Unsurprising news

I stopped by House of Zathras yesterday and found this fun website with lots of clickable things, including this one:



Created by OnePlusYou - Free Online Dating


Maybe I should swear less. I mean, it's not like I don't know better, and it's not as if it would be terribly painful to swear in less (or is that fewer? Is "post" a count or a non-count noun? Could this be a more post-modern problem?) than 28% of my posts. Right?

More later. Papers to grade. Grammar to battle. Etc.

Sin of the week, 3/30/08

Well, anyway.

To be all official about it, the worst thing I did this week, probably, was call out sick when I wasn't sick. I was overpowered with having too much work to do of other kinds. So I did it. The calling out. I didn't even feel guilty about it. I still don't.


Other notable bad behavior:

1) swearing
2) drinking
3) eating too many jelly beans
4) upsetting my friends by not returning their phone calls and emails
5) having hateful thoughts about my headologist
6) drinking an entire 24 ounce can of beer at 2 o'clock on Friday afternoon
7) firing an unlicensed firearm (and indoors, too)

You betcha I'll be telling you more about that tomorrow.

Happy Sunday.

Me too

Of course I have done it. And if you have never done it, there might be something a little bit wrong with you. There IS such a thing as TOO GROSS to merit future proximity to your person - not matter how greatly the grossness quotient could be reduced with hot, soapy water.

(Welcome to my post about throwing away your dishes so you don't have to wash them. And you thought I was talking about my boyfriends. Shame on you! Oh and I will be writing about this topic, inexcusable as it is, in an inexcusably verbose manner. Thank you for stopping by).

Several months ago, we (meaning cat-head and I) went through a difficult period where we could barely breathe without snarfing up a whole nose-hole full of fruit flies. It was a heartbreaking time for us. You can read it about it here.

What we discovered, after we (I) had disposed of all their hairy, wiggling, multi-fanged bodies, is that fruit flies are tenacious of life. They hang on, even without food, water, reliable internet access, and affection or encouragement. They wait for you to change your mind about them. Sort of like has very often happened to me when I get a boyfriend and then I try to unget him. (I tend to date people who don't like to be broken up with. Stop changing the subject every other minute).

So anyway I deloused my tiny cubicle of an apartment and then I discovered the source of the issue: a tea saucer I had left in the sink with the merest tiniest smear of something on it. Yes, I know I should not have left my apartment for three days and neglected to wash the tea saucer. I know I am gross. I know. (Stop acting all like you can't believe anyone would ever even want to date me in the first place and STOP TALKING about how you'd be dying to get broken up with if you mistakenly (mistake! error!) started dating me. Cut that racket out, already).

So I decided, as any sane person would, to wash the tea saucer that had provided (apparently) an attractive breeding opportunity for what probably started out as two lonely fruit flies - until they had all kinds of filthy, dirty, perverted sex under my tea saucer, had baby flies and then proceed to have sex with them, too. One would hope, since they were having sex with their own children, that it was at least a little less filthy dirty and perverted. But you know what? You would obviously hope for that because you are a nice person, but you would also be (obviously) be wrong. Everyone knows that fruit flies are dirty, nasty, whores - lacking, obviously, my very fine and deeply felt moral tastes - you know - the ones that prevent me from dating men who suggest that we should get naked on the first dates. Or even the second. Because as girlfriends go, I am totally lame. (Note: it is usually this sort of creature that is so difficult to get rid of - you know, after he has discovered that he thinks I am lame because I don't think it's such a great idea to engage in certain reproductive behavior with him even though I am not certain I can remember his last name and I am unsure if he even is who he says he is - or is even single. Notable illustrations of this type: Grip Spitzer). But that's not the point and I wish you would stop interrupting me to talk about my lack of a love life. I get that you think I am gross and unlovable, already. Just stop talking about it for half a second. Please.

Anyway, I was waiting for the water to get hot and seeing as I had some time on my hands, I amused myself by using my very active, fine tuned imagination to call up images of fruit fly porn.

(I'll give you a minute to do the same. Go ahead. Do it. Don't make me post photographs of breeding insects. Because I think you know I will totally do it if you don't comply).


And then, of course, obviously, I realized that really, the only sane thing to do was get that tea saucer, smudged or no, out of my cubicle as fast as I could carry it down to the garbage chute and listen to it clang its way down to the basement to be removed by the custodian, placed in a plastic container, bagged, loaded onto a truck, driven, and delivered unto a landfill, probably in New Jersey, where right now it is STILL disgusting because it was at least once the scene of a horrific three day fruit fly orgy.


You know what? Fine. If you insist on continuing to harass me about how I don't have a boyfriend, fine. We can talk about it. Or at any rate we could if you would stop making all that noise and listen to me for a change.


Certain recent events and also something that is at this very minute not in the trash, (even though other people might pretend to think it's gross) has convinced me - even at the cost of my sanity (was I ever all that sane? I mean, take a look at this post - wow) that no matter how much I like to think I am done, I am, in fact, probably not done. And yes, it's because I suddenly remember, as a direct result of one completely not disgusting object,* what is nice about having a boyfriend.

I can't even decide if this is good news. But if you think for one second of one second that I would carry it down to the garbage chute and listen to it clang its way down to the basement to be removed by the custodian, placed in a plastic container, bagged, loaded onto a truck, driven, and delivered unto a landfill, probably in New Jersey - horror! I will not do it, so you can quit acting like it is news to you that I am gross in this particular way. You knew perfectly well what you were doing and I might - get this - just not talk to you until you admit that you knew.

Thank you for reading.

*Don't worry about it if you are not the one person on the planet who knows what it is. I can't tell you. Because if I did then you would KNOW and also you might not get it (although I very much suspect you would) and then we might not feel the same way about each other. Why risk that?

Questions answered

Dear Nina,

1) How long will it be until you start writing real posts again? Lately it's all pictures and quizzes. What the F?

I am so overwhelmed by my various responsibilities that I consider every day that I don't get fired, get evicted, or get dead - an accomplishment. Wait, that doesn't answer the question. Seriously? May. As in when the semester is over.

2) When will you start responding to comments again?

All comments are loved, cherished, petted and given cookies, handmade socks, and beer. In my mind. Did I mention I am so busy I can barely find five minutes to give those gangsters over at Blog 365 their due? Seriously. If I don't post every day, they show up right in my computer (ok not really) and doing terrible things to me with their knowingness. Wait. Did I answer the question? The answer is "soon." (I honestly don't know. Thank you for your patience).

3) All your wanking self-pity is getting old. Get excited about something again. Go climbing. Get a life, ok?

OK. I will. Oh and for the record, I am happy today. Oh and I'll be blogging about why on Monday.

Purple. Or course it's purple.

I found this quiz over Em's place.

Why am I not surprised?

Fattitude and apathy

toothpastefordinner.com

I am too full of jelly beans and fapathy to write too much today, so will this cover it?

Love,
Nina

Bullets and bus drivers

No, no. Not THOSE kind of bullets.

I mean the kind you make when you are drowning in impudent commas and belligerent semi-colons and mis-appropriated dashes - and - dare I say it? subject-verb disagreements. The kind you make when the last little wisp of joy will escape from your soul if you see one more dangling modifier.

* I took a taxi this morning. It was because of Jesus. (No, I am never going to provide an explanation for that).

