books

Happy 1st Birthday, Ethan Hubbard!!!

Yesterday at work we were told that free books were being given away in this little atrium outside one of our lawyers’ offices—I guess they’re downsizing our staff library (or eliminating it altogether) and wanted to get rid of some the books. Well, because the room was so tiny, there was a mad rush of people trying to get books and it was a bit out of control. And some people were walking out with a ton of books, which I thought was unfair. Especially since, by the time I managed to squeeze into the room, a lot of the good stuff was gone. One of the first books I saw was a history on orgies, and I was like, “...the hell? Our staff library has a book about orgies?” Someone said, “Some of these books actually came from the kitchen” (people drop off unwanted books on this one shelf in our staff kitchen, so they can be taken by people who are interested in them—it’s a nice form of recycling). Okay, but...someone thought it was appropriate to leave a book about orgies into the staff kitchen?? Love it. And naturally that was the first book I grabbed.

Last night, when I stopped by an Asian supermarket to buy some bonito fish flakes as part of Freyja’s xmas present, I found myself becoming utterly bedazzled by their Russian/Ukrainian food section. I’ve been to this supermarket who knows how many times and I never saw that Russian/Ukrainian food before. I guess I simply never made it down that particular aisle. I don’t know why, but I just love seeing Russian products! There’s a Russian store near my office and I get a kick out of perusing their shelves. I didn’t buy any of the Russian food I saw last night, but will probably do so in the future. (And yeah, just for the record, I did save food wrappers and whatnot from my time in St. Petersburg; all of it went into my geeky travel scrapbook!)

Closing thoughts:




song heard most recently before posting: Light is Returning—MotherTongue

the week before xmess

The baaaaaaad news: my iPod, which is only a year and a half old, went belly-up on Friday, and I had to send it to iPodMods.com for repairs. It was working fine on Thursday evening when I listened to it on my way home from work, but when I tried to listen to it on Friday morning, it went berserkers. I treat this iPod like royalty—I’m always very careful with it, thank you very much. And in return, it never gave me any grief—not even when I schlepped it through five European countries and a handful of US states. But now, suddenly, poof. Let’s hope it’s just a minor problem (a dying battery, say), and things don’t get overly screwed up when I try to reimport my iTunes library into the iPod after I get it back.

The good news: Uhhhh…lessee…is there any? Well, I’m nearly done with my Christmas shopping, so that’s good, but it’s not exactly a badge of honor, since Christmas is only a friggin’ week away. It’s not like I finished my shopping in November. And I still haven’t wrapped a damn thing! I’m going to kick aside any freelancing I’ve got next Saturday and instead spend the day wrapping presents.

I got a jump start on Saturday night, actually, after I finally heaved aside my day’s worth of freelancing. I decided to start painting the wooden letters I bought as gift identification tags, as well as supergluing wire onto the letters’ backs so the letters can serve as Christmas ornaments in the future. Pretty straightforward, right? Yeah, except I managed to get superglue all over my fingers. And my lips. Thus began my sizzling Saturday night of sitting home alone in my pajamas, watching Netflixed Doogie Howser DVDs (because I loved that show in high school, and I loved Neil Patrick Harris’s cute gay ass with the fire of a hundred suns, and if I could’ve had his babies I would’ve done so in a heartbeat), and frantically trying to remove superglue from my lips and my paint-spattered fingers. I’m exactly what the Beastie Boys had in mind when they sang for their right to party.

I’ve gotten back into reading McSweeney’s lately; here are some of my faves:

AN OVERHEARD CONVERSATION AT THE SUBURBAN NEIGHBORHOOD POOL, IF THE SUBURBAN NEIGHBORHOOD POOL WERE IN DEADWOOD.

JOHN MOE’S POP-SONG CORRESPONDENCES, VOLUME V: A LETTER BETWEEN SIBLINGS WHO LIVED IN THE HOUSE DESCRIBED IN “OUR HOUSE” BY MADNESS.

THE GAY AGENDA.

CORMAC MCCARTHY WRITES TO THE EDITOR OF THE SANTA FE NEW MEXICAN.
(this one made me laugh because I read his book The Road a few months ago, and this mimics his writing style perfectly)

OBSESSIVE-COMPULSIVE VALENTINES.

POEMS THAT WERE CONSIDERED AND REJECTED BEFORE ’TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS WAS ESTABLISHED AS “THE OFFICIAL AMERICAN CHRISTMAS POEM.”

FROM THE GRAD SCHOOLYARD: THE DIARRHEA SONG.

STORIES THAT WOULD HAVE TURNED OUT DIFFERENTLY IF THE PROTAGONISTS HAD HAD CELL PHONES.

THREE NEW MAC AD IDEAS.


song heard most recently before posting: Winter Solstice—R. Carlos Nakai

quotes

Lately I’ve been trying, piecemeal, to overhaul my quotes collection. Since time immemorial I’ve worked to provide a full citation for each quote; ie, not just say that Nietzsche wrote something, but specify that he wrote it in The Antichrist. And since many of my quotes were directly encountered by me through various means (books that I read, songs that I heard, words spoken and written to me, etc), this has not been a problem.

However, I also found many quotes through secondhand sources (online collections, published quotation anthologies, article and book mentions, etc), and if the quotes were cited incorrectly and/or incompletely in those sources, then they are also cited incorrectly and/or completely in my collection. This is what I’m trying to fix. But it’s not easy! So many quotes collections—especially the collections found online, but sometimes even in print editions—only provide a name and no further information. This annoys the crap out of me; I really want to break away from doing the same thing in my own collection. Why is this such a popular way to provide quotes to the masses? It’s lazy and sloppy and looks bad. And why do so many collections provide no information at all? I’ve seen quite a few that just list quotes with no additional information whatsoever—not even the quote utterer’s name. Gack!

Anyway, so I’ve been taking a break from my ever-hearty freelancing schedule to research quotes at my local public library. I’m astounded at how much noise is contained therein! Sure, they’ve banned cell phones (thank god!), but they really don’t do much to curb chatting people and screaming kids. I felt like a miserable old crone when I was glaring at all the gabbing teens and shrieking toddlers. If I weren’t so lazy I’d maybe try to infiltrate the University of Maryland’s main library for my research, because I’m sure it’s much quieter there—not to mention the fact that my research pickings would be much juicier. But, like I said, I’m too lazy. And, who knows, maybe you even need a student ID to access the library. (Yeah, I’m too lazy to even phone the library to find out.)

