses. Tina, a life-long equestrian and horse lover, who one day fell off of her horse and suffered fatal head injuries. Deanna, whose sweet face is memorialized on her tombstone in a brooch-shaped photograph. Danny-- who I didn't know had passed until I saw his stone a year ago while taking a quiet walk among the graves-- has a pine tree next to his stone, which is dressed with faded Christmas ornaments dangling from the branches. From the cemetery, you can faintly hear the excited screams and cheers of kids up at the track of my old high school located just over the ridge, providing an additional shade of eloquence to the place in which you stand.

I'd like to say I'll never move from here, that I'll live out the rest of my life in The Hamlet, but Mom was right when she told you to never say never. I hope I'll always see the lilacs bloom in the spring here; the snow frozen on the mountains well into the summer; the gold leaves falling slowly to the ground in the fall and the perfect hush of a snowy night, snowflakes falling out of the sky illumed by the street lights below my house. While I am here, I know it's such a perfect place to be.

Unfettered Excitement

I now have a computer! I will now be posting on a regular basis rather than scuttling, crab-like, from place to place begging for computer time.

My heartfelt thanks to The Hessian for giving me this fabulous setup.

Chad Jones, 6684

After the bars let out the other night, I was treated to another freak show beneath my bedroom window.

A guy was walking up the street and boy was he pissed. He was screaming at the top of his lungs:

"THOSE FUCKERS STABBED ME IN THE HEAD. STABBED ME! COME ON! COME ON OUT! CHAD JONES 6684! CHAD JONES 6684! FUCKERS! FUCKERS FUCKING STABBED ME IN THE HEAD! 6684 MOTHERFUCKERS!" etc. Up the street Chad went, yelling, screaming, then he made a u-turn and came back down the street, screaming about getting stabbed in the head, how "they" had done this to him, and now where are they, they're hiding and they aren't gonna come out and face him.

A poor soul, apparently a friend waiting for him, said in a low voice to Chad, "Dude. Let me take you home. You'll feel so much better about this tomorrow." So Chad and his unfortunate babysitter left (in a car, natch).

Chad Jones 6684? Is this his spy number or something? "Jones. Chad Jones." Sitting at the roulette table in a tux, sipping a martini, with a big knife sticking out of his head.

So being the nosy bitch I am, the next morning I went downstairs right away to look for blood from 6684's head wound. No blood. No knife. No nothing!

I know-- the knife was a metaphor! That's it! Or maybe not. Maybe Chad is just a maniac with a drinking problem. Just like all the other drunks under my window.

God Is Great, Memsahib.

Well, dear readers, I have finally gotten a job.

I will be working for my fair city at the public works department, which includes sewer, streets and the like. I originally wanted the asphalt raking job they had open, but they filled that right away. Instead I will be their secretary/receptionist.

I've learned so many lessons this last year; I can't begin to count them. I've learned:

- That you can do without those nice cushy extras. If you've got a roof over your head and food in the fridge, you're good.
- Humilty-- it's a lifestyle.
- Don't assume the good things in your life are a constant. They can disappear tomorrow, so appreciate them.
- I've learned to shop at Wal-Mart, even though their produce sucks, because it's cheaper than anywhere else.
- Most importantly, having faith in the future is the most valuable thing you can possess.

Thanks to my friends and family (particularly The Brunette who gave me a heads-up on this new job) during this last year. Without you, I would have been living in my car. That would have sucked.

San Diego

I was in San Diego last weekend to visit my old boyfriend, The Hessian.

Once home, I realized that The Hessian and I are two people standing on a small bit of sand in the middle of a wide, rushing river. On our little island, our love and regard for one another has remained unchanged as time flows past us.

Years ago, I recited Robert Burns' poem to The Hessian while we sat on my deck one night:

"... and I will love thee still, my dear,
Till all the seas gone dry.

"Till all the seas gone dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt with the sun;
And I will love thee still, my dear,
And the sands of life shall run.

