Much Needed Silliness

You know how sometimes you see something and although it might not normally strike you as super funny, at that particular moment it is the funniest thing you have ever seen? Well, this picture is that kind of thing for me right now at this moment. This very moment right here. Not the previous one, not the one to follow, but the one right now. The laughter inspired by this picture is the only thing keeping me from beating the sales guy to a bloody pulp. Well, that and the harsh reality of a life behind bars.

I Need A Squeezy Stress Ball Or Something

And what I want to break is the face of the sales guy here in the office. He is so technologically dense and socially backward that I cannot handle my level of frustration when it comes to dealing with him. Talking to him is like talking to someone who doesn't speak your language, yet insists on communicating only in that language, no matter how jacked up the end result may be. He's leaving for a trip tomorrow and I hope he's gone for a long time. I need a break from him in a major way. It's for his own safety.

He asks me the same question 5x. He just words it differently. I'm not sure if he thinks he'll get a different answer, maybe one he likes better. Perhaps he doesn't have a clue he's so goddamned annoying. Perhaps he does and he just doesn't care - that seems the more likely option. He just asked me about one thing 4 times in 5 minutes. After the 4th time I suppose a look of disdain must have come across my face because he said, "Are you testy this morning?" with a big, stupid grin on his face. UGH. No, I'm not testy, I just don't tolerate idiots well. I am not one to gladly suffer fools. That, and well, I hate you. Of course, that's not what I really said. What I really said was, "No, I'm not testy. It's irritating to be asked the same thing 4 times. Please believe what I tell you the first time I say it. I'm not a liar". His response was a blank stare. Well, a blank stare with that stupid grin still plastered on his face. Gross.

I'm in for a very long Wednesday.

Tom Petty Was Right

The waiting is the hardest part.

No plea. 2nd plea hearing has come and gone. Still nothing. Awaiting independent psychiatric eval. My opinion? Bullshit delay tactics. He's obviously not entering a guilty plea. Even though he is. Guilty, I mean. He killed her. He shot her in cold blood at point-blank range. Rudy Fleming is his name. Nicole DuFresne was her name. I hope that someday his won't be inextricably linked with hers any longer. She deserves to be remembered for her own identity, her own life. Not for the way she was taken out of this world. Now we wait for January. Hopefully that will be the first step to freeing her memory from the pain of a reality where no one knows what her murderer's fate will be.

Mmm... turkey

I'm back from the world famous Turkey Day whirlwind trip. It was a bit of a blur - everything going on at such a speed tends to make memories sort of fuzz together, but I remember the shiny bits and that's what counts.

It was excellent to see my family, even though my mom drove me slightly bonkers at various points (I'm sure she can say the same for me). Like when she waffled on whether or not to let me take her car to Pittsburgh to go out with my friends the night before Thanksgiving - we got a limo, this thing was planned for a month. It was snowing and she didn't want me "driving the whole way out there by myself in bad weather". She said she'd take me and just wait for me. Sure. When I told her I wouldn't be back until 3AM or so she said she'd "find something to do". Find something to do? What is there to do when you're 53 at 3 in the morning in the suburbs of Pittsburgh? I'll take this one, prof - the correct answer is absolutely shit nothing. Now, does that sound like the talk of a rational woman? Nope. As if her driving me in the bad weather would be better than me driving myself. Umm, no. Plus, I am 28 years old. I think she was having one of those moments where she thinks I'm 16. I said, "Mom, what am I going to do, have my mom drop me off at the limo? I'm 28 for chrissakes. C'mon now, let's not be silly." She let me take her car as long as I promised to stay at my friend's house rather than drive back. Oh yeah, almost forgot - she must have told me 25 times not to drink & drive. She thinks I'm some sort of lush or something. Yeah, mom, I'm going to go booze it up and drive an hour in the mountains during a blizzard. That's so like me. Because I've clearly demonstrated a pattern (or even one instance) of drunk driving in my past. Whatever, water under the bridge. I took the car, I went out, had a blast, saw people I hadn't seen in 10 years (and was astonished when they actually remembered who I was and were genuinely glad to see me), stayed at M's and drove back in the snow Thanksgiving morning. It was great.

Here's a question for you - why is it that during holidays the worst pictures are taken of you and then the relative who took those awful photos emails them out to everyone else in the family who wasn't present? Huh, why is that? My aunt took some of the worst pics of me ever and not only did she send them out, but my hungover mug is the first in the set. Nice. At least she got a couple of cute ones when I was getting ready to go out on Wednesday night. (So my the rest of my relatives don't think that I've prematurely aged and let myself go over the past year.) When I was leaving my brother (bless his little beer-soaked college man self) said, "Oh, I get it. You want to look good, but you don't want it to look like you tried too hard. I think you achieved that. Good job."

One of the best pics of the weekend is the one my aunt took of my brother standing next to what may be the coolest piece of graffiti ever. Not because it's beautiful or particularly artistic, but because of what it says. Anyone who spray paints the words of Dylan Thomas on a train tunnel has to be a tortured soul. I rather like that.

I have more to tell, but work calls. Bastards. Check back later, there will be more tales to read.