In a completely different vein, I took an online personality disorder quiz a while back, and here are my results:

• Paranoid - 54% (average: 49%)
• Schizoid - 86% (average: 53%) (Heh; appropriately enough, I went through a period in college when I was convinced I had Schizoid Personality Disorder.)
  
• Schizotypal - 66% (average: 53%)
• Antisocial - 26% (average: 47%)
• Borderline - 50% (average: 47%)
• Histrionic - 14% (average: 43%)
• Narcissistic - 22% (average: 41%)
• Avoidant - 74% (average: 39%)
• Dependent - 22% (average: 37%)
• Obsessive-Compulsive - 42% (average 40%)
  

I also took a career quiz which ties in with Myers-Briggs. My results:

Your type is INFP [Withdrawn (I) 83.87%, Imaginative (N) 69.44%, Emotional (F) 69.44%, Improvised (P) 54.55%]

You are an Idealist. Possible professions include: graphics designer, college professor, researcher, legal mediator, social worker, holistic health practitioner, occupational therapist, diversity manager, human resource development specialist, employment development specialist, minister/priest/rabbi, missionary, psychologist, writer.

Hot! I should be a priest!



song heard most recently before posting: Yellin’ at the Christmas Tree—Billy Idol

decorating

Happy Birthday, Richard Hughes!!!

I won’t be decorating my apartment for Christmas this year, and I didn’t decorate last year, either. The reason why is complicated—it stems from the fact that my apartment is in a state of disarray and flux (again: complicated). Once I finally buy a house, I will resume decorating for Christmas.

It saddens me, because I was raised in a home that was always decorated for Christmas, and it’s a tradition I really appreciate. Plus I have several boxes of truly kick-ass Christmas decorations. My tree ornaments alone fill me with delight. In 1999 I began following my mom’s lead, picking up an ornament whenever I traveled anywhere. If only I had thought to do that earlier! I also buy ornaments that reflect my personality in some way. I’ve always loved pandas, so I have a cute panda ornament, and I’ve always loved Rowlf the Muppet, so I have an ornament showing Rowlf wearing a crown of holly and berries. I have a University of Scranton ornament to reflect my alma mater and Amish ornaments to reflect the area of Pennsylvania in which I grew up. Plath, Freyja, and Shoah all have their own ornaments, and I also have a few ornaments from my childhood (the rest still get hung on my mom’s tree every year). My goal is to someday replace all the generic filler ornaments on my tree with meaningful ornaments. My goal is also to buy a pre-lit tree, because I am a lazy bastard.

In terms of Christmas decorations, my taste veers more toward emulating nature. (I know—how very pagany of me!) Evergreen boughs, berry clusters, lotsa candles, etc. I have one star made out of berries and another star made out of berries, bay leaves, pinecones, and grass (all faux, of course, but surprisingly realistic). One year I made a big candle holder out of twigs, and while it sounds like a summer camp arts n’ crafts nightmare, it’s actually pretty cool.

This has nothing to do with nature, but I also have a purple velvet stocking for myself and personalized stockings for Plath and Freyja. Plath’s is shaped like a fish and Freyja’s is shaped like a mouse. Maybe I’ll at least hang those up this year...


song heard most recently before posting: Vogliatemi bene—Giacomo Puccini

giving thanks

Happy Thanksgiving!

and

Happy (one day early) Birthday, Jorge Rosas!

Believe it or not, in my 32 years on this earth, I only ever spent one Thanksgiving away from my family, and that was when I was studying abroad. Initially I was bummed about missing Thanksgiving 1994 with them—especially since I was in a place where Thanksgiving didn’t exist—but it turned out to be a great holiday.

There was a guy in my newswriting class, Steven (I had a bit of a crush on him, I admit), who asked me if I had any Thanksgiving plans. It was so thoughtful of him to ask, especially since this wasn’t even a holiday he celebrated. I had no plans, so he invited me to a dinner being held by an American student he knew. It was a nice mix of Americans and curious Brits. The hostess served a traditional Thanksgiving dinner, including apple pies with an outline of the Statue of Liberty baked into the top! I really had an awesome time.

Today’s Thanksgiving is taking place at my mom’s house in PA. Dinner attendees included Mom, my grandfather, Mom’s boyfriend Bill, Bill’s son Brian, and Brian’s girlfriend Jamie. While everybody fressed on turkey, I ate the most wonderful vegetarian ham in the world, along with many scrumptious sides.

Things for which I am thankful: My awesome family, friends, and pets. My very cool coworkers. Sleep. My camera. A job I love. The fact that I’ve avoided major catastrophe and trauma thus far. Breakfast cereal. The internet. TV. Antidepressants. Having a freelance job that brings in extra money and allows me to work from home. Andes mints. Peanut butter Hershey’s Kisses. My knee-high black platform boots. Music. Art. Books. Poetry. Chocolate milkshakes. Bodies of water. Wildflowers. Flickr. Nature. Cool eyeglasses. The fact that the Earth hasn’t been completely destroyed (yet). Unexpected snowstorms. Hot chocolate. Silence. My mom’s whoopie pies. My grandfather’s PA Dutch potato filling. A healthy body. Grilled cheese with tomatoes. Ice cream. Opera fudge. Great strides in the vegetarian meat industry. Tagless shirts. Wrinkle release spray. Online banking. Icicles. Television without Pity. My journals. Unexpected sculptures. My quotations collection. Netflix. Being able (thanks to the meds!) to see the light at the end of the tunnel.


song heard most recently before posting: Thunder Road—Tori Amos

the mold paranoia continues

My landlord never showed up on Friday. Shocker! (Yes, I am rolling my eyes as I say that.) This isn’t the first time he said he would do something and then never did it. So all weekend long I ran my two fans constantly and my dehumidifier whenever I was home. It sucked a lot of moisture out of my apartment and the carpet now feels dry, but I’m still super-paranoid there is moisture in the walls that is going to turn to toxic mold. This was heightened by the conversation I had with my sister yesterday afternoon. She said that when her basement flooded a few years ago, moisture got into the walls and mold began growing, and specialists had to pull down drywall and everything. So I called my landlord yesterday and told him that I was concerned about the walls and he was like, “So you want me to come over and rip out part of the wall to look for mold?” and I said, “Well, no, when my sister had this problem, the guys who came over to handle the situation had a special device that detected where there was moisture and mold, so the walls didn’t have to be randomly ripped apart.” He said, “Okay, I’ll see what I can do.” Which, in his parlance, means that I won’t hear back from him.

