How do I get "Famous" in the "Blogosphere"??? Everyone knows Dooce. She's so famous I'm not going to hyperlink that name. Hey, whatever she's totally on my links list. ANYHOW. She posts today about how this web-zine wanted photos of her home office. And I'm all "WTF!" Doesn't anyone want to see MY home office?
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
We usually slept in the downstairs living room when Sammy stayed the night and it never bothered me much - even with the musty snake smell and the strange clicking of the rats in their aquariums. That night I woke up when every one was sound asleep - just like I do now -wondering if any one else was sharing the quiet darkness with me. When you came out of my parents bedroom, I thought you were my dog - short and shadowy with no real figure - blurred by midnight eyes. I thumped the side of the hide-a-bed with my hand to see if you (as what I thought was the dog) would come to my side to be scratched behind the ears. In the pitch I watched as you moved forward and came close to me, just beside the bed, but when I reached out to feel the soft fur of my dog I my fingers swept through your shadow feeling the air because you weren't my golden retriever after all and all of the hairs stood up on my body as I squeezed my eyes closed tight and tried to fall back asleep pretending that I hadn't just touched a ghost.
Meh, Halloween Blather, I guess. Scary stories lose their effect when told before lunch.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
That day that we met in the Nine West store of New York City, I knew I had to have you. I was seventeen, then, not yet fully aware of the power that could be had just by putting on a pair of beautiful heels. Your leather was soft and clean, your toe square and hard, and as soon as Sister L handed over the box she so lovingly purchased for me, I put you right on my feet. WHHHHHHHHIIIZZZP went your zipper and we tromped around the city all day as if you were the most comfortable pair of shoes in the whole wide world. I don't think that I can replace you.
4:55 - C and I exchange our Dear John letters and I leave work in tears.
5:05 - I check my bank balance and realize I have some cash left in there still and decide to treat myself to a bottle of wine.
6:00 - I open the bottle, eat dinner and smoke a cigarette, laughing away at prime time t.v.
9:00 - Finish said bottle of wine and half a dozen cigarettes and go to bed with the spins. Make several drunk texts to random folks to the effect of "kill me now".
11:00 - Wake up with the spins and hurtle for the bathroom to empty days contents from my stomach. Call in sick to work.
4:00 a.m. - Wake up again, mostly sober, and realize that I cannot be sick from work today and call back leaving a second message saying that I will be in after all. Lay in bed for an hour with Simon and Fitch, wonder how I am going to make it through the day and vow to only do good things for myself from now on - beginning with taking a hot bath and making sure that I put some salty hangover food in my stomach.
While I soaked in the tub wondering how anyone ever succeeded in drowning in one (mine is about half my height and so submerging is pretty difficult), I decided that I am going to have a wedding so that I can write some vows for myself. To love, honor and respect myself - you know? Instead of kicking myself while I'm down. I deserve better, of course, than what I have allowed myself this month. So I'm going to commit to me and the goodness of life and all of the love I can wrap myself in to keep cozy and warm this winter.
I hope that no one will be annoyed when I wear white and register.
Monday, October 29, 2007
This weekend I got to see you and your massive black dog up close. You walked by and smiled, embarrassed, as you half dragged your animal away from a place you were sure he was about to urinate. I couldn't help but notice that your teeth were perfect - little uniform white soldiers who stood up and saluted me when you grinned - only slightly shadowed by a nose that I feel sure you chipped off of a Greek statue. I immediately immersed myself in a fantasy where I was sacked out on your floor, head resting on the dog like a gigantic pillow, sun filtering down on us in warm little slats of golden light. Later, I dreamt that I saw you again and I physically drooled, not entirely unlike your pet.
One of these (but in Charcoal)
One of these
And more of this than I could really afford:
Well...Okay, minus the milk product. But LOOK at how beautiful that is! On a perfect sunny-yet-cool Texas weekend how could I pass up a cup of beautiful espresso and watching beautiful people?
Don't answer that, I don't want to actually know the answer to "how do I keep from destroying my finances" if it means I have to cut out luxuries like ten dollar belts and six dollar vintage treasures. Maybe I will start a cheap car share program with Betty on the side...
I'm feeling delicate today. Like maybe if you just scratch the surface I might begin to crackle and shatter into a million frayed little pieces. I have no patience. Menopause lady at work whined about having to change her lunch order and I almost bitch slapped her.
"Or you can spend all day doing things that have nothing to do with work..." she sighed.
"YUP." I replied, coldly turning to my computer screen.
Maybe she was looking for some sympathy from me, but I am an empty vessel.
K.P. plaintively emailed about how she was bored with her editorial job and living in new york and I stood right up on my soap box and told her to get over it. I know a fist full of people who would give up their left eye for the position she's in, be it boring or not.
There is a deeply compassionate side to me that would normally feed off peoples problems, cranking out ideas for making K.P. money and trying to find a way into the heart of Menopause lady. Today, however, after a weekend of not sleeping well and trying to wrap my mind around It's really really over this time I don't think I can bear one more second of another persons tribulations.
What was I talking about? This has nothing to do with my absence of money.
