southern discomforts

I Have A New Domain!

2009-01-11T16:05:00.007-05:00

Thanks to the hard work of Erica and her generous, sweet, geekily brilliant friend Stephen, we're moving! The new domain is set up, looking fantastic and ready to go. We'll still be tweaking (read: Stephen will be html'ing all of Erica design changes while I check in on their progress) but for all intents and purposes, it's on!

All future posts, as well as imported past posts from this site, can be found at www.SouthernDiscomforts.com.

The Season for Giving

2008-12-23T13:57:00.009-05:00

"You have a great vein for platelets."

She says this to me after I've told her about my horrible fear of needles and how hard it is for me to even walk into the Blood Donor Center without getting nauseous.

I hate the Blood Donor Center. Everywhere you look there is a poster with a cartoony drop of blood character who tells you all about donating blood, platelets or plasma! Every wall, every desk, every surface is covered with them. They even have "Droppy the Blood" (not his real name) featured on place mats in the post-donation snack area. Droppy reveals each intimate detail of the process in cute bubble letters and ends every step with an exclamation point.

Instead of donating a pint of whole blood, you can donate a particular component like platelets, plasma or red blood cells!

At all times during the platelet collection process, your blood is contained within a sterile tubing system!

Your blood 'takes a spin' in a centrifuge and is then returned to your body!

Obviously, we all now know why they have to beg for people to give blood. Who needs these gross details? Sit me in a chair, don't talk to me, let me look at a blank wall and tell me when I'm done. You may remember my last blood donation adventure when I got so sick that I almost passed out and had to spend an hour waiting in a reclined chair with a wet rag on my head. I warned the nurse this time and she did really well with me until the platelet comment.

"You know, you can give platelets as soon as three days from now."

God. Dammit. Are you kidding me?

As I mentioned in my last post about blood donation, I am blood type O Negative. Me and about 6% of the United State's population. (Thanks Droppy!) O Negative is the super blood. I'm a "Universal Donor" meaning my blood can save anyone's life and is the most sought after. So I have to donate. It kills me, I hate it, it completely freaks me out. It's been almost three hours since I finished up this morning and I'm still sick to my stomach. But. I have to do it. How could I not? And now thanks to that fucking nurse, I get to do it again.

And the weather doesn't help ...

2008-12-11T17:52:00.002-05:00

I've been getting some comments like, "I miss the funny Susan." "Where are the happy posts?" "Why is everything so serious lately?"

My answer? It is what it is. I'm in a funk. So it's either not write, or fake some happy shit that will just come out, well, fake. I'm ignoring phone calls. I'm avoiding people. I'm stressing out almost to the point of panic attacks. I have the Klonopin, but I try to take it only when I start feeling the pain from clenching my jaw. You know, I know I need to feel the feelings I'm going through. It's the first holiday season without my family. No call on Thanksgiving. No call on my birthday.

Although I ultimately feel this is best thing for me, it sucks. And it makes me really sad. So lately, I'm just not in the mood. For anything.

Don't think I've become pessimistic, or that I've lost my belief that everything works out and all that new age hippie shit. I am still The Secret's biggest fan. But, the fact is, sometimes things suck. They just do.

That's where I am right now. And, I'm okay with it. It will pass, I will learn, all will work out. But until then ... leave a message and I'll get back to you later.

Axed. Day 47.

2008-12-08T14:48:00.001-05:00

This is what I wrote on Day 42:

Good feeling's gone. I have been laid off, I'm back to bartending, I'm house poor and I can't afford weed. And of course, it's that time of year when every case of depression is exacerbated by the holiday season. Not to mention, I have run out of refills on my Zoloft and haven't had my man-made serotonin in over two weeks. (Note to self: Call Dr. Auerbach.)

People, let me tell you, unemployment is exhausting. What with all the fighting and screaming and crying ... where do you find the time to search for a job?

Arrgh. I want to write a post. It's been so long and I really love this blog but my head is such a mess right now. Yes, I'm out of Zoloft. Yes, I spent three days over Thanksgiving fighting and screaming with Erica. Yes, I am a bartender who is also picking up odd jobs just to keep the cash rolling in. (Sorting a dead Life Magazine photographer's old prints for his widow for $15 an hour, for one.)

It's now Day 47 and I still haven't posted. I have some good updates. Number one being, I'm back on Zoloft. Oh. Wait. That's a good story.

After writing that half-assed post that I didn't post (except I did now), I called Dr. Auerbach's office for an appointment. She was booked until January 15. I asked if I could just have her renew my prescriptions over the phone. The receptionist answered, "No, but let me see if the interns can write prescriptions." Turns out they could and I got an appointment.

I went to Beth Israel the next morning and met Dr. Feng, my GP's, partner's intern. She was a young Chinese woman who was very diligent and proficient at her job but hadn't come quite so far with her English. After asking me a barrage of medical history questions, she retrieved my file. A file which, incidentally, contained the answers to all of her previous questions. I suppose she was just practicing. Anyway, she finally gets around to asking why I've come in for the appointment.

"My prescriptions have run out. I need to get more Zoloft and Klonopin."

"Okay. I can give you Zoloft. But Klonopin is control drug. I don't think he give you Klonopin." He being Dr. Lau, my GP's partner.

"That's fine. I'll get an appointment with Dr. Auerbach. The most important one is the Zoloft."

I expected her to write the prescription for the Zoloft and send me on my way. But then she changed her mind. For reasons I don't quite understand, she decided that she didn't want to give me the Zoloft either.
Dr. Feng: Do you see a therapist?

Me: I used to but I don't anymore.

DF: Why not?

Me: I can't afford it.

DF: You have insurance.

Me: I know but they don't pay for therapy.

DF: Yes they do.

ME: Um. No. They don't. They pay after a $3000 deductible. So, at $150 per session, by the time you get to $3000, it's practically a new year and you have to start all over.
She was not satisfied with this answer. She went on about my being able to afford therapy for about five minutes. "You should have medicaid." "Your insurance is crap." "Are you sure you're reading the policy correctly?" (Read the policy? Seriously?) She just couldn't believe that someone in my obvious state of distress, could not get the proper mental healthcare she so desperately needed. (And this is before the breakdown.) She finally gave up with a succinct, "America ... ugh."
DF: Listen. Dr. Auerbach give you Klonopin before or after psychiatrist?

Me: I didn't get Klonopin from a psychiatrist.

DF: No. When you get Klonopin you were seeing psychiatrist?

Me: No. My therapist was a psychologist. She didn't give me Klonopin. Dr. Auerbach did.
She resorted to drawing a schematic showing that she wanted to know whether I was seeing my therapist when Dr. Auerbach wrote the prescription. This is when I started crying.

Dr. Feng had turned back to her computer screen to make some comments on my inappropriateness in getting my psych meds from my GP and not a psychiatrist, so she didn't know I was starting to break down. When she looked back up she was shocked. "Why you cry?"

"I don't know. I just cry sometimes. It isn't you. I'm just ... I don't know. Crying."

She nodded and said, "Yes. I cry sometimes too."

That's when the silent stream of tears upgraded into full-fledged sobs. I was crying like I was watching Steele Magnolias and it was the scene where M'Lynn started screaming, "I'm FINE. I can jog all the way to Texas and back, but my daughter can't! She never could!" Dr. Feng stood up and announced that she was going to get Dr. Lau.

Great. Now I can have my breakdown in front of two strangers. I tried in vain to pull it together before they got back. As I was reaching for another tissue, Dr. Lau sashayed in with a distinctly lavender aura. I loved him immediately. He plopped himself down in the chair at the desk and rolled over to face me directly. "So. What's going on?" he asked sweetly while visibly restraining the, "honey" that would have surely followed had we been at at bar in the West Village.
Me: [no longer holding back with my sobbing and gasping for air in order to whine my words out] I lost my job and I've been out of Zoloft for two weeks, it's the holidays, I'm estranged from my family, I can't sleep

... and the bawling took back over.

Dr. Lau: Ok. Don't worry (slight pause where, "honey" or "sweetie" or "sugar" should have been). We're going to give you the Klonopin. I'll write your prescription for Zoloft. You said you couldn't sleep, so I can offer you some Ambien.

Me: [instantly feeling my stability returning] I can accept that Ambien.

Dr. Lau: We're also going to refer you to a psychiatrist. I think you should get back into therapy.

Me: [looking over the tissue was still holding over my face after blowing my nose] Ya think?.
So, that was last Wednesday. I've been back on the Zoloft and have been throwing in a half Klonopin a day to keep it cool until the Zoloft levels off my system. Today I was clenching my jaw so much that I took a whole one. The sleeping isn't going so well. I took an Ambien the first night and slept super well. But the past three nights I've worked at the bar which means I was drinking and I don't want to mix the two. (Yes. I realize that I could just not drink at the bar, but really ...)

So that's my story. It ain't great, it's not sucking as much as it was. And, the fact that I'm posting this is a sign that things are looking up.

Best Funny or Die Ever!

2008-12-03T10:16:00.001-05:00

See more Jack Black videos at Funny or Die

Baby Girl

2008-11-12T13:54:00.009-05:00

Me: So, who is this?
Unknown Guy: You don't know me.
Me: Um. Okay. Well, she's not here.
Unknown Guy: A blue truck just drove past your house.
Me: (Seeing the truck outside the window.) How do you know that?
Unknown Guy: I'm watching you.

It was a random phone call from someone asking for my sister. I didn't know him so, of course, I ended up talking to him for about an hour. It's late 1990, I'm nineteen, living at home, unemployed and, unbeknownst to anyone except for myself, pregnant. What else do I have to do? Plus, it initially seemed harmless - I'm sure I'm not the only person who has ended up talking to a stranger on the phone. But as the conversation went on, Unknown Guy became increasingly nasty. He started saying things about my sister and when I defended her, he was pissed and said that he couldn't believe I took her side over his. I finally hung up on him.

Later that afternoon I got a call from my friend Randy.

I found out who that was who called you.

Randy had mentioned Unknown Guy to a friend of his who happened to know all about my phone conversation because he knew Unknown Guy and had heard all about it. (John Cougar, your small town ain't got shit on Fitzgerald.) Turns out, it was the kid who had just moved into a house behind ours. Randy knew of him from church and said the kid was just a punk.

Around 8:00 that night, Randy called back.

Unknown Guy overdosed. He's in the hospital.

Twenty minutes later, Randy and I were standing at the foot of Unknown Guy's bed in Dorminy Medical Center's ICU.

Me: What happened?
Unknown Guy: It's your fault. You made me do it.
Me: I just met you. I never knew you existed until YOU called ME today. How is this my fault?
Unknown Guy: Exactly. You didn't even know I existed.
Me: All right. I've had it. Good luck, dude.

I walked out and waited for Randy in the car. I didn't know this guy and there was no way I was going to take the blame for his trying to kill himself.

I felt so powerful when I walked out of there. The two years leading up to this incident had been really fucked up for me and I was emotionally drained. Not taking on the guilt of this latest fiasco was huge for me.

Since the end of my tenth grade year, over fifteen of my friends had committed suicide -- I lost count along the way. I think the final number was eighteen, though that might include the few friends who died in car wrecks during the same time period.

Note: Forgetting how small Fitzgerald really is, I tried googling death certificates in my hometown for those couple of years. Nothing. I emailed the Herald-Leader newspaper office asking if I could purchase back issues. The editor wrote back to say that they only keep copies for the past five years. The rest of them -- back to the 1800's, I was told -- are on microfilm in the library. I didn't ask, but I am pretty sure he meant the Ben Hill County Library exclusively.

A couple of weeks before Unknown Guy came into my life, I had attended my ex-boyfriend's funeral. He shot himself in the head after getting a bad grade on a test. The last conversation I had with him was a fight about his mother asking, "Is this Kim?" when I called him. He called me three times the week he shot himself and I wouldn't talk to him. I wanted to, but the aforementioned pregnancy was an issue. I was about six months along and I was afraid that he'd ask to see me.

Three nights in a row he called and three nights in a row I refused to pick up the phone. The fourth morning was when he went to his parents' garage with his rifle. When I saw his mom at the church service she came up to me. I was sobbing and trying to tell her how sorry I was.

He was talking about you right before. He was mad at me because I called you Kim. He said that I ruined your relationship.

And she walked away.

This funeral was about two weeks after (or before?) my best friend JW hung himself. He had been addicted to pain medication ever since the neighbor boy shot him with buckshot and put out one of his eyes. A couple of days before he killed himself, he borrowed my Dead Milkmen tape. I liked thinking that it had become one of "his things".

I think I ended up talking to Unknown Guy that day because answering the phone had become treacherous for me and I was just relieved that I finally got a call that wasn't about another death. When he tried to turn that into his own suicide show, I snapped. I had been in mourning for going on two years, I was about to have a baby that I still hadn't acknowledged to my family - or to myself for that matter, and I had reached my limit.

Note for those of you wondering how I could live at home and hide a pregnancy from my family for six months: I didn't get pregnant in that cute "beach ball under your shirt" way. I got pregnant everywhere so I just looked fat. Plus it was the late 80's and huge bulky sweaters were in.

While I was standing over this idiot who had taken pills and tried to blame me, something clicked inside of me. All of a sudden it was all just so ridiculous. How was it possible? All the death, all the blame, all the guilt .... It was just too fucking much. So I shut it down and in an instant all of it was gone and I felt serene. I now know this is what the shrinks refer to as "repression."

A few months later when I was in labor and telling the emergency room staff that I didn't want to see my baby, I didn't feel it. I had made my decision and I was sticking to it. Matter of fact. Period. As I was being rolled into the delivery room on the gurney I told the Ob-Gyn, "I'm giving it up for adoption. Please don't show it to me." The next day an attorney and his secretary came into my room with adoption papers and a Bic pen.

The undersigned consents to relinquish all parental rights to Baby Girl.

Baby Girl. Reading those two words fucked up my plans to not engage. For nine months I had managed to live as if it weren't happening. Even my mom didn't know until I woke her up that night and said that she needed to take me to the hospital. It was as if my mind and my body were completely separate so I had been able to distance myself from what was going on.

Then those words.

Baby Girl turns eighteen this December. When I signed the adoption papers, I decided that I would never search for her. I had my chance to be in her life, and I gave it up. Now it's up to her. When we decided to say that I didn't know who the father of the baby was so that I could make the decision to give her up on my own, I asked the doctor to keep my records open in case she ever wanted to find me.

Of course, she might not want to. She might hate me. She might feel that she is happy with the parents she has and not have a need to contact me. She may not even know that she's adopted.

But just in case, I'm calling the doctor to make sure he knows where I am.

By the way.

2008-11-11T14:11:00.004-05:00

I am still working on switching over to my own domain. The holdup is that somehow I managed to get the entire design team over at Erica's company involved and now we're actually DESIGNING the site - not just picking a standard template and going with it. It's fantastic, but it's going to take a little longer than I expected.

Soon though. I promise.

Axed. Day 20.

2008-11-11T14:04:00.001-05:00

In the past three weeks I have:

Roasted two chickens.
Made chicken pot pie from roasted chicken leftovers.
Fed Erica roasted chicken of some sort three days in a row for lunch.
Baked chocolate chip cookies.
Baked pumpkin bread.
Prepared dinner almost every night.
Set the table for dinner.
Used linen napkins for dinner.
Googled (and implemented) special napkin folds.
Packed lunch for Erica almost every day.
Bonded with the dog.
Gone to the park with the dog.
Bathed the dog.
Cleaned out the fireplace.
Reorganized the kitchen drawer.
Washed every item of clothing we've worn.
Washed and washed and washed dishes.
Cleaned out the kitchen cabinets.
Reorganized the bathroom cabinet.
Listened to over twenty episodes of Oprah's Soul Series.

That's right. I am a housewife who is addicted to the Spirit Channel. (I am also a bartender at a nice little lesbian bar in the Gowanus section of Brooklyn. A story for another time.)

Know what else? I love it.

Truly. I am so happy these days. My relationship with Erica is healthier than it's ever been. My stress level is zero. (Erica's is only a 15. That alone is a Christmas miracle.) I just have this feeling that everything is exactly as it should be right now. And I've been given this amazing opportunity to make a change in my life and decide what direction I want to go in. It's pretty great.

The first thing I realized after being laid off from the event business (again) was that I have no interest in going back into the event business. It was always something that I had fallen into, not something that I had fallen in love with. What I have fallen in love with, is writing. So, here's the plan:

1. Stay at home and write. (Or go to the park and write. Or a cafe. The zoo. You get the point.)
2. Write the stuff I want to write the way I want to write it.
3. Have someone pay me to do it.

I am so excited.

Definition of Grateful

2008-11-04T23:50:00.009-05:00

Occasionally I question my spelling ability. I know that Blogger usually catches my stuff, but there have been times ...

So. I was making sure that I had spelled "grateful" correctly and I came upon the definition.

Pleasing by reason of comfort supplied or discomfort alleviated.

Here's to the McCain/Palin ticket.

And an alleviated discomfort.

I am so excited about the future.

I Am Grateful.

2008-11-04T23:47:00.002-05:00

One More For the Road

2008-11-02T14:41:00.021-05:00

Receptionist: Hi, how can we help you?

My Friend PMR: Hi there. How are you? What we've got going on here is that my wife and I were having a party tonight.

Erica: Yeah. It was fun. So, they have this cat.

PMR: Yeah. We've got a cat.

Erica: Yeah, she's allergic to them and, uh ...

Me (thinking): God dammit. Why isn't there any panic? Why the FUCK isn't anyone panicking? Here I am dying and she's chatting?

From my keeled over position I wheezed in as much air as I could and screamed.

Me: "ASTHMA ATTACK!"

I know I said I wouldn't write again until I switched domains, but that was before I knew I was going to face death and spend an evening in the Catskills Regional Medical Center with a pothead jaywalker, an escaped convict and one of the younger members of NAMBLA. I had gone into an attack at a Halloween party and thank god the escapee quit drinking after the second round of Beer Pong or we would have been fucked and I would have found myself in the back of a CRMC ambulance as the adult half of the NAMBLA couple.

Note: For those not familiar with Beer Pong, here is a list of what you need to play the game: A table, ping-pong balls, plastic cups, beer, and at least two people who are willing to drink a cup of beer with a dirty ping-pong ball floating in it.

The truth of what happened at the emergency room reception desk was we all went in and Erica, indicating me, calmly said to the nurses, "She's having an asthma attack." The nurses blankly stared back for what felt like eons. I was freaking out because I had dropped down to about 10% lung capacity at this point, and it seemed like everyone was so fucking calm that I might collapse before anyone could decide what to do for me.

After I screamed, I was quickly dropped into a bed and strapped down with an oxygen mask containing a steroid breathing treatment. Within seconds I could breathe again and fell into immediate exhaustion from increasingly struggling for breath for the prior three hours. I was soothed in and out of sleep to the tune of the old man on the other side of the curtain. "Pee pee. Pee pee. Pee pee." The nurse looked at me, "Sorry. It's the only bed we have left," and she turned to give Pee Pee Man a urinal for the third time in about 10 minutes.

I hate being the person who has to be taken to the emergency room. It's embarrassing and I feel guilty for being the buzz-kill. When I was shivering on the back porch, Erica and PMR were with me. "I'm fine. -wheeeeze.- Just let me stay out here for a -wheeeze- while. You guys go back inside." I knew I needed to go to the emergency room, but I just didn't know how to break it to them. I felt like Sookie Stackhouse, the mindreader in True Blood. All I could hear was their thoughts

Oh, please be okay. We don't want to spend the night in the emergency room. Please. She's okay, right? Man. We just started "The Shining." Am I really going to have to go to the hospital with her?

Honey, do you need to go to the hospital?

Yeah. I do.

Crap.

My three costumed companions and I got in the car and headed out. As I sat in the back seat trying to concentrate on getting air into my inflamed bronchial tubes, I could hear them talking about my and PMR's run to try to find a store that had Primatene Mist earlier in the evening.

PMR (the pothead jaywalker): Well, we went to Wal-Mart and Shop Rite and they were both out. Or Wal-Mart was out, Shop Rite's pharmacy was closed and we couldn't get to it. The only other place was another 20 minutes away.

S (the ex-con): Yeah. Taking her to the emergency room is way better than that.

The worst part about being the patient in the ER scenario, is missing out on all of the drama at the hospital. My experience was limited to Pee Pee Man and a rotten-toothed nurse who attempted to start an IV line on me. Being needle-phobic, just the thought of getting an IV was bad enough. But then the stick that should have stung for no more than three seconds hurt like I was being shot up by a fellow heroin junkie in a rush to get his own hit. A doctor who was passing by saw me writhing in pain and asked the nurse what was going on. "The vein is blown," then accusingly, "She jumped." Mercifully the doctor said, "Please stop torturing her and just give her the pills."

There are pills? You bitch.

Meanwhile, outside my room:

S is pacing because he is so freaked out by the filth.
PMR has passed out on a gurney in the hallway and is unfazed when a nurse passes and drops a pile of sheets at his head as if he's not there.
Erica is registering me with a nurse who notices the clock when daylight savings time kicks in. "Great. It's 1 o'clock again. The last thing I need is to re-live that."

Occasionally I'd get a quick report from Erica on what was happening outside my door.

These two nurses were just out there talking and one of them said, "Well, we can't release the body to them tonight." Eek.

And then she'd be off to watch the rest of the show. The most exciting reports were about the crackhead. She'd duck her head in with snippets of the action.

He's detoxing in the "Quiet Room." He isn't very quiet.

Now he's mumbling something about people contaminating ketchup bottles with AIDS.

Ooh! They just strapped him down. He is not pleased.

After about two hours, three breathing treatments and a dose of Prednisone (in pill form, thank you very much), the staff told Erica I was released.

Relieved to finally be freed from the ER, she came in with PMR and S. "Honey? We can go now."

"Okay. Can I just lie here for five more minutes?"

Erica and PMR's faces dropped.

