"Someone else's heart pumping someone else's blood"

Yo tengo hombre.

2008-05-11T16:59:00.000-05:00

With luck, my year of the hermit, my 365 days of solitude, my life alone in a dark rat infested hole will come to an end very soon. I'm moving out of this roach motel and into a newly built, centrally cooled and heated complex with my former labmate Kelsey. Not only am I looking forward to leaving the unwanted many-legged and sometimes furry roommates behind, I'm looking forward to having a porch free of drunk Mexicans.

My neighbors are quite odd. Kelly is a tiny white woman in her 40's and has the voice of a squeaky dog toy. Jamie, her husband, must be at least ten years her junior and on the few occassions I've tried to have a conversation with him, I've gotten lost in a miasma of bad English and thick Hispanic accent. When he's not doing yard work, Jamie spends his time sitting on the stoop with his Hispanic friends, drinking Bud Light and singing songs in Spanish.

Upon these occassions, I feel uncomfotable. It's mostly my ignorance that brings this on. They attempt to speak with me but after three repetitions I still cannot successfully discern what is being spoken to the ignorant gringa and walk away wondering if I was being harassed or if they were just being friendly. I retreat to my cave and hope they are gone by the time I need to pull my clothes from the drier.

Today's conversation went like this:

"We okay?" one of them asks.
"What?"
"We okay?"
"Sorry?"
"We okay? Not too loud?"
"No, you're fine."
One of them sneezes several times.
"Bless you," I said.
"Que?"
"Bless you."
"Que?"
"I've gotta go."

I came back from running an errand and they were still hanging around.
"How you?"
"Pardon?"
"How you?"
"What?"
"How you?"
"No no no. Just go," another one laughs and gestures me to continue walking toward my apartment.

Yo no mas tengo paciencia por bebido hombres en mi porche. Yo tengo hambre ahora.

I ain't afraid of no ghost!

2007-07-11T15:14:00.000-05:00

"Anaeromyxo" and I were talking about ghosts. Those whispers of people we knew once ago, typically remembered as being associated with drama of some nature. Those translucent forms who've since moved on (or have been moved away from). But the thing is, they're never really gone, now are they? Two, five, ten years down the line they apparate, materialize out of thin air before you. It may be just a glimmer - a long-forgotten photo or a seldom-heard song gives shape to an old friend or enemy. Or if you're cursed, they truly appear before you, with solid edges, riding a bike in front of your car on your way to work one day.

At the time, we were discussing ghosts who may just be better vanquished and cast out. Your regular old ghouls and demons. People who just make you want to punch, kick, and scream. But what of the harmless variety, the Caspers, the Nearly-Headless Nicks? Is it really so terrible for them to stick around?

I was doing something quite monotonous after this conversation when suddenly my own friendly ghost presented himself. I was pipetting over and over again, and my mind slipped into a train of thought that dredged up the memory of my first kiss. Oh no, this was no grand flashback. No slow-motion movie scene sort of reminiscence. This was truly the most embarrassing, mortifying, crawl-into-the-fetal-position memory from my college experience (Yes, I said college! Stop laughing, it's not funny yet!) and I about fell off my chair in a fit of hilarity.

Meet my Moaning Myrtle: Chuck Muszak.

I spent the summer after my freshman year of college back in my hometown, working my very first job. I was a cashier drone at the local Giant Eagle. "Do you have any coupons today?" Beep beep. "Cash, check, or credit, ma'am?" These questions where followed by a deep, resonant "Paper or plastic?" from the end of the counter, spoken by my very own bag boy, Chuck Muszak.

Chuck was tall, blonde, and dreamy and most importantly, he liked me. Other cashiers would have pallets of groceries to be bagged, and yet there was Chuck at the end of my conveyor, bagging up Mrs. Pansington's cat food and Depends just so he could talk to me. I was smitten and he asked me out. I thought it was fate, that we'd be together forever because his favorite color was green, he had a pet turtle and his last name was my major in college (Muszak = music). But it didn't take long to know that our undying love for each other was not written in the cards.

One especially nice summer day, Chuck took me to a swimming pond that had a rope swing you could launch yourself off of into the pond. We were having a fantastic time swimming around and after, we cleared a spot in the weeds to lay in the sun to dry. It was picture-perfect, the magical essence of teenage love. One thing led to another and Chuck asked, "Can I kiss you?" I froze. I didn't know what to do. This was new territory, I had no idea what I was doing but I didn't want to disappoint. "Yes," I said.

He rolled inward and started to kiss what I imagine felt like a limp fish. After a few moments of trying to get some sort of reciprocation from me, and failing, he pulled away abruptly and said "Holy shit! Was that the first time you've ever kissed a guy?!" I could only nod, my voice betrayed me. "Holy shit! That's like... oh my god, really?" He proclaimed his disappointment and utter disbelief at my inexperience for what felt like an eternity. I was horrified and demanded to be driven home right then and there.

I must have cried for days, so stupid and silly, naive enough to think a name and a turtle had sealed our destiny together. Little did Chuck know, he'd have me in tears again, years later as this long-submerged memory drifted by and had me in stitches, nearly contaminating my phytoplankton transfer. Chuck Muszak. Those were the days!

vacation days well spent

2007-07-10T11:12:00.001-05:00

There is something about a porch swing that ceases any inclinations of further motion. The hypnotic lull of the back-and-forth erases ambitions of progress and makes work but a distant memory. No sound is as sweet as the gentle creaking of the springs, no cushion as comfy as that sun-faded, flowery polyester.

There's a southerly breeze blowing over your shoulder that smells faintly of childhood. Cool sweat drips down your glass as the ice cubes melt within. You take a sip of your iced tea and find yourself remembering the giant maple that stood in the backyard of your youthful summers, the one with the rope swing that kept slipping until the seat was an inch above the ground, the one with the stray plastic dinosaur lodged in its branches.

As the porch swing sings of its desire for a few drops of WD-40, you pick up your book. Eight hundred and seventy pages chock full of intrigue and adventure await you and you purposely overlook the fact that the intended audience is a gaggle of pimply, hormonal fifteen year olds. After all, this practically is your second childhood. You utter a prayer of gratitude into the breeze, thankful for an improved complexion this time around.

You've been rocking on that very spot for a week now, absorbing word and sun alike, interrupted but once by an afternoon spent laying on the banks of a Great Lake, where you continued your absorption of word and sun alike. Phrases of thoughts drift through the back of your mind like the waves of a distant storm rolling ashore. "There was this thing... back in that place where I live... something I had to do...." But the tide carries the driftwood all back to sea, and you wrap yourself up in a cocoon of carefree summer days. "Whatever the worries, they can wait. This is just too perfect to taint."

Birds flutter and tweet in rhythm with the swing and the potted plants dance about. They can sense that your leisure time is running out, that your departure is imminent. They mourn for your loss, but they keep it to themselves, happy to keep your stresses at bay until their powers become ineffective in time.

At last, the hour arrives to pack up your temporary world of magical idleness and trade it for one of predictable schedules and constant vigilance. The real world awaits, freedom abates. The porch swing haven must be vacated. You're hesitant. If only you could just remain here, rocking and dawdling. Or package it up and take it with you. What more could you possibly need than everything right here in this moment?

cockroaches

2007-06-26T22:24:00.001-05:00

There is a roach in my apartment. I have seen some giant, juicy, scary roaches over the course of my tenure in the South, but none so massive, oozing, and alarming as this one. It is so unnerving, in fact, I am unable to fall asleep this fine evening for fear it may creep into my room and chomp me to bits with its enormous mouth parts. I tried stomping it once and retreated in horror as my shoe could not penetrate its steely defenses, my spray could not affect its self-absorbed demeanor. I fear it is making a nest in the front room, scavenging all possible happy thoughts and fluffy laughter to use as one comfortable bed of devilry and despair. And to think, somehow it can afford the rent.

Perhaps, you've realized I am not speaking of roaches at all, but rather a cruder and recent infestation. My new roommate. I was laying here, trying to put all the AHHH-WHAT-AM-I-GOING-TO-DO, verge-of-a-panic-attack thoughts aside, when I thought, how appropriate for her to be screaming throughout the apartment at 10:30pm about a roach in the house as if it were the end of the world. How very ironic and totally freaking hilarious, in a karma's-a-bitch kind of way. I thought, "my blog would be a good outlet for this petrifying anxiety." It would be time consuming for me to start at the beginning, and so I thought, "I'll start from the now."