On my way to Mom’s house on Thursday I’m going to stop at Kristen’s house with boxes full of my most important stuff (journals, boxes of photos, travel scrapbooks, framed photos, travel souvenirs, etc.) and store everything in her basement or garage. That way, if a toxic mold infestation strikes before I can get the hell out of that apartment, my irreplaceable items will be safe. Because, you know, with toxic mold, the health authority insists on burning everything in the household—even things that have no mold on them. I would lose everything. I’ve got renters insurance and could use that to replace furniture and clothing and whatnot, but it sure wouldn’t replace the zillions of photos I’ve taken over the years, the journals I’ve kept for nearly 24 years, and things like the matryoshka dolls I bought in Russia.

On top of the flooding mess, I’ve got car repair woes. But I really don’t even want to get into that right now.

When I was packing up my journals for their journey to Kristen’s house, I casually flipped through them and found an entry from my freshman year of college that made me laugh. Coincidentally, it was written 14 years ago tomorrow:

22 November 1992

I spent the night (until 1am) in Kris and Emily’s room, watching TV, eating Zorba’s fries, and talking-talking-talking. I was woken up at 2am (actually, I wasn’t; MBS had already woken us up with another crisis of hers) when Missy and Suki called me from the callbox downstairs. They wanted me to go to a party with them. I resisted, then finally relented. The Late Night we were aiming for was cancelled, so I ended up walking around Scranton with them at 2:30 in the morning, wearing my pajamas and my retainer, with brown Clearasil streaks on my face and my hair sticking out everywhere. I got in at 3am.

Aw, god/dess bless 18-year-old me for thinking it was socially appropriate to go to a college party in my pajamas and retainer, with Clearasil all over my face. No wonder college hunks never beat down my door!



song heard most recently before posting: Open—The Cure

why you should always listen to your gut

I have a penchant for being freakishly intuitive. Over the years I’ve learned to listen to my gut, because most of the time, it knows what it’s talking about. Sometimes, though, I pooh-pooh it and refuse to listen to it. And usually I end up regretting this decision. The gut knows best, people!

Yesterday was one such instance of this. There was a destructive storm barreling up the East coast, after causing substantial damage in the South. Lightning, large hail, tornadoes, flooding rains, and strong winds were all distinct possibilities in this area. As the storm raged outside my office, my gut was telling me that my apartment would flood again, even though I’d been careful to clear all leaves away from the drain outside my back door (this is the same drain that caused my apartment to flood a few years ago). I kept thinking that I should leave work early and go home and check on it, but then I accused myself of being paranoid and told myself everything would be fine. Except it wasn’t. I got home and was halfway across my bedroom when I started hearing the squishing noises. The flooding affected the bulk of my living room, all of my bathroom, and half of my bedroom. There wasn’t standing water, but there was enough where, when I stepped on the carpet, water pooled up around my feet. Much cursing ensued.

I called my landlord and he came over with a wet vac. He vacuumed the bulk of the water, but the carpet is still damp. So, like, if I kneel down, the knee of my pants will be wet when I get back up, and I have to wear slippers to keep my feet dry. Today he is coming over with an industrial drying fan which will hopefully work. I’ve got the raging toxic mold paranoia, yo! I ran my two fans all night long and I also ran my dehumidifier this morning. I left the fans running when I went to work, but wouldn’t leave the dehumidifier running. I’ll run it again when I get home from work. My landlord is also going to work on the gutters and fix the drain to make sure this (hopefully) doesn’t happen again.

I’m beleaguered by this whole thing (especially since I already have my plate full with a heavy freelancing load and imminent car repairs), yet I’m also grateful, because it could’ve been so much worse. This same storm killed 12 people, injured others, and destroyed who knows how many homes. My only problem was flooding, and it was far from Katrina proportions. I got off lucky. There are water marks on some of my furniture and some of my possessions was ruined, but thankfully they were all very minor items (like one of my freelancing style manuals and one of the framed postcards I’ve had since high school).

Now, if only I could turn off my fears about toxic mold!!!



song heard most recently before posting: There is a Light That Never Goes Out—The Smiths

the best thing in the history of the world

I did an online facial recognition thingy which listed the celebrities I supposedly most resemble. I didn’t use a great picture (it’s my passport picture), but it was the only one I had handy that showed me smiling and looking straight ahead. The results are hot hot HOT! The software says I look like Jensen “Eric Brady” Ackles!! And I look like rotund middle-aged comic Wayne Knight, aka Newman on Seinfeld!! SUCH HOTNESS!!!

Here we go:

Okay, actually, I just dug up another photo of myself (more recent) and snagged this:

Awesome! Now I look like Michael Keaton!!! Isn’t he, like, 60 years old?

Meanwhile, here’s something very cool. I learned about it on the Today Show this morning. Apparently researchers can turn a person’s brain waves into music, using a computerized mathematical algorithm. Brain waves are translated into digital music and placed on a CD with a relaxing file (music made from your slower, more relaxed brain waves) and activating file (music made from your faster, more alert brain waves).

Brain music therapy has been used by thousands of patients worldwide to treat anxiety, insomnia, and depression. It alleviates migraine and tension headaches and drug withdrawal symptoms. It increases attention span and improves concentration and productivity in people with ADD. It also helps people with social and performance anxieties. It is believed that it could help pilots who suffer from pilot fatigue syndrome, military personnel who have to function at the optimum level in tense situations, and others who have to overcome the disruption of their sleep-awake cycle (like shift workers). It could enhance athletic performance, too.

And no, it doesn’t sound weird, discordant, or space age-y; rather, it sounds like classical piano music. Matt Lauer’s brain music was played on the air and it was quite lovely!