Vocabulary Word of the Day

Refulgent

Look it up. It's a great word. A good friend today told me that I was refulgent. And then he told me to look it up so I could escape the dark chasm of my own head for a minute or two. It was a brilliant plan that worked perfectly and made me grin. Thanks, MT.

Love Notes

Today I realized something about my behavior that I'd never noticed before. No, it's not that I get so excited in conversations about topics that stir my spirit that I tend to cut people off to finish their sentences even though I know I should let them finish their own thought (it's just that I love it when I share a certain philosophy or humor with someone so much that I get all wrapped up in the moment and come across as an overbearing freak sometimes).

No, that's not it. It's occurred to me that I keep certain emails and delete others. I know that seems like a mundane thing, but it's not. I've realized that I keep certain strings of emails with certain people almost as a record of my relationship with them. As if I save the conversations so I can go back and read them in case something terrible should happen and I'm never be able to talk to them again. It's strange, but I came to the conclusion that that is precisely why I keep them. It's weird, right? It's not something I've always done. I've, until recently, been a read and delete kind of girl.

I think it's because earlier this year I watched some of the people I'm closest to go through the agony of losing someone who was the closest to them. They're still going through it and will be forever, I'm sure. I've found that occasionally I go back and read the last email I have from Nicole. She sent it the day before she was killed. The email is nothing special, really. She was responding to an invitation to a group dinner that we were all trying to get together for. She was telling everyone that she'd love to come, but she'd have to let us know when she could do it since she was about to go work her first night as a bartender on the Lower East Side. She was so very excited about it. Major exclamation points and all-caps words. It's pretty funny how a short email sent out on the fly can sum up so much about a person. She lived her life with exclamation points and all-caps words. I think that's why I kept that email.

I've kept various other strings since. Some with the man, he'd written something uncharacteristially sweet or said someting really meaningful. Some with K, a lot with K, actually. They're usually gut-ripping hilarious or touching because we were writing about what our lives will be like when we're old and grey. I have a string I particularly like with Jess that talks about goals and not selling yourself short. I keep some with L that talk about how much we love each other and hate the distance between us. I have some with J about dreams and how much the coming year(s) will fulfill them. There's one with H that's all about her boobs. Good lord, it makes me giggle. I have one with S that's all about her hair and if it's the right color - I love it. I have a few with MT that demonstrate how perceptive and witty he is, even when he's not trying to be.

If my life could be summed up by my emails I'm not sure what they would say about me. But I know what they would say about the people I love. They'd paint a picture of raucous laughter and heart felt tears. That's how I live my life.

Back to the bus story...

So I left off on Friday morning. It sucked. Then there was yesterday morning. I'm on the bus, sitting in the aisle seat with my bag next to me near the window. This is the position you take when you want to make it obvious that you don't want anyone to sit next to you. It's a bit of a dickish thing to do, so I usually sit by the window allowing the aisle seat to be free for other passengers. However, after Friday's festivities I decided it's not a good idea to leave that seat open because the Placido Domingo's brother guy would totally sit there. So, there I am in the aisle seat, listening to my iPod, reading a book. Note: these are all "do not disturb" signs.

The bus gets to Placido's stop. He gets on. I ignore it and don't take my eyes off my book. He makes his way back to where I'm sitting. I still ignore him and don't acknowledge his presence. He stands at my side, expecting me to look up. Yeah, right. No way, dillweed. He then taps me on the shoulder, which I also ignore. He does it again, so I reluctantly move over, sighing and grunting the whole time to make my disgust evident. At this point you're wondering why I don't tell him to f off and find another seat. I'm wondering the same thing, alas and alack, that didn't happen.

He sits. He proceeds to talk to me. Since the headphones are visibly in my ears I ignore him some more. He keeps talking. He gets louder. I ignore some more. He then reaches over and pulls the headphone out of my ear. Now, as I'm sure you can tell, this was a clear violation of my personal space. Bad move, very bad move. The sensation of having something yanked out of your ear, where it had been previously securely lodged, is startling. I jump with surprise. He puts his hand on my leg preumably to calm me or something equally as pathetic. Oh no he didn't! Yet another very bad move. At this point he's invaded my personal space, touched my property, and then touched me.

I stand up quickly and yell, "Back the fuck off and if you touch me again I'll punch you in your stinkbreath mouth!" He stares at me, stunned. He doesn't move. I think he's retarded. He still doesn't move. I bang my knee into his leg to get him to move so I can get out of my seat. He finally moves and I go sit behind the driver at the front of the bus. I make sure that everyone hears me yell and everyone sees me flee to the front.

I'm guessing he won't talk to me again, but I'm not 100% sure. I didn't think he was on the bus last night on the way home because I didn't see him when I got on. But, I was on the phone and kind of distracted. I even sent K a text msg saying he wasn't on. About 15 minutes later I see him stand up and get off the bus. Hilarious. He didn't even make eye contact. Damn right, idiot. To think that someone married him and then procreated. *shudder*

Cool Kids Sit in the Back

Sometimes public transportation is difficult. I take it every day and it's been a pretty reliable, decent means of getting around in all the various cities I've lived. It's always a good thing to do in terms of financial savings vs. gas prices, environmental benefits that come with mass transit, yada yada and all that stuff. When it becomes difficult is when other passengers become characters in your blog.