"And fare thee well, my only love!
And fare thee well awhile!
And I will come again, my love
Though it were ten thousand mile."

Taxes

It's tax time once again, dear readers. It's that time of year when we receive a little piece of paper in the mail encapsulating and distilling all the worry, sweat, political manuevering, yes'ing, meetings, office potlucks and fake smiles in the hallway, into a sterile number in Box 1 of your W-2.

Imagine my annoyance opening my W-2s from the Old Boy Network Law Firm, P.C. and found that the third copy of my W-2 wasn't mine. It was a copy of the Popcorn-Smell Hating Partner's W-2. Box 1 on his form let me know that he made a whopping $180,000.00 last year while sitting in his office on his fat Dockers-encased butt.

Naturally, I called the firm's bookkeeper and told her of the mistake. She said she'd send me a new set of W-2s. When I asked her what I should do with Dockerboy's W-2, she said to rip it up.

"I'm guessing that won't be a problem," she said kindly.

"I'm happy to do it!" I answered.

My computer took a large crap

Which is why I haven't been posting as of late. Today I'm on Mom's computer, so I will post a couple of items. Thanks for checking back!

Well, I'll Be Damned.

I don't have a fucking "error on this page" message, so I can actually post something from the computer in my home, rather than have to create the blog in Word, send it to my email address, then post it from one of my sisters' computers.

Tonight I want to write of my 12 year-old nephew G.

G and I spent this last weekend together as his parents were in L.A. on business, and we basically did stuff we both like to do, which is eat at restaurants and watch videos. He is the coolest little kid you could imagine. I call him "My Little Zen Boy", because he is calm and insightful-- a little Buddha minus the 20% body fat.

G's taste in music is exceptional (thanks to his equally cool Dad, he of the 5,000+ CD collection) and he likes to listen to Led Zeppelin, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Beatles, and most lovely of all, one of his new favorite albums "Madman Across the Water" by Elton John, a big family favorite. He's a third-level junior blackbelt, gets good grades in school, has a large posse of friends who look up to him as leader of their pack. He's a pacifist, sensitive, thoughtful and creative, and like most boys his age, opposed to taking showers. One of his greatest gifts is that of mimicry; the child can imitate any accent, tone of voice or voice inflection. Our favorite video this weekend was "SNL Best of Will Farrell", and for the rest of the weekend, G spouted off perfect renditions of Harry Caray expressing his lust for spareribs and the catchphrase "Goulet!"

What a wonder that such a highly-evolved creature is related to me. I am truly thankful.

My Girls

My girl Scarlet is a beautiful creature with milky skin, a staggering vocabulary and the best conversational skills of anyone I’ve ever met. She’s a bohemian, creative and funny, with a girlish little giggle. She could be anything- a doctor, a writer, a dominatrix, a shrink, a person who sells her home-grown produce at the farmer’s market. Scarlet is simply a lovely woman.

However, Scarlet doubts the course her life is taking. She is currently planning to get her doctorate in English Lit and teach at the university level. This is causing Scarlet distress because she foresees a future filled with grading badly written papers, cajoling hungover college students to appreciate Emily Dickinson, creating lesson plans and publishing or perishing. She has chosen this path primarily because she’d be really good at it, but another reason is because Scarlet feels that she is expected to do something significant with her highly superior brain power that would meet with the approval of her loved ones. Further, Scarlet is bisexual. This is viewed with suspicion by some of her “friends”, who see her sexual orientation as greedy and possibly false.

My other girl, Delaney, is struggling with a different kind of problem. She is transgendered- man to woman. Delaney was brought up in a rural, conservative community. She is the former frontman of a heavy metal band, formerly married and the father of two boys. Delaney is fighting on a day-to-day basis with others’ prejudices and fears. She is in a battle to convince the people she loves—her parents, siblings, children and old friends—that despite the fact she is in the process of becoming a woman, that she is indeed the same person she was before-- inside.