S, done with the filth and drama said, "I'm getting the car."

Incubating.

2008-10-27T20:24:00.015-04:00

I've been trying to sit down and write all week. You'd think with all the free time I have on my hands, I'd be writing non-stop. But I just can't get it down. I'm processing a lot of stuff with being laid off and the exciting prospect of where this is going to take me next. I write every day, but nothing really post-worthy. Or nothing I really care to post. But I want to be a dependable and responsible blogger. I don't want my millions of fans to be put on hold for my emotional well-being.

Today, realizing that it had been a week since my last post, I tried to force it and was writing some bullshit about some stuff I've been thinking about. It's good stuff to write about, it's just that I haven't taken the time to let everything soak in so my brain is kind of firing off in a billion different directions. So I decide to try to find this link I want to include in it and I come across the Follow Your Bliss Compass. Naturally I spun it.

refresh your spirit with some creative incubation

Thank you, Follow Your Bliss Compass. Don't mind if I do.

In the meantime, I'm re-designing and moving the blog to my own domain. So, just hold tight. The next post will be a link to my new home.

Love you!

2008-10-24T14:12:00.000-04:00

You know how sometimes you see a stranger and you fall in love with them a little bit? And not in a sexual way, but in a, "You're so adorable!" way. Or maybe you feel a kinship with them for something you observe -- a button or a pair of sneakers they're wearing, something you hear them say, whatever. But you love them for that moment in a special little way for whatever it is and I think we should start telling them.

I once got an email from my friend The Universe.

Ever have one of those days, Susan, when you're feeling so good, crossing a street, driving your car, shopping at the mall, when, from a distance you see a complete stranger, with a kindly face, and you simply can't help yourself from whispering a silent "I love you..."?
Oh, cool, because there has been many a time, in many a place, when some unknown face whispered the same to you....

Love you,
The Universe

And the thought of someone on a train or in a theater or crossing the street seeing me and feeling that "stranger love" for me made me happy. And sometimes when I'm going into work (When I had a job, that is.), or I'm out walking Chulo, I remember that email and get a little tingly thinking that maybe right that second someone in my vicinity is sending me stranger love. I think people would like to know when they're receiving stranger love.

So why don't we tell them?

Because it would be creepy.

The thing is, I think it could be a good thing -- like a pass it forward/random act of kindness thing. We've just got to figure out how to do it without sounding skeevy or lecherous. Like, you can't just say, "I so totally love you," to the little rocker who looks just like all of your ex-boyfriends from 1986. Either he'd make fun of you (the absolute worst) or he'd think, "Why's this old lady saying this to me?" (Takes place of "absolute worst" if he says this out loud.), or people around you would think you're a pervert (Not the first time ...). And all you were saying was that seeing him in those skinny jeans with a black t-shirt and hair-band hair reminded you of a super fun time in your life when all you wanted was to see the Ratt-Poison tour. (Twice!)

So. You see our problem. To tell the person the entire background of why you are having a little moment about them is cumbersome. Saying, "You are so adorable to me, I totally love you," doesn't explain enough. Maybe I'll make buttons to hand out. Or those wooden nickel things. With some sort of catch phrase printed on it. Like, "Just wanted to say I love you, but not in a creepy way," on one side and, "Have a nice day!" or a smiley face on the other.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

2008-10-23T11:30:00.014-04:00

Susan. We need to have a talk neither of us wants to have.

My boss sat down in front of me and proceeded to tell me that because of our country's garbage economy, the event production company could no longer afford my salary. Our company (their company) has only employed three full-time employees and even that was too much of a burden at this point. He said he didn't want to let me go, but three of our yearly events had already cancelled and the rest of our clients were all scaling way back on the remaining events we had booked.

Awesome.

You can have the rest of the afternoon off.

I packed my stuff and went home. And that's how I got laid off. Again. "Again?" you ask.

To that I reply, "Yep."

I have been laid off twice by the same company. Hell. By the same guy. The last time we had an audience. We were all in his office -- him, co-worker one and two, part-time lighting guy, and me. It was right after 9/11 and we were having champagne. This time it was one on one. And it wasn't nearly as dramatic. I'm not sure if it's set in yet. I'm kind of still processing and, to be honest, enjoying having a day off. Plus, I got off early yesterday! I picked up cream on the way home because I thought, "I'm gonna want coffee in the morning and I'm not going to be putting on real clothes tomorrow."

When I got in, I decided to take a look to see what jobs were on Craig's List. When I clicked on the "food/bev/hosp" link I was hoping to find something in the event management arena. I started reading the ads and I realized. I don't want to be an event planner anymore. The last time I was laid off I worked every crap job I could find to stay afloat until I could convince the event company to hire me back. It was the first job I had ever had that was rewarding and exciting. There was a challenge to it and the perks were glamorous. Working there was the first time that I realized that I could aspire to something better than Receptionist or Executive Assistant. Now, this is my chance to figure out what I really wanted to do. So I clicked on the "Writing Jobs" link.

I think it's been hardest on Erica. She tends to panic. I've been laid off for about 26 hours at this point. Erica has known about it since 11:00 last night (she worked late). We went to bed by midnight. She got up at 8, left by 9, and was at work at 9:45.

By noon she sent me three different email contacts as well as job ideas. Before 3 PM I had a voicemail from her mother and an email from Erica explaining why she had her mother.

She's in PR. She can help you sell yourself. She can work on your resume. Have you written anything for that job you saw? Is your resume up to date?

I know she's trying to help and isn't intentionally pressuring me, but I'm still trying to understand that I don't have a job anymore. In her mind, (and out loud more than once) Erica already has us losing the house. I think that the biggest issue with us in regard to my current lack of employment is that Erica thinks because I didn't stay up all last night writing a resume and that I didn't spend all morning setting up interviews with crappy temp agencies, it means that I'm apathetic about my careerlessness. I'm not. I just know that I need to take a step back, evaluate the situation and make the right decision about what move to make. As I mentioned, I've been here before. And I needed money just as badly then. It wasn't a mortgage, but it was a payment that I had to make in order to keep my home. And I worked it out.

And I'll work it out again.

The thing for me is that it doesn't make sense to just start throwing fishing lines out willy-nilly hoping to catch something - anything - with no concern about the size or quality of what I might be getting. Doing that just crowds the water with so many hooks and lines that only the smallest and crappiest fish can get through.

Now, if I take that energy and effort and decide what I'm looking for. Then I can choose the proper bait, the perfect lure, the exact line I need. I could find out where the fish I want is known for hanging out when it gets hungry. And I could drop my hook there. Because, I'm not going to be happy with a small crappy fish. Getting a small crappy fish is only going to make me sad that I didn't try harder to get the good fish. I've had small crappy fish. I'm done with small crappy fish.

Obviously, I am not going to starve myself waiting for that perfect bite. I can totally drop a couple of hooks off the back of the boat and snack on whatever I get. I'm not above it. However, my main focus is going to be getting that ideal fish.

Ok. Dead horse. I know. I'm just working it out. And trying to verbalize what I know inside. This is a good thing. And honestly, it's exciting for me. This is going to bring something fantastic. Something I've been wanting and waiting for and when it shows up, I'll wonder why I spent so many years doing anything else.

Get OUT!

2008-10-22T10:35:00.005-04:00

Read on CNN.com

PEABODY, Massachusetts (AP) -- Police in Peabody, Massachusetts, could be getting holiday pay on the anniversary of the September 11, 2001, terror attacks in what may be a first-of-its-kind contract provision.

A proposed new contract between the city and the police union would make the anniversary a paid holiday. The proposed contract still needs budgetary approval from the city council.

Officers would receive an extra 25 percent pay for working September 11.

Representatives of the International Brotherhood of Police Officers and the International Union of Police Associations told The Salem News they knew of no similar contract provisions in any other city.

The New York Police Department, which lost 23 officers at the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001, does not recognize the day as a paid holiday.

A union representing 24,000 NYPD officers has tried during contract discussions to get extra pay for anti-terrorism work in the years since the September 11 attack but has been unsuccessful. Patrolmen's Benevolent Association spokesman Al O'Leary said the pay would be more appropriate than extra pay for one day.

No members of the Peabody force were killed on September 11, but some went to New York after the terror attacks to help the city recover.

I am infuriated and disgusted and outraged.

Or at least I feel like I should be. I'm not really mad, but I did roll my eyes after reading this. Can you believe the nerve of these people? This is like teachers in Topeka asking for a vacation day on April 20 or if mailmen in Austin requested that August 20th be a paid holiday.

Who do they think they are? New York cops should be disgusted. Even more, New York Firemen. They were the ones at the towers in droves and droves and they were the ones who lost the most men that day and I've never heard of them trying to make 9/11 a holiday -- and they're the ones who should.

(Shakes Head in Disgust)

2008-10-16T13:39:00.008-04:00

Can you believe this? Already available at Cafe Press:

Can't we just vote already?

2008-10-15T21:35:00.006-04:00

This is why I don't retain anything of the debates. Within the first ten minutes, I'm irritated about something and that's all I can think about.

Tonight it was McCain's insistence that Obama was out to get that poor plumber who wanted to buy his business and wouldn't be able to if Obama's tax plan went into action. It was from the first question. Our next president was talking about how he wanted to cut taxes for the majority of people - 95%, ish. And Blinky McCain kept interrupting.

Yeah. But what about Joe the plumber?

And the better Obama's plan sounded, the more agitated he became.

Yeah, but you're not helping Joe the plumber? Don't you like Joe the plumber? Just because Joe the plumber makes more than $250,000 a year doesn't mean he couldn't use a tax break just like those men trying to support a wife, three kids, an ex-wife, two other kids and feed a dog on $30,000.

It became so ridiculous that even Joe the plumber was saying, "Oh. Please just give it a rest. I'll pay more taxes."

And now, here we are on question five or something, and all I know is that McCain blinks about 137 times a minute, and Obama's tax plan means I get a tax break. But, really, what more do I need to know?Obama '08!

Blog Action Day 2008: What we can do about poverty. Starting today.

2008-10-15T11:23:00.010-04:00

A couple of years ago, I received a generous year-end bonus from my employer and was so thankful that I wanted to share it in some way. I found Kiva. Through Kiva, via established microfinance organizations in countries around the globe, I loaned several businesses $25 each (as per Kiva's suggestion to spread your money out so to minimize your risk with defaults.) But, instead of taking the money back from the account once the loans were repaid (and all of them were), I found new businesses in need and re-loaned it all. Since I began I've put about $500 into Kiva and through re-loaning, I have turned that into over $1300 in loans that have gone to people in Togo, Azerbaijan, Bulgaria, Ghana, Ecuador, Tanzania, Samoa, and more. Here are a couple of screenshots from my account to give you an idea:

Kiva is an amazing organization and although I'm not wealthy enough to give tons of money to charities every year, I can make a difference with what money I can afford by loaning it over and over. It's a great feeling. It's a great endeavor. It's truly making a difference to real people who are making strides to change their lives.

The thing is, people who are poverty stricken often don't have collateral or friends in the banking industry. So, although they may have a great idea for a poultry market or a seamstress business, they have no access to funds they'd need to make those ideas reality. In most cases, no one loans money to people who don't have money. Kiva does.

And they do it with my money. (And yours if you want to help.)

Feliz Cumpleaños a Mi!

2008-10-11T10:19:00.003-04:00

Happy birthday Southern Discomforts nee With Love, The Princess nee HRH & The Princess.

One year.
180 posts.
Fairly regular entries.

Yeah, I'm proud.

Thanks for reading! Keep coming back!

Love,
Susan nee The Princess

You have to sign up for this ...

2008-10-09T12:16:00.003-04:00

I know I've told you guys before about my emails from The Universe, but really. You need to sign up for them. My email from this morning:

Super-incredibly FAST is the general order of the Universe, Susan, often with a splash of lemon, a dash of salt, and a shot of tomato juice.
And just knowing this about the "general order" makes stuff happen super-incredibly FAST. And puckers one's lips.

One writing career with abunant wealth is on its way,
The Universe

Not only am I going to be a big time writer (Oh Oprah ... get ready!), it's coming with abundant wealth and apparently a Bloody Mary.

Calling all Jews

2008-10-09T11:14:00.006-04:00

I wonder if it's because we don't have a decent bagel spot in the South Slope. I know there are temples in the area. Maybe it's just because the Jews in my neighborhood are all reformed or just non-practicing.

It's Yom Kippur here in New York (and other places) and one of the great parts about Jewish holidays is mass transit. On days like Rosh Hashanah, the city quiets down around 4pm as the faithful make their way home before sunset, and the train crowds at rush hour resemble a Saturday afternoon rather than a busy work day. It's perfect. Everyone gets a seat.

This is what kept me from scowling this morning at Erica who, although increasingly cranky from fasting, is having a day at home to "atone for her sins" -many of which were committed last Yom Kippur in a hunger-induced rage - or as I call it, watch CNN and play with the dog. So this morning as I told her that if she needed any help coming up with her atonement list, to let me know, I headed out, looking forward to a lovely, relaxing, seated commute into the city.

But no. Either everyone on my train line is a gentile or all of the Jews in my neighborhood are forsaking the highest and holiest of the High Holy days. The train was so packed that I didn't get on the first one that came into the station. That rarely happens to me on non-Jewish holiday days. So this is my official shout out to all Jews to reclaim their heritage, embrace the High Holy days. Mama wants a seat on the train!

Mr. Clicky is Albanian & Other Fun Stuff

2008-10-08T11:30:00.001-04:00

I have officially completed seven weeks of the Drinking Drivers Program. Seven weeks of videos.

Father Martin
My Name is Bill W.
Drunk and Deadly and,
I'll Quit Tomorrow, A powerful three part drama about the progressive of alcoholism. I'll Quit Tomorrow tells the story of Steve Miller, his family, friends and employer and their continuing struggles with his progressing alcoholism.

Seven weeks of Mr. Clicky

Clickety-click. [Pause.] Clickety-click. [Pause.] Clickety-click.

Seven weeks of The Mouth.

Why don't you get up and let us see you walk?
You know you the only female in here, right? You should get up and let us see you walk.
You should come in last and leave first so we can all see you walk.

All for this:Then.

Four Drinking Drivers Program graduates walk into a bar ...Yep. That's them. Top - Pop Star. Bottom, Left to Right - Mr. Clicky and The Mouth. Not shown, Me - Seated between Pop Star and The Mouth. Not since the days when I lived with Duck have I found myself in an Old Man's bar at 11:30 in the morning. But, let me tell you, it didn't take me long to get reacquainted. As a matter of fact, I was the one who sniffed the bar out.

We had wandered around Brooklyn Heights for almost half an hour following Pop Star. "Really. I know there's tons of them right around this corner." Finally I offered to go into a liquor store to find out where the bars were that were open to degenerates like me and my DDP pals. Three people were working the counter (a good sign that booze was a big hit in the area and that we were sure to find a spot). I asked the old guy who looked like he had been living hard and sure enough ...

The diner across the street has booze. There's one down at Henry. Those two spots down the block serve mimosas on Saturday. Montague there's about 5 or 6 regular bars. That's where I'd go.

And that's where we went.We opened the door and found three people already seated at the bar. God love the Irish. We all "bellied up" and the orders began.

Shot of Hennessy and espresso - Mr. Clicky
Shot of Hennessy and a beer - The Mouth
Shot of Patron and a beer - Pop Star

I ordered a vodka-tonic because I rationalized that if I were at brunch I could have ordered a Screwdriver and it would have been okay. I got enough shit as it was.

Aww! You weak! What's that shit you're drinking?
(To the bartender) Yo! Get this girl a shot!

I explained to them that what I was drinking was, in fact, alcohol -- liquor even -- and that I only had my chaser in the same glass. Before I could get through half of my drink, the boys were already ordering the second round.

You may be wondering at this point something to the effect of, "Susan. What the fuck is wrong with you?" I answer, "I don't know. It's a problem." I've been making foolish choices for my whole entire life. Mainly in the interest of excitement -- or hoping to get a good story. For example, one night, my old blog partner, HRH and I went to the ballet. We dressed and played fancy pants and thought we were spectacular. As I remember, we didn't enjoy it very much, or we enjoyed it enough but were disappointed in the long lines at the bar. The point is, we left. And somehow we found ourselves caught in the rain in Times Square. We hid out under some scaffolding to smoke and wait for the deluge to ease up. That's when Apache showed up.

Apache was an actual Apache-American who was an electrician on the construction site we were standing under. We chatted for a second and then he asked, "Hey. You wanna go up?" Well, of course we did. Next thing you know, we find ourselves in a construction hoist with Apache, heading to the 37th floor of a building that had no walls. It was incredible. I stood on the edge of the floor looking over the new Madame Tussaud's on 42nd Street thinking, "Jesus Christ. What is wrong with me? I'm standing here, on the 37th floor after riding up in an elevator clinging to the side of a building by aircraft cable (which I incidentally also have to use in order to get down). There are no walls. I'm wearing heels. I hope this guy isn't a killer." He wasn't. And it was a rare chance to ride up the side of a building in a construction hoist in the middle of Times Square. And I'm glad I did it. So there. How many of you have done it?

Alright then.

Still, I know it's stupid. But I guess I keep doing these stupid, risky things because I keep getting away with it. Which is why I ended up inviting Pop Star and Mr. Clicky back to our house. (I would have invited The Mouth, but after I told the boys I was gay, he waited for me to go to the bathroom and then he left.) Our impromptu party happened because after his third or fourth shot, Pop Star insisted that we were going to find weed and then we were going back to my house to smoke it. I thought, "Ooh! An adventure!" and said that I thought it was a fantastic idea. After stopping in at a Fort Greene pizza joint to buy pot, the three of us ended up in my backyard with Erica.

And we had a good time. I wish I had something more outrageous to tell you about the evening (which lasted until 10PM) but it was just a fun night. We all chatted and joked and laughed and it was cool. Pop Star took a nap on the sofa, we ordered pizza, Mr. Chatty informed us that he hates Russians. He is Albanian, dammit, and Russians, apparently, suck.

Me:OOH! I know what matz means!
Mr. Clicky:Matz? You mean cat?
Me:Yeah! Cat! Isn't that cool? I know the word for cat in Albanian!
Mr. Clicky:Yes. Matz. Cat. Very good.

Eventually the night grew to a close, we woke up Pop Star and the boys made their ways home.

In Mr. Clicky's car.

Play Them Off, Tom!

2008-10-07T22:03:00.004-04:00

What is wrong with Barack Obama & John McCain? Don't they have manners? They're trying to appeal to the common people (me and you, dear reader) but they find that they are above Tom Brokaw's traffic light? I say it's bullshit.I think as soon as the red light hits, Tom should be able to hit his IR and have rap music blast over the system. If our candidates want to relate to middle America, we should start with treating them like middle America. People, celebrities are our most important people ever and the Oscars play them off all the time. What makes Obama and John McCain any better than Jack Nicholson or Jessica Lange?

It's making me crazier than my inability to keep my eyes off of the audience response graph at the bottom of the screen.

Hey You Bloggers!

2008-10-02T13:06:00.009-04:00

October 15 is Blog Action Day. Are you ready?What is Blog Action Day, you ask? That's the day that bloggers all over the world will be participating in a discussion on this year's topic - Poverty. Here's a blurb from the official website:

Global issues like poverty are extremely complex. There is no simple, clear answer. By asking thousands of different people to give their viewpoints and opinions, Blog Action Day creates an extraordinary lens through which to view these issues. Each blogger brings their own perspective and ideas. Each blogger posts relating to their own blog topic. And each blogger engages their audience differently.

I found out about Blog Action Day through my participation in a microfinance organization known as Kiva. (Swahili for 'unity'). Kiva is a non-profit organization that allows normal schmoes like me and you to become benevolent lending institutions for needy people in countries such as Kenya or Tajikistan.

I intend to participate in Blog Action Day and hope you will too. Consider this your official invitation to join in a world-wide chat about poverty and what we can do to get rid of it. Mark your calendars. Start thinking. Start writing.

And drop by here on the 15th for my sure-to-be-brilliant musings.

The Mouth, Pop Star & Me

2008-09-27T14:31:00.014-04:00

Characters

The Mouth - A tall, heavy set, middle-aged African American man who dresses in urban gear and sleeps in class. (But when he's awake, he has a comment about everything.) He has a lot of fun flirting with Me.

Pop Star - Attractive, well-dressed, 30-something man who has the same name as a famous alleged child abuser/confirmed plastic surgery addict/pop star.

Me - The only female in class. She is constantly being hit on by The Mouth. Because he's non-threatening, she finds him humorous.

Mr. Clicky - 50-something Russian immigrant with a thick accent and the world's most annoying habit of constantly clicking his pen.

Fat Albert - Fat Albert is a Puerto Rican male who strongly resembles the cartoon character except he has those jailhouse scars on one side of his face. Although he is very sweet and gentle in class, he's probably the kind of guy who would cut you.

Above It All - A 25 year old guy of undetermined Slavic heritage who is condescending and frequently informs his fellow students that he can't get anything from the class videos because they're from the 70's.

The Teacher - The instructor of the Drinking Driving Program for New York State (DDP).

The Counselor - The counselor who is in charge of sending students in for psychiatric evaluations and assigns makeup classes for the DDP.

SCENE: New York State Drinking Driver Program classroom. The teacher has just announced that session 6 is over and that he will see all of the students on the following Saturday for their last class.

THE MOUTH
Indicating Pop Star and Me.
Yo. Lemme see you after class.
Exasperated because Pop Star and Me wait in the room.
Not here. Outside.

ME
He could have been more clear about that.

POP STAR
Yeah.

Pop Star and Me walk into the hallway and wait for The Mouth.

THE MOUTH
Yo. Not in front of everybody.

After the class has entered the elevator, The Mouth motions for Pop Star and Me to join them for the ride down.

ME
Shrugs and follows The Mouth, but wonders why he said, "Not in front of everybody," then wanted to continue the conversation in the elevator with everybody.