I went, by cover of "an errand", to check out a new apartment this evening. My dealings with said roach over the course of the past few days have not only distracted me to the point that reading is not enjoyable, but have actually driven me to investigate entirely new dwellings, void of strange creatures of any kind. The apartment was a bit of a let-down - a bit more expensive and a bit less endearing than my current situation, minus the roach. As I reflected upon this, I felt maybe I was being rash. Maybe I just need a good vacation to give me new perspective.

So I came home, went out to the kitchen for dinner and decided to talk to my new roommate. We were having a perfectly innocuous conversation about growing up in a land of snow and clouds when she suddenly got it in her head that my most pleasant and non-offensive roommate, who is fortunate enough to own a car, must take her on an errand or let her borrow his car for the purposes of the errand. An errand she was irresponsible enough to forget all about, and undone could potentially put her in jail if not accomplished by 5pm tomorrow.

I sat on my kitchen counter, distressed and offended for Nice Rooommate, as the roach proceeded to cry and swear about the injustices of the world. Nicey said no, repeatedly, as he was about to go to bed and no, it was not a matter of gas but an unexpressed matter of indecency that was so obvious to anyone not so greatly self-involved. And yet, the roach continued pushing, screaming about how she cannot afford a taxi and how she's never asked him for much.

At this point, I had to leave the room. The yelling continued until Nicey gave in. And I shed a tear for the true injustice done.

I have lived with Nicey for an entire year, and I have never asked him for anything more than if I could take his clothes out of the drier. Nor have I ever felt entitled to ask. The roach has known him for three weeks and has already forced him into ferrying her about, much to Nicey's inconvenience... twice. She has a skewed sense of entitlement that baffles my brain cells.

Suddenly I was filled with fiery anger. I was, in fact, not overreacting or being too hasty in wanting to break loose of her drama. No length of vacation could give me enough new perspective on this matter. This is my home, and as much as it has been less-than-ideal over the last year, nothing is so foul as this current fuckery. I must not mourn my failed escape plan, but rally the troops and defend the castle. Fight a sneaky and terrifying battle to win back my comfort. I realized I cannot abandon my comrade, my truly ideal roommate.

There must be a way out of this that does not involve bullets and screaming. I have not discovered it yet though. The roach is so clearly on a path of self-destruction, which if the stars align, may work in my favor. Perhaps her funds will run dry and she will be evicted, arrested, or disposed of by a mightier hand than my own. But her brand of energy is dangerous and might very well take down anything in the near proximity. And so thus my dilemma. First thing's first though - explore the possibility of a United Front defense. Surely, Nicey, after tonight, you will be on board.

you can be my court jester anytime... if you know what i mean

2007-05-21T21:26:00.000-05:00

I dropped $40 this weekend, all in the name of Dextre. What is it about this man that makes me want to rip those tights off? Is it the nomadic nature of his job? Is it his fantastic smile and amazingly tight pants? His bad jokes and homosexual innuendos I can't help but laugh at? His mustache and disposition for doing amazingly stupid stunts with explosives and chainsaws? Can't. Quite. Put. My finger. On it.

Maybe it has something to do with this...

Or this...

Dextre Tripp, it feels so wrong, but I adore thee. I would quit my life and be your roadie. If only you were to ask it of me.

sexx laws

2007-05-09T17:46:00.000-05:00

It is one of those days where I wish I had a porch to lounge about on, sipping tasty beverages until the sun goes down and the crazies come out. Maybe even a few good roommates to have a chat with. Or better yet, a porch swing. A rocking vantage point to watch my neighbor roll in on his purple motorcycle, dressed in the brightest, busiest shirt to have ever existed and will ever exist.

"Can't you hear those cavalry drums
Hijacking your equilibrium..."

Nonetheless, today is a perfect day. One of those days where I just feel as if I am glowing. The assay I run at work results in data after only two hours. The new Bryan Connell* smiles and chats me up. My iPod on shuffle finally grows a binary brain to choose all the songs I want to hear at this very moment. I find new earbuds (what a stupid word!) that actually fit in my ears... and they're pink. People in the bathroom, at the bookstore, at the market are all smiling at me, wishing me a happy day. And I am happy. Especially walking home from work.

"Midnight snacks in the mausoleum
Where the pixilated doctors moan..."

I didn't want to come inside at all upon reaching my roadside stoop, but I have things to accomplish. Little rebellious acts that make me dance on the inside. Like drink my roommate's milk while he's out of town and fart on his couch. Make a new internet dating profile for research purposes only. Eat a family-size macaroni and cheese frozen dinner, by myself, as I watch for the third time Lucy and Kevin** getting married. Masturbate in the daylight. And work on my top secret knitting project. After I wash my hands, of course.

"Carnivores in the Cowloon night
Breathing freon by the candlelight..."

I attribute my improved mental health to cosmopolitans and vacation time. Cosmopolitans, four. Vacation days, two. If you find you have worked yourself up into a giant stress ball of horror, you should take a few days and go visit a friend in a far away place. Or find a fare for fifty bucks and fly to a place you've never been. It does wonders for the skin.

"Coquettes bitch slap you so polite
Till you thank them for the tea and sympathy..."

Navigate your way through unfamiliar bus routes and subway stops. Go to an asian karaoke bar and sing until your throat bleeds and your accomplice pulls a Sarah Silverman*** by having his butt cheeks do backup vocals for Joyful, Joyful Lord We Adore Thee. Watch all three wretched Saw movies - don't let Westley**** fool you, they really are horrifically bad - and follow it up with a reminiscent viewing of The X-Files movie. Don't shower or even change your clothes for three days straight. Think about your college apartment and the stupidly fun things you did while living there, as if you were invincible. Sip mojitos on a patio decorated with Christmas lights, served by a waiter who could be Nate Fisher***** if he were a bartender instead of a funeral director. And finally, on the return trip, "accidentally" touch David Krumholtz at the airport coffee stand.

"Let the handcuffs slip off your wrists
I'll let you be my chaperone..."

It's like seeing the face of god.

*Lustful crush from the college days, infamously seared into my memory for shifting my brain chemistry, causing me to do such naive and ridiculous things as sticking my chest out to entice him to buy a candy bar and leading him on a Valentine's Day scavenger hunt despite him hardly knowing my name. Things ended badly, with tears and emo-like diary entries for months after. This is how I envision this situation panning out. Only this time around, they'll be tears of laughter and sarcastic blog entries. Just for you.
**From 7th Heaven, reruns on ABC Family.
***Toward the end of Jesus is Magic, Sarah Silverman is accompanied by both vaginal and anal harmonies on a rendition of Amazing Grace, followed by Yes's "I've Seen All Good People."
****Hero in black from The Princess Bride, played by dreamy Brit Cary Ewles.
*****Main character, Six Feet Under. For this comparison, I draw your attention to Nate's boyish charms and his impatience and general incompetence.

All this has happened before, and all of it will happen again

2007-05-01T18:31:00.000-05:00

To quote Leoben. It has, and it will. I see the patterns.

I see myself moving forward. In time, in space. I catch glimpses of my progress in a shadow on the sidewalk. I notice the changes I've gone through, they're written on my face and audible in my voice. I look at the places I've been and the fucked up shit I've had to deal with, and I remember how I've been scarred and healed by all of it. And I think for a moment, one fleeting moment, that I am walking a line, straight as an arrow. I know deep down inside that I finally am on the path that I am supposed to be following. This uphill climb to the finish line, to a place I have never been.

Then things look eerily familiar once more, and I find myself right back where I started. The line is not a line at all. It is a circle. The surroundings differ, and the circumstances evolve. But as nice a dress it can flaunt to the prom, the situation happens again.

Perhaps that is the point. You walk your circle. You own it. And each time you come back to that point, you are supposed to do it better. Handle it with more grace and patience, with the wisdom to keep on your toes.

Maybe it isn't even a circle. Or maybe you get lots of interconnecting swirling loops. Maybe one day, you get it right and your circle breaks out into a line, arcing off into space. Maybe you think you got it right, but your trajectory is off and you're shot back through a long slow curve like a satellite, catapulted by the gravitational pull of a stupid mistake you didn't even know you'd made.

Am I alone in this? Does anyone else find themselves repeating? Or am I just a circular person? (Is that a fat joke?) Am I destined to a recycled life?

I'm wide awake, it's morning

2007-04-30T23:04:00.000-05:00

It's not quite morning. But it will be before I know it. And I am most certainly wide awake. Up at midnight, composing love songs to my favorite band as if they'd run out of juice to make their own cocktails. Offering to knit them earmuffs against my bad jokes. So a whale swims into a bar... What's a girl to do, with nothing on her mind but magic boyfriends and hope for happy sleep?

