I was just thinking about life as it was a decade ago.  It's funny how small snapshots of a time remain and gently haunt us as we age.  Birthdays and breakups fade, but that one time the moon was just right over the tired lights of the city; well, that stays a memory fresh and wet.

Tonight I asked myself where the last ten years have gone.  I've had this little hamster in my brain, who's now gotten off his wheel and has started nibbling at me, reminding me that I'm six months away from hitting thirty.  It's not necessarily a frightening thought (with the exception that I still feel like a 15 year old dork), but it is a cause for reflection.  Where was I in 1999?  Where were you in 1999?

Obviously, I was a sophomore at Tufts.  But my memory of the time is buried in piles of dead leaves, quartz flakes, and the creeping damp of the New England coast (hey, I was a geology major).  I think I fell in love for the second time too, and that made me a little crazy, unable to eat, and prone to what must have looked like petty mal seizures.  I was a little lost.

The trees were calico and turtle.  I remember Professor's Rowe, arboreal saints lining the streets, on the verge of fire.  I remember my middle finger pretty well - it was on display fairly often as I crossed the university's roads.  I remember tye dying a friend's Chuck Taylors along with my socks and dying my hair to better fit my role in the university's production of Rocky Horror.  I remember blankets that smelled like firewood and the scent of the morning rising as my friends and I guarded the Tufts' cannon all night, which we had just painted. 

Yeah, friends - at this time ten years ago I was meeting the women who I'd love and know for what I suspect is the rest of my life.  It was a lucky time.

I remember surveying rock formations in the gray as the wind tore my raincoat from me.  I remember the occasional bout of homesickness and the unexpected pangs of lack of surety.

But among all the small and great things that I recall about autumn, there's one short time that stands out from the rest and will forever remain brighter and richer than the rest.  It's just a tiny slip in time that portended nothing and meant little.  But this vignette is what I remember with the most affection from fall of 1999.  The best part is that this lovely memory promises the potential to repeat itself.

I was living in a university house filled with hippies (these guys wouldn't flush the toilet when they peed, trying to save water.  I was a tree-hugging, compost using, birkenstocks wearing kid too, but I had great faith in the state sanitation system.  I have never believed that one should let the yellow mellow).  I inhabited a corner of a large room in the attic of the house; two other girls had their beds in there, too.  I had only been there for roughly a month.

But it was a night where my roommates were gone and I was free to open every window.  I took in the chilled, smoky air and sprawled across my extra long twin bed and stared at the ceiling.  My quilt rumpled about my shoulders and a stray thread wormed its way into my ear.  I tried to shrug it off.  The roof boards were close to my face and slanted to the floor.  It suddenly felt cozy; my space, and my own time truly alone, and I liked it. 

I sat up and grabbed my Sony Walkman (remember, this was 1999).  I turned to a local radio station that was interviewing my favorite band at the time, Guster.  I ran my fingers through my hair and watched the strands settle over the side of the bed as I listened.  I think I giggled at one point.

Once the interview was over, I popped in a favorite Guster cassette and lay, prostrate in the sound.  With my feet on my pillow and my head hanging in the cold breeze at the foot of my bed, the ceiling dissolved into gentle sleep.  The wind and the music were a lullabye.

That's it.  Lame as it may be, that is what made my fall ten years ago. 

What do you remember?  Does anything stand out in these past ten years?

Tunes: Love My Way - Grant Lee Phillips

Wow.  My darling fourcorners gave me a nudge.  It's been a while.  Thanks.  :)



I adopted this little, scrappy two year old cat in 2007.  One of the workers at the shelter scribbled in her file that she was "not nice."  Still I took her, because something about her mottled little nose said she belonged with me.  While she had a total attitude, I could sort of identify with it.  I decided she must come home to learn how to snuggle.  And that's how Willow came to live in my modest flat.

Will's gotten a lot better.  She's a sweetheart who curls up with me at sleepytime and purrs when I pick her up.  She's made me hers.  She even licks my nose.

Still, she did spend time on Boston's pothole ridden streets as a stray, so sometimes she just kind of goes psycho.  Occasionally she undergoes some sort of post traumatic stress, where Charlie's throwing Agent Orange at her permeable whiskers, and she freaks - even in my arms.  I've seen the animal smoking Pall Malls and rocking back and forth, muttering about Hueys.  Sometimes my little tortoiseshell baby goes Full Metal Jacket.

This was the case last night, where something spooked Willow as I held her.  Suddenly she stopped purring and dug her claws into my flesh.  Note this - she dug her claws into my flesh.  Meaning, her freaking paw claws got stuck in the skin on my shoulder.  I'm not a frigging afghan, people.  I'm not made of fiber.  But my cat got STUCK IN MY SKIN.

Once I'd stopped screaming and Willow was safely ensconced firmly in the popcorn ceiling, I examined the oozing wounds in my shoulder in dismay.  I looked at the man to my right and said, "Brandon...Willow will kill me in my sleep.  But til then, will you please treat these deep gashes?  There's a tube of Neosporin in the bathroom.  It's "Neosporin with Pain Relief."  It disinfects and kills the pain.   I hurt.  I think that's a tendon poking out, there.  Kindly tuck it in and coat me in ointment."

"Sure hon," said my bestest of friends.

Brandon returned with a white tube and calmly slathered the shrieking wounds in my dermis with salve.  The pain faded.

All was well, until I noticed that my shoulder was on fire.  No, really.  Tiny imps with pitchforks burrowed into the broken flesh, invoking the wrath of ten years of ex-boyfriends mixed with a paste of cayenne pepper and Kenny G ballads.  It hurt. 

"YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"  I yelled.  I stopped.  I stood still.  I sniffed the air.  Something was distinctively minty and warm.  I recognized the scent of the balm I'd slathered on my legs after hard fencing meets in college.  More recently it was the odor of the ointment adorning my back when I'd taken karate back up. 

"BENGAY?" I shrieked in a language only dogs could hear.  "YOU PUT BENGAY IN MY CAT SCRATCHES?"  My pal sucked in his breath.

"You said 'Pain Relief,'" he yelled.  "Pain Relief!"

"THAT WAS THE TUBE OF GENERIC BENGAY!" I hollered.  "IT SAID 'PAIN RELIEF!'  I ASKED FOR NEOSPORIN WITH PAIN RELIEF!  NEOSPORIN!  NOT CVS MUSCLE PAIN RELIEF GEL!  THAT'S BENGAY!"

I bolted to the shower, where I let the minty fresh agony rinse off my shoulder.  A few coats of Neosporin had me feeling like new within a few hours.  But still...I am now terrified of things in tubes. 

I'll have to find a way to figure out toothpaste.

Gentle Reader, this is hilarious and awesome.  I'm in a book!   Well, my picture is, at least.

About a year ago, I got an email from an author, who found my Halloween photo on Flickr.  I was dressed as Rainbow Brite (it was taken the night that the Medford cops laughed their asses off at me.  He mentioned he was writing a book and asked permission to include my photo.  I said, why the hell not?

I didn't hear anything after, and it slipped my mind.  Until today. 

I got a long email from the author, saying that my photo had been put in the book.  The details are the following (I'm quoting part of the email):

"The book, titled We Feel Fine: an Almanac of Human Emotion, is currently scheduled to be released on December 1st.  Our publisher is Scribner, which is a division of Simon & Schuster.   I've attached the book cover as well as the page where your photo appears.  We are very pleased with how your photo fits into the book and hope that you agree.  Please let me know if you have any questions or concerns."

I guess I'm in the Halloween section, which is great, because it's my favorite holiday, anyway.  I get a free copy of the book and I'm invited to the release party in New York later this year.  I so want to go!

I have to fill out some copyright release forms and such, and well, I guess I'll be ordering a bunch of copies for family.  I think this is incredibly funny.  Anyway, here's my the photo that's going to be in the book, with my mug.  :)  Too bad the 80's drapes were in the background. 


EDIT:  AHAHAHAHAHA, I didn't even notice the quote they put over my photo, something I said in an old LJ entry about the night in question:

"I don't feel like I was ever in danger, though I probably came close to doing something stupid."  Wow.  I have to say that they caught me very well.  That's pretty much me.  It will probably wind up on my headstone.