If I could virtually pan handle it would look something like this:
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Not that kind of dream. Although, she's stunning, of course.
In the dream Bossy posted an ad on craigslist saying she needed someone to house sit for her. Without really responding to the ad I went to her house and began snooping around for the dog food. I made myself quite at home while she was gone. After a few days I heard the door knob rattle and I felt I had to hide and so I went into her garage where I hid behind a lawn mower, listening to her conversation with her husband.
"Well, I'm glad we went ahead and hired that contractor to look after the house, since no one responded to our ad."
At which point I came out of hiding to help Bossy with her laundry and she was not at all surprised to see me. I realized that she had been at my office a few weeks ago getting a proposal for some work on her HVAC system, but she didn't recognize me from there I could tell, so I said nothing.
I asked her where the dog food was and went off to feed Stella.
Friday, October 26, 2007
For the record, I am not crazy. There were stars over the skylight, and I made a horrible bad decision. You didn't help it. All I ever wanted from you was to treat me like a human being, no some set of lips and hips and breasts. I'm pretty sure, though, that anyone who writes songs about hamburger buns and builds beer bottles out of mashed potatoes isn't capable of such a complex thing.
.....Denny died, Burke got shot, let's just have some respective and remember that what I did is a tiny, slightly small...
....Whatever, spit it out! ....
...I lost my panties, last night.
I sigh, imagining the table saw someone is using at 8:40 at night is actually Bzzzzzzzing! through my skull. I stub out my cigarette and move onto the chocolate ice cream.
.....Back already? .......
............I never left. I did a craniotomy on a rupture of sacciform aneurysm......
I get off the couch, reluctantly and put my old grey sweater over my pajamas. I walk across the street in the dark, chocolate ice cream still in my hand.
No one is at the saw, but I can see them.
Three young men step onto the balcony and look down at me.
"Please stop. I know that you are probably excited about your new condo and this is probably the only time you have to work on it, and I'm sorry. But, just...Please stop. It's 8:40 at night and I'm depressed and all I want to do is watch Grey's Anatomy and eat this ice cream. Okay?"
"Yes Ma'am!" One replies, gruff.
I turn and walk indignantly back to my apartment, swallowing a bite of marshmallow and chocolate chip. I close the door and lay back down on the couch.
........She… we were coming to the ER, we were both sick. We couldn't shake off this flu thing so… She was better so I let her drive --
I sigh and cover my head with the blanket, and hold off on screaming, just for a few minutes.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Today you popped your fresh purply head out into the world and said "Hey! Feed me already!" With that first breath you captured the hearts of dozens of people - people you haven't even met yet, but will love ever single fiber of your being until they pass from the earth. You don't know it but you made a hundred people smile, because every one of your aunts and uncles, each of your grandpa's and grandma's and all of your parents friends exclaimed joyously to at least one other person "There's a new baby!". The most brilliant thing to think though, Emily, is that you are going to see a million more smiles in your life. You will get to share in them, and know the light you caused today.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
You are the only person on the face of the planet who can use the words "Whatevs", "Totes" and "Hypergraphia" in the same sentence with the correct grammar, pause and perfect dramatic effect. I am grossly jealous of your writing ability, but because you are my friend I just love you more for it. Occasionally I think you are crazy and self-centered; this is often a reflection of myself. We used to spend long Texas-summer days in your apartment drinking wine and writing together. It was meant to be motivational to us but usually degraded into being drunk in the afternoon and taking random trips to the Container Store to laugh at the millions of uses and mis-uses of Tupperware.
My step sister and I sit at a table taking a test. It's the blue table that my Uncle J handed down to my mom when we moved out of their house on K Road.
I am bent over my equation, scratching away with my mechanical pencil. I show it to my mother, who is monitoring the test.
"Very good!" she says. "As soon as Jenny is done we can save the world."
My sister is still working on hers and so I get up to push some carts back into the cart bay. I carefully clang the metal boxes together and line them up neatly under the window which is flooding in blue sunlight. Satisfied with my work, I return to the table with it's chipped green spots and pale wood showing through. I look down at my test page and see that my equation is gone from it. It has disappeared.
"Damn," I say, frustrated, and pick up my pencil to begin again.
I write the beginning of the equation.
30 / 916 = 61000
"No, it's supposed to be square root, isn't it?" I think aloud.
Square root of 30 / 916 = 106100
Suddenly, even though I've already completed the equation to save the world once, I can't remember it's key elements. I don't even know where to begin.
"Jenny, let me look at your page for a second," I say.
She hands me her page and I look at the top and see that she has five lines in the upper left hand corner that I do not have. This is what I need to solve the problem. I try to commit them to memory and go back to my page.
10 / 316 =
5 x 916
and the square root of 30 = 169000000
I furiously erase this and begin again.
30 x 10600009 =
30 x 916 = 19616000 /
"Jenny, can I see you're page again?" Beads of sweat drip down my forehead.
I look at the left hand box and even at her answer and I wonder how she arrived at this.
916 x 10 = 1000
"Mom!" I plead, "I can't get it!"
She comes to my side and looks at my paper.
"Try again," she says, annoyed, in a hard Spanish accent.