Each person’s brain wave pattern is unique and therefore each person’s brain music is highly individualized. In double-blinded studies there were two groups: One group listened to their own brain music therapy CD, while the second group listened to a brain music therapy CD of another person. The results showed that individuals in the group listening to their own CDs significantly exceeded the effectiveness of those who listened to other CDs.

How cool is this! More information is here. It reminds me of DNA Artistry, a company which turns your DNA into modern art. Science and art tango so beautifully together!



song heard most recently before posting: Hand in Glove—The Smiths

dispatch from the shallow end

Well, fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck. I went to the Silver Theatre on Friday night to catch a Czech film (Lunacy, which was deliciously bizarre) running as part of AFI’s European Union Film Showcase. While there, I picked up the latest issue of Washington City Paper. In it I saw an ad for Damien Rice’s mid-December concert at the Lincoln Theatre in DC, which had only just been announced, and I was like, “Great! I’ve gotta go!” Stupidly, though, I waited until today to buy my ticket, which was too late—the show is sold out.

I’ve been missing things right and left lately. This weekend I learned that I just missed two cool-looking things:

1) an art exhibit in Arlington that dealt with death, and
2) a stage production of 1984—one of my all-time favorite books.

However, lest you think I’m too out of the loop, I’ll mention that I did manage to find out about two local events in the nick of time: a Scandinavian Christmas bazaar and St. Lucia festival in McLean on December 2nd and a Finnish Christmas bazaar in Bethesda next Saturday. I attended the Finnish bazaar last year and loved it (even though I didn’t win the raffle, which would’ve sent me back to Finland for free), so I will definitely go back again this year.

A while back, Washington City Paper started a new feature called Crafty Bastards, which spotlights the talents of local artists. They produce everything from purses made out of old books to dolls made out of tampons. Check it out!



song heard most recently before posting: All Blues—Miles Davis

happy days are here again

At Antoinette’s parents’ house the other day, her father grabbed my left hand and pointed to my empty ring finger. “No, I’m not married,” I sighed. This happens nearly every time I see him. Aw, bless, after 20 years of knowing me, the poor guy is really eager to see me get hitched. He said to me, in his delightfully thick Italian accent, “You tall, you beautiful—why you not married?!” Ummm…maybe because I repel every man who isn’t an itinerant street lunatic? Just a thought.

Meanwhile, there is a lot to celebrate today, regarding last night’s poll returns! Here are a few of the reasons why I’m celebrating:

• Democrats have seized the House and are poised to take over the Senate as well.
  

• My state, Maryland, now has a Democratic governor, Martin O’Malley. This is especially good news to me because during his tenure, our current Republican governor, Robert Ehrlich, repealed Maryland’s 51-year ban on trophy hunting of black bears, the 280-year ban on Sunday hunting, and the centuries-long ban on crossbow hunting. Before he was governor, he voted in Congress to subsidize the trophy hunting of African elephants and give millions of dollars to the luxury coat industry, and he opposed legislation to protect dolphins from drowning in tuna fishing nets.
  

• Michigan voters squashed Proposal 3, a measure that would have allowed mourning dove hunting.
  

• Arizona voters overwhelmingly passed a historic initiative to improve the lives of farm animals—the Humane Treatment for Farm Animals Act.

• South Dakotans rejected a law that would have banned virtually all abortions, and at least two state Senators who supported the ban (both men, go figure) were voted out of office.
  

• Arizona became the first state to defeat an amendment to ban gay marriage.
  

• Missouri voters approved a measure backing stem cell research and voted Sen. Jim Talent, who has consistently done poorly on animal welfare issues, out of office. He was replaced by Democrat Claire McCaskill, who supports stem cell research and is a strong animal welfare advocate.

• Kansas voters rejected extremist attorney general Phill Kline, who attempted to seize women’s confidential medical records.
  

• In pro-choice news, dangerous abortion restrictions for teens were rejected in Oregon; in Ohio, pro-choice, pro-family planning Governor Ted Strickland defeated Ken Blackwell, who supported legislation even more extreme than South Dakota’s abortion ban; in Wisconsin, women’s health champion Jim Doyle defeated Mark Green, who co-authored legislation allowing health care providers to deny women access to birth control.
  

• We now have our first female speaker in the House of Representatives (Democrat Nancy Pelosi), our first Muslim congressman (Keith Ellison, D-Minnesota), our first socialist senator (Bernie Sanders, I-Vermont), and our first black northern governor (Deval Patrick, D-Massachusetts).

• In California, Rep. Richard Pombo, once deemed the “leading opponent of animal welfare in Congress,” and Sen. Conrad Burns, another foe to animal welfare, were defeated.

• In North Carolina, Rep. Charles Taylor (R), who had voted against nearly every animal welfare bill, including one to ban pornographic “crush” videos, was defeated. In Pennsylvania, Rep. Don Sherwood (R), another opponent of animal welfare issues, was also defeated.
  

• Senator Rick Santorum was defeated in my home state of Pennsylvania. To his credit, Santorum was the lead author of legislation to crack down on puppy mills and he was a strong supporter of animal welfare issues. However, there are still lots of reasons why I was glad to see him go:

1. He once tried (unsuccessfully) to insert language into the No Child Left Behind bill that sought to promote the teaching of intelligent design while questioning the academic standing of evolution in public schools. He described intelligent design as “a legitimate scientific theory that should be taught in science classes.”
2. In 2003 he said, “Whether it’s polygamy, whether it’s adultery, whether it’s sodomy, all of those things are antithetical to a healthy, stable, traditional family” and “Every society in the history of man has upheld the institution of marriage as a bond between a man and a woman. Why? Because society is based on one thing: that society is based on the future of the society. And that’s what? Children. Monogamous relationships. In every society, the definition of marriage has not ever to my knowledge included homosexuality. … when you destroy that you have a dramatic impact on the quality.” He also said that sodomy laws exist to prevent acts that “undermine the basic tenets of our society and the family.”
3. Regarding the Catholic Church sex abuse scandal, Santorum said the priests were engaged in “a basic homosexual relationship” with “post-pubescent men,” and added that he had “a problem with homosexual acts.” He added, “Priests, like all of us, are affected by culture. When the culture is sick, every element in it becomes infected. While it is no excuse for this scandal, it is no surprise that Boston, a seat of academic, political and cultural liberalism in America, lies at the center of the storm.”
4. He believes that the right to privacy “doesn’t exist in my opinion in the United States Constitution.”
   