* Upon exiting the taxi, I lost my balance just a little, and my four dollars change slipped from my fingers and blew away into the street. That was because of Jesus, too. (Yes, someone needed that $4 more than I do).

* I took the bus home after having the last little wisp of... never mind.

* On the bus was a homeless woman, the kind with a sick, desperate smell of unwashed alcoholism emanating from her person.

* Three teenaged boys on the bus made fun of her. She could hear them and she was blinking back tears.

* To the first teenager, I said, "Watch your language, there are ladies present," indicating the half-dead homeless woman.

* To the second and third, I said, "I am ashamed of you."

* Gosh, they were bad-ass. All staring at the floor acting like nothing happened.

* On my way off the bus, I turned to say thank you, as I always do, and the driver said, smiling, "You go on, pretty white girl. You go on."

* Jelly beans are on sale.

s a painless as this. I really didn't mind it half so much as I make it sound.

Thank you for reading.

Green fields of Unicorns

This post has nothing to do with green fields. Or unicorns.

It has to do with a memory I had this morning while a twenty year old student was, just for me, explaining the procedure for getting high using a nail and a can of whipped cream. What a nice kid.

So while he was telling me of this and many other common household items that can be used to psycho-pharmacological advantage, I remembered, suddenly, that way back when I was a sorority girl, we had a, um, sorority rush ritual we used for weeding out people who were not funny enough to be our official branded college BFFs.

What we did, on the third night of rush, was lead our prospective members into a candle lit room. There, we would solemnly chant the code of values our national headquarters held so dear. At the moment of highest possible solemnity, we held up cans of hairspray that we conveniently placed on the table, flicked a bic lighter, and produced a plume of pure flame in front of the dear faces of our possible future official branded college BFFs.

Any potential member who failed to laugh was cut. You simply couldn't be one of us if you didn't get why that was funny.

Yes, it was a violation of fire code.

Yes, we were reprimanded by "national" for doing it.

Yes, we continued to do it anyway.

I used to think that sorority / fraternity membership was bullshit. Truthfullly, I still do. But I can't ignore that fact that sixteen years after graduation, the only people I keep in touch with from college are sorority sisters. Chand, Newsy, and Tree, and Zard. Just yesterday, Chand told me I could move in with her if I needed to get out of the city and not deal for a while. I wouldn't even ask that of my own sisters, and she offered without me asking.

Despite the fact that sororities are elitist and stupid and despite the fact that I am now Jack's medulla oblongata, I really do have some good friends.

(Give me a break. It's Tuesday).

The point was... what?

Why did I post a bunch of quotations from Fight Club?

I did it because I realized at around four in the morning that my life had become a lot like the movie, except where the part where I get to smash people in the face.

Let's review the similarities:

1) I haven't been able to sleep for about six months.
2) I have been forgetting things. A lot of them.
3) My employers are "concerned" about me.
4) I have developed an imaginary friend who lives in the computer (hint: her name is Nina).
5) Nina, despite real me's grief and terror, is trying to hit bottom.
6) Nina, despite real me's grief and terror, does not believe anymore. In anything.
7) Nina, despite real me's terrible fear of basically everything, is branching out, colonizing, taking risks.
8) Slowly, surely, Nina is making real me's decisions.
9) It is not yet known to real me whether Nina's sway over me is damaging to real me.
10) Nor is it clear to real me that Nina isn't just me. With a different name and more courage.

Neither of us will be building an army or blowing things up. But Nina very much wants to get out of the city. Nina very much thinks it is time we moved to Canada or Utah or Mazatlan or Cuzco.

Nina wants out, wants to start over.

Scared of me yet?

Well, don't worry. Tomorrow, I'll talk about rainbows and unicorns and fields of green.

Promise.

I think his name

"With insomnia, you are never really asleep and never really awake. Everything goes thin and papery. Everything is copy of a copy of a copy."

"No, no, I want bowel cancer!"

"Marla's philosophy of life is that she might die any minute. The tragedy, she said, is that she didn't."

"On a long enough time line, the survival rate for everyone goes to zero."

"Have you ever heard a death rattle before? Do you it will live up to its name? Or will it'll be just a death hair-ball... Air to evacuate soul... 10, 9, 8...5, 4, 3..."

"You have to consider the possibility that God does not like you. In all probability, he hates you. It's not the worst thing that can happen."

"It is not until we have lost everything that we are free to do anything."

"This is your life your life, and it's ending one minute at a time... if you wake up in a different time, in a different place, could you wake up as a different person?"


What was his name again?

Easter, Blog365 style

I think if I tried for rest of my life to top last week's sin of the week, I would fail. I don't think it gets better than metaphorically and otherwise disrespecting pretty much everything about God. Therefore, this week, no sin reporting. If you wish to report one of yours (as some of you do), go for it. If not, just look at these mildly funny pictures, have a jelly bean, and watch some basketball. Happy Easter.

My Day in Pictures

Merry and I met for coffee in Union Square today. We were just about to order the coffee when we realized we were around the corner from Max Brenner, a chocolate shop/lunch place we both like a lot. And the idea of hot chocolate with schnapps in it was oddly appealing. So off we went.

On the way, we crossed Union Square and discovered that in the middle of the square, the ground was six inches deep in goose down.




Intrigued, we walked a bit deeper into the fuzz. In the middle of it, we found a swarm of about 50 people engaged in a violent, yet joyful pillow fight:





And then walked through even more fuzz:



*sigh*

And then we ate chocolate:



And then we climbed the escalator in what passes for a mall in Manhattan, so we could take these pictures of discarded pictures on the roof of the train station:




So there you have it. No bus rides, no limping, no disorderedness - not much of anything, really, except a bunch of people beating each other about the head with pillows. Oh and there was chocolate and a cheese plate and I tried on a pair of shoes later. Oh and I had popcorn for dinner. Oh and did I say thank you yet? Thank you for not walking out on me for being absolutely terrifying? Thanks. It means a lot to me.

Hope y'all had a good day.

So anyway

In the spirit of not breaking my internet promise to post every single day, I will describe the second half of my terrible Thursday, the part I find most funny, and the part that I think you will find, well. Whatever.

Background:

I haven't been sleeping well for six months. I suspect the cause is the many issues, obligations, and dramatic events of the last three years. I resolve, after two hours of restless sleep and many events, conversations and items misfiled in my brain, that I must get control of this problem. So I call the headologist and tell her I NEED to see her. She says come at 2:15.

Additional Data:

I have had, for about a week, a really sore right knee. I don't know what I did to it, but it hurts. Also, I have $10 left on my metrocard, and each bus ride is $2. Also, I have spent a heartbreaking amount of money lately on electronics - not because I wanted to buy electronics but because I had faulty existing electronics and need them pretty desperately to do my job. Also as a general rule, I am anti-taxi. Taxis are for rich people and I am not rich. (I do take them when it's late and I am drunk, but that's for a whole other safety reason). I also spent a terrifying amount of money this week on a trip to Africa. Moving along then.

What happened:

I did what I normally do on Thursday mornings, only it didn't go well. I needed to get to 5th Avenue since there is no bus up Park Avenue, but the blocks are short in that part of town so I knew I could hobble and probably make it on time. I was already in a desperately sour mood when I hobbled to the bus stop at 57th St. I waited seven minutes for the crosstown variety, and boarded it at 1:57. The crosstown bus went about half a block, and then it stopped to pick up a person in a wheel chair with no left leg and half a right leg.