30 x 916 = 106900 / 10 = 5
"No!" She screams. "Didn't you learn anything!? Now how are we to save the world?? HOW?"
It has begun to rain outside.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
I could post a million random things today. And though I don't have to post them today, I am afraid to squelch them.
A comment from Indigo Bunting led me to her page where I found
"But the O of October—and so much of October here is oh, oh, oh—the O of October is like the low branch of a tree begging you to climb into it. If your legs and arms can vault and steady you into position, you can swing one leg over, steady yourself. You can lean back into O’s curve for a seasonal spoon. Surely, once balanced, I will dangle one leg off the side and set it swinging. "
Which reminded me of something my mother said on her visit this weekend. We walked slowly along the lake, watching the joggers and baby strollers rush past on the left and the crisped up leaves fall on to the pie billed grebe floating on the green water top.
We passed a thick tree trunk, jutting out over the water.
"Whenever I see those I always want to crawl out on it and sit for awhile, with my toes in the water," she smiled.
"You do?" I couldn't help myself from asking, realizing I sounded like a child who didn't believe their parents had sex to concieve them.
For some reason, this comment struck me. I was sunk into the vision of my mother as a teenager, sunshine filtering onto her dark straight hair as she slid down the bank and wrapped her arm around the branch to steady herself. Her eyes smiled the way mine do when I find myself whirring down hill on my bike or swimming surreptitiously in the cool of the summer evening.
In the peace of the afternoon I could see her looking out onto the water, just the way I had one fall day in Pennsylvania, out in the forest alone and struck by a glittering lake lined with green and red and gold and orange, reflecting the sky's pink and blue. I sat on the low branch of the old bent tree, balancing myself with a quiet breath and smiled.
"Yes," she laughed, "I've always like trees like that."
It crossed my mind to make a joke about sliding down the steep embankment and dying, but I thought better of it and just let a smile pass between us.
I would like to blame you for my aversion to organized religion as an adult, though it's probably not your fault. When I met you I thought, maybe, we were on the same spiritual plane. That is to say, I thought I had found a friend through Jesus. I thought you understood me, and loved me for who I was. But that night your "Christian" friends had a party, and those random street kids showed up and started to video tape me because they thought my drunken dance was some kind of sex invitation, everyone in the group looked at me like I was a slut who was bringing the attention on herself (the way some people blame rape victims and tell them not to get abortions) and I knew that "Christian" would be just another word for "judgemental" to me.
I figure that I can give it a couple go 'rounds, if this one doesn't come out cheery. Ya'll deserve to not be depressed by me at the un-godly hour of...Well whatever time it is. Most of you read in the morning, I think, but there is one person out there who reads way past my bed time - what looks to be after their night out on the town. I wonder if my blogs are funnier when you're drunk.
Despite this weekends gloomy turn of events, Tuesday has brought me some joy. It comes in the form of two black sweaters that it is actually cold enough to wear. I resisted my urge to put on a scarf because it is supposed to be seventy today. ONLY seventy.
Growing up in Colorado I got used to..oh, what are they called?...the seasons. Each year I would suffer happily through a miserable 101 degree summer, baking like a lizard on a rock, knowing without a doubt that come the end of September or early October (if it was an Indian Summer) there would be a cool breeze and changing leaves. Most years, by Halloween, we would have to wear our winter co
One year, Best Friends Forever S and J and I were all saloon girls.
J's mom made us amazing costumes of ruffly satin and black netting, complete with big bright feathers for our hair. The three of us were so excited to have such great matching costumes that we couldn't wait to get out and door to door with them, filling our pillowcases with candy in the process.
And then it rained. The whole night, freezing rain. J's mom drove us around her neighborhood, letting us get in and out of the car at every new block, begging us to put on out coats over our dresses each time. After an hour, we started sniffling and she must have realized that no one else was letting their partially clothed kids run around in the cold drizzle, so we called it a night.
It was the biggest let down of any Halloween I ever had...next to that year my step father dressed me as a cat and insisted I needed black makeup all over my face. I could have killed him for that.
But I digress. Cold.
So it's "cold" here all week and it has me all hopped up with bliss. It's putting me back into craft mode, urging me to knit scarves and sew fleecy things for my sister's new baby. My empty pantry soups are suddenly all I want to eat, and baking doesn't seem like a chore. I'm nostalgic beyond the point of reasonable walks down memory lane. My mind has, in fact, camped out in a cool Colorado day, carving pumpkins.
In homage to "fall" this year I will be planning the orphan Thanksgiving, again. I am looking for a new venue because I fully intend to invite more people than would ever possibly fit in my teensy apartment. My mother is sending me money for a good sized Turkey and I'll even remember to remove the giblets this time.
I will gather all my loved ones who don't have, or can't make it home to, their families. We will drink wine and eat off the china that my mother helped me find space for this weekend. It's the setting we ate Thanksgiving dinner off of for as long as I can remember.