THE MOUTH
Under his breath.
Y'all go see dis guy about the makeup class?

ME
Yeah. I told The Teacher that I needed to make up a class and he gave me a form to fill out. Next week after we're finished with this class I have to stay an extra two hours. Just ask him.

POP STAR
Don't say anything, man. They won't know.

THE MOUTH
Louder as everyone exits the elevator.
I didn't talk to The Teacher. I talked to the other dude. (meaning The Counselor) Yo. Dis nigga gave me an envelope and tell me to "buy him lunch" and we be straight.

ME
Shocked.
What?

POP STAR
He did the same to me. I put a twenty in the envelope and gave it back to him. He said we're cool.

ME
Shocked.
What?

THE MOUTH
Yup.

Fat Albert and Mr. Clicky walk faster to catch up with The Mouth, Pop Star and Me.

FAT ALBERT
Y'all talking 'bout that counselor dude?

THE MOUTH
Yup.

FAT ALBERT
He give you an envelope when you ask about the makeup class, right?

MR. CLICKY
He do same with me. He say, "Don't tell teacher. Buy lunch and you me okay." I give him twenty dollar.

FAT ALBERT
That's what I gave him.

ME
Shocked.
What?

THE MOUTH
Louder than ever. This mutha fucka be milking these bastards twenty bucks at a time lettin' them out of makeup classes. Know what else? When he give me mines, he say, "Don't come back here with no twenty, neither."

ME
Shocked.
Get out!

Above It All, overhearing the conversation, catches up to the group.

ABOVE IT ALL
Really? He said not to give him a twenty? I went in there today and told him I needed to make up two classes and he said to just give him a twenty and we'd be good.

THE MOUTH
Get the fuck out of here. Are you serious? When you go in?

ABOVE IT ALL
During the break.

THE MOUTH
Mutha fucka! I went in after you. I ain't givin' him no fifty bucks for no fuckin' makeup class. You give him twenty for two classes? Fuck that. I'm givin' him ten bucks.
Now thoroughly pissed off. Dis mutha fucka! I knew he done talked to one of y'all. And he talk to all of y'all? "Don't gimme no twenty dollars." Fuck that nigga! I sat in the rest of the class 'bout to blow up. Naw, naw, mutha fucka! Dat shit got me burnin' up. I ain't givin' him twenty dollars. He gettin' ten bucks.

ME
What an asshole! We should report him!

POP STAR
See? That's why he didn't give you no envelope.

Happy Debate!

2008-09-26T23:23:00.004-04:00

The winner of Miss Congeniality:

Rolling, Rolling, Rolling.

2008-09-23T12:00:00.013-04:00

Yesterday I had my second wheelchair ride of the year. Number one, as you may remember, was after I injured my coccyx ice skating. Number two happened yesterday after I donated blood.

Yes, I know I was supposed to have donated my precious O-negative blood last Thursday, but I chickened out. Okay? Sue me. I worked out my fears, mostly, and made it in to the blood center yesterday afternoon for a 5:40 PM appointment. I got there early, filled out all of the paperwork -- No, I have not shared needles recently. No, I am not a man who has had sex with another man in the past thirty years. No, I have not spent an extended amount of time in Nigeria. -- and the party started.

Let me start by saying that during this entire episode (starting with getting on the train to travel to the blood center) I was sweating profusely and could not stop my hands from shaking.

So, for those of you who have never been through a blood donation process, here's how it goes.

Step one. Paperwork. Here you fill out an extensive sheet of questions to prove that you are neither a intravenous drug user nor a sexual deviant. You also have to promise that you're not donating blood just to get an HIV test. I think I had to promise that about three times. "Question 1. Are you donating blood today to have an HIV test?" No. "Question 8. Is this donation of blood in order for you to find out your HIV status?" No. "Question 24. Are you concerned about having HIV and using this test to find out?" No. "Question 30. Do you have syphilis or gonorrhea?" No. "Question 52. Are you donating blood to make sure you don't have syphilis or gonorrhea?" Jesus Christ. Step two. The initial assault. After you fill out the paperwork, you take it into a little room where you hand it over to a nurse. "Okay. I see that you have answered no to questions 1, 8, 24, 30 and 52. Are you aware that blood donation is not a method for being tested for sexually transmitted diseases?" Arrgh. Yes lady. Can we please get on with this? "Great. Gimme your finger." This is when Nurse Rita prepares a little bed of alcohol swabs and gauze and then takes one of those plastic frames they use at TGIFriday's to advertise the Mug-o-rita flavor of the day on the tables to use as a shield from any blood splatter that may occur. She grabs my middle finger and slashes it with a tiny razor and sucks the blood into a little glass shard that she puts into a machine. Handing me the form again, Nurse Rita says, "Here you go, honey. Go on over to the second hall on the left."Step three. The second hall on the left. When you turn into this hallway you are faced with row after row of what appear to be dentist chairs with little TV's hanging over each one. Here I'm strapped into a chair by chatty Nurse Linda. Nurse Linda is in school studying English and doesn't like to spend a lot of money on her clothes. She feels that two pairs of jeans are sufficient and only wears about three of the 20 or so uniform tops she owns. She liked the book "1984" but feels that poetry is kinda crappy. Except for Walt Whitman who wrote about crossing the Brooklyn Bridge. She can relate to that. She had a long day yesterday and was considering paying the $80 cab fare to get home to New Jersey. She doesn't understand why when she was younger she was able to write a ten page essay in one sitting but now is having problems completing a three-page assignment. But she's paid for $1000 for this English class and by god she is going to pass it. Although, she'd like an A she'd settle for a B right about now. The entire time Nurse Linda is chatting, she is tying up my arm, smacking my veins to get them to pop up, shoving the world's largest needle in my arm (the picture above is not my arm. I couldn't handle watching my own blood come out.) and collecting little vials of my blood. I heard everything she said, but with a background track of my own voice, "Dear Smoking Baby, do not let me pass out. Am I pale? I feel like I'm going to faint. Why won't she just shut up? I don't want to have to pay attention to her because she's over there with my punctured arm and the river of blood coursing through the tubes into the seemingly enormous bag and it's totally freaking me out. Jesus, please shut up. Stop talking to me. God I hope I don't throw up. Don't people understand how traumatic this is?" Sweat, sweat, sweat, shake, shake, shake. "Please god don't let me vomit."

"Honey," Nurse Linda says holding the collection bag up to my face, "do you think you could squeeze a little more? You should be finished by now, and we need to fill this bag up." Groan.

Finally we're done and she asks if I'm okay. Anxious to get the fuck out of there as quickly as possible, I say yes and head off to apple juice and Oreo cookies. As soon as I reach the snack table another nurse appears and asks if I'm okay. "No. I don't think so."

Next thing I know I'm surrounded and people are shoving my head between my legs and instructing me to cough.

"Cough."
"Honey. You've gotta cough harder than that."
"COUGH. (God. I'm going to throw up.)"
"There you go. Now, why did you say you were okay? Do you think you can walk really fast?"
"No," I mumble from between my knees."
"Alright then. Sit over here." And it's the wheelchair. Back to the second hall on the left.I sat and waited for my blood pressure to come back for almost an hour. As I left Nurse Linda says, "Okay honey. See you in November!"

The Protect Our Children Act

2008-09-20T19:59:00.006-04:00

The most horrific episode of Oprah ever aired last week. Internet predators have organized and developed handbooks and guidelines for molesting children. And by children, I mean infants. Seriously. Infants.

They have come up with, and are publishing, ideas like new uses for pacifiers. These are horrible, evil people and there is actually something we can do about it.

The police have the technology to find and track these guys, but they don't have the financial resources. Congress is voting on the Protect our Children bill this week. This bill will: Authorize over $320 million over the next five years in desperately needed funding for law enforcement to investigate child exploitation, mandate that child rescue be a top priority for law enforcement receiving federal funding, and allocate funds for high-tech computer software that can track down Internet predators. Take the time, go to Oprah.com, write your senators. You can even just cut and paste her letter. It takes no time and it has the potential to help so many people.

Thanks.

Yo ho ho!

2008-09-19T11:37:00.008-04:00

Hey! Have you guys heard about the new pirate movie?

It's rated ARRRRRRRRR!
(Pause for uproarious laughter.)That's right. It's International Talk Like a Pirate Day. No kidding. I didn't even realize it existed until my friend LJ told me that she likes to call her dad on International Pirate Day (usually after imbibing, of course).

Hi Dad! YARRRRRR! It's International Pirate's Day, Yarrrrr! I gots me a pegleg and a bottle of rum, yo ho ho! Yarrrrrr!

Apparently these two guys were playing racquetball one day, started taunting each other with pirate phrases, and decided to create their own holiday. Not too long after they recruited Dave Barry and now all across the world people celebrate every September 19th with their best, "Ahoy mateys!" and "Shiver me timbers!" and whatnot.

Why, I'm wearing an eye patch right now. Arrr.

Damn You, Jenni.

2008-09-17T13:14:00.010-04:00

People. There is a drug out there that is taking the lives and spare time of bloggers everywhere (besides blogging). Seriously. It's worse than crank. This is a screenshot of my Google Analytics page. I visit this page at least eight times daily. "How many people have read the blog so far today?" (two, at my last check) Bastards. Not the readers -- the developers of Google Analytics.

It's actually a great program. I can see, not only how many readers I've had, but also things like a map of the world to show me where they're all from. (I am pretty big in Canada. I'm not quite sure how that happened, but G.A. does not lie.) Recently on one of my more obsessive visits to G.A., I was looking around and stumbled onto a page that tells me how my readers get to me -- direct traffic, search engines, or referring sites.

One referring site I found was A One Cylinder Love Riot. Turns out this girl, Jenni lurves my blog. Her word, not mine. In fact, my blog is listed on her site under the heading, "Some of the Blogs I Lurve." (Here I come O! Not only do I receive hate mail, I have a fan. A real fan. Someone I don't know. Amazing!) I check out the blog and the homepage is, "overcoming fears." It's a story of how Jenni is afraid of needles but worked through it to become a blood donor. (She lurves my blog AND she's a do-gooder.)

Here's the thing. I have type O-negative blood -- the rare and extremely valuable type known for being the "universal" blood type. I can only receive type O-negative blood, but my blood can be used for anyone, no matter what type they are. I have known this for years. So, you'd think I'd be a fervent blood donor. However. I am terrified of needles. So terrified that when I went into Dr. Luckie's office for my booster vaccination when I was a sophomore in high school, I ended up in a foot race around the office with his nurse. (Dr. Luckie later blindsided me when I was screaming at the nurse that there was no way I was getting a shot.)

Then Jenni. I read her post and thought, "Jesus Christ, Susan. You are 37 years old. There has been devastation in Texas. People all over need blood and you have super blood. What is wrong with you?" So I posted on Jenni's blog and told her that I was going to donate. Then she wrote me back.

Hi Susan

Needles freak me out, too! It was pretty scary, but I'm really glad I did it. I can understand being O-negative you'd want to try even harder. I'm A- so I'm not all that in-demand *lol*.

Good luck & let me know how it goes!

So, now I have to follow through.

Pray for me.

Better yet. Pray for the nurses at the New York Blood Center.

Get Over It Already.

2008-09-16T12:49:00.007-04:00

Democrats of the United States, stop being such pussies.

Recently, Erica and I were sitting around with some friends at our house discussing what to do with our upstairs bathroom. Since our move last November, it has remained the one spot where we couldn't make a decision on which way to go with it, decor-wise.

Wallpaper? Paint? What colors? Someone suggested chalkboard paint.

Shouldn't people be able to write on a bathroom wall?

Days later we (read: Erica) bought the paint and a box of chalk and got to work.

Now we spend an inordinate amount of time in there doodling and it's filling up nicely. We've got the requisite, "for a good time call ..." entry as well as a nice "AC/DC" tag. During the Barack Obama speech at the DNC, our friend added "Barack Around The Clock". A couple of nights ago another friend added a political note of her own: "Flush Palin!" with an arrow pointing toward the toilet bowl. I thought it was funny and clever but then it got me thinking about this Palin hysteria.

Since when have we been so intimidated by a Vice Presidential candidate? It's like McCain isn't even running anymore. All you hear about these days is this redneck who is the mayor of a town smaller than Fitzgerald. As someone pointed out recently, the entire city of Wasilla couldn't even sellout Radio City Music Hall.She's another douche bag VP Candidate. Remember Dan Quayle? He was a douche and you didn't see the media or the Democratic party running scared because he was going to get Bush elected. From what I remember, Bush was elected in spite of Quayle. Not because of him.

Now I get that Sarah has other qualities that Danny didn't. She's likable. I mean, not for me. I find her abhorrent. But pretty much everyone between LA and NYC can find something endearing about her. Hockey mom, nice legs, good hunter. And, this fact certainly frightens me as much as the next sensible voter. However, can't we play it cool?

The more we focus on her, the more apparent the fact that we're all terrified of her. (I'm talking to you, Obama.)

Now. Ain't That Some Shit?

2008-09-14T19:22:00.021-04:00

Can we talk about this, please?

What the fuck? These are the home pages of the Alcoholics Anonymous and Al-Anon websites. Notice a difference? Not only is the AA site better designed, more modern and more aesthetically pleasing ... it uses Flash.

The reason I discovered this atrocity, was because this past Saturday in DDP, we watched a Hallmark Hall of Fame movie starring James Garner, Jo Beth Williams and James Woods, as Bill W. "My Name is Bill W." is the story of Bill and Lois Wilson. Bill founded Alcoholics Anonymous after destroying almost everything he had because he was a drunk. Lois, his wife, founded Al-Anon, a group for the friends and families of drunks. I was going to write about the film for some reason, but now I can't remember what I intended to write. I was googling some information on the film and accidentally clicked on the AA link, not the Al-Anon one. And now I'm too distracted by the inequity in the different sites to recall what I wanted to write.

So. What am I going to do about this? I'm sure I can get Erica to redesign (or design for the first time) the Al-Anon site for free, we'd just have to get permission.

Dear Al-Anon,

You do amazing work. People all over the world are happier and saner as a result of going to the rooms. Yours is a great and noble program that deserves to present itself as such. And, Al-Anon. I am one of those people who has been helped. I have grown and learned so much from my meetings and I want to give back. I want to give back by offering to redesign your hideous, amateur website -- free of charge. Our members deserve to have as snazzy an online resource as those bastards who hurt us.

Sure, they're getting better and I am proud of them. But still, those of us who drained our bank accounts and cleaned up poop and vomit, deserve at least as nice a website. (And what I'm offering will be better.) The thing is, I feel that there should be an additional, unspoken step in Al-Anon, right between making a moral inventory of ourselves and admitting to ourselves, god and others all of our misdeeds.

4b. Having completed our moral inventory, we have realized that we are worthy of pretty things.

And, we are worthy of a well-designed website.

Your pal,
Susan

My god. Fucking Wal-Mart is starting to be trendy. And Wal-Mart is the devil.

Haven't we gone through enough? Do we have to suffer being shit on by the addicts' good design skills as well? We've already surrendered our childhoods and sanity. When does the hurting stop and the healing begin?

Things Are Really Good Right Now

2008-09-13T14:32:00.004-04:00

How gorgeous is the weather today? I hope everyone has this weather today.

New York has been so hot lately and we're finally getting a break. I despise sweating. Despise it.

As a kid I always imagined that New York's climate would be more like San Francisco. I now know I was misled about the weather in the North. It's just as hot and humid here as it was when I was shelling butter beans on my grandma's back porch.

You ain't never shelled butter beans? Well, you ain't lived 'till you shelled butter beans.

The thing is, in the South everyone has air conditioning. Every store, every home, every car has air conditioning. People can't afford health care or food, but you'd better believe they have that A/C cranking. Just ask Mr. Curtis.Except, of course, my grandma who would only turn hers on when we were having company, and then it would be restricted to the kitchen area only. So it was either suffer the heat or suffer the family.

Anyway. It's finally a gorgeous day. Erica has been outside all morning pruning the bushes and squealing about our backyard rats. "They're as big as fucking possums!"

I am pretty sure Erica has never even seen a possum.

I am enjoying the day from the couch. Though we have these huge windows that are wide open, so it's like I'm outside. I may even sit in one of them to make it really feel, you know, real. Or at least get Erica off my case.

It's so nice today, you should be out here. ... Eeeeeeek! Fuckers! There's another one!

As I'm sitting here, I can hear Erica talking with the neighbor over the fence. We're meeting friends tomorrow night, so I'm making plans with them via a someecard conversation. Chulo's sleeping under the couch with his new bone and it's just all so nice and, well, normal. I have to remind myself that we're a family because I so frequently realize that I'm actually surprised at the normalcy. Like we're portraying characters or something.

We've had such a nice weekend. Friday we had dinner with three of Erica's friends from work and then went to a bar where one of them read our Tarot cards. Fun! Yesterday after my DDP class, E and I had brunch then last night had dinner with our friends M&M (A&L were supposed to join, but their baby was sick) then went to a fantastically fun burlesque performance. Today is Sunday & that means a day of reading The Times together and watching CBS Sunday Morning. When I woke up Erica had made coffee and bought fresh bagels, scallion cream cheese and heirloom tomatoes. Awesome.

I love our life. I'm so happy these days and so thankful. I'm so thankful, I'm thinking of getting a tattoo that reads, "Thankful". I just have to find the proper font.

I hope you're all well and happy and enjoying your Sunday.

Mwah!

Happy 9-11!

2008-09-11T12:44:00.007-04:00

It's that time again -- the day we remember the most awful day in our country's recent history, and the day all of New York gets their panties in a wad because the memorial STILL has not been finished. Though I believe the design has finally been approved.

For seven years, Ground Zero has been a hole. Sometimes with fancy lighting, sometimes not. For seven years, New Yorkers who were in the city on 9/11/01, have watched every plane they've heard flying overhead to decide whether they're at the proper altitude or not. For seven years we have tip-toed around this date and kept it sacred and made a big deal about it. Not saying that it's not a big deal. It's a huge deal. But I am ready for September 11th to be a normal fall day again.This evening Dan is having an opening at his gallery and when I called to tell him about having dog pee on my hand yesterday (Tragic and awful story. I'm clean now.), I told him I couldn't make the opening because I planned to spend the day in mourning and re-tracing my every movement from that fateful day.

Fuck you! You're an asshole.

Turns out, Dan has received tons of comments and pseudo-complaints about the opening being today. You know, what if it's bad luck? What if it's disrespectful?

Seriously people. Isn't this exactly what the terrorists had planned? Doesn't this mean they're winning?

I respect the memory and the honor of 9/11. I was here in the city when it all happened and I am not the same as a result. But I don't feel that we have to be miserable every year in order to prove our reverence.

I, for one, will be attending the opening.

From My Journal, August 1998

2008-09-06T21:36:00.011-04:00

There was a boy in my life who I loved desperately.

we had a really good day yesterday. he sat and listened to music while i read dickens. it was a beautiful afternoon with a partial eclipse.

things are getting so much better. it's so fun hanging out with him -- and he pisses me off frequently enough to remind me that he is not the one. once he told me that i could call him every morning at 8 to say, "you're an asshole," and we'd still be friends.

that's funny, but pretty comforting.

And there was a girl.

i just don't even know where to start. she is so incredible. such a bad ass. she amazes me. inspires me. gives me such confidence. it's weird to think that we've been friends for such a short time. but we've been friends the entire time. better than people I've known for 20 years. when i say forever with her, i mean it. she's fascinating, brilliant, talented, she drives a truck, she's an artist who likes synthetic fabrics, she's stunning and real.

And I was a mess.

strong? i don't think so. i don't feel so. sad? i don't know. i feel it sometimes. but not really. loved? yeah. by a lot of people. but not really. alone? more than i should be considering all the people around me. but what do i do? where do i go? who do i really have? i don't want this place and i don't want these things and i don't want to be with these people and i don't want to be alone and ....

That one went on for an entire page. And it included a poem.

dog hair on my shirt -- symbol of my weakness
alone and mad in my room -- symbol of my weakness
tear stains in my book -- symbol of my weakness
big ass in my pants -
broken heart in my chest -
brand nubian in my cd player -
broken radio in my car -
symbols of my weakness

Obviously, I was a wreck. Also obviously, I was not a poet.

I've officially been living in New York City for ten years as of August 30. I'm still not a poet, but I did move past the "being a wreck" phase. (I hope.)

I think the most significant change from then to now is the fact that I'm not "almost 30" anymore. I'm almost 40.

It's good though. I like myself a lot better these days. My life is so much better. My apartment. My friends. My love life. My job. My attitude in general. I think it's just part of growing up and I've gotten to this phase of things.

You know. I think that's what the 30's are about. It's like, the 20's are the time to figure out who you are. Mainly by fucking up a LOT and hopefully learning from those mistakes ... eventually. The 30's are the time to learn to accept the fact that you are who you are, and to get adjusted to the shock.

My feeling is that my 40's will be about finally embracing that person.

And her fuck-ups.

Holy Shit Storm.

2008-09-03T20:42:00.010-04:00

Do you guys remember this?

PHILADELPHIA - Just days before "Southern Decadence," an annual homosexual celebration attracting tens of thousands of people to the French Quarter section of New Orleans, Hurricane Katrina destroys the city.

"Southern Decadence" has a history of filling the French Quarter section of the city with drunken homosexuals engaging in sex acts in the public streets and bars. Last year, a local pastor sent video footage of sex acts being performed in front of police to the mayor, city council, and the media. City officials simply ignored the footage and continued to welcome and praise the weeklong celebration as being an "exciting event." However, Hurricane Katrina has put an end to the annual celebration of sin.

This was the unbelievable consensus among my people -- the Baptists.

Yes. Those people who believe Jesus has a vested interest in college sports, also believed that He, his Dad and the Ghost, made a direct hit on New Orleans back in 2005 to punish them for tolerating the gays coming to parade through the French Quarter.