So now a staunchly Republican president will being going head-to-head with a Democratic Congress. Will this create a big, stagnant deadlock? Maybe so, but a deadlock is better than allowing Bush to continue his disastrous, rampant reign unimpeded!

There is some bad news, however. In Colorado the Domestic Partnership Initiative failed. Gay marriage bans passed in Idaho, South Carolina, Tennessee, Virginia, and Wisconsin. Sen. Lincoln Chafee (R) of Rhode Island, co-author of legislation to stop the commerce in primates for the exotic pet trade, lost his reelection bid. Rep. John Sweeney (R), the lead author of legislation to ban horse slaughter, lost his bid for reelection in New York. And Rep. Charles Bass (R), a supporter of Sweeney’s horse slaughter bill and the lead author of legislation to protect Yellowstone bison, lost in New Hampshire.

Sigh.

But hey, at least Rumsfeld resigned! When that was announced, there were whoops and cheers heard throughout my office!


song heard most recently before posting: Longer Boats—Cat Stevens

poll-dancing

Today is Election Day, which means two things:

1) Democrats will hopefully seize power in Congress, and

2) The mudslinging ads on TV will finally stop! Yay!!!

I kick-started today by voting. And although the line at the polls was rather long, it did move at a fast clip—especially since I read one of my trashy British magazines while waiting in line.

Yesterday I took off work and went to Berryville, VA, for Antoinette’s baby’s christening. Afterwards there was some time-killing at her parents’ house, followed by a big, gorgeous after-party (theme: A Star is Born) at the Shenandoah Golf Club in Front Royal. Fittingly, this is where Antoinette and her husband had their wedding reception three years ago. Oh, it was so lovely, and I confess to getting teary-eyed when Antoinette and baby Luca had a mother-son dance to the song “I Hope You Dance”!


song heard most recently before posting: Big Day—XTC

stoooopid

Not that there were any doubts about this, but I am officially the stooooopidest person alive. The American Film Institute’s annual European Union Showcase has begun, and I headed to the Silver Theater this afternoon to catch two of the films—one from Finland (Mother of Mine) and one from Germany (Requiem). The former was excellent and made me cry. Bonus? The director was there!! Nobody expected it, so it was a great treat. He gave a small talk before the film and after it started, he cut out so he could catch his flight back to Finland. Another bonus is the fact that a trio of Estonians was sitting behind me, happily chatting away in Estonian. I resisted the urge to say to them the only Estonian phrases I know: thank you, please, and I don’t eat meat.

After the film ended, I browsed through DSW and Borders and then returned to the cinema to wait for the second film to begin. I thought (thought being the operative word) there were only two theaters, and I wasn’t sure in which one Requiem would be playing, so I sat at a table between the two theaters, where I could keep an eye on both of them and wait for one of them to empty out, thus indicating where my film would be screening. I finished the book I’ve been reading, then started reading the latest issue of the Washington City Paper. I didn’t have a watch and there were no clocks around, but it seemed to be taking an awfully long time for one of the theaters to empty out and Requiem to begin. I should’ve only had to wait for an hour, tops, and it seemed like more than an hour passed. I don’t know why I didn’t ask an employee what was going on. Because I’m stupid, I guess.

Well, eventually one of the theaters emptied out and the screen outside the door continued to say Little Miss Sunshine, instead of changing over to Requiem, so I finally asked an employee what was going on. Turns out there was a third theater I didn’t know about, and that’s where my movie was showing. Also? It had begun an hour and a half ago. D’oh!!! God, was I kicking myself!

The good news is that the woman thoughtfully gave me a readmission pass, which means the $9.50 I spent on my ticket wasn’t spent in vain—I can go back to the Silver Theater and see another film without having to pay for it. There is a Czech film playing on Friday night that I want to see, so I’ll probably use the pass for that.

The bad news is that I lost my chance to see Requiem, since today’s showing was its final showing. Also, this weekend is one of the very, very few weekends when I didn’t have to work, and I’m pissed that I squandered my preciously rare free time by sitting in a dim cinema lobby when I could’ve been outside, enjoying the beautiful day, or lounging on my couch, savoring the pile of trashy magazines I brought back from London last month.

I think I need three kicks to the head right now, thank you very much.

song heard most recently before posting: Intergalactic—Beastie Boys

I’m not a nurse!

Happy Halloween!!!

(and happy 5th anniversary, Annida and Dan!)

The verdict’s in: I’ve got conjunctivitis in both eyes. I took off work yesterday because my eyes looked horrific. I called my GP’s office and was told that she’d try to squeeze me in at 5:30pm. So I spent the day watching stuff I’d taped the night before, reading (although it was a bit difficult, because of my swollen, blurry eyes), and chatting with Angela. At my doctor’s office I kept my eyes downcast so the other people in the waiting room wouldn’t see my deformed-looking eyes. The nurse actually flinched when she saw me!! And my doctor took all of five seconds to diagnose severe conjunctivitis. She gave me a prescription and I promptly went to CVS to fill it, and while waiting for it to be ready, I browsed through the store, eyes trained on the floor, praying that nobody would notice them. I’m far from vain (I have no qualms with going out in public in my pajamas with unwashed hair, for example), but this was ridiculous—I looked like a monster!

I’m still infectious but I came to work anyway—mostly because the medicine is helping to make my eyes look more normal. I’m trying to be careful, washing my hands repeatedly and avoiding touching too much beyond my cubicle walls so I don’t infect my coworkers. It’s selfish, I s’pose, but I’d rather save my sick days for times when I really feel sick. And aside from my eyes, I do feel fine. Plus Tuesdays are when my upstairs neighbors watch their grandchild (the one who does nothing except run endless laps on their hardwood floors and periodically shriek), and the thought of spending the entire day listening to those endless thumping footfalls kind of roiled my stomach.

On Saturday night my conjunctivitis went into remission long enough to allow me to go to Georgetown in costume (I was a Soviet prostitute) with my coworker Susan. For my costume I wore my knee-high platform boots; fishnets; a red miniskirt (I bought a skirt at the Salvation Army and chopped it short); a white shirt, unbuttoned halfway, with a black pushup bra beneath it; a military cap covered in Russian badges and merit pins, which I bought in St. Petersburg; my neon pink wig; the Soviet watch I bought at an army-navy store in high school (when the Soviet Union still existed!); a Lenin pin commemorating the 60th anniversary of the Soviet revolution, which I bought at a Helsinki flea market; and a red tie made out of old fabric, with a hand-drawn hammer and sickle on it.