You see, it's hard to be blog-worthy if you're a normal, innocuous, unnoticed mass transit rider. But if you're annoying, loud, have strange bodily odors, or any other irritating attributes you jump right past those boring folks to the realm of bloggable. Miami has a bus/train system that runs pretty well. The buses go practically everywhere and they're cheap. The trains leave something to be desired, but you can't have everything. I haven't had too many strange/awful/disturbing experiences on Miami's buses. Friday was an exception.

Picture this: I'm on the bus at 8:30AM on the way to work. It's early. Usually at that hour most people are chilled out and trying to keep themselves in "sleep mode" until they arrive at their prospective stops and are forced to deal with the wide awake reality of work. Sometimes you'll have the occasional drunk, loud cellphone talker, or stinky stinkerton, but most of the time it's a fine ride. There are two men, however, who I've labeled "the starers". One looks like a dead-ringer for Anthony Williams - mayor of DC, and the other looks like Placido Domingo's brother. They both stare at me every day. I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that, as the only white person on the bus, I'm a bit of a curiosity. Plus, I'm young and kinda cute, so I guess the combination is irrisistable. Whatever the reasons, they make no effort to hide the fact that they stare at me. It's a Miami latin male thing. There seems to be a complete lack of the social filter that tells most people that it's disturbing to be stared at. I usually ignore it. Sometimes I'll make direct eye contact and stare back to see what they do.

Friday morning I'm on the bus and the Placido Domingo gets on and sits behind me. Great, I think. He's staring at the back of my head right now, I can feel it. He leans forward and taps me on the shoulder. He says hello (spewing a smelly cloud of bad morning breath right at my face), introduces himself (Ali from Colombia), and in very broken English proceeds to tell me his life story and ask me questions ever though I turn around several times to face front. He seems nice enough. I decide that I'm probably being a little snobbish and turn back around to talk to him a bit. Through the course of our seemingly polite conversation I learn that he's 54, he has a 28 yr old daughter (well, I'm 28 as well, isn't that neat-o), he got married when he was 24, his family is still in Colombia, he's going there next month to renew his visa and he'll be there until June (which is now a very good thing), and he works in telemarketing (should have been a red flag right there). Several minutes of chit chat later he asks me how old I am and I tell him I'm the same age as his hija. He asks me if I'm married. No, I say, but I live with mi novio. Then it gets weird...

He says (remember - very broken English, and yet he knows how to get this concept across with little difficulty) that age doesn't matter and his wife is in Colombia and it could just be sex. What could just be sex? Oh for shizzle my nizzle, I realize he means me & him. Gross. First reaction - disgust. Second reaction - amusement. I laugh and turn around. No, really, he tries to convince me that we could have great sex. Um, I think you're stoned or something, back off and leave me alone. He tells me I have very sexy hair and that he looks at me every day. No shit, I say, it's not like I'm blind you assfuck. After several more exchanges he leaves me alone. I get off the bus w/o further incident.

Which brings us to this morning. And I'll have to wait for that part because I have to go catch the bus home. Good times, good times. Stay tuned, it gets better...

The Coolness of the Cube Ended With Rubix

This article in the Washington Post came out in yesterday's paper. Amy Joyce, one of my fave Post writers penned it and just happened to interview yours truly for the piece. It's short & funny - especially if you've ever worked in a cube environment at work. Amy's a great writer, in addition to her column she hosts a weekly live chat about workplace stuff. If you ever want a laugh hop on over to the Post website and take a gander at what people write in about. Everything from questions about changing career fields to what to do when you get drunk and boff your boss. I swear.

Stuff

Random things that are going on in my brain today:

- Duke is home. He's home with a massive cone on his head. He looks absurd. It's adorable. He knocks things over and basically tears up the house at night because we can't crate him because he doesn't really fit in there with that ginormous cone on his head. Poor poochie. I took pictures of him last night simply because he's so funny with that thing around his neck, I'll have to post one or two when I get home.

- I've noticed several typos in past entries. I apologize for them. I'm usually pretty good about that kind of thing.

- Texas Lady just regaled a couple friends with tales of new happenings in her life. Since she was very loud about it and her door was open I got to hear all of it. The most disturbing part was when she told them about her new exploits with her husband... they're "trying". Um, let me ruminate on this for a moment. Yesterday (and many days before that) you were berating him and telling your friends how much of a loser he is, and now you're telling them all about how you're trying to have a baby? That sounds like a solid plan to me, Einstein. By the way, I don't need to hear all about the calendar you've got in your bathroom that has the "good" days marked with "sex, sex, SEX, SEX!!!". That made me throw up in my mouth a little. Also, just so you know, when you refer to masturbation as "funny business" you really sound like an ass.

- Business opportunity #2 presented itself yesterday and I jumped on it. It turned out beautifully. I think it's going to work out and be fantastic.

- I'm really looking forward to Thanksgiving. I mean really.