Here's the Amazon URL:  http://www.amazon.com/We-Feel-Fine-Almanac-Emotion/dp/1439116830/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1242927548&sr=8-1

Mood (kind of): amused
Tunes: Crazy Ever After - The Rescues

I was testing out the new camera this evening, when Willow decided to let me know her thoughts:





The camera makes her look super thin.  Very odd, as she's a total bear.


In other news, the arm is still wrapped.

I miss performance art.

Granted, not because it reaches into some deep, pretentious part of my psyche or whatever.  No, it's something else.  Let me explain.

Nothing entertains me more than the absurd.  I belonged to a performance art group in summer camp for four summers straight, and I can tell you that very little that we did meant much.  But it was fucking fun. 

As we were kids, symbolism was somewhat lost on us.  No ten year old is going to expound on existentialism by impaling dead frogs on a Christmas tree.  Not that we did that, but that's beyond the point.  No, we used our group to be as weird as possible, and we reveled in it.

For each performance, we'd think of a concept upon which to base the show, and then it was pretty much no-holds barred.  We loved pissing off the audience as they tried to figure out just what the hell we were doing.  Half the time, we didn't even know. 

We did a show about environmentalism, once.  We collected soda cans from around campus, and strung them around a six foot tall, wooden pyramid frame.  One person climbed on stage and stood, staring at the audience for a good minute, and then sounded an air horn.  That was our cue to sprint across the field behind the stage, hauling the can pyramid and screaming bloody murder.  Just screams.

Then there was the performance about dreams.  Six of us walked in a circle around a podium, spouting out at random descriptions of our most bizarre nightmares.  The camp nurse sat in the corner, rocking a fire extinguisher like a newborn.

I can't remember the theme of my favorite performance.  I can't really remember why I was chosen as the central figure, but I think it's because my Aryan-appearing countenance (which is funny for a Jew) appeared the most innocent out of the group, and they wanted someone who looked angelic.  I pounded a tree stump that had been placed on stage with a wooden mallet, as the rest of the group behind me passed a banana around.  I don't remember what was said, but the last troupe member kneeled reverently as he gently placed the banana on my stump.  I nodded, and he scrambled away.  At his departure, I wailed on the banana with the mallet, a la Gallagher.  Banana puree rained down upon the poor, unsuspecting audience, who clearly made their displeasure known with cries of, "oh god!" and "gross!" and "eeeeew!"  I dissolved into giggles as I wiped the remnants of banana corpse off my arms backstage.

I loved that group, and I loved acting weird.  This little bit of absurd behavior still tints my attitude as an adult, as well.  It's so odd when it comes out.

Last week found me cutting a wedge of cheese into small slices for class the next day, when it occurred to me how funny it might be if someone were to walk around town holding a random bag of cheddar. Then it seemed even funnier if the cheese was replaced by a bag of hair.  I don't know why.

There are times when I want to be absurd.  I miss it.

And then there are most times, when I want to look at the people around me, speaking the day to day, talking business, talking sales, and I want to tell them that the words I'm hearing are weirder than anything that my group of adolescent miscreants and I could have ever conjured. 

Sometimes this world is as confusing as it is amazing.

In other news, I learned how to render a person unconscious yesterday, using their armpit.  That makes me feel warm and fuzzy on the inside.

Just signed up for a drawing class over in Harvard Square. I'm completely excited. I can't wait.

I have this idea that involves some major changes, but I think it's going to be good if I can pull it off. Let's be honest - if I can follow through. Until then, I'm going to enjoy my extra soft charcoal.

Ooooh, next is yoga.

Well, Gentle Reader, that sucked.

I had high hopes for my description of Friday night, which featured a nice, long walk, neon signs, unexpected vintage kitsch, and a litter of Himalayan kittens. All of the above were part of said walk.

Alas, I'm relating my latest police report.

2:30 in the morning found B and I hanging out on the couch, chatting and watching Anthony Bordain over a bottle of rioja. You can imagine how surprised we were when an urgent pounding rattled our front door. Someone was banging his or her fists to a pulp, it seemed.

My eyes met B's. While we were both alarmed, we both tacitly assumed that it was a drunken friend who had lost track of time. But then we heard a yell that we didn't recognize and realized that there was a stranger attacking our welcome mat.

Have you seen The Strangers? It's that newish movie where Liv Tyler and Scott Speedman are terrorized in their home (seemingly without reason) before they're slain in a cringe-worthy gorefest. The psychological tampering begins with the kind of knocking that shook our threshold.

Granted, we weren't expecting three people in masks to merrily disembowel us, but nothing good comes of visitors at 2:30 in the morning.

"Get into my bedroom," B whispered, referring to the central room in the house. He dove into the linen closet, grasping his tool box and extracting his rubber mallet.

I followed close behind B. It's a nice thought to hide in this situation, but I was furious. Besides, who on earth lets a friend walk into that sort of thing without some support? He tried to shoo me back. I staunchly refused to shoo.

B shot me an exasperated glance and flung open the door, hammer in hand. We were greeted by a completely wasted 20-something man with shaggy hair, wailing into his cell phone as he paced back and forth on our porch.

"I love you," he said wetly into the phone.

"What the hell is going on?" B asked, as confused as me. I hovered behind him.

"Sorry," said a fragile voice. Looking down, we noticed a short woman with a pixie cut spread across our front steps. "He's drunk. He thinks he's somewhere else." Her tone didn't exactly inspire confidence in her sobriety, either.

The man staggered on, slurring sweet nothings into his Nokia. He had taken no notice of us once we opened the door.

"You're going to take care of this," said B. It wasn't a question.

"Yeah, sorry."

"This isn't going to happen again." Once more, not a question. "You're not going to be banging on my door again, correct?"

"Yeah."

We shut and locked the door. We had a few peaceful moments before the pounding started again, even louder and more insistent. This was too much. B flung open the door, still gripping the rubber mallet.

"That's it! Get the fuck out!" B boomed.

I watched in horror as the deranged Romeo forced his way into the apartment. He spilled into our foyer, half striding purposefully, half staggering. He dove in, seeking something only he knew. I'm guessing it was the the heinie of his beloved (you know, the lady to whom he so suavely and droolingly crooned earlier). I half wish it was a bar of soap. I would have understood. The guy looked greasy.

B may not be the tallest person I know, but his previous work as a bouncer must have been helpful.

Though the idiot was easily six feet tall, B immediately put his hands on the guy's shoulders and did his best to eject him. Amazingly, boy wonder began to push back, struggling to force B to the side.

B grappled with the idiot trying to enter. Then B saw yours truly advancing and looking pissed, and yelled. I was honestly (and stupidly) about to dig my unmanicured nails into the asshat's neck.

Go away, Gwen!" B hollered. Reality smacked me across the face, and I backed up. I'm not good with this. I always think I'm bigger than I am.

B threw his fists at the intruder, eventually tossing him out the door. He slammed it shut, fighting for breath.

He leaned against the wooden frame and shot me an indescribable glance. I was on the verge of completely flipping out. I was either going to cry, hit someone in the head with a rock, or curl up in the fetal position.

A house is supposed to be a place of safety. Some stupid person violated that.

I'd like to point out that I was fairly useless, here. B did everything. I've always respected him, but that night he was like, Super B. Good job, B.

We both agreed to call the cops (who were two minutes away) and have them check out the neighborhood (and hopefully arrest this freak). And while the cops were two minutes away, it took them almost 15 to drive by. At this point, other neighbors had come out, because it seemed that Home Invader's girlfriend was screaming. Even an exhausted B and I poked our heads out the door again. She was really screaming. It sounded painful.

I wandered into the street (in my pajamas and flip flops) to flag down the cops. B urged me back inside.

"What if they come back? Get back here," he insisted.

"I don't want the cops to miss our house!"

"You are not being smart here, Gwen!"

"I know."

"Gaaah," he sighed, joining me. Time meandered on. Still, no cops. It shouldn't have taken as long as it had, so B called 911 again.

"They'll be there soon," assured the operator. "It's a busy night."

