a bit of Russia in DC

I donated blood this morning, as I do every eight weeks. Ever since 9/11, there has only been one entrance to the National Institutes of Health campus that non-employees can use, and going through this entrance means going through a rigorous security checkpoint. Today when I first turned into the entrance, there were guards at the initial sentry point, which is something I’ve never noticed before. Generally an NIH visitor sails through the sentry point and proceeds to the security checkpoint ahead. I wondered if I should’ve stopped to ask these guards if it was okay for me to proceed, but then I decided against it and sailed through as usual. When I hit the security checkpoint, it was abandoned. It was the spookiest thing. And I wondered, “Should I have stopped at the initial sentry point? Is that how they’re doing things now?” It seems like every time I’m there, they change some facet of the security process or the blood bank parking situation, so it’s possible the whole process has been turned on its ear since my last donation. I started to panic, wondering if the sentries were going to come chasing after me, SWAT team in tow, to haul me off to the Homeland Security headquarters. I expected them to shoot out my tires and fell me with a tranquilizer dart (it wouldn’t have been needed; I’m so out of shape, it would’ve taken them all of a millisecond to catch me in a foot race). But rather than turn around and return to the sentries, I simply proceeded to the blood bank’s parking garage, which I guess was okay, because nobody tackled me after I parked my car.

I headed inside, and the woman who did my intake had me recite my full name and birthday (to make sure I’m not an imposter, I guess), and after I did so, she exclaimed, “Oh, you’ve got a birthday coming up!” I unenthusiastically grunted/snorted an affirmation and she replied, “I just had a birthday recently, and I was born the same year as you. 33 isn’t bad!” I felt like screaming, “WHAT DO YOU MEAN! 33 WAS THE AGE AT WHICH JESUS CHRIST WAS CRUCIFIED!!!!!!!” But I didn’t. I was just like, “Yeah, I know.”

And really, she’s right. Especially since—as she pointed out—the alternative (not living long enough to see one’s 33rd birthday) is much worse. I have no genuine complaints about my impending birthday. Truth be told, I’m a lot happier than I was at age 23, when my life was a pathetic mess, or at age 13, when I was trapped in the vile purgatory known as junior high, or even at age three, if you consider the fact that at age three, I was still being dragged to Hershey Medical Center a few times a year for neurological testing because of my craniosynostosis, I was on the cusp of developing acephalgic migraines, and I was on the cusp of having to undergo occlusion (ie, eyepatch) therapy for exotropia.

Anyway, the blood bank staff really wasn’t on the ball today. Alone in the intake cubicle, I had to ring the buzzer for them twice, and they can’t claim they were too busy to respond to the first buzz because there were no other patients in the donating room. It’s not that I’m an overly impatient person—I just wanted to get the donation over and done with so I wouldn’t be too late to work. Once I was in the chair, it took the phlebotomist forever to get started. After she finished getting all the blood she needed, she did something that caused the blood to spurt everywhere out of the tube. It was on the floor, on my hand, and on my pants. Blood on my freaking pants!! Thanks, lady.

In the snack room, as I was wrapping up my post-donation snack, she poked her head in and said, “Uh…I forgot to get your iron sample.” (I’m in an iron study at NIH and they have to withdraw a sample every time I donate blood.) So I had to go back into the chair, and this time she wanted to get the sample from my other arm, which has, like, no veins in it. I didn’t think she’d have any success, but to her credit, she did manage to find a very small, buried vein and managed to pull a small sample from it, and this time she did it without spurting the blood everywhere. Yeah! But it means that I had to show up at work with both arms bandaged, which made people gape at me. I simply shoved them aside and headed straight for the pile of unbelievably delicious chocolate my boss just brought back from Prague.

Over the long holiday weekend I did some freelancing, spent lots of time vegging on the couch with Netflix DVDs (the best of the lot: Pan’s Labyrinth) and my Lost DVDs, and spent Saturday at Marjorie Merriweather Post’s Hillwood Museum and Gardens in DC with Mom and Bill (photos here). It was kind of a bitch to find, and the parking situation made no sense, but nonetheless, everything was so beautiful—I barely even minded the outrageous heat (thank god I thought to slather SPF 50 sunblock on my face and arms in advance; I would’ve been roasted alive without it).