- My thumb is recovering nicely from the bagel slicing incident. What's weird is that I can tell how deep I cut it because there's no feeling around the cut. About 1/2" above and below I can't feel a thing. It's kind of disturbing. I hope those nerves regenerate. I don't want a numb thumb forever.

- A tip for those women who are carrying a few (OK, like 100) extra lbs.: Wearing dainty heels only makes you look dainty if you know how to walk in them. If you have to take careful, waddling steps in them to make sure you a) don't fall, or b) prevent the shoe from cutting into the overly fleshy parts of your foot since you squeezed into something obviously not made for you... you shouldn't wear the shoes. Go with flats that allow you to walk like someone who has the ability to be dainty even though she weighs a deuce, deuce & a half. Trust me on this one.

Go See My Friend's New Show

My actor friend (which almost describes everyone I know in New York... The crazy thing is that NYC is filled with actors, but my friends are actually quite good ones. No joke. I'm not just saying that because I love them - those nutty folks have real talent.) is in a new show. You should go see it if you're anywhere near New York. Tickets are cheap and theatre is cool. Take a date and act all intellectual. You'll be impressive.

The name is "Inheritors", and it's open now. Preview audiences were full and they dug the play. It's (in the words of the great MT himself) "political and fierce in nature, and explores the right, some might go further--the necessity, for America to evaluate its own character. The echoes of this same debate in our time are eerie in this play-particularly detention and deportation of foreign refugees, imprisonment and treatment of conscientious objectors and war protestors, American distrust of intelligentsia; a character even says the phrase 'making the world safe for democracy'."

The Metropolitan Playhouse is in the Cornelia Connelly Center
220 East Fourth Street (easternmost door)
Between Avenues A & B in the East Village

Reserve Tickets
by phone 212.995.5302
or email: connect@metropolitanplayhouse.org

It runs 'til December 11, so hurry up.

Maybe Worse Than The Lung Butter From Cuban Lady

Texas Lady is having this conversation in her "office" right now (with the door open and her husband on speaker phone). When reading her part, please make sure to inject an over zealous amount of attitude into your tone:

Texas Lady: But I thought we were going couch shopping tonight.
Poor Husband: Well, we left it kind of up in the air, but if you'd like to do that tonight we sure can. I'll make some dinner and we can go after you have some time to relax.
Texas Lady: I don't need to relax. I need to have my husband not be such a loser.
Poor Husband: Ouch. That kind of hurt my feelings, but I'm not going to take it personally because you seem rather stressed out right now.
Texas Lady: I am not stressed out and I am damn sick of you always saying that.
Poor Husband: I'm just trying to look out for you. OK, if you'd prefer not to go couch shopping tonight we can certainly wait until the weekend. In fact, let's go next weekend. This weekend let's just chill out and take it easy.
Texas Lady: Gawd! Do you have any clue how retarded you are? Next weekend is the weekend after Thanksgiving. I am so not going shopping for anything the weekend after Thanksgiving.
Poor Husband: Oh, c'mon, we could make a day of it and it would be fun. We could go to lunch at our favorite little cafe and maybe get a great deal with all the holiday sales.
Texas Lady: Idiot. I am married to an idiot! If you want to go shopping the weekend after Thanksgiving be my guest, but you'll be going by yourself. I'm not leaving the house that weekend. It's going to be hell out there.
Poor Husband: Alright, I'll get some catalogs together and maybe we can find something online instead. I think it would be easier on us both.

She hangs up. She then says to her friend (who's been in there the whole time listening and the busband didn't know), "I really settled with that one."

Oh yeah, he's handsome, kind hearted, and puts up with your bullshit on a daily basis. You really made a mistake there.

Foul

Cuban Lady has reached new heights... she has now gone beyond the realm of annoying and jumped head first into the pool of nastiness. She's sick. I get that. She's got a nasty cold. I sympathize. What I don't sympathize with is the disgusting sound coming from her cube... she's been hocking up juicy loogies all day and it's really beginning to make me ill. She makes the noises usually reserved for truckers and adolescent boys and then she spits into her trash can. I understand that sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do, but there's a bathroom right down the hall - get your stupid ass down there and do that nasty stuff.

Waiting Game

I hate this cover. But I love the photo. Gorgeous, isn't she? The kid who shot her is in court right now. And we wait... we wait for his plea. We wait for his sentence. We wait to see what insufficient punishment will be assigned for the murder of a force of nature in the form of a woman. My friends are aching now. They've been aching since January 27. And I imagine that there will be an ache that lingers forever. Time doesn't heal all wounds, that saying is false. Nicole - you've got a lot of people down here thiking about you. But it was that way when you were here with us, wasn't it? Plus que ca change...

UPDATE: He entered no plea. No plea? Excuse me, what the fuck is no plea? New plea date is at the end of the month. He better have gained better "mental acuity" by then so he can admit what he's done and we can all come to terms with it in our own ways.

Oh, the *worry-free* possibilities!