Though, I have to admit that the irony of the method of destruction was kind of clever.

The gays were going to New Orleans to get fucked up on hurricanes , not by hurricanes.Flash forward to this week and the long awaited coming out gala for Sarah Palin.

(Who?)

And, what happens? Gustav crashes the party and the Republican elders are called to ... New Orleans. People. God has spoken. The radical, looney-tune sect of Christianity have been set straight (har har) by their Lord and Saviour. Not only did Gustav fuck up the Republican National Convention. It had ideal timing for the gays and their New Orleans celebration.

You're Invited!

2008-09-03T15:28:00.012-04:00

The other day Flea and I were in a little gourmet/organic market trying to kill time before our burger joint let us in for lunch. We're poking around at the various grains and hippie vegetables when I come across a little fabric thing with a cute cowboy hat/stars and stripes motif. It's a P.I.M.P.

As I'm checking out the other styles, the granola loving vegan at the counter announces, "Those are GREAT! I absolutely love them."

"Them" ... the "P.I.M.P."'s, as it were ... are reusable feminine hygiene pads. P.I.M.P. stands for "Party in my Pants."

Ewwww. Reusable? Pads?Ok. I get the whole organic, love the Earth, stop global warming thing. But answer this for me: Say you're on your period. You're at, oh, the mall. It's time for a new party in your pants. What do you do with the old party? Do you clean it there at the communal sink? Do you swish it in the toilet water and wrap it in seat covers?

I was checking out the Party in my Pants website and it's actually a cute site. Nothing like you'd expect from creepy people who refer to their menstruation as their "moon cycle".

If you're in the comfort of your own patchouli-scented abode, fine. Well, kind of fine. You're still rinsing menstrual blood from a flannel happy face print pad. I can think of few things more hideous than this.

I can think of one thing more hideous. And it came in the form of a "Hot Tip" on the P.I.M.P. pamphlet.

Anybody up for a salad?

Where Have I Been?

2008-08-25T15:30:00.009-04:00

Hey everyone -- sorry I've been out of touch recently. We've been pretty busy at work and for the last week I've been on the go with a couple of events. One was a fancy schmancy to-do in Newport, RI. The other was a low-brow shindig in Baltimore. The best of both worlds.

In Newport my clients stayed at a Relais & Chateaux property and enjoyed brunch at the New York Yacht Club followed by a day of sailing on actual America's Cup boats.
In Baltimore, my clients were entertained by Sha Na Na in a ballroom at the Marriott.Yes. That Sha Na Na. These days there are only three original members left, none of whom remembers their infamous performance at Woodstock.Actually, I don't know whether they remember or not. I didn't ask. However, I did talk to their road manager and he had the entire story. Seems that Jimi Hendrix was a little nervous about following The Who and decided he needed an opening act. He saw this band at a bar and asked them if they'd do the gig. That band was Sha Na Na. Jimi paid them with a bad check and somehow Sha Na Na ended up with a TV show and a pretty sweet job in a little film called Grease.

Anyway. I'm back and will be writing again, with fervor, ASAP.

I've decided.

2008-08-17T19:58:00.004-04:00

This is my favorite flag:It's Turkey's flag. And I think it's the best flag I've ever seen.

Erica's Creative Team Award

2008-08-15T11:59:00.007-04:00

Boy. I have such talented friends (and lovahs). I feel like every week I'm posting a new competition and begging all of you to vote. This one is from the creative team at Weight Watchers, where Erica works, and she asked that I post it.

Here it is:Hello everyone,

I just wanted to let you know (or remind you if you know already) that our “Stop Dieting Start Living” campaign hub is a finalist in one of the biggest Flash competitions out there – Flash Forward. You can view our submission and the other finalists here:

www.flashforwardconference.com finalists - it’s in the “Video” category at the bottom.

Also – it would be great if you could vote (and get all your friends to vote) for us in the People’s Choice Award:

www.flashforwardconference.com people's choice - again “Video” category - “Stop Dieting Start Living”

Voting ends next week so let’s get those votes in!!!

Stick a Fork in Me

2008-08-11T15:35:00.001-04:00

I don't think my Zoloft is working. Does anyone know whether it's the kind of drug to which one builds up a tolerance? Granted, there are days when I forget to take it, but more than not, I'm pretty regular with it.

Erica tells me that it's not supposed to cut off all emotions. And if that's true, what exactly is the point?

Of course, it's been a trying few weeks for me. The whole family found the blog (Hi everyone!) and the word from my sister is that I have been anointed with the end-all, be-all punishment of Southerners.

Susan. They all read it. And they are done with you.

My family has always had their ways of being done with someone -- none of which involves direct confrontation (except the year I ruined Christmas -- I'll tell you that one later).

Perhaps the most infamous of the line of the "Done With" in our family was my great Uncle Elzie. As a young boy, Elzie decided to run off to California in search of his dream to be a movie star. Family rumor has it that he actually made it into a couple of films, though I couldn't find him on IMDB. I am, however, pretty sure that this rumor is the only reason the family kept talking about him during holidays after he was done with.

You know, we have a relative that was in the movies

That and as a warning to the youngsters to not betray the family lest you become done with as well.

Uncle Elzie's most vicious crime was that after he left for California he reportedly never returned. Not for Christmas, Easter, Homecoming at the Baptist Church. Nothing. He deserted his Mama and Fitzgerald completely. All because that selfish bastard wanted a life of his own. The only acceptable way you can move away from home in my family is if you return for visits as often as humanly possible. (Because it's always so pleasant when we all get together.) And, more importantly, you should never succeed too much, lest you become uppity or think you're better than everyone else.

Now. My take on Uncle Elzie is this: I don't know him, or his Mama, so I'm not sure what the deal is there. Maybe she sucked. Or, maybe they loved each other and they talked on the phone twice a day and enjoyed their wonderful long-distance relationship. What I do know is that Elzie had a loving wife who visited us once with photos and stories and did her best to get Elzie back into the fold. The family was super nice and sat through the stories and photos and as soon as she left the conversation went straight to how Elzie betrayed everyone.

I secretly envied Uncle Elzie. His story seemed so exotic and exciting. And for me, in a world where the only options I knew I had were to either teach, type or raise babies, Uncle Elzie gave me hope.

Uncle Elzie, if you're out there, know that even though I never met you, I loved you. Thanks for the inspiration.

I made it.

Who is Luckier Than I Am?

2008-08-09T18:29:00.006-04:00

This is an article from the New York Times. Why, you ask, does this make me lucky?

One -- my friend Vickie gave me the coolest box of bacon band-aids ever.Two -- last week, my dermatologist took a mole off of my arm."Minor Surgery" he calls it. Know how to care for a wound incurred through minor surgery?

Three -- cover it with a band-aid for two to three weeks.

Presents for the Homeless?

2008-08-09T18:06:00.001-04:00

I've thought about this a lot, so when Jay made this comment, I decided to address it in a post and put it to a vote so that you, my public, can decide what I should do.

As you've read (if you read this blog, I mean) there is a woman who spends a good deal of her time sitting on a suitcase in the 7th Ave and 9th Street station on the F Line. I've actually thought about getting her presents before. In fact, one day I bought her a couple of bananas. When I came up to her she was looking down and when I stopped and tried to get her attention, she didn't look up at me. I freaked out and ran away with the bananas.

I haven't tried to give her anything since.

There's another woman who I see on a regular basis. She sits outside the Jay Street - Borough Hall stop. Every time I see her she is either smoking or writing in her little notebook. Though, this woman isn't writing words, she's just making tiny, perfect, marks in some pattern. She usually has about 5 or 6 different pens -- ballpoint -- in different colors. I've often thought about buying her a new notebook, some multi-colored pens and a pack of Newports and wrapping them up like a birthday gift.

I'd make it beautiful and special and tell her, "Happy Birthday," even though I don't know when her birthday is. And I'd explain that although it may not be her actual birthday, I think that everyone deserves a birthday present so I wanted to give her one.

But then I worried. I can't decide whether giving a homeless woman a wrapped gift would seem pretentious. Or maybe she'd find it condescending. Would I really be being kind or would it be presumptuous?

In New York some homeless people tend to stay in the same areas, or ride the same subway lines. So, when you see them every day, you tend to have a sort of relationship with them, the way you do with the guy at the corner deli or the mail person. I don't know these two homeless women at all, but I see them practically every day and have noticed things about them. Like one loves soda and the other draws tiny lines in her notebook. I've developed a fondness of a sort for them and if I ever got the nerve up to give either of them a gift, it would definitely have to be in some anonymous way otherwise I'd totally chicken out. I guess I'd have to write my "Happy Birthday" message on a card.

So, whaddya think? Should I do it?

Books That I Love

2008-08-09T17:35:00.005-04:00

If you look over to the right, you will see that I've added a new list called, "Books That I Love."

I get into these conversations with people about books and so frequently we'll end up making the book list, or at least discussing it. You know -- "What are your favorite books?", " Is there anything I should read?" -- what have you. For some reason I usually choke when I'm asked.

I have read hundreds of books and have loved so many of them, but under pressure, I can't think of any of them. So, I'm putting them down here.

I'll be adding to the list as I remember more books, or perhaps, even read new ones. Please don't ask me why I love them, or what they're about. I have an issue with retention and can usually just remember whether I liked a book or not. In this case, these are all books I have loved and even though I can't recall the plot details of many of them, when I see their covers in Barnes & Noble, I have a moment remembering that they were special.

For some reason or another.

The White Rabbit

2008-08-07T20:24:00.007-04:00

I knew it would happen some day.

I have finally smoked myself retarded.

So, I'm sitting here watching America's Best Dance Crew. The routines are amazing and (AND!) JC from N*Sync is one of the judges and everyone hates him. He's the Simon. And he is such a douche. I mean, he is so ridiculously arrogant, but like Simon, he's usually right. ... I love it. One time this kid was screaming at him. It was something along the lines of, "Who the hell are you to tell me I suck at dancing?"

I'm an internationally known pop star who sang and danced with the most successful boy band in history. And I'm rich, bitch.

Then he did a little Z snap in the air.

Fuck yeah, JC.

(He didn't really do the snap. And I paraphrased what he said. But it was still a nice smack down.)

Anyway, I have a computer addiction so I no longer watch TV without my laptop open. I'm developing some serious carpel tunnel syndrome and have chronically stiff fingers from typing or using the track pad. But I feel so much more in tune with the world. At least the world of trashy pop culture and the occasional foray into macgamescafe.com.

So, as I'm watching the show and fucking around on the internet I come across this nutty clothing store. And
I caught myself wondering whether I could pull these off:Over pants. Obviously.

But still, I was considering them.

Network: sugarbutt, Password: N/A

2008-08-06T22:41:00.009-04:00

What is it with wi-fi network passwords? Is there something that can happen to you if someone piggybacks off of your wireless internet? I'm not aware of any dangers, so as far as I can see, it's just selfish. Like, "Fuck you. If I have to pay, everybody's got to pay."

I refuse to put a password on my wi-fi. And I gotta tell you, I feel pretty self-righteous about it. Like those hippies who are so proud of the fact that they have zero carbon footprint and only eat food that they themselves have planted, watered, nurtured and fertilized with their own composted feces so that they have as little impact on the planet as possible.

While we're on hippies. I told you about Woodstock. Remember? So you know how I feel about hippies. Patchouli and feet. Anyway. To me, hippies are as offensive as Republicans. And by hippie I mean a person who is so extremist left wing as to be as comical and insane as Dick Cheney and that gay guy preacher who vomited his no-gay agenda all over his congregation like a crazy person until he got caught blowing some fag in a rest area, or whatever the story was.

I agree that we should be conscious of our impact on the planet and make an effort to not fuck anything up too much. But, I do believe that we should have an impact on the planet. We don't ask donkeys to stop grazing and shitting everywhere. That's what donkeys do.

Sidenote: On Nevis donkeys will also wake you up at 3 AM by screaming, "Hee HAAAAWWW!" in your window. But that's a story for another time.

The point is. I think it's stupid to not want to impact the planet. I want to leave a mark. I am here for a reason and I am significant.However, I don't believe our impact should be toxic or cancerous. Like, we shouldn't cause undue damage to the Earth, but that doesn't mean we should go without toilets or cable.

What the hell am I talking about? I know I had some reason for writing. What was it?

Oh.

Wi-fi.

When I check my airport there is a list of available networks. I'm listed (sugarbutt) as well as Amy, Beer Table, Belkin54g, and Hand of Glory.

For a long time I fantasized that Hand of Glory was some crazy pentecostal church in the neighborhood and I would make up stories about what they were googling. Then I realized that "Hand of Glory" is the name of the tattoo shop downstairs. A crazy church. Not pentecostal.

And of all these networks, I am the only one that doesn't have a lock icon next to its name. So, there's a part of me that worries that there is some crazy risk I am taking with my wireless network. Will I be tied into one of my neighbor's crazy kid porn scandal because he's using my wireless internet to send his garbage to some undercover cop? Or, as I suspect, is there absolutely no danger in sharing my internet waves with the world? (Or at least Park Slope in the general area of 7th Avenue between 14th and 15th streets?)

I'm going with my theory. And I hope there are people sharing my internet. I know that when I was in Carroll Gardens, I got a lot of happiness from using Betty (front of apartment ) and Pepe's (back of apartment) networks. And I silently thanked them every time I signed on. And I know that people who may be using sugarbutt are thanking me.

And they're laughing at my network name. Which makes it even better.

She's Back!

2008-08-06T13:35:00.003-04:00

I know you've all been worried, so I wanted to let you know that the Sitting Silent lady is back in her spot at the 7th Avenue and 9th Street stop on the F train.

She was there this morning as I went to work, back on her suitcase, with her cigarettes and her 2 Liter bottle of orange soda.

I almost hugged her.

Help Me, Goddammit!

2008-08-03T10:36:00.006-04:00

I just got up from one of those nights where you don't get rest because you spend all your dream time fighting battles or arguing or whatever unpleasant experience it is that keeps you from having a good night's sleep.

For me it was my wedding.

It's the day of my wedding -- my partner-to-be was unspecified in the dream, but I was wearing a huge peach dress and I was marrying a man -- and all of my old friends are there to help me get ready. Cara Lee from 7th grade was going to do my makeup. HeatherJeanne was going to do my hair. Another friend from early elementary school was there to help me get dressed and finish up any last minute things I needed. My ceremony is at 7PM and when the dream starts it's about noon. Plenty of time. But then the race begins. I can't find anyone. I'm checking into a hotel and staying on the 11th floor and I have to keep riding up and down in this elevator looking for people and my room and my room key (which I of course lost several times during the course of the fiasco). Turns out Cara Lee is sleeping in a car in the parking lot. She sees me running by in my dress with no makeup, no shoes and my hair has fallen out of it's curls and I'm completely frantic and as I fly past her she shouts, "We'll still be friends, right?"

"As much as we ever were," I reply with as much sarcasm and venom as I can muster in my panic.

Next thing you know it's 5:00, I've got two hours to get to the ceremony, I've just run back into my hotel room where my groom-to-be is having a party with all of my friends who offer no support, they just scream that he can't see me in my dress. Then I'm out of my dress, in the shower and attempting to get myself ready for the biggest day of my life while everyone else is outside the bathroom partying. HeatherJeanne comes in to tell me that she'll help me bleach my hair and Erica shows up to tell me that she hates my makeup.

All throughout the dream I kept waking up and thinking how exhausted I was and how I just wanted to get some rest. And every time I'd go back to sleep I'd be right back in the dream, frantic and frustrated and panicked. Finally I got up because I couldn't take the stress anymore.

Is it just me? I swear, I have dreams like this all the time. I don't get rest because in my dreams I'm panicked and frustrated and feel so helpless and no one seems to understand me. Most of the time these are the dreams were I'm rushing somewhere and all of a sudden my knees stop working.

And now, I'm awake and cranky and I have, "Get Me to the Church On Time," looping through my head.

Sitting Silent

2008-08-01T10:26:00.001-04:00

There's a woman I pass every morning and every evening on my commute.
She sits in the subway station at 7th Avenue and 9th Street in Brooklyn.
Most times I see her, she is perched on her suitcase (she recently replaced her old red one for a black one), either napping or reading the paper.
She's a big smoker and loves soda. Usually she's got a two-liter bottle of orange soda or Coke next to her.
The labels are always stripped away.
Occasionally I see her writing in a little notebook.

Two weeks ago she went missing.

Then last Thursday I was on my way to work and there, in her spot, amid a pile of cigarette ashes, I notice a small sheet of notebook paper.

Unknown Woman

Sitting Silent
Morning Welcomer
Sitting Silent
Watching Walker
Sitting Silent
Reading, Recording Horror
Sitting Silent
Lost to Slumber
Sitting Silent
Raising Wonder

Another Friend in Another Contest

2008-07-31T20:49:00.006-04:00

My friend Tom is in a design contest for a condom company called One.

He's currently in first place, and unbiasedly, I think that's where he should stay.
Tonight is the last night. If you have a second to click your mouse twice, I'd appreciate it.

xoxo

Look ... a FROG!

2008-07-28T15:24:00.004-04:00

So sue me. I hate the outdoors. I don't like sweating. I don't like dirt. I don't like fucking bugs. I am terrified of frogs -- which are all over outdoors.

I am in Woodstock, NY where, although the actual concert was held an hour south in Bethel, hippies are banking loads of money through marketing the three days of peace and music. And for some reason it surprised me. I just didn't think 1, that people cared that much anymore and 2, that hippies would maintain their lifestyle in the sense of not bathing, but switch over to capitalism based on a concert that was held an hour away from here thirty years ago.

Although I have always fantasized about being 18 in 1968 and being a hippie at the festival, I have learned that I didn't know what I was talking about. Because if the true hippies smelled anything like the hippies I have encountered here in Woodstock (patchouli and feet), there is no way I could have ever been a hippie. Even on massive amounts of hallucinogens.

Plus, hippies love nature. They like to get right up in it. Right up to their un-deodorantized armpits. I love nature from afar.

We're here in Woodstock to celebrate Erica's mom's 60th birthday with the family. We're all staying in this huge cabin and have been eating and playing games and telling stories and having a great time. Outside every single window in this place is woods. It's beautiful. We have frequent deer sightings. I love that. We've been to town for dinner and to shop in the village green. Fun and cute and great.

And then came the hike.

Oh, we're all going on a hike and it's gonna be nice. Grandma is coming.

Cool. I can totally handle a grandma-paced hike. Not too fast, not too steep, not too creepy crawly. Awesome.

Then we get there. And we start going up. Grandma ends up not being with us so we keep going up. Up. At a 45 degree angle. In heat. And I'm starting to sweat. And then the bugs start biting. And I'm panting. Did I mention I get face sweat. Lots of face sweat. This is foul and incredibly unpleasant (not to mention unattractive, which I am not into). But I'm trudging along. I am hating every step, but I'm in there. Erica tries to cheer me up. "At least it's pretty."

We are on a hill surrounded by pine trees and moss and ivy. It was like being at home in the woods. I played in the woods as a kid. When I could tolerate humidity. And dirt. To me, I see woods and I see places for snakes. And frogs. (Terrified of them, people. Irrationally and irreparably terrified.) Yes, there are pretty elements, but as a whole, unpretty. Then she gives me an out.

Yeah. I don't want to do this either. We can go if you want.

Bingo. "Oh thank god. Yes let's go."

Hey everyone. Susan doesn't want to hike so we're going to go back.

Susan doesn't want to hike? What an asshole. To add to this, after we finally tear away from the barrage of, "Oh come on's," accompanied by a list of things meant to entice me to want to continue the torture. "Look how pretty! It'll be fun! Look ... a FROG!"

"That does it! Fuck this. I am getting off this hill."

I'm half stumbling, half stomping defiantly back toward the car. Furious. It's hot. It's humid. I have bug bites and sweat pouring off my face. I'm surrounded by a plague of amphibians and Erica completely threw me under her family's guilt bus. Plus, I'm partially blinded because I'm sobbing hysterically. Then Erica, referring to her previous statement, Yeah. I don't want to do this either. We can go if you want, says, "Well, what I meant to say was that hiking wasn't my first choice but I was doing it because I never get time to spend with my family."

Hot.

Found on Craigslist

2008-07-18T11:25:00.004-04:00

VH1 and BRET MICHAELS will hit the road literally…to find true love on the
ROCK OF LOVE BUS with BRET MICHAELS.

VH1 is loading up a tour bus filled with beautiful babes and taking them on tour across the country. The Rock of Love Bus with Bret Michaels takes contestants out of the mansion and on the road in true rock star style. This season will feature all-new ladies vying for Bret’s affection while traveling across America following Bret on a month-long tour. The contestants will face new challenges to see if they can handle the rock star life on the road. If you are a sexy single lady looking for love who can party like a rock star, then this is the show for you.

To audition in New York City or Hoboken please email us the following info asap. Send us your

Name
Age
Phone Number
Myspace Link
A Short Bio

And Attach a Photo

Send an email to:
NYRock@realtalentcasting.com

All applicants must be 21+
Characters Wanted

Yo. Um. My bad.

2008-07-14T22:13:00.010-04:00

I am so sorry I haven't written in so long. I have been knee deep in research on my newest obsession.I know I'm behind the times. We're already two or three episodes into season two, so that's why I've been doing research.

No. Seriously. I've been reading up on the Coreys -- especially Haim because he's the most tragic and you know how I love tragic -- for days. I've watched past episodes on You Tube. It started this past weekend while I was on house arrest for that little incident I had in Kentucky a couple of months back. I decided to use my time at home to catch up on some marathon television watching.

As is usually the case with vacations and returning home, as soon as I got back from Nevis I was slammed with work.

Kev: Hey! Did you have a good trip?

Me: Yeah. It was awesome.

Kev: Great! So, here's a request for proposal you're going to have to do over the internet with big name company on Tuesday and then we have an event with other big name company on Friday. They want custom linens and couch covers made from black cashmere. They load in at 4AM Thursday. Welcome home.