Worry about another restless night. Worry about the ozone layer and crazy sea lions in the mountains and microbial soup. Worry about cancer and strokes. Pap smears. Panic attacks. That's funny, let's all worry about having another panic attack. Isn't that, by definition, a panic attack?

The sun is on its way up and I'm slouched down in my bed wondering if we'll ever make it to Libra. If an FTL drive will ever be anything less fictional than a cylon. Forget about my cozy comforter, let us discuss the edge of the universe. Worm holes. The Bermuda Triangle.

When you are a kid, you can't fall asleep. There are monsters. In the closet, under the bed, behind the door. Waiting for you to fall asleep. Eat your brains. Oh wait, those are zombies. When you are a "grown-up", there are still monsters. Only they wait for you to wake up. Steal your time, your patience, your good thoughts. Either way, those monsters keep you from sleeping.

If I prop my eyelids open, the dark will last. I won't have marathon panic dreams or tossing fits. If I'm lucky I could find an X-Files episode to watch. Mulder would be the perfect company for this lonely conversation. Mulder, his neuroses, and his red speedo. Have you seen el chupacabra? Man, I hope that's not what is waiting for me to wake up.

Tick tock. Dark time is running out. Before I know it, the vampires will have wrapped up in their luxurious Kroner coffins and I'll be treading to work with a venti cup laced with my drug of choice, avoiding glances from all directions, especially from those I know. Off to have my time stolen by monsters with bad attitudes and magical disconnecting LANs.

I'm wide awake, and I'm mourning.

Well I could have been a famous singer
If I had someone else's voice
But failures always sounded better
Let's fuck it up, boys, make some noise

Inspiration... my ass!

2007-04-26T17:06:00.000-05:00

This is for Ciara and Emily and any lurkers who were just thinking I should write more.

I recently read Chuck Palahniuk's Diary. It's about a woman who grows up white trash in a trailer park, dreaming of the life she wish she had. She doodles herself into big Victorian houses with happy trees and gardens with fountains and gazebos. She's constantly creating a world on paper that's better than her own. But then she goes to art school and meets a boy who takes her to that life and all is right in her world... only she's lost her inspiration. Years later people want sweet old Misty Marie Kleinman, queen of the slaves, to be an artist again. She refuses, and they torture her. They slip her poison pills for her headaches, they fake her daughter's death, they put her entire leg in a cast for a minor cut and lock her in an attic room with paints and canvases. Suddenly, she's inspired. The greatest artists have been tortured by life, they point out. Misfortune and misery are inspiration.

I figured out what my problem is, what sucked up my mojo. Happiness. I've been terribly happy lately, or in the least, complacent. Happiness will kick the shit out of any muse. Sitting here in my grown up world, feeling generally successful as a human being, surrounded by shiny boxes and noise makers to lull me into a peaceful coma.

BUT LIFE'S NOT FAIR. AND LIFE IS NOT A COMA.

It took some anger to get this going. Some good old frustration. Skin-scraping, knuckle-bleeding, toe-breaking (because I kicked a tree, of course) animosity. Spend a day trying to make microorganisms glow in the dark (AND FAIL), and you'll want to whip out your samurai sword, your nuclear warhead, your Jedi Chef BFG 666 Mobile Missile Launcher and do some damage, too, for frak's sake!

So what is my inspiration, why is my life so fucking unfair? Oh, I shall tell you. Besides the aforementioned fact that I am a cell staining failure, my midsection is too voluminous to be clothed by American Apparel t-shirts. Emily goes and gifts me for my twenty-sixth birthday a humorously witty shirt and I cannot be seen in public wearing it for fear I may just be mistaken for an overstuffed haggis. Apparently, to err is Human, to arr is Pirate, and to be the fat girl is Tracey.

Tis h'okay, though. Because I'm going to do something about it. Emily's pirate shirt is not the first shirt that didn't fit. (You may remember my Elijah Wood t-shirt.) Right after I finish eating my $30 worth of takeout food, I'm going to enlist Billy Blanks's help. And by "right after" I mean in a few days once my Taebo AMPED system gets here. I hope to pick up some sweet moves that even D-Qwon and Chuck Norris would be jealous of. Speaking of unfair, where are the fatties in this video? Is this shit so good that the fat just melts right off? These people are eternally trapped in the video, and they have nothing better to do than boot camp and tae bo all the time, is that why there aren't any fatties? I'm not sure if this is a good omen or a rip off.

You know what else isn't fair? My inability to attract a mate. Sure, I'm not really trying that hard, and my potbelly should have its own pen, but I'm funny. Clever. Smart. Considerate. I walk away from people I know without any notice, but I'm no ugo. But the plain Jane, funny fat girl always plays second fiddle. Wears the hand-me-downs. Drinks the dregs. DOESN'T GET LOOKED IN THE EYE. I don't need to wear makeup to be the main character in my own story, do I? Life is not fair, but I should at least get top billing in my own damn movie.

In the end, I guess what I can conclude is that looking like a sausage, retaining my fitness of zero, and failing to fluoresce will keep me writing. Like I said, life is not fair.

lost myself again

2007-04-02T21:43:00.000-05:00

lyrics from Sia's "Breathe Me"

Help, I have done it again
I have been here many times before
Hurt myself again today
And, the worst part is there's no-one else to blame

Be my friend
Hold me, wrap me up
UNFOLD me
I am small
and needy
Warm me up
And breathe me

Ouch I have lost myself again
Lost myself and I am nowhere else to be found,
Yeah I think that I might break
Lost myself again and I feel unsafe

Be my friend
Hold me, wrap me up
UNFOLD me
I am small
and needy
Warm me up
And breathe me

Ahh! I can't stop bawling, I'm such a baby! I've got this song on repeat, just going round and round. And it's just amazing how other people's creations can affect you so, so very deeply, take you to a place inside that you cannot reach yourself. Breathless and cold, you are overwhelmed with emotion. If you have a listen to this song by itself, you may not know what I'm talking about. But if you've seen the last three episodes of Six Feet Under you might.

So sad, so wonderful, so amazing that I just don't want to let it go. It's like on those rare mornings where you wake up after a particularly dramatic dream and you just want to lay there with your eyes closed and revel in it for as long as you can, wrapping tight in your blankets as if you could somehow freeze each image and every emotion, even if it was about the end of the world because honestly, sometimes, dammit, it just feels so good to feel. To feel anything, be it happiness or utter grief. It feels freeing to take off from the runway after sitting for what feels like an eternity on the tarmac. It feels fucking fantastic to drop from the cliff after being suspended for so long, even if it's just those few moments before you hit the ground and the searing pain sets in.

Don't make me wake up.

we don't say it enough

2007-04-01T23:13:00.000-05:00

I've told a friend that I've been uninspired. He asked, "How's your writing coming?" And I've told him twice now, maybe even three times, that it's not. It's not coming and I've nothing to say. To which he responded, "Write about this conversation. Write about this concert. Describe how beautiful this day is." I was going to try, but then I was inspired by something else. I won't reveal my muse, but I wanted to say this:

We don't say it enough. And by it, I mean whatever important thing it is to you. Fuck that, actually. Fuck talking. We don't DO it enough. All the things you want to do, all the things you wish you did, all the things you've ever felt important and meaningful, go do them. Do them now before the opportunities pass you by. They could be gone in a heartbeat. Flatliners. Bermuda Triangulated.

Sometimes you can get so caught up in the little things. The hot water heater is broken. My freaking knitting project looks like the sheep threw up. I'm fairly certain my rent check will bounce. Screw it. Forget it all, it'll all be fine. The question is "Are you the person you want to be?" If something uncontrollable happened to you tomorrow that changed everything, would you look back somewhere down the road and regret your actions. Or lack of actions. We can think and dream and hope and pray all we want. Most of the time, it's the only way we can manage to make it through the day.

And by "we", I mean "me." I don't do enough. I don't call enough. I don't know enough. I don't live enough.

This isn't a lecture for the masses. This is for me. A reminder. In case of the apocalypse, this is my bomb shelter. My immunization. My break glass in case of emergency. And behind that glass lies a note:

"This is your life. Do you have any regrets?"

a little lesson

2007-03-02T09:48:00.000-05:00

Being from PA, I'm accustomed to refering to things as abbreviations. I am 95% confident I could tell you what the state abbreviations are, each represted by two letters. There is also a good chance I could guess what airport you're at, each represented by three letters.