Yesterday I decided not to misuse my imagination by worrying. Worrying about me, my goals, my loved ones, their goals. Refresher: Worry is the misuse of imagination. Indeed. Instead I resolved to focus on the possibilities in all their forms - even the positive ones. An earth-shattering revelation, I know. (insert sarcastic tone here) But, seriously, sometimes the most obvious things are the most difficult to see.

So, it's incredibly fitting that the man sent me an email this morning pointing me to a very exciting business opportunity. If I talk about it too much I'll get myself all worked up and probably jinx myself. What I'll say now is that it's a big deal. It would mean a starting point for launching my clothing business. It would mean convincing myself *for real* that I can be a designer and that when people ask me what I do I can answer them with confidence and resolution, "I'm a designer. I make great clothes."

For now, my fingers are crossed. I put out the first point of contact, now I wait to hear back. Until I hear something those little fingers may just turn blue. But hey - I'm not worrying about rejection! It's a HUGE deal for me.

Brilliant Quote... One That Actually Makes Sense

I've had an epiphany that I can't really take credit for. Well, I guess I can't even call it an epiphany. It's sort of a revelation-decision-realization-determination thing. The sad thing is that "term" makes complete and utter sense to me right now. Oy.

The quote that brought about the RDRD is written on the white board at the house in Brooklyn where 2 of my favorite people, the wonder turtle, and ocacasionally me and many of my belongings live. It is as follows:

Worry is the misuse of imagination.

Is that not one of the most brilliant, and yet terribly obvious things you've ever seen? If not, then take a moment and ponder it further. I'll wait. Go ahead. Take a sec or two.
......
Alright, now that you've considered it a bit more thoroughly, can you see the depth and brilliance there? Worry is indeed the misuse of imagination. It's the chief way that I misuse my own imagination. I do it all the time. You see, I'm a natural born worrier. I don't mean to be, I certainly don't want to be, and yet - I am.

I worry about the people I love. Will the man be happier when we move and get out of Miami? And will he be able to do the things he wants to do and achieve the goals he's set for himself? Will K have the marriage she wants a year from now... I think she will because it's fabulous now, but what about a year from now? I just want her to be happy. Will J find financial success in acting as she so deserves? Will Jess find her own way and enjoy her time in North Carolina? Will S find a woman who loves her the way she deserves? Will Duke have recurring health problems, or will he be all healed despite his rocky beginnings on his road to recovery? Will H learn to love herself enough to figure herself out and find peace? Will L make a way to heal herself on the inside after a year of ungodly loss? Will my brother be a good student and not drink and smoke his way into oblivion at college? Will my parents have good health in the future? (every time one of them coughs I get a small twinge of nervousness deep down inside - they're both in fine health now, but not particularly physically fit and I get scared that their time is limited. Limited could mean another 30 years and it still wouldn't be enough for me - that's how I know this kind of worry is a bit on the irrational side.)

I could go on, but it would really demonstrate my instability.

I also worry about myself. I worry that I'll let my dreams fizzle. Not die, just fizzle. Fizzle enough to frustrate and sway me. The only reason that would happen is that I'm too afraid to promote myself. And why am I afraid of that? Because I worry about rejection. I worry that I'll put myself out there and people will laugh at me or shoot me down or tell me I'm a no-talent hack. Do I realistically think those things will happen? Not really. But, I worry about them anyway. Like the best of the self-saboteurs, I go through elaborate scenarios in my head about walking into a shop that I'm pitching my line to and... well, it's embarrassing. I go through my whole schpiel about the line and me and my vision and my philosophy on fashion and I pour my heart out and give it my all and yada yada yada and then - - - then the owner looks thoughtfully at me, squinches up her face, and laughs. She laughs the kind of hearty belly laugh that shakes a room. She tells me I can't be serious and that my stuff is crap and that I should try waiting tables like every other wannabe creative type who doesn't have what it takes to make it. This is what goes through my head. It's sick. It's a sick, sick twisted version of a reality that will never be. Why? Because if that ever happened surely I'd take my moment (or nine) and be crushed, I'd probably cry as soon as I walked out the door and be befuddled and swayed for all of half an hour - and then I'd get back on that horse and get my game plan together for the next shop.

Though I know intellectually that I'd never let that get me down (on the off-chance that a rejection of that severely traumatic caliber would happen) I still worry about it. I worry that it would beat me down.

The beauty of today is that the RDRD has occured. I've decided that worrying is the most egregious of misuses for my ridiculously overactive imagination. From here on out I will do my best to let my mind run free with positive scenarios. Possibilities that have a great outcome. End results that make my life richer and fuller, instead of dreaded and scary. I've got to allow for the possibility that my friends will all be OK. That love and safety will find them and that they'll know enough to embrace it when it does. That my family will be fine and they've got lots of time left with me and if something changes that then I'll be strong enough to deal with it. That my dreams are valid and worth pursuing because I do have what it takes to make it. Rejection isn't always a terrifying thing. If it happens (and it will in some form or another) then it's on the next step, the next place, the next possibility.

My imagination is built for better things than worry. Like castles made of chocolate and always-burning fireplaces with full stocks of s'mores making ingredients at the ready in big, mirrored bins. Oh, that's soooo much better.