I was really pleased to learn that Post had a huge interest in collecting Russian art. A Russian dacha was even built in her gardens! Her mansion had a huge portrait of Catherine the Great hanging in her stairwell and rooms specifically devoted to Russian icons, Russian liturgical items, and Russian porcelain. Many of these things were sold to her by the Soviet government so they could raise funds for industrialization. Basically—no shocker here, to be honest—they pillaged the Russian people’s past in order to fund their future. The items in question really ought to be given back to Russia, for display in museums and churches.

With all the beautiful Russian artworks around me, I almost felt like I was back in St. Petersburg—especially since a bus loaded with Russian tourists was there at the same as us, and so everyone around me was chattering in Russian. Considering my Russian skills are limited to saying thank you, good-bye, train station, yes, no, lamp, cat, aunt, and raspberry, conversing with any of these folks wasn’t really an option.

After touring the gardens (including a pet cemetery!) and the mansion we hit the gift shop, which sold a wealth of beautiful Russian treasures that were wildly overpriced.

Afterwards we went to dinner at the Indonesian place in Wheaton that has a ginormous vegetarian menu. I ate curried vegetarian shrimp and banana fritters until I nearly barfed. Now that’s what I call a Saturday night.



song heard most recently before posting:
Overture, Suite No. 2 in B minor—JS Bach

my TV boyfriends

The other day David, Angela, and I were debating whether Sylar on Heroes is actually good-looking or just creepy. This was my take on the matter:

I didn’t think Sylar was cute until he donned the clockmaker fix-it glasses and tried to fix his mom’s clock. I heart nerdiness like that!

My TV boyfriends:

• John Krasinski (The Office). My #1 boyfriend. He’ll get chained to my bed, whereas the other boyfriends will get chained in stalls. (Comfortable stalls, mind you.)

• Henry Ian Cusack (Lost). My dreamy Scottish TV boyfriend. But only when he’s cleaned up in his pre-island flashbacks.

• Jake Epstein (Degrassi). My jailbait TV boyfriend. He’s legal now, but he sho’ wasn’t when I first set my Mrs. Robinsonian sights on him.
  

• Hugh Laurie (House). My misanthropic English TV boyfriend. Crotchety, drug-addicted misanthropy never looked so sexy.
  

• Skeet Ulrich (Jericho). My post-apocalyptic TV boyfriend. I never thought I’d call him sexy, but seeing him kick ass in Jericho really changed my opinion.

• TR Knight (Grey’s Anatomy). My gay TV boyfriend.

• Christopher Gorham (Ugly Betty). My hot nerdy accountant TV boyfriend. But keep the glasses, Henry—you’re not half as hot without them.

• Jake Webber (Medium). My average joe TV boyfriend who is actually British in real life. (Yay!)

• Phil Keoghan (The Amazing Race). My sexy Kiwi globe-trotting TV boyfriend. No one else can make raising a single eyebrow look so sizzling.
  

• James Scott (Days of Our Lives). My dastardly English villain boyfriend. Sami’s always whining about how he planted his demon DiMera seed in her. Shit, EJ, you can plant your demon DiMera seed in me any time you want.

• Piers Morgan (America’s Got Talent). My everybody-wonders-if-I’ve-lost-my-mind-because-I-think-he’s-cute boyfriend. He’s the former editor of News of the World and The Mirror, and for some inexplicable reason, I think he’s foxy.

• John Simm (Life on Mars). My trapped-in-1973 comatose boyfriend. Polyester never looked so sizzling.
  

• Michael Ian Black, Hal Sparks, and Joel McHale. My trifecta of snarky, pop culture-commentating geekalicious boyfriends.
  

And then I’ve got my three movie boyfriends: adorable Paul Rudd, hot Scot James McAvoy, and the lovely Colin Firth. Over in Music Land, my heart belongs solely to Damien Rice. And, uh, Josh Groban. Dude, it’s the hair. It’s totally the hair.