Now, most people would understand that losing five entire minutes so the bus driver can activate the lowering platform, move the wheel-chair onto the platform, raise the platform, wheel the legless creature into the bus, raise a bank of seats and wheel the chair and the legless creature into position and apply the stabilizing straps to the wheels of the chair is no special inconvenience next to spending the rest of your life with the exquisite inconvenience of having no left leg and half a right leg.

As you almost certainly already know, I am not most people.

So then it was 2:03, and I was agitated about making it to 5th avenue and getting a northbound bus. We got moving again and two blocks later, at Broadway, the legless creature most deserving of my compassion and understanding needed to get off the bus. So that entire process of stabilizing, wheeling, positioning, activating, lowering and pushing had to be performed in reverse. About the silliness of this process, I will only say that I, with my sprained right knee, could have pushed that wheel chair two blocks in less time than it took to perform these ministrations.

One block later, at 2:10, the bus driver got a call on his secret wireless informing him that it was time for his union-mandated coffee break. He parked the bus, disembarked, and vanished into Starbucks for a full four minutes. He returned, looking caffeinated and happy. I was the opposite of happy in at least nine ways, but I think you could probably infer from all my previous ramblings that I would almost certainly be near hysterical when at 2:13, the bus broke down at 6th Avenue. We were all ordered off and we were not given transfers because the bus driver was "out" of them.

I considered walking. My right leg really, really hurt. So I waited until 2:17 for the next bus, paid another $2, and we got to 5th Avenue uneventfully. It was then 2:23. Between me and the headologist, there remained 1 long block (which I already knew I had to walk) and twenty two short blocks. That's 1.1 miles, total. If my knee had not felt like it had been Nancy Kerriganed, I could have walked that in about 17 minutes. But I had gotten mysteriously clobbered right square on the knee. I just couldn't remember who did it or how it happened because I am suffering from sleep-deprivation amnesia.

So I waited, and waited, and waited for a northbound bus. It got to be 2:30. It got to be 2:32. I hailed a cab and spent the last $5 I have to get to the headologist's office, where I arrived to find that since I was a half hour late, I would have to be worked in whenever she had a spare moment. It was then 2:45, and I needed to get to Soho by 4:40, which might as well be Kansas as far as transportation in New York City goes. I was getting very nervous.

At 3:00, I was given a questionnaire to fill out. It asked me circle words that describe my feelings.




I won't sport with your intelligence or violate patient confidentiality by telling you what my form looked like. Go ahead and assume I circled a lot of words. Including stupid.

I turn in my form and after a number of minutes I can't recall, I was called into Headologist Bootstraps' inner chamber. She picked through my file, read my form, looked back at my form, and then gave me the compassionate perfectly mentally well smile that lots of people give me. Don't have any problems? Come on over. You can have some of mine, and then maybe you'll stop smiling at me like that.

Anyway, here is a truncated version of the conversation we had.

Headologist B: I think we must get your sleep problem under control.

Nina: I agree.

Headologist B: I want you to try Restoril --

Nina: WAIT! Isn't that an anti-psychotic???

Headologist B: (compassionate smile) No, it's a sleep aid. You are thinking of Risperdal.

Nina: It was just a tuna-fish sandwich! I didn't really throw it! It was more of, like, a toss! A gentle toss!

Headologist B: (compassionate smile) Restoril is a sleep aid. Have you been throwing things?

Nina: No.

Headologist B: (compassionate smile, raised eyebrow) No?

Nina: Absolutely not. I have no idea what gave you that idea. As ideas go, that's the wrong idea.

Headologist B: would you like more Xanax?

Nina: yes, please.

Headologist B: OK. We could also try putting you on a very low dose of anti-depressants. Does that sound like a good idea?

Nina: What would be wrong with a whole big walloping mouthful of them?

Headologist B: I suspect that you have a mood disorder, and anti-depressants might aggravate the problem.

Nina: I don't have a mood disorder. I just have problems.

Headologist B: Don't you have a cousin with classic manic-depression?

Nina: Yes, but I have not talked to her in years. We are not friends, so I couldn't have gotten it from her.

Headologist B: (flipping through chart) I see that you once described your mother's behavior as erratic.

Nina: My mother was Mary Poppins. Shut up.

Headologist B: Did you throw a tuna fish sandwich at the wall recently?

Nina: Gentle toss.

Headologist B: (compassionate smile) Would you like to try some Lexapro?

Nina: Would you like me to try some Lexapro?

Headologist B: I am more concerned with your insomnia. Let's try to solve that first.

Nina: I agree. But can I still have Xanax?

Headologist B: Yes, but not the big ones.

Nina: (scanning the room for things to throw) You totally don't get me.

Headologist B: Actually, I do. (hands me a pile of prescriptions with notes and directions on them).

Nina: I don't have a mood disorder.

Headologist B: You might have one, and you might not. But I do have a feeling about you.

Nina: What is your feeling? That I am crazy?

Headologist B: (compassionate smile) I have been doing this a long time. Don't worry about labels. We'll discuss this after you try this new sleep medication. Come back next week.


So I left Headologist B's office at 3:30, thinking that surely I could hobble over to 2nd Avenue and catch the M15 bus down to the pharmacy and at least drop off the prescriptions before trekking over to Soho. So I board the bus with my slips of paper and my backpack and my sore knee. The bus goes two blocks before... care to guess? No?

A woman in a wheel chair (this one had legs but hers didn't work) needed to board the bus. So I lost an additional five minutes watching the bus driver activate the lowering platform, move the wheel-chair onto the platform, raise the platform, wheel the legless creature into the bus, raise a bank of seats and wheel the chair and the legless creature into position and apply the stabilizing straps to the wheels of the chair. I am pretty sure you know that we got stuck in traffic around the 59th street bridge and that the wheel chair passenger most deserving of my compassion and understanding had to disembark somewhere in Turtle Bay. And that it was fully 4:00 pm before I got within hobbling distance of the pharmacy, and that by then I knew if I got off the bus instead of taking it all the way to Houston St and catching an M27 bus to Spring St, I would be late.

So I remained on the bus, rolling the words "mood" and "disorder" back and forth across my brain. In the hour and fifteen minutes I was on that bus, which, by the way, only travelled four miles in that amount of time, I discovered the appalling truth: worrying about whether you have a mood disorder can seriously disorder your mood. I had slumped against the window and closed my eyes, determined to shut it all out. Right about the time I started to feel slightly less disordered, a woman boarded the bus carrying a duffle bag with two cats in it, two very pissed off and uncomfortable cats. She sat down across from me, and the two cats poked their heads out of the top of her bag, looked me square in the face, and screamed at me for forty of the minutes I was on the bus. It was as if someone had picked up cat-head, cloned him and wrapped both crazy felines around my head. By the time I got to Soho, I was twenty minutes late and very nearly crying. As I got off the bus, I turned to the driver to say thank-you, as I always do. He put his hand on my arm and said, "It's gonna be ok, baby."

This concludes my narrative of my terrible Thursday. I only told you about half of it. The first half I won't be talking about.

Have a good pre-Easter Saturday.