AL = Alabama
ATL = Atlanta

If you happened to be wondering, I'm alive and well. Not this tornado nor this tornado took me out.

Ibuprofen, a half slice of bread, and a glass of water

2007-02-28T09:58:00.000-05:00

I took the Wacky Welshman's advice and "mixed it up" a bit. I bought a hat. I listened to Hanson. I decided not to take in the stray kitten, but I have been thinking about a new tattoo. And then I went drinking. Because March is the month for puking and I thought I'd start early.

My friend successfully became a Ph.D. candidate and to celebrate, we went for margaritas. I put down four and promptly had thoughts of leaning over the wall of the restaurant patio and horking massive amounts of sugar and tequila all over someone's windshield. Despite that, it was a fun time. Drinking made me happy, which I found surprising.

In college, I knew all kinds of drunks. Reid screamed a lot. Aaron put his butt on people. Ben liked to poke people inappropriately with tongs. Stacey perpetually amazed her company by deep throating all sorts of empty bottles. Stanton got blow jobs in the bathroom and said shit like "I'd complain but no one would listen."

And me, I cried. If there was a party and it had booze, I was in the corner crying, hoping that anyone would notice. I was the most pathetic drunk. And I assumed that's how it was, that I was born with the "Please please please love me back" Drunk gene. I have come to discover that I wasn't. Somewhere in my genomics, there may be the makings of an alcoholic, but there is not a "Please just talk to me or I will ball my eyes out" gene.

These days, whilst partaking of the tasty beverages, I am chatty. I lose my social filters and all those words just comes oozing out. For instance, my key phrase from my last outing was "Guess you should have answered that phone call," which was my response to Emily's friend of the male persuasion showing up uninvited after she didn't answer his phone call.

At this point in my life booze brings happiness. Especially when I can wake up the next morning and not have a hangover. Last time I went drinking on a Tuesday, I had a hangover that lasted an entire day, I nearly threw up on public transportation, and it resulted in one of the worst dates of all time. You may remember this guy - he wanted to touch my stomach and sign me up for a credit card.

So lion it up, March. I'm ready. For you and your booze. I've got a new hangover cure.

There's nothing like the smell of spring and the LoveSounds of Justin Timberlake in the morning: Vignettes of a crazy person.

2007-02-26T14:02:00.000-05:00

I get very bored on my walks to work in the morning. It is the same broken sidewalk, the same lanky sweater-wearing dogs, the same Volvo for sale over and over again. So occasionally I mix it up with a soundtrack of songs not listened to frequently. I went through a period where I listened to Hanson and laughed the whole way, thinking, if today is the day I get hit by a car, will the paramedic look over my mangled body and notice my iPod beating with those delightful teenyboppers-turned-indie-poppers and laugh his ass off? Today, however, I rebelled against a Monday morning by listening to Justin Timberlake, which surprisingly inspired, along with hip gyrating, a healthy bout of laughter. The woman who walks the freak dogs must think I'm a lunatic.

Seldom but sometimes, I unwillingly run into a familiar face. If I catch Christopher, it's at the corner of Peachtree and Fifth, wearing the typical black t-shirt and headphones. He smiled at me today and pulled off his closest headphone, so I reciprocated the gesture. Out of curiosity, since I was still amused by my own music choice, I inquired as to his. U2. Of course, I could not hold my tongue, and shouted "Mine's embarrassing!" He was in full-fledged agreement with that. The thing I enjoy most about running into Christopher is that these encounters are always peppered with interjections of "it's too early" and so I have come to know that either he knows that I hate abhorrent morning small talk or that he too hates abhorrent morning small talk. It wasn't long before he saved both of us and ducked into the bookstore, only after a considerate parting of ways.

At work, I was faced with a loss of power. My least-favorite-person-turned-semihero trained the Chinese post doc how to use the demon machine. It took so long before I gained control over it, I even went through the process of naming it, and then I watched my glory vanish in minutes, very much like the infamous Surface. Not really. Despite my anxiety and jealousy of being ousted, shown most obviously through nail biting, I knew I was being utterly irrational. I don't even need Black Jack at the moment. Not to mention, I've been blithering on about my philosophy regarding jobs: A job is a job and it's going to suck no matter what so I might as well put my energy toward things non-job related, i.e. knitting. I remembered this mantra and went back to my nails. Everybody wants some sort of power.

Around lunchtime, I ran into another character, the Wacky Welshman. I call him so because his most endearing quality is a similar social awkwardness to my own. In a rush he was telling me about his missing money and his broken car and then he was gone. He later found me in the copy room, and apologized for being rude. "You alright?" Sure, I said, just bored. "Well you should think of ways to mix it up." Good thought. And yet how? I could go to the chiropractor on Tuesday instead of Monday. I could go with the default of dying my hair. I could get another tattoo. I could apply for a job in Bermuda. Maybe I'll just buy a hat. And listen to Hanson.

Where the lord split her

2007-02-20T22:20:00.000-05:00

A secret about me: I was a fangirl. Am returning to fangirldom. Am a fangirl.

I haven't been a fangirl for nearly two years. I (stupidly) tried to grow up when I moved to Atlanta. Either that, or the lack of internet prevented the propagation of such a commitment. I moaned a bit here and there about how fun it was, how I missed it, but overall I thought my life was decent without it.

THAT WAS A LIE!

I spent the past few ~~hours~~ minutes, perusing through Firefly stuff and oh my gods, I am the biggest nerd! My previous fandom of choice was Lord of the Rings. But I have moved on. The world has moved on. I apologize Elijah Wood, but I am moving on. Like I said, to Firefly. If only Nathan Fillion was flicking ME off....

I am going to admit something else, and I can hear the groans already, but is there anyone out there wanting to go to Dragon Con? I was ignorant of the fact that Alan Tudyk was here five months ago. In my city. Steve the Pirate. That guy from A Knight's Tale who isn't the fat one or Paul Bettany or Jack Twist's lover. WASH. But I will be ignorant no more. Coming this year: Neville Longbottom, Fred and George Weasley, and Lee Odama and Starbuck from Battlestar Galactica. And dammit, I want to go.

You are reading this and thinking "...And she wonders why her life is so lonely..." But this is not the reason why, I tell you. Because something I've learned is that everyone has there little strange obsessions. Things they'd rather die than admit they not only like, but love love love. And then there's me, spouting it off for the whole world to read. I don't care, I tell you. I WANT TO GO TO DRAGON CON.

Sometimes I'm a bitch for absolutely no reason

2007-02-19T22:47:00.000-05:00

I have come to terms with the fact that I am neurotic. Once a month. (The sole man who may or may not read this may want to avert his eyes now.)

There was this episode of Grey's Anatomy - not the one where Meredith turned an unnatural shade of blue or the one(s) where ten thousand different people slept with a McDoctor - but the one where there was this girl with extreme scoliosis who was a huge bitch, which I can relate to because she was in a lot of pain. Well, I can understand. After all, I still walk upright. Somewhat. My point is, however, that this girl finally gave Izzy a break and apologized. And Izzy said "It's okay, sometimes I'm a bitch for no reason at all."

There was something about that statement that rang true. I'll confess my bitchiness to just about anyone who doesn't avoid my eye contact. But I've discovered that there is an extra bitchiness associated with my period. ("Oh god, she's said it!" I told you to look away!) Last week, I was absolutely miserable. I was swearing at absolutely everything - the weather, the newest couple, my bed, my roommates, the weather again, the future, my lack of male attention, my job, everything everything everything. I was figuring that either, one, someone needed to admit me to a nice padded room, or two, it was just about that time again. That time when I move along down the road because I am just so goddamn bored with my life....

BUT I'M NOT. Of all days, today, a Monday, was quite delightful. Work was less than irritating. I went grocery shopping, and I cooked the best damn meatloaf dinner I've ever made myself, accompanied by some delicious wine. I held a perfectly civil conversation with my tight-panted roommate. I was only a few stitches away from finishing my knitted sock. Generally, the world was a grand place. And I realized what my problem was - hormones. Even outside of work, I cannot escape the wonders of chemical signaling.

I don't know what the solution is. I remember seeing an ad for some drug to help with some "terrible" form of PMS... and I remember laughing at the new condition the drug companies came up with to sell another pill. But maybe they weren't lying. Maybe I need some of those pills. Regardless, if you see me near a ledge or catch me with a sharp object, maybe you could just give me a simple reminder that in a week my life will go back to low-level hormone normalcy.