On most days when I've gotten the occasional ticket, the cops have always seemed very attentive; very thorough as they issued my fine. This night, they didn't bother to get out of their wagon as the terrified duo in their jammies (Anthony Bourdain is best enjoyed in pj's) attempted to relay the night's events and the fact that there might be some woman getting beaten in the street.

My voice was still trailing off as Driver Cop drove away. Our tale had proven about as compelling as learning the Dewey Decimal System. They didn't even take a report.

It pretty much ends here. B and I were up well into morning, still nervous that our breaking-and-entering friends might return for round three.

The rest of the weekend was fairly uneventful. Well, that's until I got water poisoning, but that's a tale for another day.

Dear Neighbor,

I'm all for patriotic spirit and and blowing shit up for love of country as we Americans are wont to do, but there are limits. Fireworks at three AM? Really? Is this necessary?

There are a lot of things that I like to do this time of night. Sleeping is fairly high on the list. When I take the time to think about it, making things explode doesn't really do it for me. You can imagine that this puts us in conflict. More specifically, it makes me want to find something pointy and poke you with it repeatedly.

What do you think? Maybe you could quit the late night pyrotechnics and I won't have to track you down and poke you? Mull it over.

Gwen

THE GYM WAS AWESOME! I had no idea what I was doing, but I had a wonderful time. I put some Turbonegro on my iPod, tightened my laces, and was off. I even used the elliptical. Is that what you call it?

I really thought I would hate it, but I didn't want to leave. I didn't want to overdo it, though. I'm sure I probably did.

I am so going back tomorrow.

Is this what it's like for you healthy people?

Tomorrow we start The Gym. It's a two week trial sort of thing, as this place is close, but they don't offer classes and I might want those.

Normally, working out bores me to tears. I don't enjoy it. But 30 is around the corner, and I have to start taking better care of myself. I'm even trying to floss more. And alas, now I'm one of those people who goes to the gym. I even get two free sessions with a personal trainer. And a workout buddy who is probably going to make fun of me pretty mercilessly.

This could be interesting.

I hate stress tests. Yucky treadmills that go faster and get steeper.

I think I broke a personal best. 192 beats per minute. Scared me in to going back on my heart meds. Bah.

If you get a chance, check out Brookline Magazine, or Newton Magazine. My interview is in there. I hadn't thought much about it until I got a congratulatory phone call earlier.

It's kind of funny - I was joking in the interview, but I'm in the magazine as the company's Gal Friday. Excellent.

I haven't read it yet, though. I'll have to run to the bookstore and pick up a copy.

Dear Astrophysics,

I love you. I adore you. I try to get you.

But every time, you make my head hurt.

Like, I'm totally digging "Death By Black Hole" (oh Neil Degrasse Tyson, you hot thing), but holy god, matter isn't supposed to DO THAT.

If the universe is expanding, what is outside the universe? How can space keep going and going and going and what is going to happen to us when we get sucked into the black hole in the center of our galaxy? How can particles behave in different manners depending on whether THEY ARE OBSERVED?

Oh, Astrophysics, you are beautiful, poignant, perfect, and make me feel as infinitely small as I probably should.

I yearn to take you apart, stick my fingers into your chewy, gooey center and digest all your delicious smartness.

But you give me a migraine.

Alas, ours is a forbidden love affair, as I studied Anthropology. I cheat on human evolution with you, oh verboten paramour of mine.

I shall have to seek Excedrin.

Love always,

Spyrit

My friend Bill has apparently gobbled up his new hobby of photography. Last night he pointed his camera to my metric arm and snapped a quick photo. I'm impressed. For a novice, it's pretty swell:






Go Bill.

Nice, yes? Considering that he did this with stainless steel, I'm impressed. He also took some lovely photos of my childhood menorah that I'm considering getting framed.

I love my friends.

PS. Please ignore the scars on my hands. I was a clumsy kid.

Tunes: Hot in Herre - Jenny Owens Young

Girl Scouts. You've seen 'em before. These days they appear hovering around supermarkets and shopping malls, cutely pandering to the suckers in all of us. Come on - if you were wandering aimlessly down the aisles at Kroger or Shaws or Safeway, would you really shell out $4.50 for the same kind of cookies made by those wily Keebler elves for $2.99? 'Cause it's the same thing.

I should know. Dear reader, I confess I was once a member of Troop 3040. I was a Girl Scout.

You might be thinking that perhaps I was hit rather hard on the head as a child (considering how I'm not the Girl Scout type), and well yeah, that's true. But I swear to whatever that it was not my idea. It was peer pressure. Really.

I'd seen my Brownie friends sashay into class every Wednesday with their spiffy sashes. Their patches gleamed; their teeth sparkled and their hair shone. Most importantly, they got to leave class early to go to meetings. I envied them.

The breaking point was that the majority of fourth grade girls were enlisted, which meant that most of my friends' Wednesdays were booked. There's only so much Baby Sitters Club a girl can read on a Wednesday. I crumbled.

I joined my friends in brown. I was either about to become a happy-go-lucky do-gooder or deliver a package. My first day in the Scouts was not encouraging.

We learned to sew. "We're making hand puppets out of felt!" exclaimed my sugar coated troop leader.

I was game. I stitched my heart out. When it was my turn to show the troop my threaded masterpiece, the puppet wouldn't budge. My careful handiwork had fastened itself to my jeans. It took two of the three den mothers to grant the fucking puppet its emancipation from its denim prison. I think I threw it away. Sewing a puppet to your pants doesn't exactly inspire confidence. I knew I wasn't the Girl Scout type, even then.

The songs drove me insane. We chanted about friendship. We held hands and swayed in a circle while we sang. The budding cynic in me thought that all this was just...wrong. I swear to god that we sang kum bah yah. I found myself watching the school library's clock and leaving our meetings slightly nauseated. I knew then that if the group hugs began, it was time to book it.

Then there was the cookies. It was a competition, really. It was totally different from the haldol-inspired-grinning girls blocking your path as you shop. Back then, it was strictly door-to-door. Looking back, all I can think is that Mary Kay Cosmetics was a secret Scout sponsor, conditioning us to peddle its makeup door to door (come on, nothing we did was ever inspired by the feminist movement). We practiced our pitches. Whoever sold the most cookies got some sort of prize. If we sold enough sweets, we got a patch.

A patch. A glittering jewel in our crowns, proving just how capable and grown up we were. It formed a hierarchy. Those most decorated were revered; they would grow up to become the best housewives evar. How could those of us with broad expanses of brown on our sashes compete?

I think I got the badge for mere participation. I didn't really care. I hated selling cookies. Doors were slammed in my face (ok, I'll even admit that that's pretty damn harsh for a nine year old Brownie). People led me into their homes (it was the suburbs in the 80's) and it smelled funny in there. The older people smelled like Vapo Rub and chicken soup. I got tired of telling people what I wanted to be when I grew up. (At that point, it was a judge.)

One year we performed a play for the local nursing home. It was Snow White. At this point, I had already proved myself inept in the ways of the home and baked goods. Want to guess the part I got?

*wait for it*

*wait for it*

I was the Magic Mirror. My part could have been competently carried out by someone yelling from behind the curtains. It was like getting last place in the Special Olympics. When you're not retarded.

Credits to Mom. She and I concocted the idea to create a "mirror" made out of tin foil, saran wrap, and rhinestones. It was the 80's, we were little girls, and anything bedazzled and sparkly was instantly coveted.

I honestly believe the Troup Leaders of 3040 didn't care for me and my attitude. When the other girls clamored for my "mirror" and demanded my role for themselves, they seemed genuinely perplexed. I kept the part and had a blast with my 45 seconds on stage in front of a group of drooling/sleeping/protesting geriatrics.

It all came to a head at the end of my second year, when we went on our annual "camping" trip. (It's not camping if you spend the night indoors with electricity and running water. Sorry, that's a vacation.) There were a couple key events:

There was a point in the evening when we were required to practice our "dance performance" that would be unveiled at the next nursing home cafeteria show. I had tolerated Snow White, but I was embarrassed by this weird dance. The only thing I could compare it to both then and now is the way the Smurfs danced in a circle, wiggling every now and then. Even at the age of ten, I wasn't a skipper. After I hit the old age of eight, I never skipped. There was no dignity in it. There was skipping in this dance. Skipping in a circle. It was painful to execute.