Two women with two different lives, yet they share a common problem: how can they happily become who they need to be and yet have the support and approval of those they love?

Bill Moyer recently interviewed author Jeanette Winterson on his show. Winterson was brought up in England by strict Pentecostal Christian parents and throughout her childhood attended tent revivals, prayer meetings and the like. She began to step off her parents’ path, much to their consternation and extreme disapproval. As a teenager, Winterson fell in love with a girl and they decided to move in together. Winterson was leaving her mother’s home for the last time and while walking out the door, her mother called after her:

“WHY BE HAPPY WHEN YOU CAN BE NORMAL?”

It’s such a funny and telling statement from a woman who wanted only a “nice” life for her daughter. What mother wouldn’t want a simple, tidy life for their child, without confusion, without mess, without trouble? Alternatively, what person doesn’t want understanding and support from their friends during the travails of becoming who they are?

So there is the clash. The child who loves the parent and wants their approval, and the parent who wants an easy life for their child. The person who was once loved by friends and is now treated with suspicion and is the object of anger and resentment.

We all know people who fit into the generic, simple molds made available by our society. There are also those people who realize they don’t fit into the generic mold yet they fear retribution of some kind, so they squeeze themselves into the ill-fitting little confine (Ted Haggard). I think those that fit into the simple mold are happy—they’re really lucky. The others who contort themselves and struggle to fit inside the simple mold are conflicted at best, because I think they’re hiding stuff from themselves and from others.

Then there are those mavericks who state, “Well, I’m never going to fit into any of those molds and furthermore, I’m not interested into trying to squeeze in there.” Those are the people who step out to become themselves—white-hot, pure, unapologetic and unforgettable.

It takes thick skin to be a maverick. It also takes a little bit of “Fuck you very much”. Hardest of all, it takes “Sorry you don’t like it. I love you anyway.”

To paraphrase Mrs. Winterson: “WHY BE NORMAL WHEN YOU CAN BE HAPPY?”

The Unwashed Horde

Tonight I received another lesson in humility, wherein my path joined that of the White Trash Horde.

After washing my filthy laundry at the coin-op, I went to Wendy's and ate a cheeseburger with fries, chewing away in a desultory manner while Dexie's Midnight Runners played over the loudspeakers. Afterward, I drove to Wal-Mart, where I bought some crappy produce and fought crowds of tired, grumpy people. I made my way out to the car and loaded my groceries in the trunk. I drove home while smoking a ciggy. Once home, I hauled my laundry and groceries up the steps to my apartment.

With tonight's "events", I've been reminded I'm no different than those folks at Wal-Mart-- the everyday people who live their lives under the radar, the men and women who lead their lives the best they can. No matter how smart, special and clever you think you are, how dazzling you look, what a nice shiny life you lead-- at one point or another, you're going to wind up living a bare bones existence, and you wouldn't recognize yourself, even if someone held a mirror up to your face.

Goodbye

He awoke in a black room, not knowing where he was or why he had woken up so suddenly.

His mind accelerated, making order of the maze of events, working backward to the phone call he received less than 24 hours ago. His breath caught in his throat and his stomach ached with dread.

He then remembered with terrible clarity where he was and why.

My Grandma Esther had sister named Betty. Being the much older sister, Grandma loved Betty as her own child and for all intents and purposes, raised her.

As a young woman, Aunt Betty married a man named Bob, and they settled in the Detroit area not far from my grandparents. Grandma Esther had since married and was raising two sons-- my Dad and his brother Bill.

Betty and my father weren’t far apart in age, and Dad was very close to Betty and Bob. After my parents met and became a serious item, the first family members to whom he introduced Mom were Betty and Bob.