I fully intend to wear a sweater for Thanksgiving, too, even if for some Godforsaken reason we get another hot spell and it's ninety degrees out. And I'm not wearing a coat over my Halloween costume.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Last night when you got off work, all you thought about was sharing your pumpkin cheese cake with me. I went to pick you up - because you were on foot - and when I got there I was already in tears. You've let me cry about this whole thing for what seems like a gajillion times and never once made me feel crazy or stupid for going back for more. You were my first friend in Austin, and someday we'll each have beautiful flowering little rug rats that will play together. There will inevitably be more tears.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Right, so I'm feeling a tad depressed and overwhelmed today. So, I think I'll distract myself, I'll read some news.
La, la, la, la, la... Over here to CNN.com
"Popular Stories". Click.
Children Find Body of A Child in a Suitcase.
Great. That'll do. Now, if you'll excuse me while I drive my car off a bridge.
(Does anyone have a picture of a baby animal and some Valium?).
The first time we met we were butchering baguettes and wearing dopey white hats. Your infectious giggle saved me from killing myself that day, and many days after that. When you moved back to New York, I lost my smile for months. When you moved back to Germany, I was just plain angry. I wish that you would come home to Texas so that we could buy houses side by side, drink tea on the porch in the afternoon and walk our children to school together.
I can't say no. I can't just let it go and be done with it. I know that I should, because it breaks my heart every day. Into tiny little infinite pieces. I want to be everything, not just some things, sometimes. I'm watching it slip through my fingers as if there were some way I could have caught it in the first place. There really is no fixing it this time.
I was blind sided by something I should have never see. The open wound that I caused. And I realize there is no healing from that. And I realize that my wound is still gaping, too. Yet I keep holding on. Hoping that the warmness will wash over and erase all the scars.
It's another gray day. The clouds are full and foreboding but it will not rain. It's cold in my office, but the warm air is gathering outside. I wonder, if I open the door, if I could create a hurricane, and if it would sweep me away.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Today I am fighting off the mean reds. Maybe its something to do with the bad chicken I ate yesterday, or maybe to do with the fog this morning. But I can't bring my energy up to par, and smiling seems like real work. I need a hug and feel on the brink of tears.
I am doing my best with what I have. Listening to goofy Lyle Lovett songs and perusing the internet for things I don't need. Altogether avoiding work.
I was fifteen minutes late yesterday and today, even though I made it out of the house in plenty of time, I decided to stop for a coffee that I can in no way afford. I should have bought something like a sandwich, but I entered the Cafe and was assailed by the sweetness of perfect espresso. Its a weakness of mine, like good chocolate. I can rarely turn it down.
And even though I could barely squeak out my order through my morning voice ("Double Americano, please," I whispered.) , the perky folks behind the counter were kind enough to joke with me, and let me feel comfortable enough to smile. I watched the barista pour me two absolutely amazing shots and wondered if he ever dreaded coming to work the way I do. I quickly decided no.
I carefully doctored the coffee so that it wasn't really like enjoying espresso: a half a teaspoon of sugar measured out into my palm and then swept into the paper cup, followed by enough cream to make it a light toffee color, swirling white with dark and pushing away the crema. One would argue that I could save money and buy a regular coffee, but as I said, I can't pass up good espresso.
Not having any other reason to stay I shoved myself out the door, out into the fog, and back to my car. Somewhere past the elementary school, right around the bridge, I felt the sadness set in.
I suppose it's that unfulfilled part of me that needs to get over this self imposed "break" and get back to working on new art. And the part that wants breakfast and to buy a whole basket full of groceries but can't afford it. That part wants to lay at home today and eat soup. Maybe make a stew and lay on the couch reading. Keep the blinds closed and invite over any of my friends who will curl up and hold onto me.
Too bad I can't call in for "Mental Health Days". This would be one for sure.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
I remember that you were big - big even for an adult. You always wore plaid button down shirts that seemed too tight around your belly and showed the yellow armpit stains. I hugged you and cried when I finished second grade because I had never had a teacher with such a wonderful book collection, who encouraged me to read so much. You read The BFG aloud in class, and I learned what it was like to escape into the papery world of a good book. When I saw you in line for that concert, eight years later, I wanted to say "Hello" and "Thanks", but I my teenage ego got in the way and I just watched you sit on your lawn chair and casually wait with your wife, probably wondering why a fifteen year old girl was staring at you.
Monday, October 15, 2007
I read a description today of a Sociopath. I realized that you fit every single criteria. I should have know that, when you chased my cat around the house trying to grab him and rip his head off because he had scratched you (for putting him in the face of your dog) that there was something wrong with you. Still, it took me six more months to get you out of my life. I don't know where you are now, and I don't care.
Sunday's are my favorite day of the whole week. I used to lie and tell people it was Tuesday. I used to say that I loved that it was no longer Monday. But Sunday has always been my day.
I woke up late and put on coffee. It was unusually quiet without my cell phone ringing - without the urge to pick it up and call someone. Knowing my Sunday energy limit would only last till noonish, I cranked Paul Simon on my record player and drank my coffee on the porch.
As the sun began to warm up the day, I dutifully moved empty pots and swept the concrete free of debris, hoping this would satisfy bitter Japanese lady. I couldn't bring myself to throw away any of the still living plants. In fact, I don't know that I actually lessened the quantity of pots at my door, but I did get rid of all the crusty, sad ones. Oh, and I threw out my back.