Anyway, I hope y’all have a splendid holiday weekend. And I hope I don’t spend Memorial Day barfing and battling diarrhea for hours on end, like I did last year when a stomach bug of some sort felled me halfway through the holiday. Huzzah!


song heard most recently before posting:
Wreck of the Day—Anna Nalick

Will she rise again?

I was so dismayed to hear about the Cutty Sark being gutted by fire, especially since arsonists may’ve been the culprits. Who would torch the Cutty Sark?? Yobs, I guess. How hateful and wasteful. She was a piece of naval history. She was a piece of my history. As a centerpiece of Greenwich, she appeared in the landscape of my year abroad. I walked past her every evening during my gee-my-lazy-ass-really-should-get-some-exercise nightly stroll around Greenwich. Annida and I used to buy spring rolls and chips from our favorite chippie, Pier Restaurant, and eat them along the river next to the Cutty Sark. She was always there in the background of my delirious year abroad. Now she’s…gone. Temporarily, maybe, but who knows. I’m so thankful I was able to see her again last autumn. I got spring rolls and chips from Pier Restaurant and settled down in Cutty Sark Gardens to savor the food and everything else about that holy place. Who knew it might be my last time to see that magnificent ship?

In happier death news, Jerry Falwell died last week. I’m not, like, dancing a jig on his grave or anything; I mean, he wasn’t a monster in the vein of dictators and serial killers, and therefore it’s probably not proper to celebrate when he dies. But, as John McCain once said (and god, I can’t believe I’m actually quoting John McCain), Falwell was truly an agent of intolerance. And how can I not smile at the thought of one less intolerant bigot roaming the earth? Aside from preaching intolerance, he also made huge strides in breaking down the barrier between church and state, and that’s damn near unforgivable in my eyes (although not as unforgivable as being an intolerant, hate-spreading bigot). So good riddance, really!


song heard most recently before posting:
Break So Easy—Johnathan Rice

New York State of Mind

It’s time to don an ill-fitting sailor suit. It’s time to kick-ball-chain and jazz-hands my way down 42nd Street. Why? Because—while visions of my 12th grade musical “On the Town” swirled in my head—I made the decision to go to New York for two days over my birthday in June.

I’m not exactly flush with cash these days (thanks, IRS!), but I’m burned out and exhausted from working all the time, so I thought, “Oh, what the hell, I’ve earned a break. I’ll find the money somehow.” My pal Susan and I are staying in a budget hotel in Greenwich Village and we’ll be traveling to NYC by bus. I know! But it’s much cheaper than driving or taking the train. And I’m sure it will bring back so many faaaabulous memories of my sweltering 9+ bus ride from Estonia to Russia two years ago.

On the agenda: MoMA, the Guggenheim, a birthday dinner at Tea & Sympathy, birthday drinks at the KGB Bar, a ghost walk (if any are scheduled while we’re there), and maybe a vegetarian feast at Blossom. There’s a burlesque club I’ve got my eye on, too, but I think I’ll save that for the next time I’m in New York with Missy.

This schedule contains a lot for two days, I know, and I wish I could stay longer, but like I said, I’m hardly rolling in disposable income these days, and besides, if I stay away for longer than two days, I’ll have to snag a petsitter. So, we’ll just try to optimize the limited time we’ve got. We’ll be heading up there on a Sunday morning and coming back sometime on Tuesday—hopefully in the evening.

Here are Heather and me (she’s on the left in both shots) rocking the 1940s New Yorker vibe in “On the Town” a million and three years ago:

song heard most recently before posting:
Prelude in G-sharp minor, Op. 32, No. 12—Sergei Rachmaninov

questions, answers, dying

According to the Death Clock, my personal day of death is Monday, June 4, 2035.

Aw, hell, I’m going to die on my 61st birthday?? That sucks. I have better ways to spend my birthday than dying. And 61 is too young to die. My mom is 61 now! Although…who am I kidding? It’s not like the world is still going to be around in 28 years!