This is Petey

Petey lives at the Clara in Brooklyn w/the girls. She's rock steady awesome. I wish I had a shell like hers so I could crawl in it when Cuban Lady talks to me over the cube wall all damn day even though I never once respond to a thing that comes out of her mouth. A Petey shell would have come in awfully handy today. "Meleeeeessa, I heeer you coffeeng and I'm seeck, too. My troat ees real scratchy and I was up all nigh wis de post naysal dreeep. You gots de post naysal dreeep? Deees one time I was veery seeck and I had to stay in bed for a whole week straight. Couldn't even get up to go to de basrooom. Eet was terrible. Lass nigh I made hot lemonade wis lots of honey and I pour it right down my throat. Honey ees so good for you troat. You know dat? And blah de blah de blah...". 8 hours of that. A Petey shell is a must on the Christmas list this year.

On a happier note - the man put up a new mirror and new light fixture in the bathroom while I was at work today. He finished painting in there and also laid a new tile floor! Hooray! It was a great surprise when I came home. He & Petey are so super cool. I love them both.

Blunders and Bodies and Blood, Oh My!

The last few days have been much like a bad movie, and unfortunately I've been the main character. The happenings have had all the markings of a B-movie except the nearly naked sorority girl running through the woods or ditzily going into the basement with no exit, you know the type - unless you count me when I'm sleeping... then I am indeed a nearly naked former sorority girl, but I don't think I'd make it in Hollywood. Or Vancouver, or wherever really bad movies are filmed nowadays.

Let's see... first you've got the bad cold/flu/allergies thing that hit me like a ton of bricks on Tuesday night. My sinuses clogged up and the sneezing started around 7:00. By Wednesday morning my head felt like it was in a vice and I was really miserable. I went to work anyway, and made it through the whole day. That night I was in bad shape and the man was kind enough to go out and get me a plethora of drug store remedies and a piece of carrot cake. He really is the most thoughtful man and I love him for it. I stayed home yesterday and just tried to get better.

That's where the next chapter in B-movie horror comes in. I brought back a dozen bagels from Brooklyn last weekend. I wanted to slice them and put them in the freezer so we could have lovely little New York treats whenever we wanted. Great idea, right? Well, not great idea when you're hopped up on cold medicine and are rather drowsy. You see, drowsiness and sharp, serrated knives don't mix well. So easy to see that now, hindsight is always 20/20... I was cutting the 4th one and the knife slipped and I knicked my palm just enough to see a thin, crimson line form in the telltale shape of a tiny cut. Deciding that I really needed to pay attention and be careful, I took the next bagel into my hand and proceeded to rake the knife right over the top of my left thumb. The blood was instant, the shock was, too. I grabbed my thumb with my right hand, held it tightly over my head and searched desperately all over the house for band-aids (which I later found in my sewing box - why? who knows). I couldn't find them, and at this point I could feel drops of blood falling onto my hair. Gross. I applied as much pressure as I could for as long as I could (I think I was really just hesitant to see how badly I'd cut myself - you know how when you do something bad to yourself you almost don't want to look because then it's totally real and you have to deal with it? That was me) and I fashioned a bandage out of a couple cotton squares that I use to take my nail polish off and some painter's tape. It worked very well, I must say. I then reluctantly went back to the scene of the crime and wiped the blood off the floor and the faucet and the knife and the counter - it was grisly. Looked like I'd been cleaning fish in there or something.

All that happened while I was home alone. No boyfriend, no dog, just accident prone drugged out me. The man was at work and the dog was at the vet. The dog - that's another story. Duke got neutered last week. No more big old saggy dog balls - can't say I miss them. Well, Wednesday night when I was feeling awful and the man was at the store getting my drug store supplies I noticed that Duke's now empty scrotum was very swollen. And I mean very swollen. He was fine when I left that morning and now his poor little doggy ballsack was HUGE. Not good, sir. Not good. He was acting normal and jumping around like usual, feeling no pain, or at least not showing it. But, this is the dog who was found on the side of the road with a broken leg and a disloctated hip and he still wasn't all that irritable - Duke the Wonder Dog. I called the man immediately in a panic, as I'm prone to do, and he very calmly told me (as he's prone to do) to call the vet and see what they say. I had to leave a message because it was after hours, but the doctor called back a bit later and said to bring him in the next morning. The man took him in yesterday and they drained the fluid and monitored him overnight. I just spoke to the man and the vet wants to keep Duke overnight again just to make sure it's not a recurring problem, but that he's doing fine, as perky as ever, and we can pick him up tomorrow afternoon. I miss that dog. I just want him to be OK and come home.
Speaking of home, home as you probably know by now, is not in the best area. I was watching the news yesterday morning after the man had taken Duke to the vet and heard that police had found a woman's badly beaten body in a dumpster about 10 blocks from our house. Nice, eh? EH?? Again - not good sir. Not good. Turns out the woman's sone had decided he hated her and had beaten her to death. He confessed on camera and everything. It was gruesome to watch him say the words. He described how he hated her and even though he "came out of her" that she wasn't his mother and he "just stomped on her throat until she died". Horrible. Now, I know full well that this sort of thing happens all over the world and that it's not unique to Miami, but the fact that this was so close to our house and that it comes not a month after there was a shooting across the street from where this dumpster was located is disturbing. I'm so glad the house is on the market. We've got to get out of here.