I’ve asked my parents about Betty and what she was like as a person, as I barely remember her. I still have a stuffed animal that she gave me, which I loved. I remember Betty and Bob had clover in their front yard. I remember playing touch football with my cousin in their lawn. Most of all, I remember Betty being very sweet. Mom and Dad both describe her as very shy, sweet, soft-spoken. Betty and Bob shared many interests, most of all hunting, camping, and fishing together. Overall, Betty led a traditional life in that she was a wife, mother and homemaker.

As the years went on, Betty and Bob had a baby boy, and my parents had us three girls. About the time I was entering school, Bob was offered a good job in Indiana and much to Betty’s consternation, they moved away from Detroit, buying a house in Indiana. Betty’s family being her world, the move away from her sister and her family in Detroit was, in my parents’ view, the beginning of the end for her.

Mom and Dad have both told me that during our final trip to see Betty, Bob and my cousin, they didn’t notice a difference in Betty’s demeanor. She was as kind and sweet as she had always been. However, she was hiding a sadness that hounded her.

A few months following this visit, my uncle and cousin went to church. Betty normally accompanied them, but she begged off that day. After the service, Bob and my cousin came home, where Bob found Betty dead in the bedroom. She had shot herself with a .22.

The next day, we all drove to Indiana. I remember only snippets of that trip. We girls stayed at the neighbors’ house—the twins, Melody and Harmony (I kid you not)—which was exciting to The Redhead, The Brunette and me because the twins had canopy beds in which to sleep. The rest of my family stayed at Betty and Bob’s. I remember how sad everyone was, particularly my Grandmother. I remember being led up to Aunt Betty’s coffin by Uncle Bob’s sister (who was married to a mobster and had, according to another aunt, a ring with a diamond in it “as big as your fist”). She told me to touch Aunt Betty to say goodbye, and not to be afraid to do this. I did touch Betty’s hand and remember thinking that it did not feel like her skin, which I knew was soft and warm.

Over the years, Betty’s life and death have churned around in my mind, because I hate there isn’t an answer as to why she killed herself. I try to imagine the depths of agony that a person must be experiencing to commit suicide, how trapped a person in a situation must feel, that the only answer, the only relief from the poisonous, creeping, unrelenting thoughts, is death. The duplicity of her life strikes me-- this soft-spoken, feminine, thoughtful, sweet woman-- harbored another woman inside, a person who ended her life with such violence and finality.


Years later, I asked my father if Betty had left a suicide note and he said yes, but he had not read it. He said that Grandma had it, but oddly, he didn’t find the note among Grandma’s things after she died. I asked Mom if she knew the contents of the note, and she said no, but she did tell me that after Betty died, my father stopped speaking to Uncle Bob, as Dad thought that Betty had killed herself not only as a result of moving from her family in Michigan, but also because he thought Bob was having an affair. This idea does make a certain kind of sense, knowing the things that Betty held close to her heart. Actually, Bob did get married quite soon after Betty’s death, but this doesn’t prove anything.

I have a picture of my family taken on the day of Betty’s funeral. We are standing on the front porch of Betty’s house. My sisters, my cousin and I are in the center of this group of sixteen people. My sisters and I wear sweaters, tartan skirts and half-smiles, and our knee socks are pulled up over our skinny little legs. My cousin wears a black suit, probably bought for the occasion. His face is without expression. Grandma and Grandpa flank us girls, and Grandma’s arm encircles my right shoulder. My parents, my aunt and uncle, Bob’s sister and her husband, the mobster, are all there. The pain on Grandma’s and Dad’s face is plain, and his hand grips my sister’s shoulder.

Although he was wide awake, his wife slept deeply in the bed next to him. He felt the hair rise all over his body, as if a low electrical current was coursing through him. He knew someone else was in the room with them.

He saw a faint glow in the vanity area where Betty had died. In the gloom, a form took shape and it moved to the bedside where Dad lay. “Betty?” whispered Dad, as she leaned over to peer at him, staring, with no expression on her face. Silence, then she faded away.

Dad said years later, “I think she was saying goodbye."

Lost Weekend

Saturday- up, breakfast, pets, beautify, out partying re: Mardi Gras until approximately 3 p.m., home, sleep, up, movies, bed.