Meanwhile, Shawn passed on this questionnaire to me:

1. When you’re home alone, do you still close the door when you go potty?
Now why would I do that?

2. If you have to go grocery shopping, would you rather go alone or with someone?
Alone. Shopping with friends is always fun, but grocery shopping is a practical errand for me—something I just want to get over and done with quickly. Being with someone else just slows me down.

3. It’s your best friend’s birthday; do you buy them a gift even though they didn’t buy you one for yours?
Ehhh…it’s iffy. It depends on my money situation. If I’ve got money to burn, then I’ll feel more generous and I’ll be more likely to buy that person a present. If money’s even slightly tight, I’ll probably skip the present and say to myself, “Screw it. S/he hasn’t bought me a present for years; why should I go to the trouble of doing what s/he can’t be bothered to do?”

4. You win the lottery. Lump sum or small payments over a period of time?
Small payments. They promote moderation. I think a lump sum, unless invested very wisely, is just asking for trouble.

5. Do you like your music loud or at a reasonable level?
A reasonable level most of the time.

6. Are you a beach person or a snowy mountain person?
A little of both, I guess. I love frolicking in the ocean but I also love wandering through the woods. Not necessarily in the snow, though!

7. When do you brush your teeth?
Morning (after breakfast) and night (after I’ve had my nighttime snack).

8. Can you watch scary movies alone?
Absolutely.

9. Soft bed or firm?
Somewhere in between.

10. Would you rather stay home all day, or be out and about with some friends?
Stay home, because I’m a hermit and a sloth. Ideally I’d stay home with friends.

11. What’s one of your worst memories?
Finding Shoah strangled to death on a fence. It’s not one of the worst—it’s the worst.

12. Do you like to keep the peace or be confrontational?
Keep the peace—even Amish people are more confrontational than my wussy ass.

13. Are you more likely to be with a large group of people or a few close friends?
A few close friends.

15. If money were not a problem, where would you like to live?
London, London, London. Also, I would buy my old house in Lebanon and purchase houses in…mmmm…let’s say Seattle and a remote beach in Scotland. And I’d keep a local residence, too—probably in Georgetown, Old Town Alexandria, Capitol Hill, Takoma Park, or Bethesda.

16. What is your ideal profession?
Working as an editor for The Sun, heat magazine, or News of the World, or writing “news” articles for the World Weekly News. Editing/writing trash, basically. Isn’t that terrible? I should say that my ideal profession is saving the world or making a difference in people’s lives, but whatever.

17. Are you close to your Mom and Dad?
Fairly, yeah.

18. What is one fear that you can’t seem to overcome?
Letting myself completely lose control.

19. Are you good at math?
I swear I’ve got dyscalculia. No one can be this bad at math without having a learning disability.

20. Do you kiss on a first date?
I never really get the chance. *cough*man repellant*cough*

21. Is there anyone that you regret ever meeting?
Surprisingly, no. Not even the douchebags.

22. Rate your life on a scale from 1 to 10:
8. I’m lucky in so many ways, but it’s not like I wouldn’t change some things if given the chance.

23. Do you like any of your friends a little more than just as friends?
Nope. (And right now they’re sighing with relief and wiping the sweat from their brows.)

24. Do you like to drive?
Well, I did until I moved to the DC area. Now it’s just the bane of my gridlocked existence.

25. If you found out that you were going to be a parent, what would you do?
Cry and vomit. And not out of happiness.

26. Do you give money to homeless people when they ask?
Rarely, because I rarely carry cash or change with me. In Edinburgh, though, I had a ton of money left over the day before I was set to leave, so I made an effort to give money to homeless people I saw with dogs.

27. A weekend in Las Vegas or Miami?
Vega$, baby! It’s the nutcase capital of the world and I want to see how many nutcases I can attract in 48 hours. Given my track record, I’m guessing it will be in the three-digit range.

28. When you go to the store, do you have a list or just buy random things?
I almost always have a list, and I almost always end up buying 300 things that aren’t on that list.

29. What do you wear to sleep in?
A big t-shirt or nightshirt.

30. You have 3 months left to live. What do you do?
Somehow find the money to travel until I literally drop. I’d also get my estate (heh!) in order, make sure my mom understands the terms of my will, give away my possessions, and finally tell certain people exactly how I feel (or felt) about them.