Since we've got to get out of here we have to clean the house and pack up a bunch of stuff this weekend so we can show it to people. The man's friend who is our real estate agent has already gotten 4 calls about the place - which is an excellent sign. I'm hoping that the interest pans out to something real. I'm going to try not to cut myself on anything and not watch the news. That's my weekend plan so far. Sounds like a good one. Oy vey.

Update

My sinuses have staged a revolution somewhere in the cranial region. It hurts. I think they're using tanks and rocket launchers. Feels like there's a marching band drum corps in there. *sneeze*

Achoooooo. Sniffle. Cough. Blech.

This was taken at K's wedding in September. I'm perky, alert, healthy looking. If you saw me right now you wouldn't think the girl in that picture and the girl before you were the same person. I am so stuffed up and congested I can hardly think. My head feels like it's stuffed with cotton balls and baseball cleats. I don't know where this cold came from, but it really needs to go back there and leave me alone. This is how bad it is - someone asked me this morning "what's wrong with your face?". Nice. Made me feel like a million bucks. What's wrong with my face is that it's red and puffy because I slept about 2 hours last night and blew my nose almost a thousand times. Now I actually look like a peeloh face. This cold came out of nowhere. I think my body is pissed off that I had too much fun in Brooklyn last weekend.

If Cuban Lady asks me one more time if I'm sick I might punch her. Every time I've sneezed (we're talking a lot of sneezes) she's said something along the lines of "Melissa, you sound awful. You sound like me one time when..." and then she launches into some tale of illness from her past. So far all the stories have been different. It's amazing that this woman can remember her colds well enough to complain about them years later.

I need more Sudafed and my bed. Stat.

Oh, Oh, Oh, It's Magic. You know-ow-ow...

Pay no attention to the fact that my head looks like some kind of sick Halloween pumpkin in this picture - it was Julie's birthday weekend and it was AWESOME! I was about to go to our little neighborhood deli to get us all some much needed post-previous night's party liquid replenishment and Jules insisted on getting a picture because she was under the mistaken impression that I was extra cute at the time. I think she might have been temorarily insane. Julie looks better in the morning than any other person I've known. When she says her eyes are puffy what she really means is "I might not be as completly breathtakingly gorgeous as when I'm fresh out of the shower and ready to hit the town." Bah.

Like I said in the last post - this past weekend was magic. It was pure magic. When I woke up this morning I was so glad to be in the bed I share with the man who makes me tingle all over and be back in the same house with him, but I was sad that I couldn't walk into the kitchen and see the girls all there... one by one waking up and emerging from their various quilted cocoons to stumble into the kitchen bleary-eyed and smiling in anticipation of that necessary first cup of coffee and a smoke. It was something indescribable to be surrounded by women who not only are some of the most intelligent, beautiful people I've ever known, but who all love me and love each other with a fury. Not just like how friends love friends - these women all love each other fiercely and it's inspiring. It is the most nurturing environment. It's also filled with a little too much estrogen and most of us ended up getting our periods when we weren't expecting them... thanks, Mother Nature! Ah, the wonders of the synchronization of women's bodies.

I came away from the weekend with about 7 new nicknames (most of which will never see themselves in print) and sore legs from dancing like a fool. The funniest one came from a Russian guy on the way to hop the train who turned to me, and in a very thick accent said, "Nice peeloh". Nice pillow? Singular? What was he referring to? One pillow... um, OK, let's see. Breasts, breasts are sometimes called pillows. Alright then, but which one did he mean - right one, left one, who knows. Julie said maybe he meant my butt. But no, he didn't see my butt. Heather, in all her wisdom, said maybe he meant my face. My big old pillow face. For some reason that was the funniest thing she possibly could have said at that moment. And from then on, I was Peeloh Face all weekend.

Which is a perfect transition to my flight home Sunday night. My flight... oh lord you don't even want to know. Firstly, I called a car to take me to the airport. I wasn't 100% sure that I wouldn't fall asleep and miss my stop on the train (you see, I hadn't slept since Friday night - oh yeah, I'm a freaking champ), so I called a car to be on the safe side. Thank goodness I left in plenty of time to get there because on the way we got pulled over and the driver got a ticket for talking on his cell phone. It actually ended up being kind of nice - I got to chat with the police officers out the back window for a good 20 minutes. They were amusing.

We finally made it to the airport. Take off was scheduled for 9:20. Funny how we didn't take off until hours and hours later. Why was that? Hmmmmm? Weather. Weather that we didn't even see - it was all thanks to the horrible system that ripped through the midwest earlier that day. So, take off was way late. I make it to my seat - my middle seat (is there a worse torture on the planet?). I was sandwiched between a retarded Orthodox girl and a smelly Russian dude (who had the most perfect peelow face accent - I kid you not). I wish that was a joke. It sure sounds like a joke... a blonde, a retarded Jew, and a smelly Rusky walk into a bar... Alas, it was just JetBlue flight 11 from JFK to Ft. Lauderdale.