The most disturbing part was that I was the only one who had an issue with this or any of the above. The other girls threw their heads back and laughed when I complained. I'm not a Smurf. Sorry.

When it was time to practice the Skipping Circle Smurf Dance From the Eleventh Circle of Hades, I just couldn't do it. I was done. I hid outside the Girl Scout cabin, hoping I could avoid the dance practice and return when things were less skippy. I was nine or ten. I was dumb. Whatever. I didn't understand that my absence shouted, "LAWSUIT!" to my idiot troop leaders. I was found and given a proper chewing out in front of the rest of the troop. I deserved it. Maybe not in public, though.

It got worse from there. One of the troop leader's daughters got peeved at me for disrupting the Smurf Dance. I knew she was mad, but I didn't know why. Her name was Maya.

Maya stumbled (eavesdropped) on me telling a mutual friend that Maya seemed angry, and asking why. Perhaps she misunderstood. It was pretty innocent. I was rebellious, cranky, and fit nowhere in the mold of a Girl Scout, but I wasn't mean. Not back then, at least. Maya got some weird idea in her head, and ran off to tell her mommy, who was one of our leaders on the camping trip. You can guessed what happened.

Maya's mother found me playing with some sticks and dragged me toward the woods. I can't remember everything she said, but I remember the following:

"You are a mean girl! You're a conniving girl! You don't deserve to be a Girl Scout! Tomorrow when the troop graduates from Brownie to Girl Scout, YOU WON'T DESERVE IT!"

I was a child, but even I could see the woman was either strung out or a lunatic.

My troop leader is an asshole, I mused. I didn't know exactly what an asshole was. I didn't even know what "conniving" meant. I had to ask my mother later.

The next day was graduation. We abandoned our UPS Brownie uniforms, trading them in for Girl Scout Green. When it was my turn to receive my new patches and sash in front of the troop's parents, I paused. I hate this, I thought. I turned to the scout leader who had scolded me so harshly and dropped my new patches. They rested in the dirt as I returned to my position in the grass, sitting cross legged.

That is how I failed Girl Scouts.

I should point out that after some of the other Brownie parents heard what Maya's mother said to me, they pressured the beast into apologizing. I was little, but still I gloated at the fact that a grown up was wrong, had wronged me, and had to forego pride and say sorry to someone half her size. Gosh, that must have been hard. Part of me beamed; the other part trembled a little. The bohemoth still intimidated me. Not enough for me not to enjoy the moment, but I knew she could break me over her knee if she chose.

I told her I forgave her. I meant it. I look back, and I think the bitch was shithouse insane, but I can't get angry, because she was fucking crazy. I was over it shortly after the seemingly meth-inspired tirade. In a way, she helped me realize that I was no Girl Scout.

I wasn't interested in sewing or selling sweets. I didn't want to learn how to cook. I had no desire to learn how to set a table. Even then I knew it was outmoded. To be honest, I was happier on my own, writing. I wrote my first book when I was eight, and got published at fifteen.

Our troop leaders were housewives. That's a totally valid lifestyle, but it's not for me. I resent that we were learning politics that young, too. I'm still not one for politicking.

I think sometimes that I'll always be the girl sitting in the woods, refusing to skip in a circle. That's totally fine by me.

I'm leaving for Georgia either tomorrow or the day after. I don't know exactly where I am going, so I don't know what cell phone coverage I'll have. So none of you worry when you don't hear from me. :)

Guh. Have to start packing tonight.

My restaurant was reviewed in the Zagat Guide.

They labeled me as "an indifferent hipster."

Wow, I never thought I was THAT cool.

So I didn't shower yesterday, and midnight this evening found me cold and dirty.  What better way to warm up and get clean than to take a nice, long hot shower?

In my humble opinion, the act of taking a shower should be a fairly simple thing. Turn on the water.  Step inside (shed all clothing and water-vulnerable jewelry before doing so).  Run soap over body.  Shampoo hair.  Lather, rinse, repeat. 

I gathered my cold weather pajamas in a heap in my arms and stepped over the threshold to the bathroom.  I flicked the light switch.  The bulb went supernova, glowing intensely for a moment before sputtering out.  I glanced at the light fixture.  It was one of those contraptions that could only be accessed by screwdriver.  I don't have one.  I couldn't exactly just force a standard GE 60 watt in there and have my desired illumination.

I sighed and gathered a few candles.  Ok, perhaps a nice, long, hot candlelit shower would be even nicer than the standard one I had pictured.  I even poured a glass of wine to have nearby.  Might as well go all out.

I opened the shower curtain to turn on the water.  I was greeted with an unpleasant surprise.

Frankie, the resident cat decided to leave me a shower gift.  In the form of poop.  I gingerly scooped up the little feline fecal nuggets with a wad of toilet paper and deposited them in the toilet.  I coated the affected area with Soft Scrub ("with bleach!").  Deciding to let the chemicals do their work, I left the noxious stuff to soak in.

Ah, but remember I was showering by candlelight.  Open flame.  Just then, the smoke detector went off.  I had no idea what to do.  I couldn't reach the damn thing.  I had to burst into my roommate's bedroom, where he was remarkably still sleeping despite the constant shrill of the alarm.  With my fingers in my ears, I kicked him until he finally stirred.  He went for him alarm clock's snooze button.

"Fire alarm!  Not your clock!"  I hollered. 

He stumbled over to the source of the offending noise, and took off the face plate.  All was quiet.  I apologized and let him go back to bed. 

I lit the candles again and began running water over the pile of Soft Scrub in the corner of the tub. 

The fire alarm went off again. 

This time B didn't need me to wake him up.  He took the smoke detector off the wall altogether.

All I could think was, wow, god really doesn't want me to shower.

I was determined, though.  I cautiously stepped into the shower (finally!) and scrubbed myself clean.  I took my block of shampoo and lathered my hair.  After a long couple days, it felt wonderful.

It was one of the best showers I ever had. 

I have burned my hand, and it's all blister-y.

Cheese did this to me.  Yes, molten cheese.  Fucking Hot Pockets.

See when I get injured, I like to have a cool story to go with it.  Like, I got into a hockey fight.  Or a bar brawl.  Or I was rescuing orphans and puppies from a blazing fire while giving Oprah a list of the next bestsellers to add to her Book of the Month Club.  What; you think The Poisonwood Bible just got famous on its own?

None of my injuries have ever been cool, though.  Tonight it was cheese that seared my flesh. 

A falling cabinet almost killed me.  It gave me a wicked concussion and broke my nose (how else do you think I got this schnozz?).

A dishwasher door tripped me and chipped my patella.

A slushy patch of ice broke my finger.  A poorly-placed wall broke my toe.  A fucking stress fracture had me on crutches while I participated in the coin toss during games as my lacrosse team's captain.

A fingernail scratch gave me blood poisoning. 

My amazing off road bike accident that left half of me scraped to oblivion?  Yeah, I hit another biker on the road.

The stitches in my tongue?  Some asshat pushed me off a balance beam.  I know it's been decades since then, but if I were ever to meet him again, I'd pummel his ass.

The scars on my ears (I needed stitches, but never got them)?  I fell out of a chair.

So you see, my injuries were never good story-makers.  They've been horribly pedestrian.  Lame.

And now I rack up one more nasty assault of the flesh to something completely mundane.  Bubbling cheese from a Hot Pocket.


I promise you though, that before I die I will have at least one kickass injury.  Perhaps I will be maimed while lifting an eighteen wheeler off some retarded, paraplegic children.  Or I will take the blow from a club that should have fallen on a baby seal. 

If I get really lucky, the next shuttle explosion will happen near Boston, and I'll lose a few limbs pulling the expensive computer equipment out of the wreck (fuck the astronauts - they're all diaper wearing, jealous, psychotic, would-be murderers.  Thank you, NASA!).

If the gods totally smile on me, I'll be blinded after placing my body in front of a series of mortar rounds aimed at a leper commune in Cambodia.  Then Angelina Jolie will adopt me, and my crippled life will be complete.

Until then, I'll settle for the burning cheese on my hand.

I have a dream.  Oh yes, I do.