Because I'm good, I got it all done. But it totally put a cramp in my Welcome Back to America TV time I had planned. Going on vacation is fantastic, but almost as fantastic is coming home from vacation to have a week's worth of DVR material saved up to watch all at one time. So, when I was on my Jefferson County, Kentucky imposed "time out", I caught up on all I had missed in the two weeks I had been away from my beloved DVR, and still had time to explore new shows. That's how I found the Coreys.

I knew about the show, of course. But I never made the effort to find out when it was on and set the DVR to record it. And, since the DVR came into my life, this is pretty much the only way for me to see shows. I have no tolerance for commercials, and on the off chance I do happen to hit [GUIDE] instead of [LIST] and I see something interesting, I watch until the first commercial then I hit record and come back for the rest later.

Side note: You know, I've been working on my tendency to be a control freak and I've been feeling like I've gotten so much better. But, I think I just realized that maybe I haven't gotten better. I think I've just transferred my control to my DVR. It has turned me into the world's most efficient television watcher. My remote control reflexes are catlike in their speed and precision. Erica's pretty good too, but I'm definitely the best. Our rule is, "Fuck up once, try again. Fuck up twice, hand it over." She's handed it over way more than I have.

Anyway. Back to the Coreys. I saw that a couple of episodes were on so I hit record and later in the day I came back to watch. Have you seen this show people? It is phenomenal! And by phenomenal I mean pathetic.

It is heartbreaking and tragic and ... I mean. Did you know about this?That's right. He's back and he had this published in Variety to let everyone know.

I swear I am not making this up.

And, yes, that is a heart over the I in Haim, just like the pull-out poster I had from Teen Beat so I know it's really him.

Dear readers, if you didn't already know, you are going to love this. Corey Haim and Corey Feldman are in couple's therapy to try to save their twenty-year friendship. And they're televising it for me and probably twenty or thirty other people who have too much time on their hands and too little discrimination about what they'll watch on television.

So, around the fourth session of therapy Haim decides that there are people who he needs to "You know, like, 'Yo. Um. My bad.' You know what I'm saying? Like, 'I'm sorry, or make amends" to. After therapy he goes home to do some soul-searching. With his assistant. He dictates while Nelle writes his list that includes all of his ex's and most of the 80's Hollywood teen set.

When the list starts hitting triple digits, Corey in a time-saving effort, decides that the best way is to just tell everyone that he's sorry all at the same time. And since, apparently, everyone he wants to make amends to has an agent (Winona Ryder, Alyssa Milano, Todd Bridges), he goes with an ad in Variety. (Every time I type that, it makes me throw up a little bit, the humiliation I feel for him is so strong.) "It's on every agent's desk at 7 or 8 in the morning."

His dildo of an assistant who I am sure is a very sweet girl, and probably has his best interest (or her paycheck) in mind, just goes along with him.

Yeah Corey! That's a fantastic idea! Totally. You should totally do this. People will be so touched that you thought so much of them as to apologize in such a sweet way.

So sweet, in fact, that the unpleasantness of the "Yo. Um. My bad." part of the apology doesn't actually appear anywhere in the text. And the photo shoot was so important that he didn't even take the time to light a fresh cigarette off of the burning butt clinched in his "ready to work" fingers. People, that (and the, "This is not a stunt part.") proves just how much this is not a publicity stunt to get work. If you don't believe him, just write. corey@coreyhaim.tv. Feel free to attach any scripts you may have lying around.

It's killing me. I feel so bad for this guy. He's an addict and is not thinking straight and apparently he has no one around him to stop him from making an ass of himself in the most public way possible. Did you know he tried to sell his teeth and hair on ebay? Yep. Sure did. Were they his baby teeth? Nope. Adult sized molar is what I saw. Know why? Heroin. Oh my god. Can you stand it? I just hope that someone out there in A&E land is planning an, "Intervention," meets, "The Two Coreys" show very, very soon.jail,

Shopping in Your Pajamas. Or not.

2008-07-06T20:26:00.013-04:00

Hi everybody!

I've missed you guys. We just got back from Nevis last night and I can not wait to tell you all about it. It was amazing. Monkeys. This Rasta guy named Nambo. Partying with an 81 year old Trinidadian woman until three in the morning. A crazy golf cart bandit named Jim. Ridiculous. However. I have to wait until Erica loads all of the photos for me to do a proper entry on the vacation, so until then, let me tell you about a new show I discovered.Now, I have always loved an infomercial. I have actually purchased items from infomercials. I think I may be part of the infomercial target audience.

I can almost recite the entire Ronco "Set it and forget it" Showtime Rotisserie informercial. And every time I watch it I love it. (I have watched it a lot.) I love Ron Popeil. And, who doesn't? He's so enthusiastic. And the audience! They are so amazed by the insane bargain they'd be receiving if they bought the Showtime Rotisserie within the next thirty minutes. What with the elastic roasting ties, shish kebob skewers and the ever popular (and necessary) heavy-duty, napalm-proof roasting gloves, they should be paying double. No! Triple! Those gloves are made of a substance that, upon inspection from bed at four in the morning, seems to be plastic or rubber -- both meltable materials -- but if Ron's sending them to me with his Showtime Rotisserie, certainly they're made of some NASA approved stuff that is so hi-tech, he's insane for even letting the public know about them.

I actually never bought any of Mr. Popeil's items. Unless he had something to do with the Chia Pet Mr. T, but I think that's a different company.I did buy the Darrin's Dance Grooves when my old roommate and dear, dear friend HeatherJeanne and I were in the height of our Brittany obsession. When we weren't practicing our moves from West Side Story (we choreographed this ourselves), we were learning the steps to the "Crazy" and "Bye Bye Bye" videos.

Anyway. Back to Shop Erotic. Last night when Erica and I got home from Nevis and the most spectacular vacation ever, I was flipping channels when I spotted information on a show that was showing at 3:00 and then again at 3:30AM on Oxygen. The name was there and the info on it was:

The best Home Shopping for all your romance needs - hand picked products, satisfaction guaranteed, discrete billing and shipping.

Seriously? Record please. Entire series.

I hit the, "Yes, I'm sure," button and checked in again this afternoon between watching the most recent episode of Weeds and the Snapped! marathon. Turns out, this informercial is presented, not in Ron Popeil fashion, but as if it were the Home Shopping Network or QVC. The same basic screen design -- pricing and information in an opaque box on the left of the screen, a box to the right that either features the woman selling the items (dildos) or the items themselves (dildos). Then there's a banner at the bottom of the screen with the phone numbers and the logos for the credit cards they accept. (Visa, MC, AMEX & Discover! Nobody accepts Discover.)

The show started with Miyoko, a lovely Asian woman who is dressed in a frumpy grey sweater and wearing glasses, though in that "When i pull this frumpy sweater and glasses off, I am going to tap that ass" kind of way. She starts the show off bt assuring us, the viewers, that we were very safe calling these numbers. In fact, there is a special phone line dedicated to women only so that they won't be skeeved out by calling some guy in the middle of the night and handing over their credit card information to buy a special Jack Rabbit vibrating/rotating dildo or even just your run of the mill dong with suction cup.

Then they go to a two-shot of Miyoko and a very innocent looking blonde woman (she calls the dildos "massagers") who agrees that for some people ("Not us, Miyoko.") it would be awkward ordering sex toys over the phone at 4 AM while your kids are asleep between their Spongebob SquarePants sheets in the next room. But for us, the viewers, (she says) we can feel comfortable and at ease because they have segregated the phone lines in order to make us feel okay about all of this. We can rest assured knowing that we will be speaking exclusively to a woman when we request our sex harness and ball gag.

Plus! There are gifts! With every purchase of the 6 1/2"" rubber vibrating dong you get a bottle of fancy lube. "Perfect for playing with toys, or by yourself." I wondered if this were a Freudian slip on her part and she was supposed to say boys instead of toys. Perhaps Miyoko is a lesbian. She does get into the politics of sex toys -- in a lot of places you can't even buy a waterproof/battery-operated dildo that is ergonomically designed to fit perfectly in the palm of your hand.

Miyoko: You know. Sometimes, we do get a little tired wrist or you know, the forearm does get a little tired.
Innocent Blonde: Or you have to reach ...

Cuddle, anyone?

2008-06-27T13:37:00.007-04:00

So, a few years ago I was walking down Third Avenue on my way to work on the Upper East Side. A guy with a microphone and a camera crew approached me.

Excuse me, would you mind being interviewed for a moment?

Being shy and uncomfortable with attention, I flipped my hair and asked, "How's my makeup?"

Fine.

An assistant had me sign a waiver and then, on camera, the guy asked me if I had ever heard of a "Cuddle Party". I said that I had a cuddle party every morning.

Erica and I had just gotten Chulo at that time and every morning we'd have "Family Cuddle Time" with him. We'd set the alarm early so that we could do it. It was part of Chulo's recovery from his Post Traumatic Stress Disorder that he had from his time spent homeless in Queens.

Would you ever cuddle with strangers?

I don't know. Maybe. If the timing was right.

There is an official Cuddle Party this afternoon. I'm going, would you come with me?

Absolutely. What time?

I took a lunch break that day and walked over to the Cuddle Party address. I got there and paced on the sidewalk for a few minutes. "Am I really about to do this? The interview guy seemed nice enough. What show did he say this was for? He promised that it was all very innocent and safe. Ok. I'll go. God. Am I really going? Yes. Go! Get up there before Interview Guy sees you pacing out here."

So I ring the buzzer.

Hello?

Hi. I'm here for the, um, Cuddle Party?

Buzzzzzzzzz.

The door unlocks and I make my way up to the third floor. I turn the corner and there they are. All four of them. In their pajamas. Three guys, one girl. The girl appeared to be making hummus. I looked inside for Interview Guy and the camera crew. Nothing.

Hey! Come on in! (Says the creepiest guy of them all.)

Uh. Is Interview Guy here? I was supposed to meet him.

No, not yet, come on in, he should be here soon.

Oh. That's okay. I'll wait for him out front.

Obviously, I ran. And I went at least five blocks out of my way to avoid Interview Guy and his camera crew.

Flash forward to today.

Today I stayed at home to get ready for our trip and on my breaks from washing sheets or writing dog instructions, some of my friends and I have been emailing each other increasingly ridiculous YouTube clips. In response to one, my friend Sparky sent this:Which reminded me of the Cuddle Party incident. So, I Googled. And, not only did I find the official Cuddle Party website, I found the show Interview Guy was from -- and the episode that he interviewed me for.I haven't watched it because:
1. I don't think I made the cut since I chickened out and ran away.
2. If I did make the cut, I would be horrified.

PS. The guy in the blue shirt is the one who answered the door. And yes, I believe those are chickens on his pants.

My New BFF

2008-06-26T23:27:00.005-04:00

So.

This morning I'm walking Chulo -- it's my week. That's the system. Erica does a week, I do a week. If it's your week you are in charge of feeding and walking Chulo every morning before work.

Erica actually has some system where she makes sure she is occupied downstairs in the bathroom until Chulo has become so frantic with starvation that I give in and feed him. So her week she just walks him. And frequently she will pull a whiny, "Will you walk him this morning? Puh-lease." Erica is a lazy dog owner. But, she's a good runner. As in errand runner. So, I let her get away with it. (Though I very rarely fall for that puh-lease crap.)So. I'm walking Chulo on the usual route this morning and I see a little gathering of pigeons on the sidewalk. Then I realize that they're there because food is being thrown down to them from the third floor window of this building. Naturally I look up.

Guess who.

Mr. Bud in a bag.

No. Really. I swear.

He loves dogs and pigeons. So this man, who I run into at the shelter is not only a Budweiser lover, he's an animal lover too? People, my heart just pure swole up with love for this man.

As I looked up and saw him there in all his morning hair, bare-chested, hands full of crackers, leaning out of his window glory. Our eyes met and gave me a huge smile. And he yelled down something ... about the birds I think, or maybe it was about Chulo. Who knows? It's hard enough to decipher what he's saying when we're face to face on the street. From three stories up, it's impossible. But I think he remembered me this time and I think he might love me too.

I know he tried to hide his Bud from me on our first date, but things are moving so quickly. I think the next drink's gonna have to be on me.

God Bless You

2008-06-25T18:40:00.011-04:00

The first thing Erica and I noticed about our potential new neighborhood when looking at our current apartment for the first time was the fact that directly across the street is a specialty cheese shop directly adjacent to a wine/liquor store. If the next shop had contained an Italian butcher, I would have agreed to buy the place before I ever saw it.

As you can guess, I visit the wine store a lot. We did a lot of cheese in the beginning, but fancy cheese is as expensive as it is delicious, so we cut back. The wine however ...

I love my wine store. They have a wine club card that is divided into four sections: $10, $15, $20, $30. Each time you buy a bottle of wine you get a hole in the appropriate box according to the cost of your wine selection. Know what happens when you buy twelve bottles? You get a 13th bottle -- the value of the average price of the prior 12 -- for 99 cents. This is a great thing. Although, it gives Erica ammo when screaming at me during some of my less pleasant moments when I've had too much to drink. "How many 99 cent bottles have you gotten since we've been here?" I usually answer something like, "Four." (This is a huge lie. We've lived here since November. Four 99 cent bottles = only 48 bottles of wine (+ 4 of the 99 cent bottles = 52) consumed here in the past eight months. As if.)

The point is, I'm a frequent visitor of Slope Cellars. So frequent that whenever I walk Chulo past it, he tries to go in whether that is our destination or not. And it's not like they give out treats or anything. He just assumes.

My drinking and my Pavlovian dog are not the point of this story. The point is my neighborhood.

Erica and I live on the southern end of Park Slope, Brooklyn. It's a fantastic place to live. We've got great shopping -- for example, the aforementioned cheese and wine shops. There are great brunch places, cute clothing stores, an Italian specialty store within walking distance, and a women's shelter. We are also on the edge of a lower income neighborhood. These things all make for a fascinating array of people on the sidewalks.

Usually in New York you can watch people from afar -- just walk by, make mental notes, move on without even making eye contact. Of course, being me, I haven't ever been able to execute that very well. People talk to me all the time. It's always been that way. I must look like a tour director. Or like I'm friendly. I blame this, like most other things, on growing up in Fitzgerald.

In Fitzgerald (and most of rural South Georgia) when you pass people you greet them. Every single one of them. If you're driving and you pass another car, you greet them. You know, that left elbow out the window of your dually truck, steering with your right wrist, simultaneous raise of right index finger and nod of your head greeting. Once a college friend of mine was driving home with me and as we were crossing the Florida/Georgia line I pointed at the first car I saw. "Watch that car. The driver's gonna wave at us." He, being from South Florida, looked at me in disbelief. "No fucking way."

Sure enough. We got the one-fingered, "How-do-ya-do?" We got it from that car and ever other car, truck and tractor (I'm not kidding) that we passed, all the way to Lobingier Avenue.

What I'm saying is that friendliness is in my breeding. And, then I got a dog. Walking a dog in the city is like a neon sign for people to approach you. Dogs are worse than babies. Most of the time you're approached by other people walking dogs. Which I don't mind. It's kind of nice to chat with the people and I get to meet the puppies which I adore. However, I also have this other group who love to approach me.

It's the elderly, sometimes drunk, always with a story about a dead pet AND a thick foreign accent that reduces me to nodding and smiling or frowning as I think is appropriate. In our last neighborhood it was the ridiculously short Italian woman who was at least 80 and wandered around in her house dress and her slippers. One day I was walking Chulo and she came up to pet him. Then she starts with her story.

In broken English with occasional phrases in Italian, she tells me how she had a dog just like Chulo who she loved and who was all she had in the world and then he got sick and died. And then she started crying. I was so caught off guard and stunned that I still can't find words to respond to her. I just kind of stared at her with my, "that is so sad" face on while she wiped tears with one hand and was petting Chulo, who was in my arms, with the other. It was awful. It's still awful.

Then. Two days ago I'm walking Chulo past the shelter and this old Spanish man approaches me. He's got a tall-boy Budweiser can in a bag with a straw that he's trying to hide behind his back as he comes up. From the glaze in his eyes, it wasn't his first Bud of the day.

You know. I have dog. Jack Russell terrier. You know this dog?

(Assuming he's asking if I'm familiar with the breed) Yes (Then I unintentionally flash the smile that implies, "Yes. I love those dogs. Please go on.")

I have this dog. He best friend. (Gesturing toward Chulo, the fluffy white boy dog.) She you best friend, yes?

Yeah.

My dog. He die. I have him twelve year and he die. You know what? I no get another dog. Because I am old. I die, no one to take care of dog.

And he starts crying.

Well, today, I was in the liquor store buying wine for Kristin who is Chulo/housesitting for us while we're in Nevis next week. While I was checking out at one register, there was a 70ish year old man at the other register who was buying a pint of bourbon and as the clerk was handing him his change, he also handed over a plastic cup so that the man didn't have to drink out of the brown paper bag. I noticed, bought my wine and went home.

I grabbed Chulo and went out for the walk around the armory, and as we're rounding the women's shelter, there he is. Mr. Dead Jack Russell/brown bag Budweiser. And he's having a conversation with Mr. Bourbon in a plastic cup. And as Chulo and I pass, Mr. Brown Bag Bud, obviously not realizing we had bonded over dog ownership just two days ago, stops me.

You see this dog?

Yes.

There is another dog. Just like her. Over at twelve street. Just like her, but blind. This dog she walk by door and cat, he ...

Here he pauses because he can't remember the word and he just waves his claw in the air and makes a woosh sound, indicating that the cat scratched the dogs eyes out.

Now she blind. No see nothing. And he walk around and I try to see him and he no see me. He walk around good. Sometime hit wall, but not always.

During this whole story Mr. Bourbon in a cup is watching me with what I perceive as a, "Sorry he won't shut up," look.

So, I tell Bud in a Bag that I was sorry to hear about the dog and that I'm glad he gets around okay for the most part and I start to leave and tell the men to enjoy their evening and Mr. Bourbon says, "Thank you honey." And I smile, thinking he means that he appreciates me taking the time to listen to his drunk friend tell his blind dog story. Then he adds, "God bless you honey."

Now, I grew up in the Southern Baptist church and I have been "God blessed" millions of times. This was not that kind of "God bless." And as I was walking away, Mr. Bourbon confirmed this.

"You look real good."

Hairy Fat Back

2008-06-25T08:25:00.002-04:00

Watch it. It's fantastic. And for the record, I've had fat back. A lot. And it's fantastic too!

Moment of Clarity

2008-06-24T11:16:00.006-04:00

So. Last night I'm watching my favorite show on how to deal with my family.It was an episode that featured my all-time favorite interventionist, Jeff Van Vonderen.

Note: I am an avid fan of both Lost and Weeds. I couldn't name the main characters on either of them if you threatened me with a tree frog. Intervention though -- I can tell you the addicts, the addictions and the interventionists.

From the clips the producers choose to feature of Jeff, I can tell he's brilliant. Or at least he has moments of brilliance that are conveniently captured on film and broadcast to A&E's audience.

I've learned something from Jeff Van Vonderen in every episode he's been featured in and last night was no exception. In the second half of the show, Jeff met with Brad's family in a "pre-intervention" where they discussed their plan of attack for the actual intervention. Brad is an Iraq War veteran who has turned to alcohol and marijuana in an attempt to numb the pain from his experience as a soldier. His family is tortured and is stuck between wanting to coddle him and love him because of what he's been through and frustration and fear about his addiction and the accompanying behavior. I didn't get Jeff's advice down verbatim but here's the gist:

Brad is an addict, but you guys are addicts as well. When Brad is being good and making promises you mood-alter up. When he's breaking promises and being scary and doing risky junk you mood-alter down. Brad is your mood-altering substance. You need to get sober from him without waiting for him to get better first.

Your message to Brad should be, "We are going to be well whether you are well or not." Right now Brad gets to have his addiction and then pass the pain and consequences on to all of you. When that stops and he has to deal with his own problems, he'll be more inclined to get better.

And I had another breakthrough moment of clarity courtesy of cable television.

F Train Haiku

2008-06-23T15:21:00.004-04:00

Swipe as F departs
To get to sit, definite
Trains arrive in groups

I'm Switching It Up.

2008-06-20T10:36:00.004-04:00

Hi everyone. Recently I've been doing research on how to switch from blogger to my own domain.

From what I can tell, and from knowing how limited my website-related knowledge is, this is going to take place in steps.

Step one. I'm changing the name. The web address will remain the same until I figure step two out. I'm also pressuring my designer girlfriend to get to designing something fantastic for me.

However, that may take some time as she is currently obsessed with both her new bike and how we drill into the brick wall so we can install our new Elfa shelves. (Warning. If you see Erica, do NOT ask about her new bike unless you have a minimum of 40 minutes to spare. Add another 40 if there is a computer with internet nearby.)

Swedish Style + Red Hook Brooklyn

2008-06-19T11:21:00.006-04:00

Ikea has finally opened in Brooklyn! Every weekday morning for months I have been looking out the train window of the elevated section of the F between the 7th Avenue and Carroll Street stops and sighing.

I love Ikea. The big blue building with the bright yellow beacon ... IKEA. It calls me. I saw Ikea in Rome once and almost had a heart attack. I had to restrain myself. How would I ever get an affordable, yet cool, chair on the flight home?

Ikea and I first met when I moved to New York in 1998. I had started doing some freelance work in the event industry with my friend who was in charge of purchasing decor and office supplies for our company. I'd usually be hired for the big excursions -- Home Depot, Ikea -- because I had nothing else to do and I can carry heavy things. The first time we visited Ikea I almost collapsed. It was like when I first met Target.

You mean stuff can be affordable AND stylish? Thank you SB!

It was like a prayer had been answered that I hadn't even dared to pray.