Sunday- up, breakfast, pets, job hunt via computer, movie, nap, errands, home, movie, movie, movie (all very unsatisfying), dishes, write this, perform bedtime ablutions, sleep.

Walking the Minefield

As I've mentioned in previous entries, my Mom has Parkinson's Disease.

This mysterious unnamed thing that was taking over her body was finally diagnosed a few years ago. The disease then became vaguely manageable, in that we (Mom, my sisters and I) had an idea what to expect as far as its progression, the medications Mom could take to ease her symptoms, etc. Truth be told, Mom is handling the slow deterioration of her body with much more dignity and calm than any of us girls.

However, despite our efforts in trying to out-think and out-manuever the illness, a minefield lies before us. This minefield is littered with situations that could explode-- such as emptying bank accounts, the possibility of a nasty fall, the spectre of moving Mom to a nursing facility. None of these situations are sure things, but the possibility of these things are there, buried under the dust of this minefield, waiting for one of us to step off of the trigger.

One mine we could not and did not plan for is the ferocious Stupid People Mine (SPM).

The SPM isn't easily detected. In fact, sometimes we're not aware when one has exploded. The only way we know a SPM has been detonated is afterward we will feel annoyance, betrayal and utter confusion. Other residual effects of the SPM include a sudden rise in body temperature, an elevated heart rate and roiling intestinal trauma.

Here are a few ways SPMs have recently hit their target (i.e., Mom and us):

- SPs will stare at the afflicted person (in this case Mom). Apparently they've never seen a little old lady in a wheelchair before.

- SPs will avoid talking to Mom directly. Rather, they will speak to the person accompanying Mom (me, my sisters). Examples: a restaurant during dinner. The waiter comes over with a pepper mill. Waiter looks at me and asks, "Does she want fresh ground pepper on her salad?" During a recent bridal shower, the hostess asked me, "Does she (Mom) want cake?" My standard answer to these idiotic questions is, "I have no clue. She's sitting right there-- why don't you ask her?"

- Due to pride, embarrassment or other murky reasons, SPs will refrain from asking Mom to repeat herself, as her speech is slurred and she is difficult to understand. Rather, SPs will pretend they heard everything Mom had to say, then give her a nod or say a bland "oh really?" and look away. Particularly amusing is when Mom has asked them a question. Example: Mom asked a person, "So how's everything going at the condo?" The person smiled faintly, nodded sagely, then looked away, unaware of what Mom just asked, but tried to cover it all up by nodding. This is when I piped up: "Mom just asked you how it's going at the condo." "Oh!" said the SP brightly, "Just great." Mom looked over at me, her eyes saying, "Boy, is she a dolt."

- SPs will decide for Mom whether she should attend parties, weddings, and other social functions to which Mom has already been invited. Recently, a woman I know disinvited Mom from her daughter's wedding. This woman felt that Mom's attendance at this blessed event would detract from the attention that should be directed at the bride and groom. This hurt my mother deeply, and I'm still astonished that this woman felt it was the right thing to do.

I am surprised that many people I know-- and liked-- are stupid. Mom's illness has been a real eye-opener in many unexpected ways.

Jesus-- He's My Friend

Reminisce of a Halloween party that Rene and I threw one year:

We held it in the courtyard of our apartment complex, which had a high brick wall surrounding the front and back of a common area. There was one way in and one way out. We were charging a small fee to each partygoer, and Rene and I worked the door for the first several hours (before the cops showed up). There were approximately two hundred drunken revelers milling about in the courtyard-- Spaceman Spiff, a drum major, Cat in the Hat, Cat Woman, a murdered bride. The party was in FUUUULLLLLLLL swing.

Soon, a long white limousine pulled up slowly in front of the complex. A chauffeur got out and walked around the limo to open the back door.