This Altar is For You

2007-02-13T00:16:00.000-05:00

I'm conjuring up a story or two regarding my trip to New Mexico, but in the mean time, I leave you with my spiritual essence.

The sign says:

Fellow Travelers
This altar is for you
- here -
- now -
You are invited to offer blessing with a token of your own spiritual essence.

We came across this altar at the peak of a mountain (large hill, perhaps?). It is mostly made of rocks. But there was a hat and a shirt. I would have left Dunk (I didn't!), but he only popped out for a photo. What I did leave though, on the sign you can see it, was the photo of JD and Turk that had been living in my wallet. My Spiritual Essence: A Scrubs reference.

je ne veux pas travailler

2007-02-02T21:35:00.000-05:00

My current mood can best be described by my French title, also the Pink Martini song "Sympathique". It says "I don't want to work." And very little work I did today. I am ashamed... a little... not really. My accomplishments include:

I took the elevator down to the bottom floor in search of a new liquid nitrogen tank. Twice. The first time with the empty tank. Both times yielded no new tank. (Reminder: We transport the tank in the elevator, not on the stairs!)
I went to the chiropractor. On my journey, I saw something of interest, but I will get to that later, as it does not fall under the category "accomplishments".
I explained how it it possible to knit a sock where one side is longer than the other.
I trimmed the extra six inches off the side of the poster I am presenting in New Mexico.
I read through the conference program for New Mexico and came to the conclusion that I will be ~~paying attention during two talks then knitting during a bunch of others~~ learning lots of science.
I searched the internet for more blogs and discovered My Boyfriend is a Twat, which I find amusing mostly because she refers to her boyfriend only ever as The Twat.
I moved some papers about to make it look like I was working.
I snickered to myself when I, for the first time in months, crossed paths with the dreamt-about male coworker previously mentioned.
And finally and ironically, I typed up a task list for my undergrad to complete while I am ~~not working on vacation~~ learning lots of science in New Mexico.

So back to what I saw of interest...

Prior to this encounter I am about to elaborate on, there was a conversation about fashion. Apparently, flat boots with pants tucked inside the boots is in. If you are still playing the matchy-match game, you are out. So very out. Although none of the discussionists are terribly trendy people, the thought was to stay just enough aware of the trends as to not stick out terribly - no one likes a sore thumb.

I am now left wondering if I should not pay a bit more attention, where I should direct my attention, and even perhaps if I should try to go so far as to predict the next trend so that I can stay ahead of the game for once.

My question is, will the comb over be the next big fad? Because this is what I saw today. I am not talking here, people, about the old man, I am in denial about my balding comb over. I am talking about the full head of hair comb over. I rock the side part, but why not take it to the next level and actually part my hair on the side of my head. Because nothing says sexy like a full head of hair, parted one inch above your ear, gelled and locked in one beautiful comb over. I am hot just thinking about it.

Well huzzah, huzzah. I'll just throw back my legs and pollute my britches with delight.

2007-01-31T19:22:00.000-05:00

I find it amusing, after I've posted a whole bunch of JU-hu-uNK, that I started this blog so I would force myself to write. Yet here I am posting three successive posts of things to waste my time with. I should write. But what? I (lamely) found this site of writing prompts, which include:

Write a 24-line poem as if you were a pirate searching for buried treasure. Unfortunately, the treasure wasn't exactly what you expected. Somewhere in your poem you must use the line: But inside the chest was (fill in the blank).

Seriously?! But inside the chest was a giant steaming cup of coffee and a donut. A chocolate glazed cake donut. Who knew all I really needed to diminish my lust for treasure was a sinfully delicious breakfast. Or... but inside the chest was a half pack of Marlboros and three nickels. Some asshole spent all the gold on cigarettes and didn't have the decency to leave a whole pack. Or... but inside the chest was another chest in another chest in another chest that held twenty five half-naked pictures of a 17-year-old. (By the way, the same evil mother who continues to be quoted about not letting her child see another Harry Potter movie is an utter spaz. Clearly the creepy allusions of the Moaning Myrtle bathtub scene went right over this woman's head. Give the kid a break, stupid people!)

Beyond my unexplained anger problem of a few days ago, nothing too exciting has been happening. I am quite boring, really. I found myself on the phone apologizing for my utter lack of news to report on. "That's okay," replied the other end, "I don't hold you to a minimum standard of entertainment." But when it goes so far as I am finding myself stale, what do I do? Because if I were bread, I'd be tossing myself in the trash right about now.

When my mother called and I told her I was knitting a sock, the most entertaining event of that particular day, she responded with laughter and accusations of me being pathetic. Although this may be true, one, I am not sitting here knitting socks for myself or my imaginary cat, they are for someone else who is neither imaginary nor feline, and two, I am also not putting together a jigsaw puzzle I cannot even see because my eyesight is failing because I am an old old woman, mother!

It's true though, the most exciting things I've got going for me are my socks, a new season of Jack Bauer, and a not-even-quite-a-sex dream about a male co-worker. And I have purchased a book entitled Yarn Harlot, which comes recommended, so I will have that to report on. Oh, and I'm currently devising a plot to document for my lurkers the wonder that is my roommate cycling in tight shorts in the middle of the living room. Exciting stuff, I know you are enthralled.

In all truthfulness, I am lying. I leave town Sunday for an all-expenses-paid-ala-your-good-tax-money-for-science trip to New Mexico. I haven't had the chance to be interesting in the past week because I've been too preoccupied with my presentation (that was raped mercilessly with red ink this very morning by the boss lady, but is now quite stunning if I may say so) and thoughts of ~~hiking, photographing the desert, eating at restaurants for a week, biking around Santa Fe~~ learning about the fantastic current science that is going on in the world out there. It will be nice to get away. If nothing else, I'm hoping the man who only wears skirts will be at this conference to provide me with a weeks worth of amusement.

5 damn-favorite web animations of all time

2007-01-30T22:31:00.000-05:00

Five. Potter Puppet Pals. There are two cartoons. One where Snape gets bothered and Dumbledore gets naked. And another where Voldemort meets the death squad and Dumbledore gets naked.

Four. Marzipan's Answering Machine v12.2. It's not that I have a goat's head for a face or that my head is a goat's head. Like my face is an entire goat.

Three. The End of the World. Damn, that is a sweet Earth you might say. Shit shit, who the fuck is shooting us?! Maybe you should take a nap... then fire the missiles!!!

Two. Badger Badger Badger and its many derivatives, including: Footy Footy Footy, which I enjoy primarily because of the labels for the UK, like ninjas and lasers and gold; Bananaphone, because who doesn't want to sing along to the Bananaphone song?!; and Potter Potter Potter, because, although there are no badgers, there is a Snape... in a dress.

One. Rejected is actually hard to find. It never seems to be in one place for more than ten minutes, always taken down for copyright reasons. But if you can ever find it, it's hilarious. So hilarious it makes my anus bleed.

the best (and worst) idea I've ever seen

2007-01-30T22:13:00.000-05:00

I got this in an email called "new redneck theme park ride."

Smeagol wants one.

In honor of the poster-palooza I'm going to next week...

2007-01-30T20:13:00.000-05:00

...I give you picture-palooza! Not really "in honor of." Mostly I just wanted to say palooza. Three times.

Winter In Pennsylvania:

Courtesy of brother #1.

Courtesy of me mum.

Winter In Atlanta:

Notice the utter contrast - lots of snow versus no snow, no sun vs lots of sun. Don't mistake me, I am not happy about this. I miss snow.

Things I Made:

I finished the marathon scarf.

The other day I burnt rice.
Today I am goddess of the macaroni and cheese.

While I'm at it, the baby blanket I finished back in October.

My latest phytoplankton mural.
Weak, yes. But after all, not many can survive in the snow.

Oh yes, I did! I made this map of my favorite phytoplankton and where they came from, just for fun, of course!

They look like this:

A Bad Idea:

This is to illustrate why it is a bad idea to use an OPENED bag of peas as an ice pack. And yes, I ate those peas for dinner. If you don't hear from me ever again, you'll know that I caught a disease from the peas on my bed.

This concludes the picture-palooza. Please enjoy the coffee and other delicious refreshments you can find at tonight's mixer.

The Internet Is For Porn...

2007-01-28T23:58:00.000-05:00

...and scavenger hunts! Did you know your mom's on the internet? Come help us find her!