The Russian dude was eating something that smelled like death and looked like fresh roadkill, and drinking from a full size orange juice carton. You know - the family sized kind. What the hell, dude? You're on a muthafukkin plane! *sigh* To make things even better he kept trying to talk to me even though my eyes were closed and I had my headphones on. Oh yes, he was entirely stupid. And annoying. And smelly. And Russian. Keep in mind that I have a relatively short fuse anyway. Also keep in mind that I hadn't slept in 41 hours. I'd get to the point where I was just falling asleep and he'd lean on the armrest and turn the volume on my headphones way up and jolt me from dreamland. I hate him. I don't know where he is right now, but I hope he just sat in gum.

The retarded girl was nice. She really was, but that doesn't mean that she wasn't annoying, she was just a nice pain in the ass. She was reading a book and every time she turned the page she'd whack me on the arm. Plus, that book she was reading - was resting on my forearm the whole time. I wasn't even using the armrest! Between her hitting me every minute and a half and the Rusky stinking me out and waking me up I got about 5 minutes of sleep. Needless to say I didn't do anything yesterday except sleep. I didn't make it into the office. I slept until 2:30. I couldn't help it. I was in serious need of rest.

And now I'm back. And I have to go do some work to earn this paycheck.

I miss Brooklyn. I miss the girls. And I think I love the man even more than when I left.

P.S. MT if you're reading this - you are the mack daddy of them all and I want details. You player, you. I'm in awe. She is SO totally entranced by you she can't even see straight.

Hot time in the old town tonight!

All I'll say right now (because I'm quite exhausted and need to make some dinner very soon) is that this past weekend was one of the best of my life. Not only was I able to be there with Julie on her 28th birthday and help celebrate her fabulousness with our close friends who love her, I was in New York at a time when I needed an infusion of energy and creativity and insanity and hope and buzz. It was an excellent trip. Julie was beautiful and lovely and hilarious as she always is, and it was great to see her and the gorgeous women in this picture. We went out and danced for hours on end on Saturday night and I didn't even make it back to the house before 10:30 the next morning. It was outright awesome.

So many things happened this weekend and I want to get them all down on paper, erm, the screen very soon. But for now I must fill my walnut (as the man says) because I'm hungry.

T-minus 10 hours and counting...

In less than 10 hours I fly to New York. I'm so happy about going. I get to see the Park in the Fall with the leaves all pretty and feel the crisp air on my cheeks. I get to wear sweaters and boots and ride the subway and be around people who at least try to speak English. I get to talk to the crazies and be asked every 2 blocks "can you spare a dollar?". I get to eat a hot pretzel from a sidewalk vendor with extra salt and deli mustard. I get to shove my way through the crowds on 7th Avenue just trying to get over to Bryant Park. I can't wait! I need a dose of that hustle and bustle and generalized insanity that somehow comes across as the only sane place in the world. I need a dose of my NYC peeps and their infectious creative vibe. I get to see my friends and feel like I belong and take a deep breath. It amazes me that by injecting myself into the center of all fury and rush and madness I actually gain a sense of calm and peace. *ohm*

On a totally different note, my poor dog is getting neutered today. Yep, that's right. Balls will be no more as of 3:00 this afternoon. The man and I have been telling him for weeks to lick 'em while he's got 'em, and believe you me, he's been taking advantage. That dog has the most disturbingly droopy, massive dog nuts ever. I have to say I won't be sad to see them gone. The man has to pick him up tomorrow morning from the vet's office. I'm sad I won't get to see him until I get back Sunday night from NYC. My poor, little poochie. Well, poor, big poochie is more like it.

Oh yeah, I almost forgot...

Our electricity is out at home... AGAIN. Happy, happy, joy, joy.

I LOVE MIAMI!
(if you can't sense the sarcasm dripping from every syllable of those words then you're obviously in need of serious medical attention and should dial 911)

Gross. But to me - hilarious.

Have you ever had a conversation and then gone back over it in your head and realized that it was completely shocking? That if someone had overheard you s/he would have immediately concluded that you're a total weirdo/freak/psychopath/dimwit? Well, I had one of those today with K. We were emailing about our usual, random subject matter and then, all of a sudden, the normal chatter was peppered with bits of disgusting verbage that didn't even register on our radar as suprememly strange until afterward. It pretty much went like this:

I feel like I might shit my pants.

Perhaps the restroom would be a good place for you to visit sometime in the next few minutes?

I need to wait until the pressure of the chair is no longer needed as a shit dam.

Hmm. Well, now that's something you don't hear everyday.

That's gross, right? I mean, there is no question that the above conversation is nasty and inappropriate in 99.99% of all situations, right? Well, at the time, it was just what came up. A "shit dam"? Who the hell says that? I guess I do. Funny part is that to K & me it was just another conversation until we really thought about what had just been said. We're so bizarre. OK, well, I'm so bizarre. I don't want to wholly condemn her based on one isolated exchange (but believe me, the full picture would lend the same conclusion - love you, K!).

I wonder what other people talk about when they think no one else is listening that's completely relevant only to the other half of the conversation.