Admit it. You have seen When Harry Met Sally, and you liked it. Ok, perhaps you didn't like it. Either way, here's a new take on the quintessential Meg Ryan film of the 80's.

And now...even after weird things have been done to my hair, even weirder things have been done to it. Pics later, biznatches.

And I fucking LOVE my salt lamp.

Oh yeah, and I'm sorry, but no matter what my doctor says, I *cannot* put stuff up my nose.

Mood (kind of): indescribable

Walter Williams passed away peacefully today.  He felt no pain, and was surrounded by his family as he crossed over.

I didn't know him very well, but always held him in high esteem.  The time I spent with him proved him to be a kind, bright man who was loved very much by his wife and family.  I could always see the deep connection between him and B.  I know he shaped B's life in ways I cannot possibly fathom.

I was honored to be able to spend some time with him during his last days; honored that the family let me be with them as events unfolded.  It meant a lot to be able to briefly hold his hand and see him smile.  I watched him interact with B and Jordan, and I knew then that he'll always be with them. 

I'm writing about this from my perspective, because I don't feel it's my place to talk for B or his family.  I *can* say that I know some of you are also friends with B, and when he is ready, I'm sure he will appreciate any kind words you have. 

I was going to post about the trip to Buffalo, but that will have to wait; I don't feel it's appropriate to detail it right now.  I'll describe it in a future post.

Please send good vibes to B and his family.

Current Location: B's house
Mood (kind of): sad

Still on the road. Was dozing a little while ago, until we pulled in for gas. I ran into the Tiger Mart (I ADORE Tiger Mart for its cheezy souvenier crap) and well...I did it AGAIN. I got into the wrong car. Surprised the hell out of some family.

It's been at least five years since I've done that. Whoops.

Posting via phone, on the road to Buffalo.

Christmas music makes the Gwen want to kill. KIIIIIIIIIIIIILLLL!

That's pretty much all I can post from this device right now. So many things to write, and not a laptop around!

Current Location: the Mass Pike
Mood (kind of): busy
Tunes: Mae

My social circles continue to converge. My brain hurts. Owwww. How does everybody know everybody? I'm not used to this. Maybe I should move. Kidding.

Did you know that ancient Egyptians actually had a purpose to the crazy eye makeup? Green eyeshadow had malachite in it, which also contained copper, an antibiotic. I just remembered this as I was smearing my own purple eyeshadow across my lids.


Brain continues to hurt.

Mood (kind of): intrigued

Much thanks to grypes, for a lovely visit at work today, and for also putting up with my spaztastic self.

And yes, there was a bit of spaz. I really was still too sick to work today, but I dragged my sorry, sniffly ass in. For the first couple hours, I was whirling.

Five minutes before we opened, disaster struck. As I cut lemons, I heard a familiar whump, and the cringe-inducing sound of breaking glass. Peering around the partition, I saw my coworkers staring at a mess of shards and dark liquid. Two cases of Newcastle had fallen off a table, and the pool of beer was slowly spreading across the floor.

The last time I had seen an alcohol disaster like this, it was when three boxes of Rolling Rock had flown out of the back of my friend's hatchback (which I was driving) in the middle of Central Square. I still remember the smell of the beer as I attempted to clear the mess out of the middle of the road.

Luckily, this time it wasn't me. I still felt compelled to help clean it up though, which put me behind in my prep duties. I wasn't ready when we flipped the OPEN sign around.

The plague I contracted made my head a little fuzzy. When a customer asked for a side of jalapenos, I meant to tell him that the closest thing we had to it was hot cherry peppers. Instead, I informed him that we were proud to offer The Red Hot Chilli Peppers. We both chuckled at my mistake, and I promised to serve them with a Greatest Hits cd.

As my shift wound down, it was time to order a pie. We're each allowed one large pizza to take home each week (though we're allowed to bend the rule), and I usually donate my pie to the staff at the Kendall Square Cinema, as they are kind enough to validate my parking when I'm forced to leave my car in the garage.

Our sole pizza chef at that hour seemed busy, so I offered to make the pie if he could roll the dough (the last time I attempted spreading the dough resulted in a blob that vaguely resembled the shape of Florida). It would be the first Emma's foodstuff I had ever made and served to someone else (I've made my own stuff before; salads and paninis, but if I make a mistake I'm ok with it). It was my first pizza, though.

Juan rolled the dough and left me to my mission.

I learned the hard way that pizza sauce splatters a lot. Within thirty seconds, it was all over my arms, and had somehow found its way beneath my shirt, on my upper arm. As some of it shot up my nose, I let out a small shriek.

"What did you do now, my dear?" asked an amused Juan from the doorway.

"Oh, nothing. It's fine. I just apparently decided to do a line of tomato puree," I replied nonchalantly. I didn't want to take him away from his work. Glancing at my PIP (pie-in-progress), his eyes widened.

"Waaaaaay too much sauce," he smiled. "With that much sauce, everything will fall off the slice." Gently taking the spatula out of my hand, he scooped most of the red stuff back into the sauce bucket. He returned to his duties, and I was on my own again. Now it was time to have some fun.

I liberally tossed pepperoni onto the dough. Then I went nuts with the hot cherry peppers, and added on a bunch of green peppers for good measure. I coated the thing with cheese, and tossed it in the oven.

Ok, I attempted to get it in the oven. I heaved the paddle with the pie over my shoulder, and thrust it into the gaping mouth of the oven. Only part of it made it in. That part being a good deal of cheese, which sizzled merrily on the 600 degree surface.

Juan was behind me.

"Let me," he offered, accepting the paddle from my hands. I thanked him.

After five minutes, the pizza was ready. It was glorious. I took a photo of it on my phone, and here it is. Before you think I'm incredibly weird, just know that this is coming from the girl who took multiple pictures of the first pancake she made that turned out to be edible. Ok, maybe that just ups the weird factor. Whatever.




Wheeee.

Mood (kind of): still sick
Tunes: The Runaways - Anberlin

Posting from B's house....

ZOMG, I just realized my ex was in Eurotrip! He even has his own page on IMDB!

Hilarious. I've always wished him well. I'm psyched he had this opportunity.

I wonder if he still has those adult diapers I got him for his 30th birthday. Yeah, Jaith. Go on with your bad self. With Matt Damon.

On my way out to what I'm pretty sure will be a train wreck. Perhaps an amusing train wreck, but one nontheless. Before I go, I'd like to state for the record that it is sheer morbid curiosity that motivates me to do this.

Eh, maybe it will be fun. At least there will be pool. And video games.

We shall see.

Mood (kind of): amused

Holy shit.

Am at Thanksgiving dinner. My grandmother gave me her wedding ring (which means even more now, since Gramps passed away in January). It means more to me than almost anything. I almost cried when I slipped it on my finger. It even fit perfectly, as apparently both my grandmother and I have fingers so small that rings have to be custom made for us.

I have to get back to the family, but here's a photo of the ring.

Mood (kind of): completely floored

Anyone who knows me well, has lived with me, or has been married to me knows that my relationship with housework is at best, stormy. Meaning, I hate it, I'm bad at it, and only do it with much prodding. I've never been the domestic type, and I've come to terms with that. I'm perfectly ok to be missing the Donna Reed gene.

But alas, Thanksgiving is tomorrow (and I'm like the Grinch of Thanksgiving), and since I'm going to Pub Quiz tonight (the_evil_hand - you and Babe should come if you're around. You know where I'll be), I have to do my cleaning stuff now. I'm perfectly happy to pull my weight around my parents' house, since they are kind enough to put me up. So yeah, I've been given a laundry list of chores to do in the pre-Thanksgiving-zomg-we're-having-company madness.

Mom taped a list of my duties to the television. They include:

*vacuuming the den, living room, bathroom and dining room
*clean bathroom, windex mirrors
*clean the cabinets (yes, including the one that almost took my life when I was five) and mop floor in kitchen
*clear my crap from the den
*get all stuff in my bedroom off the floor and fold clothes

I added one additional item; do laundry. My old college strategy of hanging clothes out the window to let them air doesn't work when one is 26 and it's November. I started there. Along with the usual load, I decided it was time to wash my beloved, bright green hoodie. I've never washed it before (relax, I've had it for only a couple months and well, it's fleece outerwear). I scanned the label for washing instructions. All I could find was a set of symbols that closely resembled hieroglyphs. It's been a few years since my last Egyptology class, and I'll admit I've been remiss in keeping up with my book, Ancient Egyptian Hieroglyphs: A Practical Guide, but I figured that it was still a little ridiculous. I had to turn to the manufacturer's website and download a PDF to figure out how to wash my damn hoodie. Once I had matched the symbols with the instructions, I tossed the garment in the wash and crossed my fingers.