Is this your mom? I hear she goes to college.

sometimes I do too

2007-01-27T10:27:00.000-05:00

I love PostSecret. I especially love it when Frank publishes secrets that don't make me want to slash my wrists along with the artist. Like the one a couple months ago that said "I'm a lesbian, but I'd do Jack Bauer in a heartbeat." That I can relate to. Sort of. The latter part of that statement, I mean. And the one above (my one image to link you to the website).

My mom LOVES action movies about destruction, especially if it's about weather. These are the kind of movies we watch together. And secretly, I like them too. Because I've always wondered, if the world was to end - be it by super storm, unbeatable plague, or alien invasion - would I survive? Would I have the guts and brains to keep myself alive? If I knew I could stop New York City from being nuked by stealing a sword from the Met, would I do it? I wonder....

My Dearest James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser -

2007-01-26T16:32:00.000-05:00

My friend, never fear. Your assistance is not needed (though your willingness appreciated) in the matter of the hostilities against me. I have found a warrior more than fit for slaying this beast. As always...

Your humble servant,
Beag Air Bheag

My barbaric and loathsome work machine, the dreaded LC-MS, is no match for Highland warrior Dunk MacKenzie, whom is about to deliver a fatal blow.

Liquid Chromatography-schmography. Mass Spectrometry-schmometry. More like "Lucifer Consumes My Soul." Little by little. I dub thee, you bastard LC-MS, Black Jack Randall. Why? Because you are the enemy and you would like nothing better than to fuck me up the ass.

The Rock Lobster, my genius laboratorian counterpart at the university downtown, and I were discussing our respective assy lab machines and our shared work-related angst and we have decided we shall get said machines into the same room, blow said equipment up (thus literally blowing tens of thousands of dollars - I actually realized I could come up with the money to buy a condo before I could find enough to purchase my very own Black Jack), but we wouldn't run away. We would stand there, exploding in the glory of it all in a suicide pact to, one, off ourselves before anything else could and, two, rid the world of such offenses as acronymed instrumentation.

Addendum: No acronymed instrumentation or Domokuns were harmed in the making of this post.

Bastard coated bastards with bastard filling.

2007-01-25T11:40:00.000-05:00

I am about to start on my third cup of coffee and it's only 11:40am. I need this third cup for comfort. Things are not going my way. Last week, the gods were on my side. This week, they've very obviously forsaken me. The machine I use at work, after several weeks of error-free operations, is on the fritz again. Not to mention, I have been fucking up the simplest of tasks and crapping all over experiments. My roommate has been driving me up a wall, or more accurately, into the seclusion of my room. I talked myself into going to a party alone, then at the last minute chickened out like the loner loser I am, but not until AFTER I walked by the giant window between their fun and my shame. My face has suddenly refused to stop cultivating giant puss volcanoes. And most annoyingly, I spent my Christmas money to go to the chiropractor twice a week for a month and yet my neck feels just as twisted and contorted as it does when I don't go at all. So yes, I am going to drink this third cup of coffee. Coffee never lets me down, oh tried and true friend of mine it is!

Oh my god, what the fuck did I just put in my mouth?! This coffee is awful. Sludge in a cup. Burnt sludge with creamer in an attempt to cover up the sludginess. Maybe I should just off myself before something else gets the chance.

I compiled a soundtrack for days like these, days where every little thing is a purposeful ploy to ruin your day, appropriately titled "I Hate Everything." I made it for a friend, who then recommended it back to me, saying "It really helps. My day is shitty and then I listen to it and I feel better." So I have been listening to the soundtrack-o-hate, perhaps a bit too much. Because, much like caffeine, I've built up resistance to its magical powers.

So here I am. Coffee has abandoned me and my hate music has betrayed me. I am left with nothing but anger. Pure, bubbling, vehement, white hot anger. I've been having a Dr. Cox-like problem with that lately. (First let me take a moment to enjoy the fact that, not only IS Dr. Cox on wikipedia, but if you google "Dr. Cox", the wikipedia entry is the first item you get. AAAAAHAHA!!) It's there, constantly, just under the surface, lurking until something trivial causes it to erupt, much like my face. Maybe I should start drinking lots of scotch, telling people they're going to die, and calling all the ladies by men's names (because I don't know any boys - eww grody!). I REE-hee-HEE-hee-HEALLY think that just might make my day a bit brighter, Charlotte!

PSSST! The Rock Lobster and I are totally playing internet scavenger hunt here. Come join!

PSSST PSSST! For more hilarious catball and clowngirl comics, go here.

Dad-Grandma-Fish

2007-01-24T20:21:00.000-05:00

I cannot for the life of me put together a coherent story, and so I leave you with this (because it makes me happy):

LONG LIVE THE PAISLEY LADY.

A jumbo/LARGE from back in the day when onelostmoth and I played internet scavenger hunts. Oh yes, at the Billy Boyd Board.

And now I leave you. For my knitting. Because that is the only thing I can muster enough brain power for.

my life on a croft

2007-01-18T22:37:00.000-05:00

There was nothing wrong with today. In fact, today was a perfectly good day as far as days go. I didn't sleep in, but I took my time getting to work. I ate my breakfast, checked my email, listened to the weather channel read from their book of silly weather puns. I was in a good mood even though Heather Tesch was "keeping a close watch on the freezing rain in downtown Atlanta." At work, I did everything I had set out to do. And when I stopped at the market on my way home, my grocery bill was ninety-three cents under budget. Yet I couldn't help but be overwhelmed by this feeling that I have been misplaced.

I went through this period of unrest not too long ago, during which I simply could not think of a single thing that didn't sound entirely pointless. Science? Pointless. Relationships? Pointless. Even TV was starting to feel pointless. I was walking down a very dark road, you see. I have since snapped out of my disquietude, thanks to nothing in particular, but the other day my friend described to me a future for herself that sounded every bit as pointed as I could ever wish a plan to be. It wasn't my dream, but it was the first thing I'd heard in months that I could say, "That's it, I want to do THAT!"

My friend was going to acquire a sheep and llama farm. She would have sheep and llamas that would never be killed, only hugged and sheered, and then she'd turn their hair into yarn and sell it. Happy sheep. Happy llamas. Happy yarn. I hardly gave her a chance to finish her plan before I was begging her for a job. Would I drop everything to go live on a farm and hug llamas? Heck yes, I would!

Then yesterday, I happened upon this , a photo journal on the BBC website about life on a croft. For anyone unawares, crofting came about around the turn of the 19th century as a result of the Highland Clearances in Scotland. Tenants on clan land were no longer needed for clan armies, as they were outlawed by the Crown, and were no longer as profitable as sheep. Many emigrated, but those who did not, took up small plots of farm land (crofts) near the coast. Crofting communities still exist.

After looking through this photo journal, I've decided I am a misplaced farmer in a scientific world. On a day-to-day basis I see such things as this:

A toolbox workshop? And a "no no nano" seminar? This is not me, this is not my thing. What do I want to see? This. Every day.

So all day today, I was on that croft. Looking out over the sea as I fed my sheep. Sitting by the peat fire, learning how to spin wool from Grannie as she told tales in Gaelic. Collecting seaweed from the shore to fertilize the garden. I'm wondering, can one get a 'job' on a croft? If I said "Hey, need help for three months? Got a bed?" would anyone take me up on it?

It's nice to dream about a life like that. It would be inappropriate to call it a simple life. Perhaps less complicated would be more apropos. Perhaps not, what do I know. It has a similar romantic draw to it as life as a lighthouse keeper - something that not many people do or have the fortitude to do. On perfectly good days like today, it just seems more worth it than what I'm doing.

The Dead Zone (CMT Part Two)

2007-01-17T19:27:00.000-05:00

Here I am, I've hit rock bottom in the dating game. I am filling out a profile for an internet dating website.

"Question #5: What is your favorite color?"

If I answer wrong will I be thrown off a bridge? Too bad I'm not watching Monty Python. It might be a better use of my time. Speaking of, I wonder if John Cleese is available. He's British. He's funny. And I'm just going to pretend he isn't old enough to be my grandfather. I bet we'd have a fantastic time together. I bet John Cleese doesn't need internet dating.

John, my favorite color is lilac, I love short walks on the beach, and I yearn for you tragically. Take me now.

There. Case closed. Me and John Cleese live happily ever after. For the entire two years left of his life.

Okay, okay. I am just finding this very difficult to take seriously knowing it's going to fail. I've heard stories. Bad ones. Then again, I've heard bad regular dating stories too. I need to remind myself why I'm doing this in the first place, to get myself in a positive mindset for creating a profile.