Pulling the cage to pieces

"I was interrupted... with a voice which I took to be that of a child, which complained: 'it could not get out,'...and looking up, I saw it was a starling hung up in a little cage. I stood looking at the bird, and to every person who came through the passage, it ran fluttering towards the side which they approached it, with the same lamentation of its captivity--'I can't get out,' said the starling. God help thee!--said I--but I'll let thee out,cost what it will; so I turned the cage about to get at the door; it was twisted and double twisted so fast with wire, there was no getting it open without pulling the cage to pieces... The bird flew to the place where I was attempting his deliverance, and thrusting his head through the trellis, pressed his breast against it...--I fear, poor creature, said I, I cannot set thee at liberty.--'No,' said the starling; 'I can't get out--I can't get out.'

I vow I never had any affections more tenderly awaked."


Don't google it. Or do, as you wish.

Boring, much?

I wonder if you nice people ever get tired of seeing different versions of the same things:

1) me bitching about anything from noises in my head to faulty electronics to my backside, and

2) me posting pictures I took while leaning out my window.

Today I'll assume that you can stand two more pictures. I took the first yesterday at 5:45 in the morning, after I had given up entirely on going back to sleep:



When I got home at 9pm, I took a picture of this third and rare kind of sparkle hour:




I am trying to construct a narrative of the events of yesterday and still be entertaining.

Preview: an unexpected guest, a lot of limping, one angry oh wait make that two angry letters, a one hour bus ride, a surprising (not in a good way) conversation, two yowling cats, a lot more limping, another bus ride, and a whole lot more money going away capped off by a sad-making email.

But I did sleep last night. Perhaps this is all you ever needed to know about yesterday, anyway.

Friday

If you are paying attention to the Catholic calendar, today is Friday of the Good kind, but don't let the name fool you: things didn't go well for God and Jesus on Good Friday. They went very poorly. Things went better for Christian people, who in essence get the balance of their unpaid sin-bills met by God on this day. That's right, God picks up the remainder of your tab if you repent and repent sincerely. It's an excellent deal, especially if you consider that you don't have the currency yourself. So it's good for you, rather unpleasant (to put it mildly) for God, but we all end up better off on the third day, Easter.

If you have been reading for any period of time lately, you know that in terms of spiritual progress during lent, I achieved absolutely none. I made it to confession once, I resolved to try not to be 100% shifty and mean, and the result was that I ended up screaming at God like a spoiled child, which is an apt description of me from pretty much any perspective, spiritual or otherwise.

So where does that leave me today? It leaves me getting up, going to church, listening to a four hour sermon on the last words of Christ (this is a much more fun way to spend an afternoon than you might imagine, really) and then meeting one of the many friends I have neglected in during my six month bout of Crazy for dinner (and groveling because I have neglected her).

I used to think that people who showed up at church when their hearts were not in it were hypocrites and cowards for not having the strength to bail out of something that wasn't working for them. Now that I am one of those people myself, I take a different view. Showing up when your heart isn't in it could be strength of a different kind. Perhaps perseverance? Perhaps an act of a different kind of faith? Possibly, hope that someday it (meaning my record as a Catholic and a Christian), might improve? Or at any rate I guess it can do no one any real harm. So off I go.

Yesterday was one of the worst days of my life. I won't describe it (oh wait... parts of it are very funny and you might find them fun to read... let me rethink that) because the world-wide first horseman of the apocalypse has probably heard about enough complaining from me. Or at any rate, I would be ashamed of myself if I posted yet another long diatribe about how life is to friggin' unfair to me. 'Nuff said.

Have a g(G)ood Friday. Thank you for reading.

MySpaces and Faces

Hi.

Would someone, anyone please tell me why it is necessary for me to be "on" Facebook"? Or "MySpace"? Please? As far as I know, MySpace is a clearinghouse for underaged people who want to find similarly inclined underage people to be naughty with. Oh and it might also be for predators who want to teach those kids a thing or two about naughtiness. Ok, to be fair, I have one friend who is clear into her thirties and is not a predator and who uses it to blog. But you know what? I rarely read because in order to do so, I would have to SIGN UP for MySpace. So I don't read it unless I am looking over the shoulder of someone who is.

And I have now been told for FOUR - yes, that's one person short of a whole hand - people that I JUST HAVE TO GET ON FACEBOOK. Three of those four people act like it is my life that is being ruined by my lack of presence on Facebook. The fourth person admits that it is really her life that is suffering because she can't "friend' me on the creature (Facebook) that I consider the third horsemen of the apocalypse. (My Space is the second).

I figure I'll know it's all over when "they" bash my door down, slice me open, and insert the pentium duo MySpaces and Faces chip straight into my neck. This has nearly already happened, by the way. That fourth friend created a Facebook account FOR ME and added me to her swarming "network" of connecto-mania. Can you top that? ON FACEBOOK, against my will. I also hear that there are pictures of me on Facebook in hers and other people accounts and that the pictures are an attempt to CALL ME OUT on the fact that I won't join their horseman.

Guess what? I ain't doin' it. Do you have any idea how much I would NOT enjoy "networking" with and by and through everyone I have ever met? If I want to find that guy I used to have a crush on in seventh grade, I'll look him up. I think I know where his momma lives. Do you have any idea how much I do not want to be "found" by that psycho swinger I briefly dated between Nice Guy 4 and Nice Guy 5? I don't need to be found. If I am lost to you, what's the big deal? I am other kinds of lost that strike me as far more important. Re"connecting" with everyone I swam with on my high school swim team is not the answer for me. OK? Can that please be OK?

Please click comment and defend Facebook if you must. But I am hoping there is at least one person left on the planet who agrees with me on this issue. This is one grid I am determined to stay off.

Oh and if you are reading this and looking at the time it was posted, you pretty much know that I am not sleeping, like, ever. The resulting confusion is reaching biblical plague-like severity. I was on the phone with someone for an hour last night (yes, I just checked the call history in my shiny new iPhone) and I don't really know what we talked about. You reading this, honey? If we exchanged any vital information, please email* it to me. I remember "sock" "housekeeper" "it's kind of painful after 60 miles or so" and "we meet half way." Thanks.

All this is a long way of saying I am going straight to the doctor when I get out of class this afternoon. (I wonder if I will remember what I teach my students today? Never mind. They definitely won't, so I don't guess it matters). Anyway when I get to the doctor I will tell her my sad story and she will tell me how I am working too much and under too much stress and how what I really need is step away from the computer and do what creatures of my mental, physical and emotional disposition ought to be doing, which is physical work. These are modern times, so that means I should be in the gym, wearing my body out instead of my brain. If these were not modern times, I would have made an excellent serf in medieval Europe. I am indestructible. I never wear out. Oh except if you make me sit at a desk all day and read papers written by nineteen year olds who were typing with one hand and MySpacing with the other.

Apocalypse, I tell you. The end is near.

* I know it's absurd to ask you to email me information you already spoke straight into my ear, but please note that I specified "vital' information, such as anything you think I might want to remember. Thank you.

Am I missing anything?

I have not had a television for over a year. The events leading up to the banning of television had little to do with television and much to do with my nemesis, Time Warner Cable. I have not regretted the decision one day since I terminated my relationship with those ungrateful, sleezy chickens, but at the same time, I have to wonder what all of you are watching and I am not.