Pleased as punch with my little outdoor haven, I went back in and forced myself to fold the clothes and have another cup of coffee. I played Side B of "Greatest Hits, Etc." over and over and over.
I've been in a Paul Simon mood lately. Is that strange for someone my age? My mother was always a Paul Simon fan, though. I think it was one of the tapes we used to listen to in the car driving the eight hours to visit my Aunt in Albuquerque, along side Gloria Estefan and George Michael.
I remember the first time I recognized Paul Simon on the radio. My mom had just picked me up from Catholic School. It was my first year there and I didn't have any friends. It may have been the day that she told me my step siblings wouldn't be going with me anymore, that I would have to face the mean nuns and their sagging breasts all alone.
She sang along to "You Can Call me Al", and in my head I imagined the new MTV video I had seen - the one with Chevy Chase playing all the instruments.
"This is Paul Simon, right?" I said to her.
I secretly hoped that if I stayed on my mom's good side she would let me go back to public school, too. I tried to say the right things, and do the the things that made her really happy, like brushing her hair as she wrote on the computer and remembering the songs she liked.
"Yes!" She replied, incredulous, "It is! I'm impressed that you remembered that?"
As we turned out of the bustling "downtown" of the city where I grew up, I beamed to see my mother happy with me.
She did not, however, take me out of Catholic School.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Unless, of course, she puts it on her internet blog for the whole world to see.
Last night wasn't grape vodka, it was boxed wine - leftovers from the art show that just wouldn't seem to die. I had even had the girls over helping me drink it, but I still manage to drink too much. By the end of the night we were sewing pillows and squeezing the last drops (finally!) out of the bag. I think that it may have gone directly into Double D's mouth from the spigot.
So, it's another fabulous Saturday where I feel like someone could spackle a wall with the blob of my useless body. Thankfully, C is being kind enough to not mention my lack of enthusiasm for life (or my alcoholism) and he even bought me a bagel. I am plying myself with coffee and hoping that he is up for taking a nap later. Despite the drunken pillow making festivities, I some how squeezed in changing my sheets.
A girl's gotta have some priorities in life, you know?
Friday, October 12, 2007
I feel sad for you because you don't seem to have anything to do but make the lives of your tenants miserable. You are capable of kindness, I have seen it. That time I couldn't pay my rent because I was fired and because the depression was so bad I couldn't leave my house, you almost looked like you wanted to give me a hug and for once you didn't say something awful in your broken english. It made me think you might be human after all. But I just can't get past your lack of respect for my potted plants.
I only say this because last night I dreamt about the Friends. As in "Friends" friends. I dreamt about Monica as Cinderella and this crazy dream that Phoebe had some kind of creepy baby doll that she was treating like an actual child, and it came to life. Just in case you were wondering, dolls are just as scary in dreams.
Today I am faced with uncontrollable ADD. I keep checking my Stupidspace and my Gmail as if whatever comes within the next second and a half is going to be the very thing that changes my life forever. Click, Click, refresh, refresh. The actions of an addict. I can't help myself.
Since my phone has been turned off I am suffering from a need to communicate with someone - anyone! - who apparently is not available for comment. Where are you, I want to know, and what is so wrong with the company I provide that you cannot respond? Why do I have to look forward to spending my night alone, watching Grey's Anatomy, drinking wine, jonesing for a cigarette and rationing out chocolate as if it were the depression. No, not my depression - the depression. You're clearly not doing anything. I'm attractive, intelligent, sometimes I'm even funny! Why can't you --
ah...Ahem. Right, that's something else altogether, isn't it.
Click, Click, refresh refresh refresh refresh.
Damnit! Where the hell is everyone?
And then my thoughts are distracted completely by the smell of raw sewage being piped up from the ground into a truck just outside my office door. Suddenly, I don't really care about my self pitiful loneliness.
Huh. Will wonders never cease.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
My formula is going to be five sentences. I don't know why. It just is.
It annoys me that you are the first person that came to my mind. You told me I was bad at math, in the first grade. Because of that, I never got to enjoy math, even though my mother has told me it was the thing I was most excited to learn in school. I blame your for my constantly overdrawn checking account. Pay up.
I was driving to work this morning, thinking about what I would put on my page today. I maneuvered through traffic, trying to blink the bent eyelashes out of my eyeball while simultaneously merging into traffic with the other half asleep drivers. My mind was a flood with thought, but no coherent theme came to pull those thoughts together.
So I decided I'm just going to bullet list it.
- I stepped out of my door to head to work at 8:01. Yes, I should have been there already, but I just couldn't peel my eyes open to roll out of bed. It's a miracle, really, that I was out the door at all (and wearing clean underwear) because I finally pulled the covers off my head at 7:32. Locking the door behind me, I was pleasantly surprised by cool weather. Sixty-something? It actually felt like fall. I pulled my car out of the driveway trying not to stress out about the gas tank on E, and watched a few brown leaves flutter to the ground. How do they know it's fall? I thought. It was ninety degrees yesterday.