May I present exhibit number one. Derek.

I met Derek at a party. Or rather, Derek met me. I wasn't my vibrant and witty self that night and ended up standing in a corner alone, sipping my fourth vodka with a splash of orange juice, when Derek saved me from my heated debate with the empty Doritos bowl. He talked and talked. And I laughed, occasionally said something incoherent, and laughed some more. Next thing I know, he's picking me up for dinner. Sober, with no Doritos as distraction, I realized all the guy did was talk. And talk. And TALK. Not only could I not get but a word in here and there, Derek was under the impression I was interested in dairy cows.

Something you should know about me is that I'm a kidder. Why ruin a good story with the truth, eh? But when I say Derek spent thirty minutes describing the inner workings of life on a dairy farm, I am not joking. I humored him for about ten of those precious wasted minutes. I got bored around fifteen and started breaking knots I'd tied in my straw wrapper and imagined all the people I'd rather have thinking of me than my present company. After seventeen I had acquiesced to the idea that he would never stop and decided to see just. How. Long. HE'D. GO.... It was as if he had left the farm for the first time in his life and I was the first encountered life form that could not be milked.

Maybe I should have another go at those questions.

"Question #47: What is more important to you in a mate? Good hygiene, financial stability, sense of humor, or spontaneity?"

I have to choose? But I want all of those. Especially teeth. I suppose it'll be sense of humor. If he can't make me laugh, I don't care how pearly his whites are.

Exhibit number two. Pete.

Pete was Janet's new roommate. Her third roommate since her divorce - she kept having to relocate to hide from Evan, who had taken up a serious career in stalking. Pete on the other hand seemed to be a nice enough guy. I had met him a few times before Janet informed me he had been asking about me. It was in that moment that Janet had the brilliant idea of setting us up.

One night, Janet cooked dinner for the three of us. We were all sitting indian-style about the coffee table, when I started telling a joke, in hopes of steering the evening away from the inappropriate topic of the failure of Janet's marriage....

"So a whale swims into an underwater bar, right, and the bartender asks, 'What'll it be, guy?' and the whale says 'OOOOOOOooooooooooAAAAAAAAAA
uuuuuuUUUUUUUUUUUUUiiiiiiiiiiIIIIIIIII'..."

Just after I paused for an exaggerated breath before resuming my whale moaning, Janet busted up laughing, thus launching a substantial bite of chicken panang she had been chewing in a projectile path at Pete's face. Not only was Pete not amused by my hilarious whale joke, he was so repulsed by Janet's masticated food hanging from his face, he stormed away from the table in a huff, muttering under his breath as he picked rice grains off his face. He went straight into his room, slammed the door, and was not seen for the rest of the evening. Clearly, Pete and I were not reading the same funny pages.

"Question #206: Describe, in 200 words or less, your perfect mate."

How about three: Not this guy.

Exhibit number three. Shawn.

Shawn was a friend of a friend of a friend whom I honestly thought could be the mythical 'one'. For three months we had a fantastic time hanging out. He had the same personality, same sense of humor, same taste in music as me. Then it dawned on me as I was finally about to lean in to kiss him after one particularly entertaining dinner date, perhaps we also had the same taste in men. Because no matter how many obvious signals I tossed his way, he was utterly impervious. He would however make random Golden Girls references. I had polled the last of my friends, all unanimously agreeing Shawn was gay, when I got a call from him. "Hey, I was wondering if you wanted to go to a concert this Friday... with me and my girlfriend." I told him I had plans. For the next two years. John Cleese wasn't getting any younger.

Man, I do need help. Here am I, Cassandra Maxine Twitty, admitting that I need help. Okay, Online Dating, I'm taking a chance on you. I am whole-heartedly surrendering to your whoring potentials. Do me good. I'm pressing the "submit profile" button now....

"Meet-a-Mate found no matches within the 100-mile area you specified."

WHAT?!? After spending three hours answering questions about nearly everything short of when I was potty trained and how often I pick my nose, I get nothing?! Oh cruel, cruel world, how you mock me!

Carrrrrrrbridge

2007-01-16T22:31:00.000-05:00

There exists a place in Scotland that goes by the name of Carrbridge. You never would have guessed it, but it is thusly named for a bridge. It's a very old and stony bridge, next to the much newer functional concrete bridge. The other day, my friend informed me this happened:

I'm hoping it's still standing. I like that bridge. I liked it so much when I was there, I took many many pictures of it. None so exciting as the one above, which I hacked from here.

My friend and I spent a lot of time in the river, with our camera equipment. I can hardly call my camera "equipment" but my friend had his tripod on the rocks capturing elapsed time shots of the river. I was jealous. I wonder how those shots turned out....

I was in Carrbridge in the fall, and the colors where fantastic. I like this shot a lot. It reminds me how peaceful and still Carrbridge was.

It's as if the sun is setting inside the house.

I'm a knitter, it's true!

2007-01-15T16:24:00.000-05:00

From one knitter to another... and then on to you.

What Not To Knit.

Peruse through their archives and find such awesomeness as this and this and THIS! AAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!

I never thought knitting could cause such anger. So many swear words, so many fugly projects. Absolutely hysterical.

How big is it? HOW BIG IS IT?!

2007-01-15T10:05:00.000-05:00

"It's just funny when things are really big."

comet mcNOT

2007-01-14T23:07:00.000-05:00

I tried to get shots of Comet McNaught the other night and had no luck.

Sunset over Atlanta.

The idiot's comet.

The comet was supposed to be brighter than Venus. But I found venus, and still no comet.

Skyline.

The only half-decent shot I got.

maybe you should get a venereal disease

2007-01-10T12:44:00.000-05:00

This morning proved to be nothing short of craptastic. The worst bit is that I saw it coming. I knew the moment I got out of bed, I shouldn't have. It would be one of those days where deciding what to wear and putting on my shoes would be every bit a struggle as trying to joke with the Chinese guy I work with.

As I mentioned before, I walk to work. It was freezing this morning, so when I got near work, I decided to pick up the bus that takes me the last bit of the way to my building. Much like my decision to get out of bed, I knew this was a bad choice from the moment I began to wait for the next bus. I had a feeling I was going to have to wait longer than it would to walk the rest of the way. But it was too late to walk, because the second I left that stop, the bus would pull up and pass me. So I waited, I would not be defeated.

Only I was, because there were nine thousand hundred gazillion people on the bus. I thought I would be smart to be the first one on. Oh no, because nine thousand hundred gazillion more people got on after me. Thus me, crammed in the middle, my breasts in someone's face fortunate to get a seat and someone else's elbow crammed into my back. The second I got to my stop and made a move toward the door, the girl whose elbow had been so pleasantly wedged between my twelfth and thirteenth ribs (Yes, I am a freak of nature. Most humans only have twelve.) said to me in quite a snotty tone, "Oh, you're leaving? Thank God!" as if I were the reason she was packed in like cattle off to be slaughtered.

Like I said, I was having a shitty morning. Then I get to work and I am pelted with the gnawed bit of a carrot top as I'm enjoying a peaceful moment in my own office. The culprit was, of course, the only one you could suspect in such an instance - the goofball who works on my hall. One might normally be annoyed by being pelted by a masticated hunk of rubbish, but after my morning, it only made me laugh. It's hard to get pissed at a guy with such a devilish smile. Also, I chucked it back at him and did not miss.

This got me thinking about all the other random crap he's pulled...

At least once a week, he's in my office asking if I have any pretzels. More than once, I've been standing at the elevator, only to have my knee kicked from behind. One day, he called me a chuman, and another, he randomly told me I should get gonorrhea... the giant microbe.

My all-time favorite run in with him is, hands down, the day I went to talk to my boss and her and I met outside his office. My boss and I were conversing for a minute or so before I noticed her staring in horror at my chest. I thought for a second I'd had a wardrobe malfunction until I heard a snicker coming from the goofball's office. He had been shining a laser pointer at my bosom. Shocked, I said "What the heck are you doing?!" His response was "practicing."

now I know

2007-01-09T09:46:00.000-05:00

I've been walking to work and back for over a year now. Over the course of that time period, there have been several peculiar occurrences. I've been whistled at, hassled for money, and I've been most annoyingly honked at. I've been asked for directions, yelled at for not knowing, and ridiculed for not having a car. I've suffered the fate of having conversations with familiar people going the same direction. I've stepped in dog shit multiple times. I've helped a blind man cross the street. I've unknowingly walked through a movie set, only to be physically dragged off it. But nothing so bizarre has happened as what I saw today.