Am I missing anything life changing?

If I saw, for example, an episode or two of Idol, would that be a truly enriching experience for me? If I saw Lost, would my whole view of the universe change?

If there is a show you watch that you feel is to fantastic that I am committing self-harm by not watching it, clue me in.

Gracias.

PS I now have an iPhone.

AOUS

I sold the last lot of my beloved US Steel stock today. I bought it five years ago for $7 a share, and I sold the last of it for $119.26 this morning to cover the cost of the enormous plane ticket to Tanzania.

Oh wait. The ticket is of the usual size. The bill for the ticket is of unusual size. I have never spent so much money with a single click of a mouse in my entire life.

What does this mean?

Aside from the fact that I am now a lot less afloat than I was, I am now a lot more afraid of not summiting because I am out of shape. That's right. In case you have not noticed, I have spent the last six month square on my ass in front of the computer feeling sorry for myself and sharing it with all of you instead of working out. My credit card bill is not the only thing that is enormous (and of unusual size) around here.


So I hereby request, since you all are such nice people, that the next time I post a bunch of stuff about hating everything, you kindly tell me to shut up and go run some stairs. Nothing shrinks a girl's ass and relieves her morose self pity like mind numbing cardio, and I need to do a whole lot of it to get myself back in the kind of shape I was in when we did the inca trail. (We smoked it. Non-event. I probably couldn't clear Dead Woman Pass now).

You (not I) should have a cookie. It's Tuesday.

Sparkly

Yeah so maybe yesterday really sucked and maybe I completely freaked out. I might have thrown things. (OK I totally threw something. But it deserved it).

The last time I wrote about Sparkle Hour, it was too late to take this picture:



Oh and that thing I said about God yesterday? OK, both things? I am not quite ready to unsay them, but I might be later, after I get back from paying another $400 for a phone. (I have bought the same phone over and over and over and over again because of its email push function that makes it possible to do my job even if I am out of the country. It might be approaching not worth it status).

Have a good Monday.

Oh my God

In the area of getting utterly fucked over, I racked up another de-merit (or is that merit?) just about two minutes ago. In case it was not clear earlier, God Can suck my non-existent dick. My cell phone is inexplicably soggy. When I say inexplicably, I don't mean I might have thrown it into a pitcher of martinis. I meant INEXPLICABLY SOGGY.

Name of this blog should be, heretofore, JESUS HATES ME DOT ORG.

**updated** Jesus still wants to turn my brain into pudding, and my phone still does not work.

Administrative note

Many people openly disagree with the many inconsequential things I post here. They have the sac to do it after having carefully read my post and carefully written a response. OH! And they do it without creating a fake identity.

I might be crazy, but stupid I am not. If you want to disagree with me in the future, it would be great if you actually READ the post before composing an ill-conceived response. At a minimum, you shouldn't try to pretend you are someone you are not.

Thanks.

Steeped happily in *disaster*

Remind me that I am not allowed to post in the middle of the night when I haven't slept and I am acting like a big titty baby. Sheesh.

Anyway.

I took these pictures yesterday during the three hour opera of sirens whirling up 1st Avenue toward the crane collapse eight blocks north of my building.





If I had thought to point my camera out the window a few hours earlier, you would have seen far more fire trucks. But I didn't think.

Today I looked out the window and saw something else.



I went down to the sidewalk, 41st between FDR Drive and 1st and took these pictures.





I happened to walk up to the car at the same time as the owners, who were taking pictures too. When I said I was sorry that their car got trashed, the man half of the people said, "We weren't in it, so we're happy."

It's a shame the liquor store is closed on Sundays. (If it weren't, I would have bought them some whiskey). (Stop assuming I'd skip church and get obliterated. I am not that gross. Yet).

Sin of the Week, 3/16/08

You might want to leave if you are a good person. Definitely leave if you are Catholic.

Yesterday, I was determined NOT to do two things:

1) work
2) be stressed

That was going ok up until about noon, when I got an email message from someone. The person who sent the email wants something from me that I don’t especially think he or she needs, and in any case I think is absurd to ask for, especially since I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT on a pretty grand scale. Let me be less clear: I don’t want to give it for all the above reasons and one more: the person asked me for the wrong thing. Go to all the trouble to ask, and you ask me for a carrot instead of an apple and ruin my entire day – oh wait – weekend, by forcing me to reflect on everything that has happened. Nice going.

So yesterday I was trying really energetically not to be upset and it was not working. I found myself running the monologue in my head – all the things I would like very much to say and can never say because why hurt people if it won’t change anything? Especially since I know it won't make me feel better anyway?

I got into the shower in an attempt to wash off the badness. While scrubbing, I had the following extraordinary, even for me, thought:

Stop expecting me to pretend everything is ok. It is not ok. When you decided to heap a whole lot of withering misery on me, you, who are supposed to know everything, misunderstood how much I could take. In case you have not noticed, it was too much. I can’t recover. I can’t sleep at night without a gross of drugs and sometimes alcohol because you trashed everything that meant anything to me, including any hope I ever had of having a family of my own – at the same time as you destroyed the family I had. I don’t even like my dad anymore because of the way he’s treated me in his undeadness. As you know, fuckhead, you've heaped some additional losses on us for no real reason except that you suck, and today, apparently, I am forced to engage in a whole real lot more drama - and I don't have a choice, since refusing to play this game will negatively effect my dad. UNTHANKS FOR THAT. So, officially, heading into Holy Week, I’d just like to say fuck off with your yearly commemoration of what went really wrong for you. I don’t want to hear it.

And then I got out of the shower, dried my hair and reflected that I meant every word of that and much worse,* too.

I have been trying hard to act like I am not angry, like I am confused or sad or something less ugly. It’s just not true. I am furious. I am not grateful that I am a fat, privileged American woman with clean water and diamonds and climbing gear. The only things that really matter in life are things I don’t have and never will, and I am sick to death of acting like it’s ok, of acting like I am not mad, of acting like I can bear up and take it. I can’t, which is why I am awake at 4 in the morning after having taken a full complement of supposedly sleep inducing drugs, writing this.

Have a better Palm Sunday than this, please. I'll see you tomorrow (unless a crane falls on me for no apparent reason and the whole thing thusly ends).

*This version has been cleaned up by about 800%. Don't even try to imagine what I really said unless you want permanent brain damage.

You can come out, now

Soon to be former NY governor Eliot Spitzer has reportedly not been seen outside his apartment since resigning his office on Wednesday.

Mr. Spitzer (isn't the rhyming kind of fun?),

No one likes you anymore - true. Everyone thinks you are kind of gross, absolutely. (Some people who will not be named think you are a super-hero; but I don't speak for them).

That said, do you really think everyone in the city would wish you to skip your morning jog that you love so much, just because you just got your ass handed to you? Do you really think we'd all like for you to live on take out four days straight, just because you behaved like a jackass? Do you really think anyone would wish unending confinement with your wife on you - just because you fucked up (pun very intended) in exactly the same way, uh, let's just say "lots" of people fuck up?

Well ok. Maybe we do wish a lot of Chinese food on the couch with your wife on you. Maybe we don't feel bad that you've had to skip your workouts and face your kids. But you can't hole up in there forever, and I was happy to hear that you at least made it to the lobby last night.