Well, since that day -- we were in New Jersey, the closest Ikea to the city -- I started praying for Ikea in Brooklyn. And it's finally here. People camped outside the doors for three days prior to the opening. No shit. Ikea had lured them in with the promise of crazy give-aways. The first 35 in the door got a free sofa!What I want to know is that if you already had a sofa that you were happy with, could you trade in your free sofa for a gift certificate? $300 goes a long way at Ikea. You could have swedish meatballs for a year with that kind of dough.

Of course, I guess that if you're willing to camp out on the paved shores of Red Hook for three days to get a couch (three workdays, by the way), you're probably pretty serious about that couch.

New York Stranger Love

2008-06-19T11:06:00.004-04:00

I didn't realize it was supposed to rain until the man with the black plastic shopping bag tied to his head got on the train. As he sat across from me I also noticed that he was wearing a black poncho. But not your standard, major league sports arena poncho. It was made of poncho material -- plastic poncho snaps and all -- but it was designed like a trench coat.

When he got on the train I thought, "Dammit. I forgot my umbrella," and I went back to my sudoku game. He pulled out the NY Times and started making notes in the business section.

At one point our eyes accidentally met and I smiled, said, "Good Morning" and looked back to my puzzle. He said something I didn't understand.

Excuse me?
(Smiling with the biggest 4-toothed smile ever)
You are a natural beauty.

It was the sweetest moment. And thinking about it now still makes me all warm and fuzzy.

Only in New York.

It Works if You Work It

2008-06-13T13:02:00.004-04:00

You all know I've been in Al-Anon for a while.

For over 50 years, Al-Anon ... has been offering hope and help to families and friends of alcoholics (addicts). .... No matter what relationship you have with an alcoholic, whether they are still drinking or not, all who have been affected by someone else’s drinking can find solutions that lead to serenity in the Al-Anon/Alateen fellowship

I'm getting to the point where I'm moving beyond just showing up to meetings and I'm taking a look at the steps and figuring out a game plan for recruiting a sponsor. Here's the list:

1. We admitted we were powerless over alcohol—that our lives had become unmanageable.
Check. I am totally aware of this. In Al-Anon, being powerless over alcohol equates to being powerless over other's addictions. I can't control my Mom. Only she can take the steps to get better. I have to remind myself from time to time, but ultimately I know.

2. Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.
Chcek. And I am in constant contact with my Higher Power. I believe in the Universe. I believe that I am my own powerful being who is just working through the Powerful Being Owner's Manual. And, of course there's always SB.

3. Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood God.
I'm working on it. But, I get sucked in for other people. For myself I can, to an extent, let go and let god. I'm not perfect, but the message is in my head and when I start heading toward the "dark place" I start the mantra. "Let go, let god. Grant me the serenity ...," and I can usually pull myself back. It's when others are being hurt that I want to get involved. Like I wish I could teach Amy all the things I've learned over the years through therapy and research, but I can't. And that's where it's hard for me.

4. Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.
Well. You can imagine how exciting this enterprise might be. It's apparently so intense that a workbook was created to help out. In this step, "fearless" is specified. Do you think it would be frowned upon if I did this step while sitting in a dark bedroom listening to the Cure? While it was raining? In the middle of the night?

5. Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.
Oh please.

6. Were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character.
Check and double check. Please, please, please. I want SB to be my Calgon bubble bath of redemption.

7. Humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings.
Now, I can't quite make out the difference between defects of character and shortcomings. Maybe a defect of character can be described as a shortcoming, but perhaps not all shortcomings are necessarily defects of character. So. Step 7. Check. Wait -- humbly. Ok -- half a check.

8. Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.
I think I could do this. I may not remember all of them, but I can give it a shot.

9. Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.
Yeah. Once I have the list, I'm sure I could at least do this with some of them. But I would like to know if I'm included in that word "others".

10. Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.
This has always been tough for me. I'm getting better at it and I try to be conscious of myself, but this one will take a while.

11. Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.
Sort of. I do pray a lot. But it's not just a, "show me the way," prayer. It's more like an internal loop of the Serenity Prayer which is asking for more than just knowledge of SB's will for me.

12. Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to others, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.
Check. I am having a spiritual awakening. And it has a whole lot to do with these steps and the meetings I've gone to. And I am really trying to practice these principles in all my affairs. As for carrying the message to others ... you're reading it, aren't you?

Horoscopes and Blogging

2008-06-11T19:38:00.011-04:00

I don't know what it is with this blogging thing. Either I struggle to come up with something to write about, or i don't have enough time to write everything and still keep things current. Now, I know I tell old stories a lot, but that's from years ago. Telling an old story from last week just seems weird to me.

Of course. Now that I write that, the fact that it seems weird to me is weird to me.

Anyway. I have a lot to say lately. Right now I would like to talk about today's horoscope. (This is an example of a story that just wouldn't feel right if I were telling it in, say, July.)

Do you fucking believe that? What kind of bullshit horoscope is that? Smoking Baby has mistaken me for Job (Juh-long O-buh) and is going so far as to poke at me from the Metro's puzzle page. You know how much that puzzle page means to me. Plus, if you're up to date on the blog, you know that I recently broke up with my mother, and I am positive that she was offended. If not by the actual breakup, by the incidents I mentioned during the breakup. At the very least she was offended by my language.

But the thing is:

Well the things are:

1) Sagittarians are infamous for their bluntness. And for saying things with a tone that is frequently misinterpreted. We spend a lot of time either feeling guilty about hurting someone's feelings, apologizing for hurting someone's feelings, or unintentionally hurting someone's feelings. So, in one way this can be seen as the Metro astrologer lady just being lazy. Because, on any given day that I've interacted with other people, there is a 1 in 5 chance that I've offended one of them without meaning to, or even realizing it. Being offended is disappointing. Ergo -- lame ass horoscope.

2) My mother is also a Sagittarian.

Today's the Day!

2008-06-11T08:51:00.011-04:00

I'm off to the DMV this morning to register myself as a convicted Drinking Driver and sign up for the Drinking Driver Program of New York. Woo hoo! Did I ever show you guys what my office mates did for me when I returned from Kentucky?

First I go to the DMV in Brooklyn for the initial registration. I'm a little concerned because when I looked up the address this morning I found this:

Brooklyn/Kings County
Due to space and security concerns, we ask that only the individuals who are transacting business enter the processing area of this office.

Security concerns? Awesome.Then I go meet Albert White of the Alcoholism Board of New York State. I have not found any security warnings on Albert. I guess by the time the drunks get to his office they've finally given up the fight and no longer need to throw chairs or whatever else they do over at the DMV. There I sign up for a 7-week, 16-hour course on why I shouldn't drink and drive. I expect I will get to see a lot of grotesque footage of car wrecks and meet some of the cool kids from Brooklyn. It's an adventure! I of course will keep you posted on any of the fun.

Oprah Does It Again

2008-06-10T23:04:00.006-04:00

So. I'm in my pit of despair today. Just feeling really shitty and worried and morose and wallowing in it. If I had been at home alone, I swear I would have put on an old Cure album and cried into my pillow. I am completely at a loss with what to do with the current family situation. Again. I swear. If she weren't my mom, I'd be like, "This chick is nothing but drama, and I don't need it." And I'd be out. But she's my mom. And there are different rules for moms. Frustrating.

A friend of mine, DP, from Fitzgerald was in town recently and she has known my mom for years. I was going through the saga and she said, "You know. I always felt that there was just something not right with her." I've had another old friend tell me the same thing. Honestly, it makes me feel better -- like I'm not crazy. When DP told me what she thought, I started squealing. "Right? Right? It's not just me!"

Now my sister and I are getting a lot closer and of course I am addicted to my niece so I can never get fully away. Though, it just occurred to me that maybe this is what Mom and Amy need. I've always been in the middle of their bullshit one way or another. Either Mom was telling Amy to be more like me, which made Amy hate me. Or, Mom was telling me what a piece of shit Amy was, making me hate Amy. And I am pretty sure that Mom's conversations with Amy were very similar to the ones she had with me. So, Amy has really never had much of a leg to stand on. It's like Mom's been gaslighting her into believing she's incapable of any amount of success or happiness for that matter and Amy has just been beaten into submission. The family was really just the three of us, so it was kind of two to one. Not that I wasn't being duped as well.

Now that I'm out of the picture, they have to deal with each other. Mom is very aware of my stance on all issues at hand, and therefore unless she meets my conditions (a recovery program) she and I have nothing more to say to each other. I still speak with Amy frequently, and do my best to support her. It's nice being on her side. She's nothing like what Mom said.

Sorry. I tend to go on tangents. And that one seemed like a good one -- a breakthrough for me in a way. Thanks for sharing the moment.

Back to Oprah. This is what I wanted to tell you about and it does relate in a way. So, I'm watching Oprah and it's a rerun of the Cris Karr interview -- the woman who did the Crazy, Sexy, Cancer documentary. And Cris is talking about how she's learned to live in the moment and she says, "Isn't worrying praying for what you don't want?"

Smoking Baby Dammit.

2008-06-09T15:02:00.006-04:00

I believe all of you have been introduced to my HP (Higher Power), Smoking Baby. He is a miracle worker. I like him because he's sweet and benevolent, but he's got that edge. I'm sure as soon as he's of age, he will get a bad ass tattoo and a motorcycle. He advocates peace and love but isn't opposed to some good old toilet humor.

Erica and I have started using him in conversations where we both feel we need to be heard. No SB in your hand, no words out of your mouth. We used it for the first time last week when we were having an argument and just kept going around and around because we both tend to interrupt as if we already know what the other one is going to say. Very unproductive. I got the SB idea and it worked like a charm. I love SB.

Unfortunately, SB has taken a day off. I just got a call from my sister. This is never good news.Mom, who is not talking to me because she has taken possession over the breakup. You know how in high school you break up with someone and then you find out they're all over the place telling people they broke up with you? Yeah.

Well today, I find out through my sister that today Mom is starting radiation again. There's a what they're referring to as a "spot" on her lung. I'm guessing "spot" is a Southern euphemism for tumor. I don't know. Poor Amy is absolutely tortured right now. She has been trying to move on with her own life, taking care of her daughter and now she's re-immersed in Mom guilt because of her latest illness. I'm trying to help Amy see that Mom's new cancer doesn't get her off the hook for endangering her granddaughter with her pill issues, but it's hard for her. Especially being there in the same town.

Arrgh.

I, of course, am taking it all in stride and counting on my HP SB to take care of everything. Remember, I'm the one going to meetings.

I'm an Intellectual, God Dammit.

2008-06-09T11:12:00.010-04:00

I splurged this weekend. I bought four books and two magazines.

All at one time! I spent over $60 at Barnes & Noble on my way home from work last Friday. I got the latest Augusten, a book by some guy from Brunswick, Georgia named Hadji, a couple of memoirs about pain and addiction and misery told in a lighthearted, sarcastic tone and then ... People and US Weekly.

Guess what I read first.

I hate US Weekly. Hate it. The whole time I'm devouring it cover to cover I'm thinking, "I hate you US Weekly." [flips page] And I berate myself for reading it.

This is so stupid. I can't believe I spent money on this. Look at this. People are out there taking photos of celebrities who are buying diapers and selling the pictures to magazines. They're just like us! Look at them! They drink coffee and wear shoes!"

Ugh. Who cares? Then I turn to the article on the train wreck of the week and think, "Jesus. No wonder she's so fucked up. She can't even put gas in her car without some idiot snapping a camera in her face to sell to a magazine to show people that she's just like us! except on way more drugs." Flip. Flip. Flip.

This is how it goes the entire time I am reading and trying to hide the cover from my fellow commuters on the 4 Train, lest they mistakenly take me for someone who not only purchases, but reads, this garbage.

I don't buy it every week, but I did briefly consider a subscription. Thank god I came to my senses. I'd be horrified if one of my highbrow, academic neighbors caught me getting it out of my mailbox. And then I'd giggle and make some comment like, "Can you believe Erica reads this shit?", while covering the address label with my MoMA catalog or something so they would be sure to know that I am the sophisticated, artsy lesbian in the building and not some schlock who reads tabloids.This morning, instead of picking up AMNY or Metro, I stopped at a bodega and bought the NY Times and a fancy bottle of Naked juice smoothie drink to try to re-balance my cool and intellectual chi. I am sure my fellow commuters were all appropriately impressed.

No. Really. (or) Fucking Cat: The Sequel

2008-06-07T13:33:00.010-04:00

Will you look at this?

Do you see what I'm saying about this cat? My cousin used to be my arch nemesis. You know, the one my grandma always compared me to?

Susan, you know she met her husband in church. Maybe if you went to church more you could find a nice boy like him.

She did not meet him in a church. She met him in a bar. In fact She was the one who took me to visit her at college one weekend and got me into this bar called the The Front Porch, snuck me in with her ID and let her frat boy friends get me completely wasted. I was sixteen. I got so drunk that one of the nice frat boy friends took me back to the car and sat on my freezing feet (at my request) while I passed out until She was ready to go home. The next day, She took me to watch a football game at the same friends' house where we drank more beer. I believe that was the day I learned about "hair of the dog."

This trip was often referred to as the time A.N. tried to save me and show me how important getting a good education was.

So, not only did She have Grandma completely snowed, She contributed to the delinquency of a minor (not that I was an unwilling participant), She flat out lied about how She met her husband, and I lived with constant remarks about how She was someone to look up to and I should try to be more like her. She is also the one I mentioned before who outed me about my tattoos and broke my mother's heart. Arch nemesis. She has been dethroned by a little 5' x 8' gray cat named, Mittens. These photos are what I collected this morning. When was the last time I collected? Last night. Chulo is still in the trenches, doing all he can to destroy Mittens strand by strand. Sometimes he struggles, but I just force him to let me open his mouth and pull the wad out, and he goes right back in. That is a good dog.

Fucking Cat

2008-06-04T22:56:00.011-04:00

Erica and I bought this rug recently. We ordered it in January. It was backordered until March. We got offers from Crate and Barrel to cancel the order because it was taking so long. But dear Smoking Baby did we want it. So we waited.

We've had it for three months now and every since it came in the door, I have hated this rug. For one, I hate the color. The photo is from my phone, so it's not super precise with tones, but it's a grey rug in a room of greens and oranges and I just feel like it's too light or something. I hate it.

Now, I do love the texture. It's super comfy and I sit on the floor a lot more than I used to. I even take naps there occasionally.

Of course, it's wool, so I end up having an asthma attack most times I do, but still. This isn't my problem with it.

This is the problem:And this:See those fur balls? They're absolutely everywhere.

This rug sheds so much that I started calling it Mittens. You know like, "Aww. Mittens!" as I pull a strand off my clothing or a sloppy, gross wad out of Chulo's mouth when he can't work it out himself. It's like having a cat. A cat that I really, really despise. Whenever I'm picking up the wads, I'm usually mumbling, "Fucking cat."

I feel like we might as well have a Golden Retriever. I get asthma from Golden Retrievers. God knows they shed like maniacs. But they're Golden Retrievers. Anyone who knows a Golden, knows what I'm talking about.

I knew this Golden Retriever once -- Casey. During the early nineties, Casey adopted an injured quail -- eventually dubbed Dan, of course. What kind of animal, bred to retrieve dead animals, adopts a live, injured quail and loves it back to health? At least that's the story I remember. My friend, Jay, who was Casey's owner may remember a different story (probably the accurate one -- I have a tendency to amend history in my mind), but that's what I think happened. I definitely know Casey had a quail during Dan Quayle's Vice Presidency and his family named the quail Dan. And, to me, that's story enough.

So, what I'm saying is that Golden Retrievers are way more worth the extra effort than this fucking feline rug that spreads its fur not only all over the interior of our place, but it trails into the hallway. I've found pieces in the yard. There are strands on my shirt right this very minute.

And now, Mittens, cat I never wanted, has developed the mange.Obviously, Chulo hates the rug as much as I do. He's the cause of Mittens' mange. He has begun to methodically rip the rug apart strand by strand. Erica thinks it's a conspiracy. She likes the rug. Or so she says. I believe that she hates the rug as much as I do but just has a harder time admitting that we simply made the wrong rug decision.

God I Love Disco Fries

2008-06-03T23:36:00.005-04:00

I am so frustrated right now. I'm upstairs on my laptop and I can't get the wireless signal from Erica's router which is about 20 feet directly downstairs. It's not even around a corner.

To add to that, because i rarely take advantage of all my technology has to offer, i haven't even loaded the Office Suite on the new Air. I'm doing this on, eek, Text Edit.

My friend Sparky gave me about 6000 Japanese Pop Songs (He officially won friend of the month.) Are they on my laptop? Nope. Do I work the cardio while listening to Harajuku girl bands? No. I listen to the same songs I threw on my shuffle from crap I had downloaded for various meeting themes at work.

And, if you don't do cardio, you should know, there's a thing about cardio. You really need a beat. And I've got work stuff then all this mellow Digable Planets style stuffabout contemplating abortion and fascists (they're some heavy dudes).

hey beautiful bird i said digging her somber mood
the fascists are some heavy dudes
they don't really give a damn about life
they just don't want a woman to
control her body or have the right to choose

So. My inspiration possibilities are: either be reminded of a (surely painful) national sales meeting of one of our clients, ponder the fate of my womb (and yours ladies), or there's TV which offers a bunch of crap (news, sports, current events -- all things I'm not into) or it's plug in to Paula Deen or the Barefoot Contessa. Both of whom use butter or sour cream (or both! With mayonnaise! Paula's favoritein every dish they prepare. And they are both huge fans of carbs.

You know when people ask those questions, "If you could only have two foods for the rest of your life"? My answer is a toss up between cheese and pork or dinner rolls and mashed potatoes with gravy. There is nothing like a carb dipped in a another carb covered with gravy. Are you people familiar with disco fries? Jesu'Christo, is that delicious.

Back to the point. My frustration. It's not just the wireless issue. It's the fact that I have come to a place where I am fucking fed up with this bullshit family drama. Fed the fuck up.

My mom is currently a train wreck. Seriously, thank god there are no paparazzi in Fitzgerald who like to track train wrecks. The weekly Herald-Leader (out every Wednesday) would be blowing up with pictures of my mom's life. It is what it is. And the unfortunate thing is that the train is screeching toward the washed out bridge and there is nothing any of us can do about it but wait for the splash. Arrgh.

So. I've stopped talking to her. As my sister says, "I gotta do me." Then again, now I talk to my sister non-stop. I'm moral support. In Al-Anon, it's called doing service. And I have a unique insight into her situation that I know is invaluable to her right now. So, although I can not separate myself from the situation completely, I do get to stay up-to-date, and my sister keeps telling me thank you for helping her. So that's really nice. Amy and I had been estranged for the majority of our life which we've realized was nurtured by our mother -- and our grandmother in a way. And, in one of my life lists I wrote after seeing the Secret, hearing Ellen, etc., I wrote that I wanted a better relationship with my sister. (Proof that you should be specific. More like, "I'd like a better relationship with my sister based on pleasant and amenable circumstances for all involved." Next time ...)

Because I have a mortgage these days (as well as a trip planned for a week in Nevis!) I can't afford therapy, so I don't have that outlet. The love of my life, Erica Jill, has listened and comforted and sat and rubbed my head while I dripped snot onto her pants. One time was while we were on vacation in Italy and it happened on the bathroom floor. Pretty. Probably not what she was hoping to do on her European vacation. So I feel she's really done her share. Since she and I got together both my grandmother and my aunt died and my Mom suffered through breast cancer and I discovered the depth of my emotional issues and found a way to find my emotional side and let it out. So I totally cry all the time.

She's SO lucky to have me!

And, as you all know (since my readership consists of mostly my friends) there has been discord in the royal family so HRH and I made a mutual break, divided the estate evenly, and have moved on in different directions. HRH got to keep all the Doors and Janis Joplin albums and I got the pool boy.At least the separation was uncontested.

It's been quite a year for me. And I'm coping. But these last couple of days have been kind of hard. The breakup with Mom has been particularly difficult. In essence I've orphaned myself in a total of two phone conversations. One with my dad when I was twenty-four and one with my mom last week.

I really wanna end on a happy note, but right now, I got nothing.

Ooh! Wait! Things are looking up -- I've got five bars on the Wi-Fi!

Recycle, My Ass.

2008-06-02T21:03:00.006-04:00

In the city there are two free newspapers: AM New York and Metro. They come out every weekday and I love them. I love them so much that I will cross the street to get them if necessary. New Yorkers hate to cross the street. Especially if it's an avenue. That's why there can be practically identical bodegas on opposite corners and they'll both thrive. We're just always in a hurry and there's always traffic and that slows you down. At least that's what I think it is. Maybe we're just lazy fucks. Anyway. That is not the point of this story.

Every morning between AM New York and Metro, I have three sudoku games and two crosswords. I occasionally will flip through the rest of the papers, but it's rare. If I see a piece on Amy Winehouse or something, then I'll read it, but otherwise, I do the puzzles on the way to work and when I get off the train, I throw the papers away.

Of course, I feel a pang of guilt when I do it, but I keep doing it. Sometimes on holiday Mondays, Metro doesn't show up at the stands I pass. I don't know if they take those days off, or if the delivery guys are slacking, but it upsets me. I like my puzzles. I look forward to them and the timing is perfect when I have all of them -- if I get a seat that is. Otherwise, I don't make it through them all and I have some left over for the ride home. Yay!So, anyway. I am personally responsible for ten newspapers per week being thrown away because I want to do crosswords and sudoku and I just hate those puzzle books so much. There's something different about doing the puzzles in the paper. I dunno.

On rare occasions when I forget a pen it's misery. But once I compose myself and realize that just because I look through my bag for the eighth time, a pen will not materialize, I read through the papers and then I usually leave them on a bench in the station for someone else. Once I was screamed at by a Metro guy because I dropped my used Metro in his stand. "This is not a recycling pile!" And he grabbed the paper off the stack and threw it away. Then recently these signs started showing up on the garbage cans in the subway stations. The MTA is trying to eliminate garbage created by people like me practicing lazy green-ness. "I'm not being wasteful, I'm leaving a gift for a stranger who forgot to grab a paper on the way downstairs."