31. You’re having a bad day. What thing(s) can make your day better?
Seeing something startling and beautiful. Receiving a funny email from a friend. Having the chance to veg unconditionally on the sofa (with no work looming before me). Having one of my cats plop on my lap and/or knead my dough. Seeing my cats cuddle with one another.

32. Tanning bed?
What, have I ever tried one? No. And I never will. I don’t want to look old before my time. I also happen to think that pale skin can be beautiful.

33. Is there anything you would change about your body if you could?
Lots.

34. You wake up in an unfamiliar place, what is your first reaction?
There might be, like, a split second of confusion, but other than that, I come to my senses pretty quickly and realize where I’m at.

35. Is there anything that you should be doing right now?
I should totally be working.

36. If there was a way to know when and how you're going to die, would you want that information?
Oh god, that’s a hard one. Part of me would want to know so I could prepare myself, but the other part of me wouldn’t want that sword hanging over my head.

37. What is your favorite breakfast food?
Probably eggs Benedict (sans bacon, of course) or pancakes with baked apples. I rarely get to eat that stuff, though, because I rarely go out for breakfast! In lieu of them, regular cold cereal is my favorite.

38. Your phone rings at 4am, who do you expect it to be?
A harbinger of bad news. And I probably wouldn’t answer the phone for that reason.


song heard most recently before posting:
Leningrad—Billy Joel

last dance

It has come to my attention that my senior prom was 15 years ago today. Pardon me while I adjust my support hose and use my cane to chase those kids off my lawn.

Prom, if I recall (through the cobwebby annals of memory), was a bit of a wretched evening. In theory it should’ve been good, mostly because all my friends were there and we always—okay, usually—had a great time together. Also? My dress? It fucking ruled.


No, seriously, guys, I know it looks like we’re on our way to a funeral here, but that’s not the point. The point is that my dress was awesome. I sketched the design I wanted (rather poorly, I may add; an artist I ain’t) and had a local seamstress create the dress from scratch for me. It was black velvet, a fact which made my mom repeatedly blanch and moan, “You’ll get worms!” (Hey, at least it gave her a break from telling me that I looked like a refugee.) And I’m happy to report that I didn’t get worms. And not a single person made fun of me (at least to my face) for wearing black velvet in mid-May. The only complaints lodged against me had to do with my wearing a jean jacket upon arrival and departure. People equated this with heresy, I guess. I even overheard my yearbook advisor making fun of me in class the next week. Whatever!

The dress was great, the long black velvet gloves were…well, a bit over-the-top (especially considering I wore a pearl bracelet over the left glove), but not heinous. My purse was fabulous: a little black velvet clutch I bought at my favorite vintage shop. In fact, I’m wondering where this purse went over the years; hopefully my mom has it tucked away in her house somewhere. My necklace (a sedate set of faux pearls) was fine. The shoes (black velvet flats) were fine, although heels would’ve been much better. I wasn’t wearing heels yet at that point, though—I didn’t start wearing them until I was out of college. So all in all, in spite of my mediocre makeup and that weird bit of hair I had hanging down from my French twist (presumably to hide my forehead dent), I can honestly look back on my prom pictures 15 years later and not shiver in revulsion. That’s quite an achievement for a prom that took place in the early ’90s.

Anyway, back to why prom was wretched. Well, first of all, I was pissed that I had to drive there. My date Terry had only turned 16 the month before and didn’t yet have a driver’s license, and I was either too cheap or too poor to pay for a limo, so I was stuck driving us, as well as a pair of our friends, in my mom’s car. Very unglamorous. It was pouring and the windows kept fogging up, so when we left the prom I couldn’t see where I was going and I drove up onto a curb, getting stuck. The three folks in my car had to get out in the pouring rain and push my car off the curb while other departing prom-goers honked and laughed at us. Hotttt. During the prom itself there wasn’t much to do but pick at my food, snap some photos of friends, and woefully lament my lack of a boyfriend. The dance floor was small and dancers were very conspicuous, so my awkward, geeky friends and I avoided it at all costs.