Nobody knew what I was supposed to be—not that I can blame them! One dude thought I was La Femme Nikita, and a few people thought I was a nurse. Still, despite their confusion, the costume was a hit with all the drunken frat boys roaming the streets! A couple of them even snapped my picture!








me in Georgetown,
looking drunk, even
though
I wasn’t

trying the prostitute-
with-glasses
angle

song heard most recently before posting: Night on Bald Mountain—Modest Mussorgsky

Tagalogs or KGB-alogs?

Happy Birthday, Skevy Leavens!!!!

(And Sylvia Plath, too!)

Oh, Rush Limbaugh, how staggeringly mature and professional you are, making fun of a Parkinson’s sufferer on your show. I haven’t seen that much maturity since I witnessed heartless mockery on the playground back in elementary school. When you were deaf, I’m sure you would’ve loved it if someone had returned the favor.

Oh, how I long to whack him repeatedly on the back of the neck with a roll of quarters. He is condemning Michael J. Fox for “exploiting” his disease for political gain (ie, using it to help pro-stem cell politicians get in office). Is that what Fox is really doing? If so, what does it matter? As long as he is the one doing the exploiting, and someone else isn’t doing it to him, why is this an issue? If I were a celebrity with a disease, and going on TV to throw my support behind Senator So-and-So—who supports stem cell research—meant that a cure could conceivably be found, I would exploit the hell out of my disease. If that’s what it takes to help bring about a cure, so be it!

Limbaugh made a snide comment about Fox stopping his medication before filming the ad in order to maximize his tremors. Fox has since publicly stated that he was actually overmedicated when he shot the ad—not undermedicated. This is just my personal opinion, and I could be completely wrong, but I thought Limbaugh’s comment smacked of dismissive arrogance, like, “Oh, just go take your medicine and shut up about your tremors and this stem cell nonsense. If you took your medicine like you were supposed to, you wouldn’t have to worry about any of this.” As if the medication’s existence justifies keeping stem cell research limited and a cure in the distant future. I can honestly see Rush thinking, “Well, you have your medication to stop the tremors, so why are you bellyaching about needing a cure?”

Oh, and yeah, Limbaugh did apologize later (“So I will bigly, hugely admit that I was wrong, and I will apologize to Michael J. Fox, if I am wrong in characterizing his behavior on this commercial as an act, especially since people are telling me they have seen him this way on other interviews and in other television appearances”), which is a step in the right direction, I suppose, but I still don’t buy his apology as being altruistic. I think he was just trying to cover his ass, because so many people were disgusted by his comments.

Anyway. In lighter news, I just got back from a lunchtime jaunt to the Salvation Army, where I picked up a skirt for Saturday’s Halloween costume. I had to take my Soviet hat in there with me, to ensure the skirt matched the hat perfectly, and when I was paying for the skirt, the cashier asked, “Is that a Girl Scout hat?” Ha! Da, I am a Girl Scout who earned her merit badges in oppression, propaganda, and forced labor. Please, buy my Girl Scout cookies; they are made with the finest flour milled by gulag prisoners. Спасибо! She won my respect, though, because she complimented my skulls-and-cherries purse, which I bought in London last month!



song heard most recently before posting: Wednesday Morning, 3am—Simon & Garfunkel

I DON’T have Bette Davis eyes

I think I may have developed an eye infection. On Monday night I barely slept, and when I woke up on Tuesday my eyes were somewhat swollen, gunky, scaly, and bloodshot. Grody. I chalked it up to not getting enough sleep (that always does weird things to my body), but last night I slept okay and this morning my eyes were still bothering me. I mentioned it to my boss, because I didn’t want him to think my eyes were bloodshot from me drinking or crying all night, and he mentioned that our permanent temp had pink eye last week. How did I fail to notice this?? I haven’t had pink eye since I was in junior high. Let’s hope I don’t break that record now. I’m going to watch it for a day or two and then call my doctor if my eyes still haven’t cleared up. They do look better today, but they’re still kind of mortifying.

Last night I went to the mall to buy a baptism gift for Antoinette and drop off my Fisheye film at Ritz, and I was immediately accosted by charity workers (from MercyCorps) trying to pull in money for tsunami and Darfur victims. The only problem is, they weren’t actually taking donations. Instead, they want people to sign up to automatically give $31 every month via credit card. Well, it’s physically impossible for me to say no to anybody, so I ended up handing over my credit card. I’m not comfortable having them pull money off my card every month indefinitely, so what I’m going to do is let it go through for a few months and then cancel it. I know how selfish that sounds, but I’d rather spread my donations around, you know?

Before heading to Ritz I stopped at Forever 21, even though I knew I’d regret it, because that store is like crack to me (you couldn’t pay me to wear some of their stuff, while other items just fly off the racks and into my hands). My love of this store is quite unusual, because normally I avoid malls and do 99% of my clothing shopping at secondhand shops, vintage stores, and Target. Sure enough, I walked out of Forever 21 $117 poorer. But good lord, it was so worth it. I bought three dresses and a blouse, and one of the dresses makes me feel like a sexy mothafucka. That is no small feat, ladies and gentlemen!


song heard most recently before posting: Overs—Simon & Garfunkel

HALLELUJAH!

Sunday morning, 9am. I am asleep (of course!), happily tucked beneath my duvet with at least one snoozing cat astride me. It doesn’t last. Why? I think y’all know the chorus by now: it’s the sound of one of my upstairs neighbors, D—, screaming “HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH! OHHHH GLORY! HALLELUJAH! THANK YOU, JESUS! THANK YOU, JESUS! HALLELUJAH!” This took place in recurring spurts between 9–10:30am, when I finally rolled out of bed (and no, I really didn’t get to sleep during that time, courtesy of the screams). Just another day in my lovely home.