I don't believe these signs. I believe the MTA are lying bastards. There is no way that they are forcing those workers to dredge through New York City subway garbage cans to separate out the newspapers for recycling. Do you know what kind of grotesque materials go into those cans? Snotty tissues, chewed gum, vomit. Plus people drop drinks and food in there. I'm not sure, but I would guess that subway station maintenance positions don't offer pay much above minimum wage, and the MTA is having them separate the recyclable materials from bags of vomit and half eaten falafel sandwiches? I highly doubt it.

Yet. In my head I pretend that I do believe them so that when I throw the papers away at 86th street every morning, I don't have to think of polar bears treading water looking for ice floes.s

2008-05-28T19:40:00.007-04:00

"Don't touch the fucking ball!"

I turn my head and see the coach of the outfield lesbian softball team screaming in the direction of the Little League game on the next field. I was kind of watching the game as I passed, so I knew someone had just hit a home run -- if not a grand slam, at least a triple. (Sexy show.)

I was in Prospect Park walking Chulo and Ziggy, our next door neighbor's dog who is an adorable black fluffy something and we were circling the four or five softball fields there. We watched the lesbian coach dramatically argue with the old Italian man umpire for a minute until we realized, like all lesbian drama, it wasn't going to be resolved any time soon, so we moved on. As we neared the field with the little leaguers I saw the sponsor of the home team was Immaculate Heart of Mary.(I found that picture on Flickr. I swear to god. I mean, God.)

They were playing Holy Name.
Now. Am I just being Southern, or is this completely inappropriate? It's Brooklyn, I know. Kids in Brooklyn hear and speak worse than I do. Me. And I'm sure the kids weren't representing the actual churches, but rather the schools associated with them, but still. It got to me a little. And, of course, I thought it was totally funny at the same time.

The next scene I came to was two teenaged girls sitting on a hill.

Girl 1: [Squealing] Oh my god! We could bring our books and totally hang out and just read all day!

Girl 2: [Bouncing on her knees.] That is so perfect! I love it!

Girl 1: [Pulling out a well-worn journal and her (no doubt) favorite pen.] We could invite Jen and Aubrey and Missy.

In essence they were planning my 15 year old self's fantasy birthday party. And I prayed that they got something I never had at that age.

"Dear Jesus. Please let them have nerdyness and popularity."

(Side note. Who am I kidding? This is my 36 year old self's fantasy birthday except now it would require red wine.)

Anyway, the point is I love, love, love Brooklyn in the spring. My favorite part of Brooklyn is all of the different people and the way that we're all in such close proximity that we get a chance to catch glimpses of people's personal lives. Not in a creepy, voyeuristic, Peeping Tom way, but in an almost anthropological study way. And it's different in Spring -- in other seasons it's either too cold or too hot and no one lingers the way they do when it's gorgeous outside. There's something special and beautiful about it. And it doesn't matter whether it's the man I saw on the street this morning who handed his girlfriend her dry cleaning and stomped away after she screamed, "It's just you don't know when to quit!" or the guy I saw on the train the other day who, I promise you, solved, messed up, and re-solved a Rubik's cube within two train stops.

As we were leaving the park, we passed the skater kids. I could have hung out and watched them all day. They are so adorable and teenager-ish. They're uber cool in only the way a 15 year old can be, they had all the players -- the boy who was smoking hot, the girl who was smoking hot, the smoking hot girlfriend's cool in a nerdy non-conformist way, the couple of hangers-on ... you know the scene. They all had skateboards and I believe I saw two of them actually using them as something other than a prop or an accessory. I felt myself becoming very grandmotherly and wanting to go over and hug them all and tell them how great they were. But then I was afraid that I would be ridiculed, just like when I was 15 and no one should ever have to go through that twice.

Now, I do admit we New Yorkers have our Peeping Tom side. The fact is, New Yorkers are all notorious for looking into people's windows at night. If you live in this city -- especially Brooklyn or Manhattan -- and you have windows facing a public street, you know that if have your lights on and your curtains open at night, people will be checking out your decor as they walk by. That is just the way it is. You either keep 'em closed, or you accept it.

For some people looking in windows at night is a hobby. I'm definitely a big fan.

Excuse the Soapbox.

2008-05-27T22:03:00.004-04:00

I was discussing my new friend Stacy who thinks I'm out to get all psoriasis stricken people with my old friend and co-worker Andrew. Andrew says, "Well. You do call yourself a princess on the blog."

Andrew has never read my blog. Nor, apparently, does he understand the finest form of humor -- sarcasm.

I hate to keep blathering on about my hate comment, but it got me thinking about judgments and how insanely wrong people can be while believing that they are right.

As you guys know, I've been attending Al-Anon meetings on and off since this past February and it's taught me so much, but what stands out the most was this one woman who shared in a meeting. Obviously these are anonymous meetings and I would never betray that, so I'll give you an example of what happened, without actually relaying any factual details.

Being the daughter of a parent who was habitually late for everything, I am a huge stickler for promptness. So, when I attend my meetings I'm usually one of the first to show up. This sucks because I hate that feeling I get when I'm alone in a room and the others start showing up. I don't know how to handle it. Is it okay for me to just be silent? Do I have to make small talk? What if I'm in the meeting leader's chair and I don't know it? So much to deal with. However.

I also get to watch every single member of the group enter the room and -- up until this particular incident -- pass judgment on each of them. Usually these are mainly guesses at what their qualification is for being in the meeting ... a drunk boyfriend, a heroin-addict father, parents who were fabulous and threw great parties but were secretly chugging nail polish remover in the closet during the afternoons.

The last time I did this -- without mentally reprimanding and correcting myself -- was at one of my favorite meetings. A woman walked in and here's what my judgmental self saw: a girl wearing expensive, trendy clothes, carrying a fantastic bag that most likely held the keys to the cute convertible something or other that her rich daddy bought her. Her reason for coming to Al-Anon was that her Mom had taken to liking her Creme de Menthe a little too much ever since rich daddy hit his midlife crisis.

Of course, during the meeting this woman shared. An hour prior to the meeting she had escorted her severely drug addicted husband to rehab, again, after having to drag him onto a plane to return from their vacation in order to do so. This woman was broken and sad and I felt such shame and disgust at myself.

In a book I read a woman who had overcome her own addictions said that she makes a point to be kind and gracious to every single person she meets, regardless of how they behave towards her. Because, she had been on the edge. And she had been pushed over it by a stranger more than once. You never know what is going on inside a person. Yes, that guy may be sleeping on the train because he's nodding out from heroin. Or he may be exhausted from working a 19-hour shift to pay for diapers and daycare.

Yes, of course, I still catch myself making snap judgments about people I see on the street, but the point is, I catch myself. And I feel like that's a step in the right direction.

Thanks Stacy!

2008-05-27T12:06:00.007-04:00

I got my first hate comment on the blog!
If ever there were a sure sign I am on my way, it's this.Oprah, here I come!

I just hope I make it there before she looses her mojo.

Posted by Stacy Beasley on my post entitled, "Priorities" from last October.

it is people like you that have given psoriasis its bad reputation......by your comments i see that you are the most shallow pile of compost i have ever seen.....you are rude and obviously believe that you are above people with a disability.....over 75% of the suffering that people endure is not the itching and flaking, but the idiots like you who make us feel like we are not fit to walk the streets.....and who makes you better than anyone else? well no matter what you think or have been raised to think in your spoiled rich bitch atmosphere, people with psoriasis are human and yes, it hurts when people like you talk such hatred over a condition we have no control.....maybe instead of snapping pics of this poor guy and posting them all over the internet, you could feel some compassion for another human being.....trust me, a piece of skin from a person with psoriasis is the least of your worries riding a public train......your kind makes me sick.....i would rather sit next to a person with psoriasis than your hateful snobby ass that thinks you are better than anyone else......beware honey, Karma is a BITCH! and so are you it seems!

Pills & Prom Dresses

2008-05-26T12:11:00.008-04:00

In a lot of ways I think I've been waiting for my mom's breakdown for years. The more we learn about her illness with addiction, the more I realize that she's had a problem for much longer than any of us realized. It's just that now, we've come to a crisis point. And I have to admit, there is a part of me that is relieved.

Fucked up, I know, but it's just the truth of how I feel right now. I've spent so much of my life (pretty much all of it up until this past February) scared of Mom and realizing she has a problem with pills makes me feel like I'm finally on equal footing with her. Maybe even gained some control of my life in relation to her. When she's on the pills, I feel like I have a sense of who I'm dealing with. A pill addict I can understand, I know addicts, I love addicts, I have my own addictions. Addiction is right up my alley.

Before last February, I just had an unpredictable, inconsistent, erratic, moody mother whose heart I was constantly breaking in one way or another.

Are those tattoos?
Yes.

How many do you have?

Twenty-three.

Well! You have broken my heart. [Dramatic exit from room containing the majority of my family because we had all gathered for my grandmother's funeral.]

This story actually began with my cousin/arch-nemesis and I washing dishes together and her announcing loudly that she had just spotted the star behind my left ear. I believe this was a malicious outing of my decision to have 23 miniscule stars permanently applied to my body. It resulted in my mother's heart being broken. I hope she is happy.

See it? There on my left shoulder. That spot? That's one of the 23 tattoos that broke my mother's heart.

Another time my Mom's heart was broken happened on my sixteenth birthday when she bought me the prom dress I was dying for as a gift and told my, also 16 year old, best friend and was absolutely livid when she found out my friend told me about it.

I was so excited to give this to you as a surprise and Cindy had to come along and ruin it! I don't even want to give it to you now! The whole surprise is shot and it just breaks my heart. [Dramatic exit from room, as per usual.]

For months I had clipped pictures of this dress out of magazines and hung them on my wall. It was a beautiful, lacy off the shoulder number with a hoop skirt with a white lace pinafore and a scalloped overlay of satin with three-inch vertical pink and white stripes. I thought it was the most stunning thing I had ever seen. As I look back, I realize it only served to make me look like a pastel circus tent and if 16 little people in clown makeup had emerged from underneath it, I am sure no one would have been surprised. But my 15 year old self adored it. I tried it on over and over, I fantasized about how beautiful it would be next to my date's white tux and pink cumberbund. And in the span of less than two minutes, I learned to despise it because it had broken my mother's heart. Imagine this dress but with stripes. That's my dress. (I have to get a scanner. I'll show you the real deal. It's a good time.)

So, last week when I confronted Mom, about her pill addiction and told her that I could no longer participate in her killing herself, she replied, "Susan. You have broken my heart," and I gotta tell you, it just didn't pack the punch it used to.

Homo-wner.

2008-05-20T22:30:00.010-04:00

Do you know why one would spend an exorbitant amount of money on buying an apartment in Brooklyn? I mean, sacrifice all clothing and accessory purchases, give up on your obsession with eating out, start buying the sub-$10 wine?Trader Joe's "Three Buck Chuck"

For those non-New Yorkers (or non-Sex and the City addicts) living across any bridge from Manhattan basically means that you have voluntarily joined a leper colony. And, if your leper colony happens to be Brooklyn, your leper colony has as many cool, trendy clothing stores, and even cooler, trendier restaurants as Manhattan does. The rents are cheaper, the apartments are larger, and yes, the commutes are longer.

So, what's a lesbian couple who wants to own property, but doesn't want to give up their social life (as it is), to do?

Buy well.

Before you think I'm being conceited or elitist, hold your rent-paying horses. Our apartment is less than 600 square feet. We live above a tattoo parlor, a bar and a dry cleaner who may or may not be sending toxic fumes through our air ducts. But!

We have a yard! Know what will get Manhattanites -- even Manhattanites who live, not downtown or on a convenient train line, but who live where they either pay $30 for a cab or have to make a transfer on the subway --to cross a bridge? A back yard.This past weekend we re-named Chateau St. Chulo to The Hamptons - Park Slope. You know. Like, University of Madison - Wisconsin. But it's our own time share, minus the share and the cost, and the gays love it. Especially my Patsy and Danny. They love it so much, not only did they spend all of Sunday afternoon with us, they are coming back next weekend!

This past Sunday culminated in a Stomp-Off a la Tyra Banks between myself and Patsy Key. (Both of us were wearing my platforms, so I did have a slight advantage.) It was gorgeous. I haven't had a better time since I wore the $400 bridesmaid dress I bought for L&A's wedding to the Miss America Pageant Party in Dan & Patrick's Williamsburgh abode. Best part?They're coming back this Sunday! However, I do have some reservations. Erica and I are making the scary move of conjoining two groups of friends. You never know how these things are going to fly. E & I absolutely adore Danny & PatsyKey. We also love, love, love Christophe and Jayme. They all think Erica and I rock. So, one would think things would go well, considering all six of us are in love with me & Erica.If we run out of current events to talk about, we can all just compliment each other. (One thing all our friends have in common, high self-admiration.)

Plus, the ultimate clincher is, the aforementioned backyard. As much as a New York party crowd may hate each other (as if), they'll suffer through anything to hang in a backyard on a spring day.

Prego!

2008-05-13T19:38:00.002-04:00

I was cooking dinner last night -- Pasta sauce, as always. It's my specialty. -- and I was being filmed for my cooking show. You know how you always feel like you're on camera? I know it's not just me.

Well, if you claim not to do this (liar), most people have a fantasy camera crew following them around with a team of interviewers ready with questions on any topic in the world.

So, last night as I'm going through the steps to make the world's best pasta sauce, I get to the part where I'm crushing red peppers by hand. I tell my audience that they have to be sure to wash their hands after this step because they might rub their eyes and that would suck.

(I promise that these conversations only take place in my head. I don't speak the fantasy out loud. That would be insane.)

Then, because I had the worst sinus reaction ever yesterday, I eventually rubbed my nose. I, of course, had not washed my hands. Ny nose burned so much I thought it was going to burst into flames. I considered ripping it off my face, because I thought that would be less painful.

I got online -- as everyone does in an emergency -- and tried to find a cure for the red pepper that was melting my nose off of my head. Nothing. Everything I found was giving red pepper as the antidote, not classifying it as the cause of the condition. So I decided to suffer. I didn't really have a choice.

I continued cooking and I could never get the sauce quite right, but I was starving so I ate it anyway. Erica came home late and was cranky -- as she tends to be when hungry. And do you know what she said to me after she ate the first bite?

What is this Prego shit you're serving me?

I wanted to kill her. I was also quite shamed. She followed it up with this someecard this morning.

So, to make it up, I told her I'd use the sauce to make lasagna tonight and that I promised it would be better. After work today I stopped by Russo's -- the best little Italian market ever -- and got more sausage and onions and the cheeses for the lasagna and I came home to cook.

I was doctoring up the sauce and decided to add a little more red pepper.
As I type this, I am again weighing the options of suffering, or just ripping my nose off my face.

Los Angeles - 1, Jason Castro - 0

2008-05-08T00:02:00.003-04:00

He is SO high.

I have basically boycotted Idol this season, but for some reason, Erica and I ended up watching it tonight.

Jason Castro, lover of reggae, has just discovered pot.

Or something.

I have never seen a more virginal, completely fucked-up high person in my life. And, I worked in a gay bar in New York's East Village. Hell. I was the virginal, completely fucked-up high person when I worked there. Jason Castro was so fucking high.

Maybe it was ecstasy.

Back Off Dan Cooney.

2008-05-07T21:18:00.002-04:00

Guess who just called.Less than a half hour after my last post, I get a call from the stalker.

He called to give me a hard time about the post about him stalking me.

You see where I'm going with this.

After I made fun of him for proving my point for me, he tells me a story about a woman he met who was outrageous and "Absolutely Fabulous" who was married to a plastic surgeon and offered herself up for practice on a regular basis.

He thought, "Well, she sure looks good for her age," guessing that she was in her mid-fifties, based on the amount of surgery she had gone through.

She was in her thirties.

And I thought that was amazing. The irony of it astounded me and I just wanted to share.

They Put a Bitch in JAIL.

2008-05-04T11:04:00.019-04:00

What do you get when you cross

with

?

Yep. Like Uma Thurman, I have a stalker. And like Vito Fossella, I have a record.

First up for discussion ... the stalker.I'm not planning to prosecute. I figure I should retrieve the bail money my boss put up and find a way to serve house arrest on my own case before pursuing any personal prosecutorial cases. Plus, I really like him.

Dan is smart. Handsome. And a filthy rich gallery owner who sells photographs for hundreds of thousands of dollars every day. You could do a lot worse for a stalker.

Dan is obsessed with me. And I get it. You deal with these kinds of things when you're a brilliant blogger who puts their whole insane life into words for the world to read. But, what bothers me is how he stalks me.

8:45 AM
Tits. (He calls me Tits. Has something to do with some Will Farrell movie. I just go along with it.) I don't know why you never call me. I'm officially putting you on probation. This is a warning. There won't be another one. Good bye.

9:08 AM
Susan. What is your issue? Why do you not call me back? It is offensive and rude. Maybe you're in prison again. I don't know. Bye.

9:27 AM
Hey Tits McGee. I'm thinking that you should start writing country songs. It's just a thought that came to me. You could make millions just writing your life story to music.

See what I mean? I don't even get a chance to call back and when I don't, he makes snide comments about my white trash background and digs at my recent incarceration.

10:23 AM
I've called you four times now and you never call me back.

Jack Jordan could take lessons from Dan.

So. Yes. The arrest. Here's how it happened:

As I told you, I drove to Kentucky for an event recently. I take two days to travel and finally arrive at the Brown Hotel looking forward to rest and a world famous Hot Brown. I park the truck behind the theatre and head in to meet with the rest of my crew and have a well-deserved glass of wine.

Of course, being an event planning (aka party planning) company, we're into having a good time. And my well-deserved glass of wine turned into a couple of vodka tonics and several glasses of wine. Who knows? I wasn't counting.

Then, it's time for bed and with our PowerPoint Guru in tow, I head back to the truck to retrieve my luggage before piling my drunk ass into bed. As Amy (PP G) and I are leaving the truck, the IATSE theatre guys come out of the backstage door and tell me I have to move the truck. (IATSE is the official Theatre Stage Hand union and they mean business.

Me: Dude. I'm drunk. I'm not moving the truck anywhere. Here are the keys.

IATSE Theater Guy: Can't. Union rules. You have to move it. What about her? (Pointing to PP Guru)

Me: She's as drunk as I am. Not happening.

IATSE TG: Seriously. It's gotta move. It's only 20 feet.

Obviously, what happens next is that I am peer-pressured into drunk driving in the back alley of a Louisville, Kentucky theater and of course, I hit the front fender of a car.

The IATSE lighting guy's mother's car.

As I'm going through my litany of, "I told you I was in no shape to move a 20' long truck," and "I'll pay for everything. Don't worry," guess who shows up?

Five - oh.

Yep. Someone somewhere called the fuzz. Or they just happened to be driving by and saw the crowd and the collision damage. Whatever the case, I ended up desperately trying to muster every bit of balance I have to walk a straight line and to follow his pen with my eyes. I fail miserably and next thing you know ...

Click.

People. For those of you who have never been arrested while drunk in Kentucky, let me tell you. There is no feeling more despairing than that first click of handcuffs around your wrist. I don't remember the second click. Perhaps that is because I was sobbing uncontrollably and begging this guy to please, please, please not take me to jail.

After all, I had to work at eight the next morning.

2008-05-02T20:00:00.001-04:00

I drove to Kentucky last week for a job we were doing in Louisville. I rented a 20' box truck and picked it up from midtown at 11 last Friday morning. From there I drove to Long Island City to pick up video and audio gear and I was on the road by 2pm.

Our client had planned to use a local A/V company and at the last minute they bailed. Our gear is more expensive and there's a pretty big shipping cost, so to try to save them money, I volunteered to drive down. I was kind of excited about it.

One thing -- I like driving. Now that I live in New York and no longer own a car, I rarely get the opportunity to drive. Plus, a road trip all alone rocks. So, I take off and drive all the way to Columbus the first night. People. They upgraded me to the Presidential Suite at the Hyatt. I am so excited. I walk in and the place is enormous. I have three bathrooms.

One has a bidet.

I have my own little cedar sauna. Seriously. And I have a wet bar. By the time I got to the hotel it was past one in the morning and all I wanted was a glass of wine and to sit and watch TV. When I saw this place I was in heaven. Then I checked the fridge. Nothing. No wine, no beer, no water. Nothing.

Before I arrived at the hotel I requested that a cheese and cracker plate be left in my room for me. I knew it would be late and I'd be starving. Guess what. No cheese.

So I call Room Service.

RS: Ma'am. Room Service closed at midnight.
Me: I can't get anything? I don't need anything to be cooked.
RS:No, Ma'am.
Me: What about wine? Can I buy a bottle of wine?
RS:No, Ma'am! It's illegal to bring liquor into your room in Columbus!
Me: Okay. Thanks.

Now I go downstairs to talk to the desk people because there is no point in continuing this with her and time's a ticking.

DP:Yes Ma'am? [I swear I thought only Southerners did this.]
Me: Hi. I requested that a cheese plate be left in my room for my arrival tonight and it's not in there.
DP: I'm sorry ma'am. Let me check that for you. (Checks that for me.) Nope. There's nothing on your reservation. Did you get a confirmation?
Me: Yes. But that's okay. Can I get something now?
DP: No, Ma'am. I'm sorry. Room Service is closed.
Me: I realize that this is not your fault but I specifically requested that a cheese plate be left in my room for my arrival and I confirmed that I would be coming in late. I have just driven eleven hours straight and I was hoping to have something to eat when I got here. Isn't there anything you can do?
DP: I can get you some orange crackers with peanut butter.

Can I tell you how proud I am of myself? I did not freak out. I did not let the fact that I was hungry and cranky and sore from bouncing around in the world's crappiest rental truck.

I went back to my palatial suite, gave myself a little pep talk, drank some tap water out of one of the champagne flutes from the not-so-wet bar, and took a sauna.