I actually don’t remember very much about the prom or post-prom, and I can’t consult my journal, because it’s currently in storage in my sister’s basement. I did, however, rummage through the big Tupperware container full of high school and college ephemera stuffed in the back of my bedroom closet and found my Josten’s senior book. On the prom pages I attached the photo above and answered two of the questions:

About the evening: It positively sucked. It was boring and it was an ultra-fake masquerade of preppies and jocks and bitches who spent way too much money on outfits for 3 measly hours.

What we did afterwards: Post-prom, the cemetery, ate at Hardees, drove around mindlessly, went home and crashed because I was borderline comatose from exhaustion, it was pouring too hard to really drive any distances, and my windows were so fogged I couldn’t see a damn thing. Also, before post-prom a bunch of us hung at my house, changed, and Jason was smoking pot in my bathroom. Bloody wonderful.

That’s right—we went to a cemetery after the post-prom. Enough said.


song heard most recently before posting:
People Get Ready—Eva Cassidy

fun with color

Sometimes I enjoy futzing around with the color accent feature on my camera. I like how my camera will sometimes pick up colors that I don’t otherwise see—the faint, subtle hues discreetly hidden in an object.

Here are some shots I snapped and posted on Flickr back in January:

I set the camera to pick up a generic shade of green, so it naturally
detected the green in Plath’s eyes, but it also showed a subtle green glow everywhere else, because the photo was snapped in my living room, which has green walls.

I specifically set the camera to pick up the exact
shade of red in this painting.

Here the camera was set to pick up reddish-orange colors,
which is why the construction cone has color. You can also see streaks of
morning light in the background, because the light had an orangish hue.

Two days ago I set the camera to match the exact shade of green of the leaves outside my apartment. These are some of the pictures (added to Flickr yesterday) that I snagged:

My simian line!

Yesterday I snapped a few more pictures. I set my camera to pick up the lavender color of the bath towel on my wet hair. Yeah, I know my lips look reptilian. What can I say? It’s been a hard winter, and these photos were snapped before I could slather Vaseline on my lips!

It detected a pinkish-lavenderish shade in my natural
lip color and around my eyes. I’m not sure if this is because
of the blood vessels in my eyes or if it’s because of the light
reflecting off the towel.

Then I set the camera to pick up my eye color as I stood at a window (being in natural light makes my eyes particularly blue).

Arrgh—this one really shows just how uneven my eyes are!
Thanks to my craniosynostosis and skull surgeries, my right eye
is considerably larger than my left. But...ah well, what’cha gonna do?

song heard most recently before posting:
Cheers Darlin’—Damien Rice

Happy 10th Birthday, Plath Boyer!

Today my little baby boy Plath (and his twin brother Shoah, in spirit) turns 10 years old. I can’t believe my little Plathy is a decade old!

To celebrate, I gave him and Freyja a can of organic California roll for cats and two new organic catnip toys. Tonight I’ll give them a can of tuna—a treat they no longer receive regularly since they’re on a diet.

Some shots of Plath enjoying his new toys:


Here are some photos of him and Shoah when they were babies:

Plath is on the right.

Plath is on the right.

Plath is on the left.

Plath is on the top.

Plath is on the left.

In other news, I had an up-and-down weekend. On Friday night I worked, natch. I took Saturday off, even though I really couldn’t afford to. I spent a few hours at Skevy’s house, then headed to Olivia’s baptism. She looked beautiful, and I’m proud to say she wore one of the lovely dresses I bought for, like, $2 at a secondhand store. On the way to the church, her godmother asked her if she planned to go to college someday. Olivia said yes. Mary asked what she planned to study. Olivia paused and then said, “Colors,” which I thought it was an adorable answer. She was very well-behaved during mass and the baptism ceremony and made all of us proud. That’s pretty much the only good thing I can say about sitting through mass for the first time in 12+ years.