It's ok to actually leave the building tomorrow, in case you were wondering if you would be instantly smacked upside the head by a crabby yellow-haired private citizen who is desperately short of blog material, really tired and recently ate a slice of extra cheese pizza. So come on out and go to church tomorrow. You are quite safe. (From me, anyway).

Not liking you,
Nina
(Thanks, NY1.)

Daylight

Here's how tired I am:

1) I had three late night IM conversations last night, and I can't remember the details of any of them.

2) I am wishing daylight savings time hadn't taken effect yet so I could go to bed at 6pm.

3) Mischa asked if I could meet her online to book Africa tickets at 11pm. I said no, because I plan to be unconscious.

4) Insead of cooking, I apply Fanta flavored lip balm every ten minutes. I am sure it has calories.

5) I have convinced myself that showering before bed is not strictly necessary, since I am wearing clean underwear.

6) I probably won't remember posting this, either.

See you tomorrow.

Reader, part three

I have only one more lurker fantasy to last me a whole post full of linkableness. Here goes.

You, 12 reader, are the biggest mystery of all. Day after day you click and read from wherever that is in Maine. If I think of Maine, 12 reader, I think of lobster rolls and craft shops and cozy bed and breakfasts. I think of windswept beaches and pebbles in the sand. In my imagination, 12 reader, you are the charming, sensitive proprietor of a wonderful gift shop that sells beautiful, one of a kind treasure. So enchanting is your shop that only the siren's song of beer and hush puppies next door can drag me away. But I will be back, 12 reader. I hope you will, too.

Months ago, when I first discovered my darling P she left me a comment that I really loved. She said, "You are my east, my west, my daily rest."

All this time, my blog has offered me refuge from my real life, and I can't tell you how much I have needed it. I tried to link to everyone who has ever been here and commented. Probably, I failed. But maybe I succeeded* in letting you know how much I appreciate all of you, lurkers and commenters alike. Thank you.

If I can find half an hour tomorrow, I'll re-address the subject of blog-love, which has lately been much on my mind. (Sort of).

(I love you).

*Did I fail? Make sure you clicked all the links... and if I really did, comment, and I'll get you next time.

$1000 an hour

If I made that much money, perhaps I would have time to post today in a timely fashion. Alas, I do not, so I have to put off the post you thought you would be reading right now until I finish my extremely rewarding and fullfilling work.

(If only I had never gone to college. If only I had been blessed with a poor upbringing and a great ass. If only I had made better - oh, I am sorry -different choices. If only, if only, if only).

Post will go up around 10pm tonight.

Reader, part two

If you missed part one, scroll down.

I turn my attention now to you, Gravesend reader.* Oh, yes. You. I admit that you are not a daily reader, but when you do visit, you make up for lost time, for big and sure. In my imagination, Gravesend reader, you are a British schoolboy all grown up, working at a book shop most of your time and being smoking hot pretty much all the time. The first time you stumbled onto my blog, sitemeter clocked you at three hours. I assume that after that you went to get some lunch. But you know what happened next? You came back from lunch and read my blog for another three hours. The only reason I can think of for you to do this is that either a) you don't have a thriving legal career b) you don't have seven kids or c) you don't have seven cats, two dogs, and a baby. Or perhaps you need a hobby? Take up needlework, perhaps?

Alabama reader, I have no idea why you are so shy. Is it because you are a creative, sensitive type? Or perhaps you are thinking you would be the only southern girl? In my imagination, Alabama reader, you are a chic and sassy southern belle. No? Then perhaps you are a heroically smart teacher - or better yet, junior high school administrator. On the other hand, maybe I have it all wrong. Maybe, if I really knew you, I would love you instead for your earthy manliness. Perhaps, Alabama reader, if I knew you, we could get drunk on your porch.


This, of course, is where I run into nine kinds of trouble. The imagining. The fantasizing. The internet-specific indulgence of a thousand ethereal sins.

More on this tomorrow.

If you are not linked and included yet, and you wish to be, comment. I have a list, but I don't want to miss anybody.

Have a clickable Wednesday.




*If you haven't read yesterday's comments, do. Welcome to non-lurker status, Cork reader Claire! Other lurkers, feel free to out yourself, but please believe me when I say you don't have to. I meant it when I said I cherish all readers, even those who don't comment. So lurk or de-lurk. It's up to you.

Reader, part one

About six months ago, I was cleaning and alphabetizing my book closet, and I thought, as I sneezed and rearranged, that I have far too many books. Does having so many books make me something? A dork, a nerd, a librarian? Maybe just a reader?

Then for no particular reason, I put down my copy of Bronte's Villette, walked over to the computer, started a blog, and wrote this post. I put zero thought into the name of the blog or the tagline, and I had no clear idea why I was posting what I was posting or if anyone would ever read it. I didn't know if I would ever post again, either. Some days, as in recently, I have not had more than a few minutes to throw a picture at you and say I'd see you tomorrow. Other days I wrote thousands of words about why I hate it when people act like modern womanhood is so awesome. And still other days I have written nothing at all, either because I was in the Andes and out of internet range, or because I was so hung over or depressed that I didn't have the will to say "boo."



Six months later, the only thing remarkable about my internet diary is its tendency to attract smart, sensitive, gorgeous readers. If you click in here and read what I produce even a few times a month, this includes you. But it occurs to me that some of you might not be fully aware of the smart, sensitive, beauty of all of the others. Let's fix that, shall we?

I address here my lurkers, because I love them just as much as I love the rest of y'all, even though they have not told me who they are.

If you are my beloved Brazilian reader, you want to read my blog between seven and ten times a day. In my imagination, Brazilian reader, you are a dark and stormy princess living in a palatial villa. You sit on your hairless backside and eat candied walnuts all day fantasizing about marrying Prince Adam Heath Avitable, the Grand Duke of Florida Internet Excellence. I am sorry to tell you, Brazilian reader, that the Duke is already married and even if he were not, I recently caught him flirting with my beloved Magdalena Grand Duchess of Boston Internet Excellence. Be careful, Brazilian reader, who you fall in love with on the internet. Next thing you know you'll find two people you didn't even know you introduced totally making out with each other.

Then again, you might be my beloved Cork, whom I have named in my mind for the county in Ireland. Cork Reader, you probably recognize my left eye as pictured on this blog as about 90% Irish, as it is. In my imagination, Cork reader, you are a sheep farmer with a good strong jaw and adorable ears that stick out just a little bit. You virtuous and strong and you are married to a woman of such uncommon beauty and intelligence that you are half ashamed that you click into my blog every day just to hear me say the F-word, which to you, in all your innocence and virtue, is like porn. Well, Cork reader, it's the least I can do for you. You doubled my sitemeter continent count to 2 and you made me feel just a little more Irish. As if I needed that.

Or you might be my stoic Pennsylvanian. Snod reader, I think you know who you are. Yeah, you. Sometimes you desert me for months on end, but you always return with your comical domain and IP address and your stony silence. In my imagination, Snod reader, you sit at a desk all day running your hands over spreadsheets and longing for a better blog to read. May I offer, for your consideration, beloved Snod reader, science and candy? or how about haiku and babies? And if you were just too shy to ask, dear Snod, I can offer you Asian gorgeousness. Oh no, don't thank me. What are faceless friends for?