I am SO growing.

You Can Hear That?

2008-04-30T17:05:00.013-04:00

For the past few weeks I've been having an almost daily nightmare about being stuck at my mother's house. The story varies but there are exclusively two plots.

Plot One:
I'm at home for a visit and am frantically trying to leave. The reason why I can't get out is the variable in this plot. Mostly the reason ends up being something to do with my legs not working. This one fucking terrifies me. I'll be running to get out of Fitzgerald and all of a sudden both of my legs will stop working from the knees down. They become so weak that I can't pick myself up to keep going.

It gives me anxiety just writing about it.

One morning after waking up from this dream, I told Erica about it. She said, "Yeah. I hate those dreams." Now, being the center of the universe, I was amazed to find out other people had my dream. I honestly thought it might be due to the fact that I have knee issues because each of my knee caps turn toward the outside of my legs. Or, maybe the fact that when I was younger I was a dancer (which is probably why I have that knee cap issue.)

When Erica said that practically everyone she ever knew had had a dream in which their legs didn't work, I felt like Zorak from Space Ghost Coast to Coast when Space Ghost yelled at him, "Shut up, Loud Eyes!" Zorak, a praying mantis whose eyes click every time he blinks, was stunned.

You can hear that?

Plot Two:I am angrily cleaning the junk out of Mom's house and can't leave until it's done.

Mom, in real life, is an uncontrollable pack rat. She has literally drawers full of mismatched socks. She can't let go of any them ... you know ... in case she ever finds the match. Of course, she never thinks to look in one of the mismatched sock drawers for the match. She's probably got over 500 pair of socks in there -- and counting.

Then there's my niece's old baby clothes. Now, I don't mean just her first dress or her first pair of shoes. I mean every onesie and every t-shirt she ever wore. Mom saves these because baby clothes are expensive and one day she might know someone who needs them. My niece V is almost twelve and I don't believe one stitch of her clothing has left that house.Of course, my sister has had several friends who could have used a nice stock of little girl clothes, and a baby bed and a baby swing and all the other crap rotting away in the back bedroom, but according to Mom, my sister's friends are trash and therefore do not deserve V's twelve-year-old onesies.

In my Plot Two dreams I dump drawer after drawer of socks into huge black garbage bags, but when I get to V's closet, I can't part with anything. Mom claims to have an emotional attachment to each piece of clothing and each toy so although I attempt to get rid of these things, I am overwhelmed with guilt and can never complete the task and therefore will never escape.

You can imagine how rested I've been lately.

Then this morning I remember a session with my therapist when she and I discussed a dream I had the night prior. She told me that in your dreams, every character is a representation of a part of yourself. And I had one of those delicious moments of clarity where I realized I'm the one holding on and in my dreams I'm trying to get myself to let go of the past. And I feel fantastic! All this Power of Now stuff finally makes sense to me and emotionally I feel better than I have in over a month.

And, people, I spent last Friday night in jail in Louisville, Kentucky.

2008-04-15T20:39:00.003-04:00

I just got home from having drinks with Dan and Patrick and I just wanted to talk about it.

First of all, Dan says my blog is too depressing for him. Which I can understand. Although we had a brief hiatus in our relationship (due to my disappearing off the face of the Earth) Dan and I are quite close and have shared a lot over the past several years. I think maybe he's too close to the story to find it funny or just interesting. I think he worries about me and that's why the blog's too much for him.

Which is the sweetest thing ever. So, even if this isn't the reason, I'm going with it.

Then, Patrick and I start having a conversation about politics. Now, Patrick is very politically involved. He is well educated on all of the candidates and he is committed to Hillary like gangbusters.

I am not any of those things. I'm not politically involved. I know nothing about the candidates other than headline stuff. I am committed to no candidate. Other than Obama, if forced to choose in a conversation, only because I heard someone say that they thought we should get some new blood into the White House who wasn't related to a Bush or a Clinton. Seems sensible to me ...

I am pathetic. I know. But really, I just don't care.

I put my energy into my immediate life. I try to attack happiness and good things on a personal level. I feel like if I'm going to make a difference, I'm going to take it bird by bird, rather than try to make a Nation-wide impact by casting a vote at PS 182 in November. Instead, like Gandhi suggested, I'm going to be the change I want to see in the world. I'm happier these days than ever. I focus on the positive things in my life. When I have arguments or when bad things happen, I've become really good at stepping back and looking at what I'm getting out of them. Rather than be bogged down in anger or bitterness, I try to figure out what I'm supposed to be learning from whatever shitty thing is going on.

Now, this is not to imply that I am all Zen and shit about this. I certainly have my moments. But they no longer have exclusive rule over my emotions. I have some control and it's nice. And in that way, I'm a happier person. And I believe that affects others around me. I mean, Erica certainly gets happiness out of it. People I work with ... you see where I'm going.

And that's where my energies go these days. I feel like my reactions to what happens to me on a personal level are things I do have control over. The government -- not so much. And honestly, I have very little faith in the media, or politicians, or anyone who has a public presence like that. Like my friend Leila, who was on a reality-based series says, "There is no reality in Reality TV."

Those big exclamations of surprise from the stars? Scripted. And if the first take isn't good, they'll re-shoot. And if producers will waste time and money on that crap to get it right ... just think about CNN.

2008-04-11T19:55:00.003-04:00

This tying your pants to your shoes thing has been going on a while. And I've thought a lot about it. It bothers me. It bothers me the same way that little tag so many of the Timberland wearers leave attached to their laces bothers me. Or that fucking size sticker on baseball caps. Seriously. What is that? Though,
I'm learning not to care so much, even if it doesn't make any sense at all.

Now. This pants-to-your-shoes thing, I get. One. You keep your pants from being stepped on in the back. Two. You let everyone see your super cool shoes. It isn't the most aesthetically pleasing fashion trend, in my opinion, but whatever.

So, sitting across from this guy with his jeans strapped to his Timbo's, I started thinking about how one would get one's pants tied to one's shoes. You know, I remember the eighties when we were into the skinny jean thing and I would have to step on my pants in order to pull my feet free from them at night. Or when my Gloria Vanderbilts were so tight that I would lie on my bed and pull the zipper up with a pair of pliers. So, I am well acquainted with the private humiliations we suffer for fashion.

But now, all I can think of is that guy sitting on his bedroom floor in his underwear and sneakers with those jeans around his ankles while he tied them to his boots this morning.

2008-04-11T19:01:00.011-04:00

Is he alive?

Shit.

I'm sitting on the train this morning and I'm next to the guy who's nodding out. (That's my shoulder in the black sweater.) There is always a seat next to that guy. And he's the test of whether you are a true New Yorker or not. I've been in the city for 10 years this year and I'm that person. I have no problem sitting next to the nodder -- a seat during rush hour is that important to me. As long as they don't smell and they don't appear to have urine stains or copious amounts of drool, I'm fine. The woman who sat on this guy's right side didn't have issues either. As we both made our way to the seats, we had that conversation that can only be held between two NYC rush hour commuters. No words -- just shoulders, eyebrows and the occasional point using the lips and the chin.

Her: Arching of one eyebrow, lip point/chin gesture in the guy's direction. (Drunk?)

Me: Shoulder shrug, twist of mouth. (No. I think, heroin.)

Her: Double eyebrow arch. (Oh. Good.)

A nodding-out heroin addict is preferable to a passed-out drunk ... less chance of spontaneous vomit.

Anyway, I sit down and as I do I'm thinking about how sad the heroin problem is and how this is so New York -- sitting next to someone completely passed out from drugs while you're just on your way to work. Then I thought ...

Blog! So I took a picture. Ok. More than one picture. (This is another sign I'm a true New Yorker ... no shame.)

Then, as I was grabbing my Sharpie and notebook, I remembered this story about a guy who died on the train and his corpse rode the Q line for six fucking hours before anyone realized he was dead. And I thought, "Oh my God. How awful would that be?"

And I also thought, "But, if he is, what a fantastic story."*

*The guy was not dead. He moved before I got to my stop.

2008-04-09T20:10:00.007-04:00

I have another book for McSweeney's/The Believer. It was in the hallway when I came in today and I didn't even hesitate. I got my mail out of the box and scooped the package right up with it.

This one is from Amazon. I feel a little more at ease about opening this one because it's from a corporation who is probably mistreating their employees and eating fresh monkey brain on their fifth trip around the world because they saw that gross guy on TV do it. Right? Fuck Amazon.

Yet. It is mail fraud. So, I'm not going to do it. However, I do want to draw on it again. And I intend to include the blog address. But, I need a new design for the blog first. Something custom and snazzy. And still kind of literarily dorky -- you know. You have to consider your audience.

The audience I'm trying to attract is the same audience who enjoys buying (or selling) cans of Justice (No Pulp) after saying the Superhero Oath to a person in a booth eight feet above their heads. ("I [state your name] also known as [state your superhero name] ...")

So, I want the design to be cool and fun, but at the same time I want it to say, "This shit is brilliant. You should totally read it." (And you should totally talk about it on your show.)

I've got to get this done quickly because my new mission in life is these envelopes. I plan to snatch, decorate, and forward every single one I see come in the building. I will write my blog name on them so many times that the McSweeney's staff will have to check it out -- if only to ask me to stop defacing their mail.

They Did It!

2008-04-08T10:19:00.003-04:00

Patrick and Dan won! Thanks so much to everyone who voted.

Check out BrettCajun's concession of the title of the Jiggiest Whore Alive and the soon-to-be True Hollywood Story confession of his dirty campaign tactics.

Patsy and Dan Need You

2008-04-07T20:00:00.001-04:00

My dear friends Patrick and Dan are in a video contest and need your votes. The contest only lasts until 8AM on Tuesday, April 8, and this guy Brett Cajun is right on their tails. Of course, the contest is on Brett Cajun's blog, so he does have home field advantage.

I promised to contact everyone I know and ask them to vote.

You don't even have to watch the video ... though it's a good time.

Just vote for "Patrick of Patsy's Words. Please.

Thanks!

Not at This Address

2008-04-04T12:32:00.010-04:00

We got another package for The Believer at the building last week. This time instead of being addressed to Heidi Julavits, it was addressed to Ed Park, the Cofounder and Editor. It was from a publishing company, so I'm guessing they were sending Ed a copy of their latest book for his review. The package sat in our foyer and after two days, I couldn't stand it any more.

I took it.

It sat in my kitchen for a couple more days. I really wanted to open it, just to see what book it was, but I didn't. (Mainly because Erica wouldn't let me.) So, I finally admitted my theft to Jay who said, "You should at least decorate the envelope." So I did. And I put the blog address on it. Then I wrote, "Not at this Address" on the front and I threw it in a mailbox.

Now, if I got the mail for Ed Park, I know I would check the blog, just for curiosity's sake. If I were Ed Park, I would probably be far too busy to check some random blog. Plus I would probably get the envelope and roll my eyes. "Not this again. I wish people would stop tagging up my mail."

I'm just hoping that whoever ends up with this envelope is not friends with people at Tumi Publishing.

"Dude. Ed just got your book and some asshole totally drew all over the envelope and plugged her blog at the same time. You should prosecute her for destruction of property or something."

Fine. You're ugly anyways.

2008-04-02T10:00:00.004-04:00

This 826NYC place I've been obsessing about lately has this great section on its website where they post stories written by their drop-in tutoring students. This is my favorite:

Hector's Girlfriend Broke Up With Him
by John, Age 10

Written during Drop-In Tutoring
May 2006, Williamsburgh Annex

Hector's girlfriend Kristen broke up with him because he had a big nose. Every time he went next to her, he pushed her with his nose. Every time he called for a drink, she always felt his saliva, because he also had a big mouth. He looked like a giraffe.

One day, she was asleep and Hector came home at 6am. He didn't like to tell her he tutored. He
did it in secret.

"What are you doing coming home at this hour!" she yelled.

"It starts with a 't,' but I can't tell you," he said.

"It's OVER," she said. "And I'm sick of you walking in with your hairy legs when my friends are here. You're always embarrassing me in front of my friends."

"This is MY HOUSE! Tell your friends to leave if they don't like it. And tell your friend Michelle to stay away. She got a mustache, so she shouldn't be talking."

"Well," said Kristen, "I'll stay with you 'cause you make a lot of money."

"Forget about that," Hector said. "I always knew that's why you liked me 'cause when you saw me I was bling blingin' but you can't get no ching ching. So Kristen, are you gonna leave me or not? Now get out to the hallway like a little cat."

"Fine. You're ugly anyways."

Kristen pretended to leave. She walked out to the living room and hid under the sofa. Hector thought she was gone. He said, "I don't know if I'm gonna go to tutoring or not. Those kids drive me crazy!"

Kristen heard him. She thought, "I'm telling him I know he works with kids." When Hector came into the living room, she got up and Hector screamed like a girl: "AHHHH!!"

"So, where do you work at?" she said. "A TUTORING CENTER??"

"In the library. All I do is help out my John John Bigalow. And John John Bigalow's under my bed!"

Then, John John Bigalow came out and she said, "AHH! He looks like a bum!" She snapped her fingers and said, "Get out of my room!"

"This ain't your room, this is MY room," said Hector. "JJB staying here. And YOU leave out my room, Kristen. Or else I'll call the cops."

He called the cops.

2008-03-30T22:37:00.004-04:00

Ok. I'm figuring out how this thing is going to work for me. Erica found an article in the Times today on blogs that are being turned into books. For serious money. From serious publishers.

This is what I want. And not because I want a book deal. Because I want to be able to get Random House to pay for my Past Life Regression session with Shala Mattingly.A session with Shala is $300. But. If I could convince Random House (or McSweeney's. I don't care) that it was necessary for my research and that it should be covered under my expenses ... how cool would that be?

Me: You know Dave. I'm really inspired to write right after a day at the Four Seasons Spa.
Dave Eggers: Susan. You are fantastic. I want you to write a lot. So, go to the spa for a week and put it on the card!
Me: Yippee!

And I will write. And I will seek therapy near and far. I don't care how many therapeutic ranches I have to be pamperd in to get my stories out, I'll do it. If it takes a million foot reflexology sessions to recall even five sentences of a story, I don't care. A hundred visits with wacky mediums and seers on Oxford Press' dime -- Bring it.

Fear of Getting Caught

2008-03-30T18:23:00.008-04:00

I got a phone call from my uncle today and seeing his name on the screen literally made me jump. Mom called yesterday and I couldn't listen to the message for hours. Certainly he's calling to see why I haven't called my mother. Or, it's some new horrific shit-storm. People in my family rarely call just to say, "What's up?"

I am 37 years old and seeing a relative's name on my phone screen freaks me out and just the idea of talking on the phone with my mother terrifies me. You know why? This blog. In so many ways, I am rebelling and defying my mother by writing all the horrific truths about our family.

But not really because thus far, Mom doesn't know about the blog. Oprah has yet to discover me (or Dave Eggers ... Did I tell you that I applied to be a volunteer at the Brooklyn Superhero Supply Co.? I did. I can already taste the wine and cheese they'll serve for my party when I'm awarded "Volunteer of the Month".)

Anyway. My mom, to my knowledge, does not know about the blog. And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared of the day that she does find it. So much so that when she called yesterday with her vague, "It's your mother. Call me sometime," message, I immediately believed that she had found the blog just like when she found that notebook the night before my senior trip to Panama City. But this time, I've gone way beyond profanity.

And I try to convince myself that it's my story. My story to tell if I want. And I try to be conscious of the line that delineates my story from Mom's story, or my sister's story. And, as I mentioned I am approaching forty. You'd think I'd be over this fear of getting caught. But the thing is, the possible repercussions for my transgressions now are way beyond being grounded for a D in English or having to miss the Aerosmith concert because I got caught drunk. Because the number one rule above all others has always been, "Never Tell."

I've joked for years that my memoir is going to be titled, "Don't Tell Mama, But ..." Every secret I ever heard from a family member started that way. And the secrets went from things like, "we got a new puppy," to "I got another DUI last night." And when each of those situations is treated with the same severity, a kid gets confused about what's okay and what isn't and you just decide everything that isn't done in a church or in front of Grandma herself is up for judgment. And the odds are, you will be judged harshly and punished by being told things like, "You have broken your mother's heart." So you lie. Then you are punished for lying. And then you are punished for pointing out that the Punisher was the one who taught you how to lie in the first place.

Thing is all of the lies are based on shame. Shame for who and what we really are as opposed to the picture we are taught to show those who don't live within our four walls. And really, I am proud of myself and I am proud of my life. I'm not ashamed of who I am anymore.

But, I'm pretty sure Mom is.

Damn You, Wheel of Fortune

2008-03-22T01:01:00.006-04:00

I'm in Las Vegas. Today I got up at 7 AM, rode in traffic for an hour with a chatty driver, then took a five hour flight to Nevada with our crew. We arrived at The Venetian, dropped our luggage off at our rooms and went down stairs to have our first meal in seven hours. Turns out, the Italian deli in The Venetian has shitty, shitty food. Then we run to a meeting, then dinner, then the shipping receiving department to rescue boxes of things we needed before they closed for the night. (The only thing in the entire town that closes.)

It's now 1:00 AM NY time and only 10:00 here in Vegas. And you know what? I am exhausted. I had a couple of glasses of wine with dinner, I smoked some pot with my new favorite floral assistant (cause she travels with pot), and I want to go to bed. And I feel guilty about it. Because I know that one quick elevator ride is all that's separating me from my beloved Wheel of Fortune quarter slot machines. How often do I get to come to Vegas? I know I'm here for work, but I feel like if I go to bed, I'm being lame, or I'm missing out on an opportunity. An opportunity to run through $50 in 10 minutes, 75 cents at a time.

This One's For You, Buddy

2008-03-21T20:34:00.000-04:00

Funerals are huge in Fitzgerald, Georgia. Next to weddings or the high school proms (One high school, two proms. One for the black kids and one for the white kids. Seriously.), funerals are the biggest social occasions in town.

Now, I bitch about Fitzgerald a lot. (Not that it's not justified. See parenthetical comment above for reference.) But, there is one thing my hometown is fantastic at -- responding in a crisis. These people who can be so full of venom when talking about a neighbor's hair or choice of car, come together and respond like no other community I've ever seen when there is a tragedy. When my grandmother died a few years ago, a church Grandma had never attended more than twice invited our entire family to have dinner in their Fellowship Hall. Women none of us knew spent their entire day cooking food and serving us and cleaning up after us. It was loving and caring and exactly what we needed. Part of that comes from being intuitively kind. Most of it comes from practice. You see, people die in Fitzgerald all the time. Personally, I attended over thirty funerals in my life. Twenty plus of those were between the ages of 15 and 20. And this is in a town that only had about 5000 residents at the time.

Fitzgerald in the 80's was a shitty, shitty place to be a teenager.

Michael Waller was the first one I remember. I wasn't there, but this is the story that circulated:

It was a Friday night and Michael was at a friend's house and he had a pistol. This isn't unusual in my home town. Most boys got their first gun for their eighth Christmas. So, the boys were drinking and for some reason, Michael shot a hole through the refrigerator. His friend naturally freaked out and Michael looked him in the eye and said, "Well, this one's for you, buddy," and he shot himself in the head. He was sixteen.

Our chorus group was on a field trip to Six Flags over Georgia when we heard the news. We had been at the park all morning and when we met for our noon check-in with the chaperones, they told us Michael had died. I don't remember the rest of that day, but I do remember the following Monday and walking into my second period history class and seeing his empty desk. Even writing about it now, twenty plus years after the fact, I get a catch in my chest remembering that desk.

Not long after Michael died, the rumors started ... the Wallers had decided to sue Ozzy Osbourne. His song Suicide Solution was being blamed for Michael's decision to shoot himself that night. Then there were the stories ... the Ozzy tape was in his truck that night. Oh, no. It wasn't Ozzy. It was INXS and the Ozzy claims were bullshit. Stories of how he had told his friends and girlfriend goodbye before that night. On and on.

Then the Tent Revival showed up. Right in the middle of the Piggly Wiggly parking lot, they erected an enormous white tent, hung crude lighting and started advertising the Revival. All were welcome and encouraged to attend. Unfortunately I didn't go, because I hear it was amazing. Most of the preaching was against rock music and drugs and they kept harping on how Ozzy was to blame for Michael's suicide and how other fans of Ozzy were in danger of becoming the next victims. Then, of course, what better way to end a tent revival than with a good old fashioned bonfire fueled by all the kids' evil records and cassettes. Teenagers -- friends of mine -- threw piles of music into the fire. AC/DC, Cinderella, Bon Jovi, Whitesnake ... all melting in the middle of town. I even heard that Billie Spears threw a bag of cocaine into the fire to prove his love for Jesus and to denounce all drugs and rock and roll.

Of course, the next week everyone was lined up at Record Fitz buying replacements for everything they burned. That's the problem with tent revival fever ... no staying power.

After Michael killed himself, the act of dying really caught on. For the next two years, 17 more friends of mine died. The majority of those people killed themselves. All but one of those suicides involved a gun. When my boyfriend killed himself, he used a rifle. I still think of him with no shoes on, forcing the trigger back with his toe. Of course, some of these people were closer to me than others, but in such a small town, you know everyone and each loss was intimately personal for me.

Not long after, Ozzy came to Albany -- the closest music venue where anyone who anyone cared about played -- and we saw Ben Mills, Fitzgerald's most prized attorney, in the stands of the civic center. In his attorney suit. Looking miserable. He was representing the Wallers against Ozzy and I suppose he was looking for evidence. Unfortunately, by this time -- 1991 -- Ozzy was already half-dead from his days with Sabbath and all he did was pace and occasionally make half-hearted swipes at his chest with his nails. No bats, no blood. Nothing.

It was all pretty disappointing.

I Told You

2008-03-19T02:27:00.004-04:00

Dave Eggers.

OoooEeeeeee. That is one smart, good hearted man.

Thanks Flea for the link.