- THIS: is the just one of the reasons I need this week to be done now. I know my little garden was a tad neglected over the month of September, but it is still mine. I had dreams about cutting back the dying cucumber plant. 2-3 pots? What's wrong with you, you Japanese HO? Oh, and, vine? That's f**king honeysuckle. Do I, or do I not, pay rent for the use of the fifteen inches beneath my window? The kicker? You can't even see my plants from the street.
- I have a travel bug. Even though my pocket book (and lack of passport) typically holds me back from going to far away from home, I love to pack up and leave. I like adventures. Sometimes I think I have to leave my home to really appreciate it. Today I passed a Focus with Illinois plates and I wondered if they were here on vacation. I immediately wished it was me, having a vacation day in some new city I was eager to explore. I wished that I had Betty ford filled with water and snacks and new mix CD's heading out onto the open road. I miss the desert. I miss driving through vacant stretches of country with the windows open, excited to be going somewhere I've never been before. I am going to have to plan my next great adventure soon.
- I am long overdue for a bike ride and a swim. I need to stretch my body out, and then to let it limber up underneath the warmth of the October sky. I dreamt about sewing last night. In perfectly straight lines. Maybe I will ride, swim and then open up my sewing machine.
- I am overdrawn in my checking account by....a lot. I don't know how I let it happen, and I think I might have a cry about it soon. I am still selling art but I don't get to see any of the cash because I have to pay off my accounts and I don't get paid until the 15th. I'm thinking of knocking over a bank, then running away to some country that doesn't mind harboring fugitives. Do you think I'll need to learn how to use a gun?
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
But isn't it still OCTOBER? Because I am currently listening to streaming audio from Philadelphia and they are playing Santa Claus Is Coming To Town. WHAT. THE. F.
I'm sorry, call me crazy, but I like to celebrate my Holiday's in the order in which they fall. October: Halloween. November: Thanksgiving. DECEMBER: CHRISTMAS. That's almost three months away! I don't even have a halloween costume yet! It's ninety degrees out.
Maybe I'm a scrooge. Maybe this is supposed to be one of those "Hold the season in your heart all year" things? OR MAYBE its a commercial conspiracy, designed to get consumers to start shopping for glass orbs and cider scented candles earlier and earlier and earlier. Hmmmmm.
Maybe it was a radio accident. Maybe the DJ is losing it. Maybe I'm so hungover that I imagined it. Oh God. I'm so not ready for the Holidays.
I'm going home to take a nap.
First, I would like to congratulate you on "thinking outside of the box" to create your fine grape drink. I think it's outstanding that someone decided to make grain alcohol taste like candy. Ingenious.
It is a great idea, really. Like making children's cough syrup taste like bubble gum. Disguise that delicious burning flavor with something wonderful like grape, and you've got fun for all ages! Goes down easy! So you can have straight shots of it. Shot after shot after shot of delicious grapey goodness.
It keeps people coming back for more, you know? Like that time when I was seven and I fell in love with the raspberry hard candies with the liquid center. Mom kept filling the dish by her bed and I kept sneaking in there to eat them, eagerly waiting for them to crunch open in my mouth, oozing out raspberry goodness.
"Don't eat too many of those," Mom warned, "You're going to get sick!"
"No, mom," I replied knowingly, "I'll be fine."
And then I threw up raspberry filled chunks. And I could never even smell artificial raspberry flavor again, let alone imbibe it.
Then there was the whole go-round I had with the Sour-Apple Pucker. Because it's always a great idea to swig that stuff straight from the bottle. But it's an even better idea to lose at playing "Drunk Driver" - you know that card game that a sober person sets up to make an already drunk person lose? - and chug it. Oh the pain of sour apple, coming back up.
Yeah, I'm pretty sure the grape drink vodka is just like that.
So, um, Thanks. I feel certain that if I ever liked grape flavored anything before, I never will again.
My Rotten Intestinal Lining
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Are they as blurry as they look? I can't really tell because it was "one of THOSE days" and so I've had...erm....a few...glasses of wine.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
For those of you anxiously awaiting...
When your eyes are closed is there still a window to your soul? (8 x 9; 6 x 8; 6 x 6)
Because the future is so promising (14 x 13)
My therapist and I find this hilarious (26 x 20)
...Turn around to the small wall...
One wish under the Golden Gate Bridge (8 x 10)
Full of Expectation (13 x 6)
Speaking in tongues OR "I thought you said..." (10 x 12; 10 x 12)
(16 x 20)
and a little obligatory piece about me (with a thanks to those who I couldn't have done without):
An Exhibition of Pure Passion (bio)
Juliet Pennay was raised in a small town in Colorado where she feared volcanoes and the dinosaurs that lived under the hills. As she got older it was ghosts, railroad tracks and snakes. Red ones, like the great river that wound through the valley where she lived, slithered into her dreams and woke her with a bite.
It was images like this that drew Juliet to art. With pencil in hand she could sketch out the wilds of her imagination - and she did - from a very young age.
"Whenever anyone asked what I wanted to be when I grew up," She recalls, "I would always say ARTIST."