Rene and I stood there on pins and needles. First, a tiny woman got out, dressed as the Virgin Mary, cradling a toy Baby Jesus wrapped in swaddling clothes. "Cool," said Rene.

Then a guy dressed as fat Las Vegas Elvis got out. We both squealed, "Ooooh!!! It's the king! It's the king!"

Then a guy dressed as Jesus got out of the limo. With awe, I said to Rene, "Oooh. It's The King! It's the King!"

Jobs 'n' Shit

The burst of optimism I was feeling last week in the afterglow of scheduling two interviews...has faded.

Law Firm: Ms. Partner and The Other Partner decided to hire someone else. Got a phone call on Thursday from one of their paralegals who had the dirty job of calling the rejects to inform them of the bad news. "I'm just curious," I said, "But could you tell me why they decided not to hire me?" "Gosh, I'm so sorry," she stuttered, "But the attorneys made that decision and I'm just calling people to let them know." "Lucky you!" I said.

Sheriff's Office: I was given a spelling, grammar and typing test last week, which I passed, and the HR department called me that day to set up an interview. I met with the (female) division commander and the assistant commander last Wednesday. Suffice to say, I was unfocused, nervous and intimidated by Ms. Commander who, as you could probably guess, was a tough cookie. My words flowed like sap and my feeble mind short-circuited, rendering me unable to form a clear thought, let alone verbalize the fucking thing. I failed the interview miserably. Afterward, I went out to my car and I cried.

So! Time to recoup, refit, replenish, reflect, reflux, rehabilitate, reincarnate, etc., etc. and all those other re- words. I wish I could retire.

Anna Nicole

Well, she's gone.

A surprise at such a young age. But then again, maybe her death isn't so surprising, as the poor woman was a train wreck. To those who think a person cannot die of a broken heart, I would strenuously argue your point. I believe her life was shortened by trouble.

The circus has already begun, a little over 24 hours following her death. Three men are claiming the paternity of her daughter- one being Anna Nicole's lawyer/handler, another is the photographer/ex-lover, and finally, Zsa-Zsa Gabor's husband, a prince from some obscure royal family.

You know, I have an idea that Anna Nicole will become an American icon, along the lines of Marilyn Monroe. Soon teenagers and gay men will have pictures of Anna Nicole on their walls. There will be countless websites dedicated to her life. There will be conspiracy theories surrounding her death. A new wine will be concocted and on it's label will be Anna Nicole's picture. Elton John and Bernie Taupin will write a song about her. Actually, that one probably isn't going to happen.

I would watch Anna Nicole on E!, in interviews, in print, and I always had the impression that she was a little lost, a little dotty, but overall, sweet. Frankly, I'll miss her.

Cold Mountain

While frozen to my couch these last several days, I've been rereading "Cold Mountain".

With this book in existence, why would anyone say, "I hate to read"?

Every conceivable human emotion is examined in its pages. One becomes lost in time reading its words. Every kind of person you've met in your life is represented in the tale. Love, revenge, tragedy, death, survival, hope, faith, beauty, cruelty-- all are in there.

In rereading this book and in the current state of mind I'm in, I won't read the last chapter. Instead, I'll close the book. This way, Inman and Ada will always be in their cabin by the creek, making plans to take their grandchildren up on the mountain and show them the arrowhead buried in the bark of the poplar tree.

Brief Update

I won't be writing anything of interest to you over the next several days, dear readers. I am in the midst of brain-lock, wherein my mind cannot focus on anything except "Will I get one of the goddamned jobs or not?".

Meanwhile, I'll once again be frozen on the couch next to the telephone, afraid to go to the bathroom, to eat, to take out the trash, lest I miss a VERY IMPORTANT PHONE CALL. I figured that staying on the couch next to the phone worked last time, so maybe it'll work this time, too.

Light a candle, keep your fingers crossed, pray to God, whatever-- just keep me in your thoughts so this will soon be over.

Oh, Delaney-- I'm thinking of you while you're sitting on your couch north of here.