Occasionally there are strange smells along my route. Typically those smells emanate from the sewers or dumpsters. But in a freak moment, when the breeze is just right, I catch the smell of urine. This has continued to puzzle me until today when I saw a man walking up the street, away from me, with a stream of fluid exuding from his crotch area into the bushes. I thought for sure it was not what I thought it was. After all, he was walking, the bushes were beside him, and it was broad daylight on a busy street during morning rush hour. That was what I thought until he turned around a corner and I saw him stuffing his stuff back into his pants.

How naive of me to think one would only urinate in the bushes under cover of darkness.

2007-01-08T22:46:00.000-05:00

I'm (slowly) working on the next part of my story. But like the never-ending, very late, homemade Christmas present for my friend, so goes this part of the story. Mostly I just feel tired. Maybe I have mono.

For now, I leave you with this. Perhaps when Scrubs wraps up and the writers finish ruining Gilmore Girls, these guys can do a show together. A fast-talking, pop-culture-referencing, fantastic super comedy.

what?!?!

2007-01-04T17:34:00.000-05:00

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! A friend told me about this. Not quite as funny as the dick in the box, but close!

This one was brought to my attention by my brothers, whose obsession with cats persists...

hop aboard the guilt express

2007-01-02T18:08:00.000-05:00

Time. We are all obsessed with it. Or maybe I just speak for myself, all the personalities in my head. I make out lists, I set goals, and I judge myself on how fast I can get them all accomplished. Tick tock, check and scratch. But there's never enough time, is there? The list is never entirely blackened out, is it? There's always something looming overhead, something I had all intentions of doing, all intentions of addressing. But then time ran out. Or I got distracted. Or something more important or more exciting popped up.

I'm sitting here at the airport, waiting for the vehicle that will end my vacation, and I can't help but feel a bit guilty for the boxes left unchecked and the T's left uncrossed. I didn't spend enough time with so-and-so. I didn't even visit such-and-such. I meant to have that conversation with X. I meant to have that lunch with Y. If only there had been more time....

But the guilt is meaningless to everyone with the exception of me. Just a small stone in the pit of my stomach that I have to live with. So-and-so can't feel it. Such-and-such can't see it. My face might break out and my nails may get bitten, but no one knows the real reasons.

So I beg you, what's the point? I'll let it go and forget about it by the time I get back to my own life. For now though, I'll sit here and mourn the things that didn't happen, the crap I didn't get to, the time I lost by filling it with other agendas. I may never get to them all. I may never finish everything I set out to do. But I tried my best, and I suppose that's all that matters.

Some people practice photography with their kids.

2007-01-01T17:31:00.000-05:00

Some people practice with their stuffed toys.

reminders of another time

2006-12-28T23:19:00.000-05:00

Being home (and slightly bored) for the holidays, I decided to rummage through the crap I've got laying around this place. I wouldn't have guessed I could entertain myself for an evening simply by shredding old bank statements and looking through old photos. And I'm not talking about the digital kind. Old school glossy paper prints from celluloid film! I'd forgotten all about these photos - my baby brother playing basketball with his long curly hair, the last shots of one hot ex-boyfriend, a going-away-to-Cali party for my best friend, and black and white ones from one of the best days I've ever had. I was delighted by the times I'd not thought of for years. Ironically, old school photos are not for the digital world. Instead, I give you random digitals from my computer library.

A post-it note doodle of a slightly intoxicated friend. There's the three of us... surrounded by booze and science.

From the time I ran down the beach toward the water and stepped on a rotting fish carcass buried in the sand. At the time I was 90% certain my foot was going to rot off.

I lived in a small town in Maryland one summer and the neighbors had two plastic geese in their front yard. On rainy days they'd be wearing rain gear. On sunny days they'd sport bathing suits and sun hats. And when someone was getting married, the geese would renew their vows.

A Story Begins: My Mantra

2006-12-27T22:20:00.000-05:00

I've been sitting on an idea for a story for several months now. A fantasy story involving magic. Evil. Maybe some pirates. You know, all the good stuff. But I'm having the worst time coming up with an antagonist. One of the things I'd intended to do with this blog was to practice writing and hopefully come up with a conflict and a solid story line.

And then I had another idea. I never would have guessed I would be writing "chick lit," but this story was begging to be written. You may or may not find events that sound familiar - it pulls from experiences of my own and from a few other reoccuring characters in my own story. But it's mostly fictional, especially the third installment. I'll post installments (perhaps weekly) in the category "CMT".

I, Cassandra Maxine Twitty, do so solemnly swear not to whore myself out to the men of the world via the virtual incubus otherwise known as internet dating.

Six months ago that was my mantra. If you had super psychic hearing much like the cop on Heroes, you would have heard my inner monologue, continuously chanting those very words.

On the yoga mat. "I, Cassandra Maxine Twitty, do so solemnly swear not to whore...."

While munching down Lucky Charms. "I, Cassandra Maxine Twitty, do so solemnly swear...."

Even during my favorite show. "I, Cassandra Maxine Twitty...."

Okay, not really. It was more a subconscious thought, always in the back of my mind. An unspoken promise to myself not to take that desperate a step, one that would surely and utterly play out badly, only to leave me in a state of pure blown spinsterhood.

I'd had friends who'd done it and it did not go well for them. Poor Janet spent three months getting amazing emails from amazing guys and never met a soul. Because those amazing souls turned out to be just one damned one - her deservedly ex-husband. And Katie went out with this guy three times before she realized why he didn't talk much. At first she thought him of the troubled mysterious type when really he was hiding the fact he had no teeth. And no aspirations of getting any. Teeth or sex for that matter. Because clearly the lack of one was not helping him with the other.

I was not that desperate. I did not need such a whoring instrument like the internet. I was perfectly capable of whoring myself, thank you very much.

That was six months ago. Before I met Derek. Before I met Pete. And before I met Shawn.

Six months ago, I was not desperate enough. I am now. Today is the day I take that final step, the one I am certain will lead to my demise as a respectable single woman and begin the cat lady transformation. Today I expand my whoring capabilities.

"Welcome to Meet-A-Mate.com!!"

Oh good. At least my pimp is polite. Maybe this will go well after all.

My Inaugural Address

2006-12-27T22:05:00.000-05:00

I begin with a song:

On the Radio, Regina Spektor

"This is how it works: It feels a little worse than when we drove our hearse right through that screaming crowd, while laughing up a storm until we were just bone, until it got so warm that none of us could sleep, and all the styrofoam began to melt away. We tried to find some words to aid in the decay, but none of them were home inside their catacomb. A million ancient bees began to sting our knees, while we were on our knees praying that disease would leave the ones we love and never come again.

On the radio, we heard November Rain. That solo's really long, but it's a pretty song. We listened to it twice 'cause the DJ was asleep.

This is how it works: You're young until you're not. You love until you don't. You try until you can't. You laugh until you cry, you cry until you laugh. And everyone must breathe until their dying breath. No, this is how it works: You peer inside yourself. You take the things you like and try to love the things you took. And then you take that love you made and stick it into some. Someone else's heart pumping someone else's blood. And walking arm in arm, you hope it don't get harmed. But even if it does, you'll just do it all again.

And on the radio, you hear November Rain. That solo's awful long, but it's a good refrain. You listen to it twice 'cause the DJ is asleep, on the radio."

Mixed cds over the past decade have not been safe from the inclusion of the song Pig by Dave Matthews Band. "Isn't it strange how we move our lives for another day..." It has inspired me over the years to pick up my dragging blistered feet and take action. Life is for living, it's easy to forget. So I'll put aside my angst, my anger, and my boredom for a bit, to collect dust up on a top shelf, amongst the faded movie stubs and tattered grocery receipts. And I'll take a step outside and breathe deep of all the possibilities. That is, of course, until I step in the heaping pile of dog shit laying in wait, left by the beasts who can't help but crap in my path.

I digress.

My point is Regina Spektor has given me a new Pig. From her lyrics, I begin this new endeavor in an effort to breathe until my dying breath. These words are not purposely uplifting. They don't depict a story of what should be if only we seized the day more often. They tell one of what is. A mere observation, this song is. And there is something about the simplicity of its truth that I find inspiring.

And so with this blog, I plan to celebrate those things which make my life worth living by taking the things I love and passing them on to anyone who can appreciate someone else's blood. Little by little (beag air bheag).