Canadian reader, I used to have this fantasy about you. The fantasy was that you were actually you, and you know, now that I think about it, I do have a newly minted lurker in Tokyo. Oh wait. I have confused myself.

What I meant to say, Canadian reader, is that even though I know Canada is big, please let all those other Canadian lurkers that I am ok with it. You all are an amalgam of Canadian goodness, kind of like Dagny Princess of Canadian Internet Excellence. Let her know, since you are leaving the house, how much I thrive on her grammatically perfect and syntactically judicious posting. While you are being cool like that for me, please let toss a letter in a bottle to Dan, a dad who is walking 78 miles to raise money to help parents who have recently lost a child. If you have ever given a stripper a dollar, get out of here and give a little something to Dan.

Of all my lurkers, Google reader, you are the only one who distresses me. Who the fuck are you? In my imagination, Google reader, you are holed up in your office in Mountain View, California, being the man and reading my blog either for your own amusement - or to bring down a mighty reckoning on me. Either way, your visits make me all shivery. Couldn't you just comment? Just to let me know that I am not, in fact, hastening the apocalypse?

There comes a time in every slavish gooey blog love linking post when a girl must realize that too much of a good thing is indeed too much of a good thing. This is therefore part one of three.

Now, if you are reading this and thinking "that stormy bitch didn't link to me"* - well, haven't you ever heard about saving the best for last? And if you are thinking "That bitch linked to me first - she must think I am not top tier" - well, did you notice that I linked to unequivocally fabulous people in this post? You didn't? Well then obviously you are a fool for not clicking every single link. Quit your crying, and get to work.

(I love you).

*If you wish to be included in part two or three, comment. If you like the folks you found here, link to this post and spread the word.

Fall

I am liar. I never posted again yesterday. I worked from 7am until 11pm, and today doesn't look to be much different. But I do have great hopes of being able to publish the aforementioned mighty post, but much later. As in after I do a whole real lot more work. Sorry and stuff. I'll blog and read blogs again soon.


Another Iceland picture.

Fissure

We had a particularly rough weekend over here, so while I clean up several messes, you can look at this picture I took of a glacier (or a fissure in a glacier) in Iceland.




I'll mega-post later tonight.

Sin of the Week, 3/9/08

Leaving aside the fact that I assaulted Some Guy with my breast the other day, and leaving aside the fact that I have been neglecting my job in the usual fashion, I have also to report that:

1) For the third week in a row, I canceled my tutoring appointment with my one and only paying student. And I canceled it twenty minutes before the appointment, so he was already on his way in from Brooklyn.

2) I might have (in my mind* only) called someone a retarded gorilla.

3) I haven't responded to all the awesome (and you have no idea how much appreciated comments) you leave on this here blog - in weeks.

4) You might without obvious unreason call me a newly minted drug addict. I have to take stuff to get to sleep at night. For a person who used to be able to sleep standing up on a moving bus, this is indeed a defeat.

5) I got ragefully jealous when I found out that Julie - my own personal internet friend who I talk to all day, every day - has been soliciting on her blog for additional internet friends. As if I were not enough for her. Supajewie, WTF?


Mighty Tribute Post goes up tomorrow. It was my original intention to mention and link to every person who has ever commented. I am still going to try. If you want to make extra certain that I get you in there, comment on the review post below. (I won't respond directly to the comment, probably, and yes that does make me a shabby blogger. But I will love that you commented and I will smear all kinds of gooey blog love all over you tomorrow. I hope that helps).

* Oh and I might have said it out loud once or twice to Julie on IM. But that totally doesn't count.

Sweater orb, anyone?

Yesterday on my way to the 7 train, I was in a serious hurry and in a rapturous debauch of New York City selfishness, I accidentally bludgeoned Some Guy half to death with my left breast.




Yes. That really happened. He was running up the stairs and I was running down the stairs and the train was getting ready to leave and I needed to make that train... so.

I smacked Some Guy in the face with my boob.

If you care to comment, please imagine getting bonked in the face with a whole bunch of sweater-orb -- and indicate your level of psychedness. I am afraid this guy have to endure decades of therapy.

Review and you

I love this image because my brother created it. It is man-centric (notice the boobs but also the baby is just born - wearing a hat, but no pants - winkle evident) but also is woman and baby positive. The image is full of love and boobs and winkle. It is not about anything else. Does anyone know where this image comes from?


I blog because a whole lot of what has happened to me in the last few years has been out of my control. Writing about it (or not) gave me a feeling of control. Also, it's fun.

Two people I love who you should go check out just because I said so:

Julie who has been my friend through many dangers, and Woodrow who says he will not be my internet friend anymore unless I turn off the spam blocker on my comments function. If you are not reading their blogs, you are a punk-ass. Get to it.

To the right you will find a new poll. It asks you to indicate whether (and what) you would like me to knit for you.

I am preparing a mighty tribute post for you, my readers. If you wish to be linked and included, please comment. (Lurkers: feel free to comment anonymously so you can preserve lurker status. I love you, too).

Blog for sale

My blog is worth $24,146.14.
How much is your blog worth?

Obviosly, we don't blog for the money. Most of us don't run ads. Those of us who do don't make any money anyway.

I can think of a lot of good reasons for blogging, but before I tell you mine, I want to hear yours.

Click the comment button and tell.

Sparkle hour *updated*

Two nights ago, I scrambled in from wherever with a grocery bag full of frozen dinners. I might have had a bag from the liquor store and two weeks worth of mail under my arm. I can't remember. But I do remember very well that Angelo, my doorman, stopped me.

Now, when Angelo stops me, it is not a "hey, yo, what's up" kind of stop. It is a put your shit down and talk to me full stop.


So I put it all down on the desk and looked full-on into the blue eyes of the lovely sixty something year old Italian first generation off the boat Angelo. He reached across the counter and took my hand, as he always does.

"Baby," he said.

"Yeah," I said.

"You know it has to stop," he said.

I said nothing.

"All this," he said, gesturing at seemingly nothing and everything, "It destroys you."

What do you say to that? I said nothing.

"Baby," he said. "You are not what you were. You used to smile and be happy. Now you are sad. Always."

"Well," I said.

"It must stop now," he said.

"Ok," I said.

"Yes?" he said.

"Ok," I said.

"You come to Brooklyn. I make you pasta. You will see how the world should be," he said.

"Ok," I said.

It is unlikely that I will go to Brooklyn and eat pasta with Angelo, but it would not be too far a stretch to say that the man basically owns me.


If you move to a building with a doorman, your doorman will know more about you than your own mother inside of six months. They don't need to be told you have a new boyfriend or a new job. They don't need a memo to learn that your dad is dying or you are going on vacation or that your last break up is haunting you. They know everything while they know nothing.

How do they know? They know because they watch you walk in and out of the building every day. The look on your face, the clothing you wear, the take out you order, the packages you pick up? These things tell all. The doorman knows because he knows.

And so while I could do without the strange sparkle in Angelo's eyes, I can do just as well with it. And it's ok that he calls me baby. He does, after all, own me.