To be fair, my parents' washing machine is complex. I've only ever used the ones in the landromat down the street or in my old dorms. Those are simple. Insert coinage. Press button. Grunt. Fold. So I'm hoping I did this right. Too many damn dials to consider. What the hell is permanent press anyway?

I wandered into the bathroom with a bottle of Windex (I seem to be dealing with Windex a lot lately). Washing the mirrors took almost an hour, because my ADD kicked in, and I kept discovering random things in the drawers to play with.

Then...vacuuming. I don't vacuum. When I was 21, my then-boyfriend actually bought me a vacuum cleaner because he knew I never would do it. After I was done feeling mildly offended, I tucked it in the corner of my bedroom, where it lived until I moved out. The plastic wrap is still on it.

I hauled my mother's behemoth 1978 powder blue Kenmore Powermate vacuum into the den. I glared at it. It stared benignly back at me. I kicked the switch. Nothing.

"You're antediluvian suck machine is broken!" I hollered to my mother. She walked in and rolled her eyes.

"You have to plug it in."

"Oh. Um, where's the plug?"

Yeah. Like I said, I don't vacuum. I did the chore somewhat competently, despite two incidences where I found myself completely tangled in the power cord.

I was off to wash the cabinets in the kitchen. Armed with my scrubby wipes, I swatted each surface. Then I got to the Evil Cabinet. I haven't gone near the thing since 1985, when it gave me a concussion and hema toma that realistically speaking, should have had me pushing up daisies in Sharon Memorial Cemetery. I decided that it was time to have a talk, after 21 years of giving it wide berth.

"Look," I said to the evil kitchen furniture. "I'm just going to clean you. I'm not going to open your doors, so kindly please don't crush me like you did that last time. I'll be out of here in just a moment. Please don't kill me."

I must have appeased the culinary gods, because I didn't sustain any injury from the thing as I started cleaning it. But being in front of it after the first time in two decades still gave me the heebie jeebies. I asked Mom to finish the cabinet for me. Near-death tends to make one a little nervous around the instruments that caused said near-death.

So far the rest of the cleaning has come along well. Here's the thing, though. I am a very smart girl. But sometimes, when cleaning house, I wonder if I'm functionally retarded.

Mood (kind of): Present
Tunes: The Symphony of Blase - Anberlin

I think I actually enjoy being called Wendy. Maybe it will stick.

Maybe I'll braid my (red) hair and paint freckles on my face and put my picture on soda cups - then I'd be like, the ultimate Wendy.


Kidding. But I do enjoy the nickname.

Mood (kind of): Present

Posting from my phone, at work.

As I stood in line at Walgreens today (before my shift), I happened to glance at the gentleman in front of me, along with his purchase.

The guy placed his items on the counter.
His purchase? Six bottles of baby oil, three Rockstar energy drinks, and a pack of batteries.

It took all my self control not to ask.

So tonight I was at the branch office, and I ran into Dave, whom I haven't seen since Halloween.

He brought up the subject of my Rainbow Brite costume. I made fun of him, since he had had no idea who Rainbow Brite was (and he has a kid!).

"You looked lovely, anyway," he commented. "I don't care if you were Wonder Woman's retarded cousin, fighting crime on the short bus."

For the first time in a while, I had nothing. I just laughed my ass off.

Meanwhile, his five year old son beat the crap out of my arm. I got revenge, in a ticklish way. Sucker.

Mood (kind of): Present

One of my favorite new songs is called "God is Going to Get Sick of Me," by Aberdeen City. When M sent it to me, I fell in love with it immediately. Something bothered me about it, though. I couldn't place it, but the band and the album (The Freezing Atlantic) seemed really familiar. I had no idea why.

Now, days later, it has hit me.

Before the cd was even released, it passed through my hands many times at the magazine. We had multiple promo copies (and I could have taken one home!). I read the press release that the band's PR staff sent us. I scanned the album cover. I got annoyed that I had to enter it into our promo database more than once. Who would have thought that I would actually like the cd? After downloading a bunch of songs from the album, I really dig the whole thing. The magazine introduced me to a lot of really good music, but I'm surprised that this one slipped away.

This was over a year ago! I should have known it was a good cd, as it was produced by Steve Lilywhite.

Duh.

I should have paid more attention. That cd was always near me, always coming up one way or another. If I was a fan of cliches (of which I am not), I'd say it was like a bad penny. I just used a cliche, didn't I? Oh well. Suck it.

I just can't believe it's taken me so long to realize this. Guess the Knob Creek and Rock Star cola mix that we drank at the magazine didn't do much for my memory.

I'll go back to the magazine one day, I think. If anything, for the music. Plus my editor kicked ass. If I have the time, I think I shall return.

Mood (kind of): Duh
Tunes: Paperthin Hymn - Anberlin

The Vicks employee who invented DayQuil should be shot.

I remember the commercials from the 90's; the cartoon characters who had balloons for heads, floating on strings a few feet above their shoulders. These were the sufferers of "medicine head," that curious, out-of-it feeling one gets after taking cold medication. DayQuil, it was promised, eased the symptoms of the common cold without the burden of medicine head.

The DayQuil website assures,

"You've got way too much going on to let cold and flu season slow you down. DayQuil® gives you non-drowsy multi-symptom relief to help you get back your energy and get on with your day."

Right. Lies. All LIES.

I first tried this gelcap-of-Satan before a very important fencing meet with Brown University. I had a lot to prove that day, and I had a very bad case of the flu. I took the pills as we boarded the van, and by the time we got to Rhode Island, I was a dizzy, supine mess. My teammates lifted me out of the van, and I staggered into the gym. I was first, and facing Brown's first, which meant there was a lot of pressure. So of course I blew the bout, as I could barely stand upright. I was so sloppy that the opposition rammed his weapon up the sleeve of my jacket, broke the blade, and carved a gouge in my arm. I felt no pain.

I stayed away from DayQuil after that. But time passed, and I forgot why I refused to take it.

Last year at work, I stumbled into the restaurant one day with a nasty head cold. I popped two DayQuil. As I was acting like I had downed an entire bottle of Jose Cuervo, I had to be sent home early.

Today found me feeling like a cup of ass; coughs, chills, sneezing, runny nose, and a general sense of shakiness and malaise. Before I left for work, I downed a shot of cough syrup. I wasn't going to go near the Demonic DayQuil. I figured the cough syrup would be enough.

I was worse when I walked over the threshold, though. I ran to the employee first aid kit, and swallowed a few hundred acetominephen (kidding, just two). Phil offered me some allergy meds to dry me out, which I gratefully accepted. I chewed on some zinc.

It wasn't until I was getting coffee for my coworkers that I realized that I had taken the majority of active ingredients in DayQuil. I had avoided the Vile Stuff, yet had taken a cocktail that was dangerously similar.

Around noon, it all kicked in. One moment, I was fine. Then boom! I began to ricochet around the restaurant. Looking at the floor gave me vertigo. I began giggling at nothing. When Phil mentioned an "important salad," I hollered, "You're an important salad!" (This is something I do, but I try to keep it away from work.) It was as if I had taken a couple shots of Jaeger and then smoked a joint. Perhaps there was some methadone in there, as well. And sugar.

I tried to remain inconspicuous. I tried to keep it together. I'm sure there were some signs that I was out of it, though.

I remained in bad shape for most of the day. Luckily, Deb sympathized and helped me out.

I'm feeling a little better now, both sick-wise and sobriety-wise. But it was a day. I don't think I can take anything remotely resembling DayQuil, though.

Mood (kind of): better

I loves me some new music.

Thank you, M.

Aberdeen City is lovely. I'd heard of them before, but hadn't really listened. I dig it. I also started listening to Anberlin, which makes me a little nervous, but I still enjoy it, too.