She pursued it continuously in her formative years, struggling against the characters who always seemed to show up in the last act, telling her she couldn’t "be" and artist. Sometimes she gave in. She tried being a waitress, but was too clumsy. She tried working at department stores but hated folding shirts (and still does). She tried being a secretary, but more often than not she forgot what day it was. It turned out that "being" an artist was the only thing she was really good at.
For her debut exhibition she found her inspiration in the imagination that has always haunted her: her dreams.
"Sometimes I wake up and I can’t erase the images. They’re so real I could touch them. The only thing I knew to do with them was put them to paper."
‘Putting them to paper’, though, seems a bit of an understatement.
In beautyofDREAMS, Juliet displays thirteen vivid translations of the inner workings of her brain. They are a feast for the eyes - charming and creepy and humorous all at once. You find them sticking in your mind the way they must have in Juliet’s before she laid them to rest in paper cuttings and adhesive.
Currently residing in Austin, Juliet’s art has finally found a place to flourish.
"I’m feeding it the right stuff," She jokes.
But her work is no joke. It is clearly her passion, as well as an intimate part of her being that she so graciously has decided to share with the world. And the world anxiously awaits more.
Juliet Pennay lives in Austin, TX with her two fat cats and a revolving door of her favorite people. She hates crunchy peanut butter, radio commercials, leaf blowers and work. She loves night swimming, bike riding, coffee, crime dramas and sleeping.
I would like to say a special "THANKS!" to those people, places and things that were instrumental in making this exhibition a reality (not just a dream).
The Beautiful People (In no Particular Order):
My FABULOUS Therapist
Conde Nast Traveler
O, at Home
House and Garden
The Places and Things:
Simon and Fitch
CSI: All Versions
Men in Trees
The Old Adventures of New Cristine
Silk Soy Creamer
Without the above I would have surely lost my sanity, or something else important.
At a Gallery (as opposed to a Cafe) if, for some reason, your fine art were to fall off the wall and onto the floor, the Gallery might call you. And, if for some reason Gallery decided to just go ahead and nail your work back up, they might do it with a modicum of respect for the for mentioned fine art. They might even try not to damage it further. And maybe they would have even been careful enough to notice that your pieces were (before they fell off the wall) very specifically spaced 8 inches apart, and maybe they would have tried to put them back that way.
BUT (oh, and the "but's" I've met on this first exhibition of mine!) this is not a Gallery, where my work is hung. It is, in fact, a Cafe. Where things go on willy nilly and I will be going down there tomorrow to try to remove the absurd amount of pencil markings and finger prints that are marring the space around my art work because they said they would spackle and paint but didn't. And where coffee patrons think less about the art and more about their WiFi access. And where a giant silver HVAC duct is reflecting an awful light onto one of my best pieces.
SIGH. This is where I guess I just "let it go". Because, after all, this is only my first exhibition. And although I had resolved to make it "just as good as a gallery show, even though it's at a coffee shop" there are somethings that I will not be able to change, no matter how I try. Like the fact that my "gallery" smell like salsa. Really good salsa, but salsa, nonetheless.
After I saw my fallen pieces and puked in my mouth a little, I diligently set to securing my art to the walls, left them a sweet little note to PLEASE call me if the art falls again, I drank my ginger beer and took a gajillion photographs. THAT'S RIGHT. I FINALLY TOOK PICTURES.
Then, as I promised myself, I went home and watched approximately four and a half hours of T.V.
I realized that I really love T.V.. Even though I hold to a strict "It rots your brain" philosophy, this years prime time line up has made me so undeniably happy that I sometimes think about getting cable. And TiVo.
All I have to say is "Pushing Daisies". Period.
Today will be ridiculously hard to muddle through, I'm sure. Tomorrow is slated for baking cupcakes and picking up dresses and scrubbing walls and buying wine. And sleeping in, did I mention sleeping in?
All I have to do is manage to not kill the menopausal woman at my work. I just have to cut up paper and and tape it to drawings. I just have to make an effort to do some work so that I don't get fired. Don't get fired. Right, not famous yet, don't get fired. Okay. I can do this. Maybe.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
THIS:Why is that image so friggin blurry? GAR.
In honor of my new observers I want you all to come out from your dark cobwebby corners and say hello! No, this brilliance wasn't my idea. We can that Schmutzie for it, and feel free to pass it on. Because, really. Everyone who has a blog secretly wants to know who the heck keeps returning to their page from Urbana, OHIO.
And, because I love random things, I decided that I'm going to meme a little. It took me a few minutes to find a meme that might be of entertainment value. I really want to do Bossy's "Purse Contents" Meme, but that would involve dumping out my purse. And I don't think I can bear that gargantuan mess just now. Not to mention being at work.
So instead, I'm taking a sort of meme from a new readers blog. It's a little game we'll call "The crap that I am probably overqualified to do" OR "My Curriculum Vitae". It goes a little something like this:
- Dog walker / Pooper scooper
- Waitress who drops things
- Jewelery sales ho
- Data entry slave
- Coffee Slinger
- Higher paid jewelery sales ho
- Upgrade from data entry slave to sleeping with upper management (GASP! Scandal!)