Around here there are two times of day that I especially love. Sparkle hours A and B. Sparkle hour A happens at around 9am, when the sun hits the river just so and the whole thing sparkles. Today it is dark and stormy so it doesn't sparkle so much but has a certain charm, nonetheless. I would upload pictures of these events for you if blogger would cooperate, but it won't. I have been trying to upload the pictures for three hours. It is not working. It is not likely that my continuing to try will have any effect. So I am giving up.

OH LOOK! I got the pictures to load!





Have an excellent, sparkley Wednesday.

lalalala baby

My internet service provider doth not serve me today. It took me an hour just to get this page to load. So I am not going to say much today. (Do I ever?)

Have I mentioned I am a hopeless insomniac? Have I told you how badly I need to either start getting to the gym every day or cut off my own brain from the main generator? I am a mess.

Tomorrow morning I'll tell you the one person on earth I permit to call me "baby." And why I permit it.

*airkiss*

Steeped happily in disaster

My girl LAS tagged me for the Book Meme.

Directions: pick up the nearest book. Open to page 123. Type the fifth sentence on the page.

OK.


"He sat slouched in a camouflage jacket with Velco closures, steeped happily in disaster."

Tagged herewith:

Uisce

Ki

Sizzle

Chelsea

Country Roads


Now, if you are tagged and you'd rather not be tagged, then un-tag yourself. I am well aware that some people are anti-meme. That's cool. Just move on.

If you were all like, Oh, pick me! pick me! then consider yourself tagged. I'll even tag you officially if you request a tag in comments.

Love and stuff,
Nina

Sin of the week, 3/2/08

Leaving aside yesterday's confession regarding the wearing of someone else's pants - which I am doing right now - both the leaving aside and the wearing - I have some surprising things to report today about this week's shabby behavior.

The first is that for the first time in my life, I have had thoughts that might rightly be described as violent. I know this may come as a shock. Indeed, I am shocked myself. So i'll just get on with the business of humiliating myself by describing my recent violent thoughts (and occasional violent actions). (Yes, there was real violence, on two occasions).

One of the instances of fantasy violence involves work, so I can't describe in too much detail for fear that the one lurker I have (who happens to reside in a certain place that will remain unmentioned) could be my boss. So I'll put it this way: when you tell 80 people to complete a three part process by midnight on a specific day, you should (if you are me) expect only 38 of those people to complete it correctly. The other 42 will deviate from the directions between step 1 and 2 and nearly all of them will lie to you about it because they don't want to get a zero. The rest will contrive a narrative in which it is also somehow your (my) fault that they didn't follow the directions. By the time you have explained the directions again and again and again and again over your cell phone, which, by the way cuts out every two and a half minutes so that you have to start and stop that same phone call over and over and over again, you will be fiercely glad you live in a state such water-tight gun-control laws. In fact, there might be a provision in there that says teachers can't own firearms. I am in favor of it. Otherwise I might have been in jail by now. (The irony, of course, is that none of these miscreants lives within shooting distance. Awesome, no?)

A second instance requires no special description either because I think you all know that I threw a tuna fish sandwich against the wall the other day. Why did I do that? Well, it was disgusting, but more to the point, I had spent the remaining money I had left in the world to buy it. Why was I so short of cash? Because Panic once again, chose not to complete the paperwork to get me paid on time.

Last and finally, when I realized that my syllabus and most of my course materials were destroyed when my hard drive crashed the other week - well. After calculating the number of hours I did not have to replace all that work, I might have ripped the leg off my desk chair and thrown it at the wall. It hit the window.

It felt great.

I am not sorry.

What does this mean? I have never been like this before in my entire life. Never, ever have I wished harm to stupid people. I might have made just a little bit of fun, but I didn't want to bash their faces in for wasting my time and disrespecting the CONTRACT they signed when they entered my class. Never before have I been so childish as to throw food just because I hate it and I am mad at someone else. Never, ever have I destroyed my own furniture because I am so ever-loving OVER things sucking the ass crack of hell for no apparent reason. Never. I scare myself.


I am sure my childish fit-throwing is temporary, anyway, since as previously noted, I have never responded to stress in quite this way before.

If you care to comment,* leave out the part where you think I am dangerous and should be permanently stored in a padded room. Instead, put in stories of your own childish fit throwing. If you have ever broken your own toys, tell me today. I sort of need to hear it.

Happy Sunday

*Oh and by the way, yes. Yes, I know I have fallen off on responding to comments and visiting your blogs. I am working on it. I will be better to you all very very soon. Promise.

I am so in your pants right now

Dear Neighbor,

Last weekend, you and I did our laundry. I was the filmy troll with the enormous breasts. You were the cute thing with the glossy hair and the pink-trimmed sneakers. I give you credit, girl. You've got a great ass. But I still wouldn't want to be you - and it's not (only) because I am the one with the graduate degree and the additional one (or two) decades of rich, meaningful, soul-refining life experience.

I wouldn't want to be you, neighbor, because I know for a personal fact that no matter how well your week went, it was, in fact, a disaster. I know this because while your ass may be cute, it is not......

Well. I think you know.

Let me turn now to the painful subject of your laundry error. You hastily extracted your garments from the dryer without ensuring that the drum was empty. Otherwise, how could I have placed my own garments in that same dryer, hit the 40 minute low heat cycle, and six hours later extracted the wonder of your pants?

True, the error is half mine. I did not carefully examine the dryer to ensure that it was unoccupied. I did not think to clean the lint trap or add a dryer sheet, either. I, like you, was in a hurry. I am also at fault for not noticing, as I was folding my garments last weekend, that the inky black wonderous sweatpants with the extra perfecty-perfect waistband and the flattering drape were not in fact my all time favorite DKNY track pants. Your pants and my pants are similar. Just different. I folded your pants and put them in my closet. Right next to my other track-y sweat pant-y stretchy clothes. (Shut up).

Only this morning, a week later, when I reached into the stretchy pants pile and unfolded your wondrously comfortable pants - and applied them to my own ass - did I realize my error. Unfortunately for you, I also discovered that you are the owner of the dearest, bestest, coziest, cutest sweatpants ever blessed by Mary, Virgin Mother of God and Patroness of House-Pants.* I have never, ever in the history of gaining and losing the same ten pounds, ever felt the way I feel about this pair of pants.

To put it plainly, I am in love. And no, this is not drunken late night bar sniffed a little something can I take a hit off that sure you can grab my ass infatuation. Neighbor, this is solid, true, cold light of six in the morning just out of the shower uncaffeinated devotion. I am not crushing on your pants. I am in love.

I am right now, as we speak, wiggling around at my desk in their voluminous, fluffy, coziness.

Love.

I want these pants.

Now, technically, neighbor, I have your pants. See above re: wiggling.

What is bothering me, of course, is that I do not own your pants. I realize that it is trashy and in poor taste and maybe even a little bit hygienically ill-advised to even make the suggestion to follow herewith, but neighbor, I must own these pants. It is not enough to simply have them for a day. I want to marry them and wear them forever and ever and ever. Amen.

If you wish to enter into negotiations with me regarding the formal unification of me and your pants, please see the doorman. To prove your title, please identify the designer, the size, and the location and circumference of the one barely even noticeable hole. If you pass security clearance, the door man will give you my apartment number and you may visit me and your pants at your leisure. I will likely be wearing your pants when you arrive, which makes your bargaining position both better and worse.

I look forward to your visit.

(You are never getting these pants back).

Your neighbor,

Nina



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