Yesterday I was bitten by something—I don’t know what—and the pain was so intense, it literally caused me to stagger into a tree and fear that I was about to drop dead, a la Steve Irwin and his stingray barb. Half of my hand swelled up and it took a while for the pain and swelling to subside. No death, though. At night, when I was reading in bed, my eyes were persistently foggy for no good reason, and again, I was paranoid that the bite was going to cause imminent blindness. I really, honestly feared that I was going to wake up blind on Sunday morning. It didn’t happen, thankfully...so...HALLELUJAH! OH GLORY! THANK YOU JESUS HALLELUJAH!



song heard most recently before posting: Mimi’s Heart Muted—Yoko K.

if I had a Eurail pass right now...

Some quick events that caught my eye, but which I can’t attend, because they’re all in Europe:

Winterthur’s Photography Museum and the new Swiss Photography Foundation stand on an old factory site, forming Europe’s largest photograpic center. The venue is dedicated to contemporary photography as an art form and as a visual document of reality.

From December 1 until December 3 the Romanian Peasant’s Museum will host its famous Christmas Market.

Eero Saarinen: Shaping the Future is the first retrospective of Saarinen, the Finnish-born modernist architect (1910-1961).

The Natural History Museum in Oslo is holding an exhibit on homosexuality in the animal kindom.



song heard most recently before posting: I Am…I Said—Neil Diamond

why it’s not good to lie to Customs

Happy Birthday, Herbert Eck!!!

Sour mood alert! I was in such a strop when I arrived at work that when I angrily smacked on the light switches, I hit them so violently I literally saw sparks. I’m in a sour mood not because it’s raining, but because I was woken up yet again at 4:30am by my upstairs neighbor praying. At 5am his grandkid started wailing for whatever reason…possibly because HE WAS WOKEN UP AT 4:30AM BY HIS GRANDFATHER LOUDLY PRAYING. Just sayin’.

This past weekend stank. The weather was stunning, yet I was housebound due to a pile of freelancing, and then my neighbors decided to make it worse. On top of the usual clomps and stomps and crashes, one of them chatted on the phone so loudly at numerous times, I could still hear every word she said even though I was wearing ear plugs. And another one of them blasted organ-heavy religious music on Saturday afternoon, singing along in such a manner that can only be described as “opera singer gets electrocuted.” He feels the spirit of Jayzus, yes he does. Up, up, up! goes my merry blood pressure.

Today marks 10 years since I got chucked out of England. The condensed version:

I wanted to move to England. I decided to buy a roundtrip ticket that would keep me in London for a month, where I would live with my friends in New Cross. If I didn’t find legal work during that time, I’d go home. Simple as that. But I was confident (naively so) that I would find a job somewhere—even if it meant scrubbing toilets in an American hotel chain. So I packed quite a few of my possessions and took them with me. That was my fatal mistake.

Virgin Atlantic alerted Heathrow Customs to my suspicious load of stuff, and I got grilled as soon as I arrived at Passport Control. I panicked and denied that I was going to look for work. Dumb move, considering I was carrying (ahem) resumes and a book called HOW TO GET A JOB IN EUROPE. Which they found, of course. They confronted me and I admitted that I was planning to look for a job, but would only accept legal work. That’s the truth! Why would I want to stay there illegally, always looking over my shoulder, unable to ever go home, unable to open up a bank account or get healthcare coverage? No thanks. But because I’d already lied to them once, they didn’t believe me. So out I went.

First I was stuck in a locked room full of illegal immigrants and criminals. Hotness. I was the only female there, and certainly the only American. We were separated from the cops by a sliding bulletproof glass window. I used the pay phone to call my mom, bawling the whole time, asking her to pick me up at Newark that evening. I sat there, surrounded by my boxes and bags, weeping the whole time.

They kept me there for hours, then finally pulled me out so I could see them search my stuff. They searched every nook and cranny of my bags, pulling out everything and examining it. They made fun of my CDs and my bulk bottle of Tums. They sneered, “Why are you trying to take jobs away from the British?” (I bit my tongue instead of replying, “Do you realize how many of your countrymen have moved to my country and taken away jobs from Americans?”) On and on it went. It was humiliating and the only thing missing was them strip-searching me and doing a cavity search.

Finally they hauled me onto the plane. A policewoman accompanied me and wouldn’t return my passport until I was buckled into my seat. Well, thankfully I wasn’t put in fucking chains like Kate on Lost! I was still mortified, though, especially since everyone on the plane glared at me because the flight was delayed thanks to me. They were all seated, waiting for take-off, delayed because of me. I cried the whole way home.

And do you know what? It took 2 ½ years before I was even allowed back in the country. Initially I tried to go back for a vacation in March 1997, but the Embassy (or maybe it was Virgin?) called me the night before I was scheduled to leave and said, “Don’t even try it—you won’t get through.” So I had to cancel my trip at the 11th hour. That summer I went to the British Consulate in New York City to apply for a visa (which was now necessary for me to return to England) and get interviewed by a Consulate official. My application was rejected, because they thought I would try to disappear into the night in England and live off the blood and sweat of hardworking Englishmen everywhere. It didn’t help that I was still living at home at this point and only working as a temp. I just didn’t have enough roots to ground me to the US (in their eyes, anyway).

Two years later I tried again; this time I submitted my application to the British Embassy in DC and went into my interview armed with a copy of my apartment lease, a letter from my boss, copies of my bills, etc, etc—anything that would prove that I had a solid life in the US. The interview lasted all of two minutes. The guy was like, “Yeah, sure, I don’t understand why this is even an issue” and stamped the visa in my passport. DONE! Plus he made sure I was removed from the customs watch list in Heathrow’s computers.

Thankfully Virgin turned my unused 1997 ticket into a voucher that could be used at any time, and that’s what I used to go back to England in 1999. Although I had supposedly been stricken from Heathrow’s computers, I nonethless opted to play it safe and fly into Gatwick instead.

My journal entry from that day:

17 October 1996, Thursday

Oh my god, my worst, my absolute worst, nightmare is happening right now, and I pinch myself repeatedly but I CAN’T WAKE UP. I’m in England, at Heathrow, but they’re not letting me into the country. They’re sending me home tonight on Virgin. Oh my god, I’m starting to cry again…I can’t stop crying…I can’t stop these waves of horror from drenching me.