- Cashier at lumber store
- Cashier at sweater store
- Money counter at the WAR-MARTS
- Cashier at store of over-priced college
- Angry, BITTER waitress who drops things
- Drunken receptionist
- Sober, BITTER receptionist
- Coffee slinger at overpriced "organic" market
- Bored, unmotivated receptionist
My redeeming qualities are:
- I'm TOTALLY organized in a way that is only functional to me.
- I'm cute. Seriously. This goes a long way.
- I'm really good at stroking egos that appear to be already over inflated.
- I can type, like, a bajillion words a minute. This is great for quick typing up a blog - ER... REPORT?
- I whistle while I work. If you can catch me doing that.
- I have a delightful phone voice.
- I'll very seldomly charge you for overtime, because getting out the door right at five is my top priority!
- I'm SO going to be famous someday. And, when I am, you can hang my magazine covers side by side in your front office and proudly tell people "She worked here once!"
So...um. Now what do I do? I've never memed before. Do I get to tag someone? Maybe I can tag someone and THEY'LL dump out their purse and take a picture...
Yesterday evening I left work frantically, late for my appointment with my therapist, only to get stuck in traffic. This SUCKED. Not only because I was worried about being late, but because what I really wanted to be doing was laying at home on my couch, watching TV.
Normally by 5:15ish I'm at home. I'm generally SO happy to be home that I walk around the house singing in my worst possible voice at the very top of my lungs. Usually I make up songs about wanting Macaroni N' Cheese and how the cats need to get jobs already.
Since I was stuck in my car, however, I took the singing on the road. And I added a drum.
Don't ask me why I have this drum in my car, because I don't know. But I do. And so I played it. For about twenty minutes. While screaming songs to the radio. This felt amazingly good.
By the time I got to my therapist's I was positively jovial.
I went into her office and waited for her get there, calmed by the cool velvet couch and perfectly coordinating pillows. I said hello to one of her many trinkets, adorning the shelves.
After a wonderful session at the crying store (where I did, indeed, cry) the battery on the camera died and so I couldn't document my busy evening. But it looked something like this:
Around nine o'clock I made it home. I was greeted by a box on my front stoop that could only be one thing: a package from my mumsy.
I took it in the house, excited. A box of mommy! I knew exactly what was in it, and i knew it wasn't her (which was kind of sad, because I sort of needed a hug), and so I left it sit by the door for thirty minutes while I straightened the house.
Then, carefully and ceremoniously I opened the box.
There, wrapped in bubble wrap, was the last piece for my exhibition. I hadn't seen it at least six months and I had forgotten how much I loved it. Immediately I was glad she wasn't for sale, and that I had given her to mom as a gift, where I knew it would be safe. I unwrapped her from the bubble wrap and took a picture quickly, as if she might leave again soon.
AHHHHHHHH! The choirs of the heavens sang! There was the Immaculate Mary, in all her glorious splendor.The Virgin, just hanging out in my house.
Tonight I'm going to put her with the rest of the pieces at the cafe, and then I'm going to Click, Click, Click pictures for all those people who are being INCREDIBLY PATIENT waiting for my web exhibition.
Then I'm going to sink into my couch and hopefully become part of it's fabric. Maybe I'll go to bed at eight.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
and maybe a little of this:
Oh god, I have to go remove those pictures from the company server. I wouldn't want pictures like THIS:
Believe it or not we were not drunk last night. I thought about falling asleep on Double D's couch, but didn't. We looked through her amazing stash of amazing threads instead. threads that began like THIS:and she somehow turned into THIS:
She's making me a pageant gown for my opening and I couldn't be more excited. If I could get away with wearing a tiara to this event (and not look too much like a walking high school ego) then I definitely would. No matter. My crown is imaginary and I wear it every day. Right over that sexy head dress I was rocking last night.
Honestly, the turn out for the show looks to be a good one. I'm hoping that means I'll get a few people to buy because Mommy wants a new digital camera. Wait. Let me rephrase that. Mommy wants a digital camera. PERIOD. One that she doesn't have to "borrow" from the office and be paranoid about whether she left pictures of her friends amazing tits on it. Oh, and if it had a Leica lense on it, that would be okay too.
In addition to a new digi cam, mommy needs to find out if the 1998 Powerbook she scored at a yard sale (for $1.50) is fixable, and if it is she needs to get it fixed. And then get an Airport card so that she can write this blog from home.
Then she needs to figure out why she's suddenly writing in third person.
Right. So, after the excitement of October passes I'm going to dive into my NEXT project. Through one of those illustrious blogs where they appear to be making enough money from their ad revenue to not work a craptastic job like this one, I discovered NaBloPoMo.
Designed by Fussy herself, NaBloPoMo - or National Blog Posting Month - is meant to give those of us who love to write but want an "easier to accomplish alternative" to National Novel Writing Month. And I love this because, obviously, my novel isn't written yet and having a ridiculous guideline of one friggin month will not get it produced any faster.
Of course, this requires that I get internet access back at my house. Because, I'm sure that having access to Myspace, the TV and Martha Stewart all at once is going to make me so prolific.
Oh, and for those of you looking for photos of the show, the goal is to go up to the Cafe tonight and take photos. I swear. Really.