I really enjoy the process of falling in love with a new album. It makes me feel all warm inside. Me happy.

Mood (kind of): accomplished

An Ideal Boy finally shipped. Anthopologically, it will be fascinating. It will also be funny as hell.

Mood (kind of): accomplished

It's amazing how one small, infinitesimal oversight can cause the biggest mixup known to man.

I really just have to laugh.

Mood (kind of): groggy

I just got stuck under a bed. In my own house.

And now my ribs hurt.

Ow.

That was stupid.

**************************************

Post Script: The above incident occured after my mother hung up on me (I was calling from upstairs). Once the bed was pulled off from me, I dialed her again.

"Mom," I began. "You ignored my pleas for help. I could have died."

"What the shit are you talking about?" my mother exclaimed.

"Well look," I explained. "I was trapped under that bed; stuck by my ribs and my hair. What if my inappropriate sinus tachycardia acted up and I fainted and then my long locks got stuck in my mouth and I suffocated to death? My hairy demise would be on your hands."

"You are such a tick-turd!" she sighed. "We can solve that. Shave your fucking head."

Yep, my mother cherishes me and adores every second I spend in her abode.




Says my mother - "Gwen could have fun by herself in a paper bag. Hopefully it would be plastic."

She really is kidding; I promise. We love each other.

Mood (kind of): amused

I love days off from work. Saw Yoda today, and then headed to the mall (yech) to check out the new issue of Concierge magazine. It wasn't there, but meh. I'll check next month. I did get a kickass skirt at 75% off, though. I still hate shopping.

Now I'm sitting here with an inordinate amount of goo on my head. The stuff smells like wet hay and has the visual aesthetic value of a pile of regurgitated split pea soup. Mmmm. Luckily I'll be able to wash it out in an hour or so. Then I'll have purdy hair.

My chats with Yoda leave me feeling completely at peace. She's incredibly wise (thus I call her Yoda), and simply speaking with her leaves me mellow and content. We drink tea and discuss clarity.

I thought I'd be pissed at not being able to take my shift tonight. But it's the opposite, actually. It's nice to have a full day off during the middle of the week. My stress levels have plummeted.

Dunno what I will do tonight, but that is perfectly ok. W00t.

Mood (kind of): groggy

Vote. Fuck yeah.

My first attempt at voting was thwarted. I showed up at my local polling locale, armed with my sharpie, Mass ID, and my iPod, which was blaring out Zebrahead's Rescue Me.

The Check In Table had no record of me.

"Um, but I voted here last time," I quipped. "And legally, my address hasn't changed." I wasn't going to tell the woman in the large plastic glasses that I had run away to Newton to live a life of obscurity with my parents.

Big Glasses Woman peered at me over her spectacles.

"You'll have to go to the check-out line to clear this up," she grumbled, pointing to the back of the room. "Next!"

I trudged to the dank little corner in the dark recess of the voting room. I was met with a rather large woman with very small eyes. She thumbed through her registration book.

"Oh, you're here in the Check Out Log. But do you have proof of residence?"

I shrugged.

"Uh, no. But how do you have me in the Check Out Log when you have no record of me in the Check In Log?"

"It doesn't matter. You need to come back with something, anything to show that you live here. A newspaper to which you subscribe would be ok. Just bring us mail. A bill is ok, too."

I sighed, and left. I returned to the apartment (which I have not visited in weeks) to find some old mail with my name on the envelope. Daisy pounced on me as soon as I walked in the door. I held her as she purred and dug her claws into my shoulders.

Grabbing the two month old pile of bills waiting for me on the bookshelf, I departed once again for the polls. I had plenty of unpaid bills to show the voting adminstrators.

Approaching the stairs leading down to the voting station (and the long line that had gathered since I had left), I placed my earbuds back near my cochlea. (cochleaae? cochleas? cochleaeasssesseses?) My hands clenched tightly around my oh-so-important documents. I immediately took my proper place in the back of the room, home amongst the various cockroaches and daddy-long-legs. I presented my papers, signed an affidavit (no, really!), and was then given my ballot. I connected the various arrows on the ballot (that's how we do things in Slummaville), and shoved my ballot in the slot. I have no idea if it was even entered in the correct way. The police officer next to the machine looked too bored to question.

I left, smug with the fact that I had at least done my civic duty. At least I voted. Or tried.

You know, there's a curious change that occurs when the masses come out to vote. Apparently, Election Day is also known (in Boston) as Drive Like an Asshole Day. It's funny; most everyone would guffaw if I were to comment that Boston drivers were courteous, competent folk on the road. We're horrible, as a rule.

After observing my fellow commuters on the road, I decided that we're best off declaring certain days in which we can act at our most worst. It would allow us to get our yayas out on the road, and for the rest of us who drive like normal mammals, we can avoid the streets on said holidays.

Here is my proposed schedule:


December 1st - Make Your Own Lane Day

December 25th - Stay Inside, Unless You are Jewish, Muslim, or Buddhist Day

January 1st - Drive Like You're Hungover Day

February 12th - Drive Like You're a Ninja on a Death Mission Day

February 14th - Drive Like You're Pissed off at the Rest of the World Day

March 4th - Drive Like it's Gwen's Fucking Birthday Day

April 2nd - Turn Signals are for Pussies Day

May 9th - Drive Like You've Lived in a Home with Steel Bars, Doses of Thorazine, and Men in Pink Smocks Day

June 13 - Drive Like You're High Day

July 1st - "To Hell With All of You" Day

July 4th - Drive Like You've Had Eight Long Island Iced Teas and a Significant Dose of Jingoism Day

August 27th - Drive Like Pedestrians are Food Day

September 19th - Cut The Driver in the Next Lane Off Day

October 22nd - Drive With Your High Beams On Day

November 15th - Double Park Your Car Day

Thanksgiving - Don't Leave the House, as Your Stomach is Eating Your Face Day

November 29th - Pretend there is a Colony of Fire Ants Slowly Dissolving Your Anus Day



So you see, this schedule that I propose will allow all the crazies out on said days, to fully experiment with their own various forms of commuter dementia. The rest of us can spend these days indoors, sucking our thumbs in the fetal position, happy that all the assholes are out on the streets wreaking their havoc away from our sensitive dispositions.

Who's with me? Gwen Driving Schedule for the next set of mid term elections!

Mood (kind of): groggy

Since some of you asked me to post a pic of the Rainbow Brite costume, here it is. What's missing are the kickass blue sparkly tights. This one has the wand though, which is still floating around Fulton St. somewhere.






B and I went to the Saucy Pirate Party last night, and found it strangely dissatisfying. Only a couple other friends were there that we knew, and the place was completely packed. It felt a little too scene-ish. Ben looked great in his skeleton pirate outfit, though. Patrick apparently decided not to run too far with his costume. And most of us were disturbed that Mark already owned individual parts of his outfit (had you'd seen it, you'd know why). We got to meet Mark's wife though, who was perfectly lovely.

We eventually fled to Hogan's Run, where it was fairly dead. We decided to scrap the night. Before the final journey home, we stopped at Store 24 to pick up some cigarettes.

Before I go any further in the story, just know that everyone is ok, and I don't feel like I ever was in danger at any point (though I probably came close to doing something stupid).

After we purchased the smokes, I'm not exactly sure what happened, but I found myself sitting in the passenger seat of the car. I'm not sure where B was. I noticed a 20-something guy in street clothes, hanging outside the store and fiddling with a black mask that completely obscured his face. He put it on. He took it off. He put it back on again. He opened the door, took a few steps inside, and then exited again. It looked like he was getting up his nerve.

When B hopped into the drivers seat, he found me looking horrified.

"Something's going on," I whispered. I explained what I had seen, and then pointed to the masked man, who had reappeared around the corner with his face uncovered. A friend was with him.

Sitting still, we both watched the first man pull the mask over his face again, and enter Store 24. While he was inside, the friend paced around the storefront, looking anxious and keeping an eye on the street. He didn't seem to know we were there. Moments later, the masked man emerged from the store, holding a bag. He removed his disguise, and he and the lookout strode away together quickly.

B and I stared at each other.

"I'm calling the cops," I began.