At Passport Control, the guy asked me too many questions, and I go so nervous, and I figured it was routine (they always ask me so many questions, stupid questions), but heightened, because of all my bags. Yet I still didn’t make that connection, and all I could think was that they just thought I was suspicious. It took two hours for the whole terrible process to be complete—the questions, the hostility at my lying, the paperwork, the suspicion, the searching of my boxes. I couldn’t stop shaking. The guy had already talked to Annida to verify my story, and after those two hours, I was finally allowed to see Annida, Yannick, Jim, and Richard. My heart broke. I couldn’t stop sobbing. I must’ve looked so horrible. They looked so wonderful. I wanted them to stay all day, and I thought they could, but then the bastard came out and said I had five more minutes, like I was a prisoner, and I had to leave them again…leave them after so little time. … Now I’m in this locked room full of immigrants, and two keep hogging the phone, so I can’t call Doppie. I called Mom and bawled. …

Oh god, I am such a wreck. I am such a failure. My dreams just EXPLODED in my face and now I have nowhere to go. Even after the rush and stress of the airport last night, everyone kept saying how happy they were for me, how proud. Proud, proud. That’s all I heard. Terry was absolutely beaming with pride. He and Mom kept repeating, “You will do this!” I will succeed. But I failed. Now I am going home to nothing and I am so fucking scared. Richard kept telling me to go to the embassy in DC and try for either a generic work visa or to use them for officiality once I get a job while in the States. Annida seemed to deem this just a minor setback. I have no faith anymore. Fate is determined that this won’t happen. Oh my god, I would sell my soul to make this horror go away. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. “What happens to a dream deferred?” I have nothing else to hold on to. England was my only salvation. I am going home to months and months of aloneness and alienation. I can’t take any more of that! I can’t take anymore of being worth nothing! …

I always think of this experience as my Sliding Doors moment—the point in time that changed the entire course of my life. But really, that’s not very accurate. Even if I had gotten through, there’s no guarantee I would’ve found a job. Chances are, I would’ve ended up slinking home at the end of the month, tail between my legs, my dream indefinitely postponed, back to square one. Or perhaps I would’ve gotten through, only to decide at a later date that London was too expensive, or just not what I wanted after all.

Also, in Sliding Doors, the moment that changed Gwyneth Paltrow’s life was an insignificant moment: she missed the train. It wasn’t a big, grand, thrown-out-of-England moment. And maybe that’s the whole point: the pivot on which our lives swing, sending us in one direction versus another, is microscopically small. Maybe the moment that changed everything for me was something like that: something so insignificant, I didn’t even notice it. Like today, when I was hurrying out my front door and the sleeve of my trenchcoat got caught on the door handle. I pulled it off and the belt of my coat promptly got caught. I laughed “Fuck!” and then went on my way. Minor, but maybe that’s the point. In getting delayed by a split second, maybe I narrowly avoided getting injured on the Beltway, or narrowly missed meeting a kindred spirit while sitting in traffic—both of which could have changed the entire course of my life.

It’s a cunning little thing, life is.


song heard most recently before posting: 

Just for Now—Imogen Heap

miscellany

Happy Birthday, Kelly Peyton Carron!!!

Things have been pretty quiet since I’ve been back. On Saturday I went to Savage Mill, where I met up with Kristen and Mom. We spent a really nice day shopping, and Mom bought us lunch at the brewery restaurant there. After that I went home and worked for a few hours, and then I worked on Sunday as well. On Sunday morning I was awoken at 8:30am by one of my upstairs neighbors screaming “HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH! OHHHH GLORY!” etc, etc [insert random claps, stomps, and gibberish that was quite possibly speaking in tongues].

During this upcoming weekend I was supposed to visit to Heather in upstate NY, but because I’ll be bogged down with work, I had to cancel. Ptthhhh.

This morning I donated blood. NIH has changed their security procedures yet again; this time I had to turn off my car, get out, have an employee run a metal detector wand over me, have an employee swab my steering wheel (searching for infectious agents, I guess), and get my trunk searched (the women got a good laugh out of the tacky old record I had stashed in there, which I’ve been meaning to turn into a fabulous purse).

Oh, and this morning I also developed a spontaneous choking fit while drinking my cup of coffee, and it caused me to cough up a glut of coffee that sprayed in an arc halfway across my bedroom. My duvet cover, a library book, a stack of greeting cards I was getting ready to mail, and the brand-new book just loaned to me by my boss all got hit. Damn! So now I’m sending out cards covered in coffee stains, and I have to run over to Borders after work to buy my boss a new copy of the book, keeping the old one for myself. (Although it’s a good book and I’ll be glad to own a copy, generally I’m too cheap to spend money on first edition hardbacks!)

In other news, I feel compelled to mention that Freyja had a smooshed turd stuck to her tail the other day, and I was so paranoid about her developing e. coli from it while grooming herself, I decided that I had to remove it all costs. Trying to hold her down while scraping at her tail with a paper towel wasn’t working, so out came the scissors. Freyja is usually a genial cat, albeit a bit jumpy. She doesn’t like to be held or give me kisses, but she’d live on my lap if she could. Yet she’s also got a rabid alter ego—a split personality, if you will—who periodically comes out. I call it Snappy McSnapperson. And you can imagine how quickly ol’ Snappy came roaring out of his cave when I was trying to trim shit-caked fur off Freyja’s tail with sharp scissors. Thus began the anxiety-fraught queasy tango of me chasing her through my tiny apartment, scissors glinting menacingly, trying to snip off as much shitty fur as possible, while she hissed, growled, spat, swatted, and wriggled free. Her hisses were punctuated with me protesting, “But I only want to keep you safe and healthy! I don’t want you to go into septic shock!” Did she care? No. Such drama in that little buff-colored package!

And finally, does this mean I’m going to hell? Apparently. What a shocker!



song heard most recently before posting: On The Streets I Ran—Morrissey

Rest in Peace, Nigel Jaehnigen

April 1, 1994 - October 9, 2006

And, when he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of Heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun.
–William Shakespeare, “Romeo and Juliet”

The snowflake, which was once very much a discernible subsystem of the universe, now dissolves into the larger system which once held it. Though it is no longer present as a distinct subsystem, its essence is somehow present, and will remain so. It floats in Tumbolia, along with hiccups that are not being hiccupped and characters in stories that are not being read. –Douglas Hofstader