"I don't know that that's a good idea," he replied. "I'm sure the owner will call the police."

"But what if he doesn't? What if something is wrong?" I put my hand on the car door. "That's it; I'm going inside."

"Are you crazy?" B exclaimed. "You're dressed as Rainbow Brite! You stand out! What if someone is still in there?"

"Something could be seriously wrong," I shot back. "I'm going in."

"No you are not. You are not going in. Look, I'll go in, ok?"

With that, B hopped out of the car and was inside the store before I could say anything else. He returned a moment later, looking bothered.

"What happened?" I queried.

"Well, I asked the clerk what happened," B began, turning the engine. "I asked if the man in the mask had robbed the store. And it was very weird. The clerk gave me this very pleading look with wide eyes, and said that everything was fine. It was like he was begging me to drop it."

"We should still call the police then," I said. "That was entirely weird."

"Gwen," he sighed. "I don't think that's a good idea. That man really wanted me to let it go. Though there could have been someone else in the store, I have a feeling it was an immigration issue. I've seen a lot of instances where robbery victims couldn't call the cops because they were afraid they would be deported. I think it was that. I really do."

I sighed.

"Fine. But I feel really crappy about this."

So there you go. I assumed it was an armed robbery, since it took so little time. Who knows, though? I'll never really understand what happened in that place. It left me fairly shaken, though. I'm just glad that those two men never noticed us.

Oh, dear. This is not what I had planned.

I witnessed an armed robbery tonight. It was not pretty. More later. I'm still a little....eugh.

Mood (kind of): alarmed

So, I'm not really a fan of children, and I am especially not fond of them knocking on my door for candy when I'm trying to get ready to go (and watching Jeepers Creepers - oh, how I love horror movies, even lame ones). Still, I knew I'd be home for a least a little while before the party, and figured I should get some candy for the little urchins.

With the first group of trick-or treaters, I definitely had a little freudian slip. After depositing cavity-inducing goodness into their bags, I attempted to tell them to have a nice night.

It came out, "ok, have a nice knife!" Oh, I bet the parent with them loved that.

At least Little Satan has already come and gone. That kid scares the crap out of me. Sometimes I find myself waiting to see if his head spins around or he starts projectile vomiting split pea soup.

At least the Jahovah's Witnesses haven't returned.

EDIT: ZOMG, the trick-or-treaters have only been coming for a half hour, and I'm almost out of candy. And few of them have said, "thank you." Miscreants.

Mood (kind of): amused

Woke up on the couch this morning, with a terrible horror flick from the early 80's playing loudly on the television. I'm pretty sure it was the cheese factor that roused me.

Tonight is my favorite evening of the year. I have the day off from work, so I can take my grandmother to the doctor's office later. Then I'm off to change and hit up the Saucy Pirate Party over at Atwoods. I'll be rocking the Rainbow Brite outfit again. Ben has promised not to kill me for not dressing as a pirate, though. It should be fun. I'm curious to see what hijinks will ensue.

Oh, good. Some Jahovah's Witnesses just caught me in my pajamas. Apparently the End of False Religion is nigh, and it doesn't discriminate against those wearing fuzzy fleece.

Mood (kind of): amused

Gentle reader, I am a smart person. Really. It's just that occasionally, I do very stupid things. It's part of being me.

I took nuclear physics in college. I still can't tie my shoes the right way.

Hence, tonight.

I attended a kickass party at the lovely sparkin's house. I looked great in my Rainbow Brite costume. Parking was sort of a bitch. I stayed as long as I could, but I was expected at another shindig. I said my (sad) goodbyes, and went in search of my car.

The hunt proved unsuccessful. I knew I had parked on a side street, but for the life of me, I could not locate my vehicle. After a half hour of searching, I finally called the police.

"Hi," I began. "I'm calling to find out if you towed my car."

"License plate?" queried the man at the other end of the line. I recited the letters and numbers.

"No, we haven't towed that car," sighed the voice.

"Then I think I have to report it stolen," I replied.

"Ok, we're sending a car over," said the cop. "Where are you located?"

"I'm at the corner of Fulton and *something* St. And um, I'm unfortunately dressed as Rainbow Brite."

"Rainbow Brite?" he asked incredulously.

"Yeah," I sighed. "Rainbow Brite."

I could hear his voice, muffled on the line. "Hey man, she's dressed as Rainbow Brite!"

The cop car pulled up a few minutes later. The officer rolled his window down, and we went through the standard spiel of filling out a report.

"You can sit in the front seat," the cop offered.

"No thanks," I said, teeth chattering with the cold. "I'm nervous, right now. I think I need to stay where I am." Hell, I didn't want to get in that car. I had taken a couple hits earlier and was afraid I smelled like it. After a few minutes in the cold though, I hopped in. I didn't care. I called B, asking for a ride.

The officer and I chatted a bit. But then his buddy in a different car pulled up, and it started. I started getting shit.

"It's Rainbow Brite!" exclaimed the cop in the adjacent car. "Hey, you're not a Care Bear!"

"Care Bear?" I shot back. "I'm not a Care Bear!"

"Who is Rainbow Brite, then?" he yelled across the space between cruisers.

"A doll from the 80's!" I grinned. He stared at me.

"Lady, you're coming from a Halloween party, you're sober, and you lost your car. You're never going to live this down."

"I know!"

Cop number two and another cop in a different cruiser went in search of my car. I took my hair down and buried my head in my hands.

"I don't know what I want more," I said to the officer beside me. "My car not to be stolen, or me not being completely humiliated in front of three police officers."

"I hate to say it," said the cop. "But I hope you get embarrassed. I don't mean it that way, though."

"I know," I sighed. Looking down at my belt loop, I noticed that my Rainbow Brite magic wand was missing from its resting place. "I lost my magic wand!"

"Sorry."

"Yeah."

Fifteen minutes later, a voice crackled over the radio.

"We found the license plate ending in Charlie Victor; it's at the corner of blahblah and Essex." The cop next to me grinned and gunned the car. Minutes later, I was next to my beloved Persephone (my 2005 Honda Civic). The Care Bear cop pulled up next to us.

"You're sober!" he yelled out the window. "and you lost your car!"

"I'm dumb!" I said with much exasperation.

The cop next to me stuck his head out the window.

"You gotta go back, man! She lost her magic wand!"

I put my head in my hands once again. "No, no, forget the wand. I can deal. I just want to get in my car. Thank you so much for your help. I really appreciate it. I'm going to call my friend and say that I'm ok, and then I'll go."

That's what happened. After much ribbing from Medford's finest, I was reunited with my car, and able to drive to the next party (I won't detail how I got lost on the way). I couldn't help but laugh every now and then, thinking about my bantering session with the cops.

The next party was great. But nothing pales in comparison to the roast that the cops gave me. Yep, it was a night.

Mood (kind of): amused

Pic of the new tattoo:

Mood (kind of): curious

The tattoo is amazing. I lovesit.

Mood (kind of): curious

I was all productive-like after work. First, I had a glass of chianti (part of my usual after-work-ritual). Then I met M for a brief chat and to give him money. After that, I wandered into the Garment District, to get some tights for my Rainbow Brite costume. There was a line to get into the damn store. I'm sure Bruce would have been laughing. I then walked back to the parking garage, found my car, and went to visit various friends at a certain bar that I will not name.

Why will I not identify said bar? Well, I've been going there since it opened. It started out as a nice, quiet, classy place in which I could think, but now it's popular and loud. I probably wouldn't hang out there anymore, if I weren't friends with the owners. Eh, maybe I would. But I still want it quiet!

It's 8:39, and I just got home. I'm getting my costume together. Tomorrow involves going to the lovely sparkin's Halloween party, and then maybe making an appearance at Mike and Abby's party. Perhaps after that I will visit my friends at the bar. I have no idea. It all depends on my level of sobriety. And also how much energy I have. I'll also be getting a new tattoo before all that, as well. It is going to be a full Saturday.

Still, if any of you wish to hang that night, I am around. I think I'll be flitting from scene to scene. There's always room for more!

Mood (kind of): curious

ZOMG, I MAY HAVE A NEW WRITING GIG.

Let's hope V doesn't let me down.

Result!