On Sunday I hit a tiny exhibit at the Smithsonian and then rushed home to work, even though the day was beautiful and it would’ve been a perfect opportunity to bop around DC. As if the rest of my day weren’t already ruined by work, my upstairs neighbors had to up the ante by throwing a huge BBQ for visiting relatives. The noise they generated was out of control. Earplugs, headphones, and a blasting sound machine helped, but didn’t completely drown it out. Fuckers.



song heard most recently before posting:
Pashernate Love—Morrissey

the space shuttle’s in the sky so you know not to do bad things

I unearthed some old fourth and fifth grade writings and decided to share them with the world. The spelling is wretched (who knew I’d grow up to become a professional editor?), but they’re worth a read, even if only to see how often blood and knives made an appearance. If you have trouble reading any of them, click on each image to see a larger size.


For shame, Mrs. Detweiler. You don’t “understand” this? Well, duh, obviously it means that the astronaut should’ve listened to the dude who told him not to go up in the sky. But he didn’t listen, and because of that, he ran out of fuel and got stuck on a cloud. It’s a fable, see? See?

I love how playful hooting and disappearing abruptly segues into cutting off people’s heads with a sharp knife, putting their blood in a stew, and forcing people to eat it.

Glad this merited five extra credit points instead of a call to Social Services.

It’s nice I was confident that I’d be safe in my bedroom and that no muggers would jump out with a knife and kill me. As they so often do in little girls’ bedrooms.

Suppose you were a teacher and one of your students wrote, “The room was covered with blood. I won’t go there again! Never!!!” Wouldn’t you wonder if maybe that kid was being, like, ritually abused or something? Apparently not.

This one...ahhh...*scratches head*...I don’t know. Maybe the assignment was to list things that one might see on Halloween? Because Halloween at my house, you see, meant knives and blood.

What a coincidence! 23 years later, I still don’t like to see work! (Note: one of the “things” I liked to see, Chris Loftus, was my fourth grade crush. As you can see, he was pretty high up on the list—I apparently liked to see him even more than I liked to see money.)

A nuclear war would make me “nervous”? Gee, ya think? Note how, in the list of all the things that would make me sad, I made no mention of my family or friends dying.

Fire away, people. Tell me how much you like me. And my shirt.

Aw, I wish I would’ve cut poor Fluffy some slack. If she were barking a lot, surely she had a good reason for doing so. But cutting my sister slack? Not so much. She was mean to me back then! She dangled my Cabbage Patch Kid out a second story window by her feet while I wept and begged for mercy! No wonder I said that she made me feel annoyed!

Pandas are still my favorite animal and obviously I still like computers and love animals. And, admittedly, there are some *ahem* Michael Jackson and Lionel Richie songs on my iPod. “Almost Paradise” is on there, too. My, how far I’ve come!


song heard most recently before posting:
Lament—Lisa Gerrard

questions

I decided to compromise and only attend one FilmFest DC film, thus freeing me to do more freelancing. Yay! Just how I want to spend my Friday night! But I felt like I had little choice, because I’ve got so much work to do and so little time, given that part of Saturday will be spent at Olivia’s baptism (and possibly hanging out with Skevy for a few hours beforehand), and part of Sunday will be spent at that Smithsonian exhibit I’m jonesing to see.

So last night I checked out a Finnish film, Lights in the Dusk. Ever since, like, 2001, when I showed up at a hotly-anticipated Icelandic film at FilmFest and discovered it was sold out, I’ve been careful to buy my tickets in advance each year. This year I just never got around to it, so when I arrived at the cinema I was nervous the show would be sold out. Thankfully that wasn’t the case. I got there nice and early and hunkered down with a big ol’ library book as I waited for the lights to dim. Several other solo nerds were there with books as well, which warmed the cockles of my normally frosty heart.

The film was okay. I must confess that I didn’t enjoy it as much as the director’s last work, The Man without a Past, but I’m still glad I went. One of the the things I love about attending FilmFest and AFI’s EU Film Festival each year is being surrounded by the chatter of foreign languages beforehand. The people behind me were speaking Russian and the people beside me were speaking something I couldn’t quite identify.

Here’s another one of those questionnaire thingies, sent to me recently by my pal Kristen:

1. FIRST NAME? Jennifer

2. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE? I don’t think so.

3. WHEN DID YOU LAST CRY? Mmmm…something on TV made me tear up a little bit semi-recently, but I honestly can’t remember what it was.

4. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING? Actually, yes! When I’m not being totally sloppy with it.

5. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT? I’m a vegetarian, so I don’t eat lunch meat, but back in the day, I was all about the sweet bologna.

6. KIDS? No. Unless my cats count!

7. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOURSELF? Yes.

8. DO YOU HAVE A JOURNAL? Yes.

9. DO YOU USE SARCASM A LOT? Sometimes, but not as much as you’d expect.

10. DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS? Yes.

11. WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP? Hells yeah!!! I’ve been aching to do this for years!

12 WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL? Cinnamon Toast Crunch

13. DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF? Yeah, because otherwise I won’t get them off. But in the past I’ve had shoes that didn’t require it—I managed to pull them off without untying anything (because I’m lazy, y’all).

14. DO YOU THINK YOU ARE STRONG? Physically? Not really. In a pinch I can lift heavy things, but afterwards my muscles quiver and ache. Emotionally? About average, I’d say.

15. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM? A three-way tie between mint chocolate chip, caramel, and chocolate-peanut butter.

16. SHOE SIZE? 10. *cough*beast*cough*

17. RED OR PINK? Red. Especially dark red.

18. WHAT IS YOUR LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF? My hips, butt, and thighs. And my gut (although Freyja doesn’t seem to mind—she loves kneading that dough).

19. WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST? My old self—the self who had lots and lots and lots of free time and wasn’t working herself into an early grave.

20. WHAT COLOR PANTS AND SHOES YOU ARE WEARING RIGHT NOW? Khaki pants, brown shoes.

21. LAST THING YOU ATE? Breakfast: a bowl of cereal and a mug of coffee.

22. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW? Nothing. But the last song I heard was Miriam Stockley and John Williams’s “Kissing in the Rain”

23 IF YOU WERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE? Midnight blue

24. FAVORITE SMELL? None. I’m fucking anosmic.

25. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE? Uh…(*tries to think*)…I don’t even know. I honestly can’t remember.

26. THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE? Clothing, probably. God, that makes me sound so materialistic! Really, I don’t care what they’re wearing—it’s just that I notice what they’re wearing because clothes can say a lot about a person.

27. FAVORITE DRINK? Hot: hot chocolate. Cold: god help my vegetarian-but-not-vegan-soul, it’s milk.

28. FAVORITE SPORT? None. I hate sports! Well, I guess soccer is okay. If I had to support anybody it’d probably be Millwall F.C., as they used to be based in New Cross, where Goldsmiths is located. Go Lions!

29. HAIR COLOR? Dark brown. That’s turning white.

30. EYE COLOR? Blue.

31. DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS? No, although I did between 1989-1997.

32. FAVORITE FOOD? Probably cereal, since that’s what I eat the most. But I’ve got loads of other favorite foods—everything from vegetarian ham to cheese and onion pasties.

33. SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDING? Both! I love scary movies, but sometimes it does my blackened heart good to see a happy ending.

34. LAST MOVIE YOU WATCHED? Lights in the Dusk (Laitakaupungin valot)—a Finnish film at FilmFest DC

35. WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING? Light blue.

36. SUMMER OR WINTER? Honestly? Winter. It can be such a pain in the ass, and it’s not like I relish being cold or anything, but I hate when it’s hot and humid. At least in winter I get a break from that. I love the landscape in winter, too.

37. HUGS OR KISSES? Neither. I’m dead inside.

38. FAVORITE DESSERT? I don’t really have a favorite, per se, but I do flip my lid over the old-school McDonald’s apple pies still sold in Europe, as well as other apple/cinnamon/caramel-y deserts.

39. WHAT BOOKS ARE YOU READING? We Need to Talk About Kevin, by Lionel Shriver. It’s a school shooting book (and I started it days before the Virginia Tech massacre!)

40. WHAT'S ON YOUR MOUSE PAD? At home it’s Rowlf; at work it’s…just black.

41. WHAT DID YOU WATCH LAST NIGHT ON TV? The Office, Grey’s Anatomy, and October Road.

42. FAVORITE SOUNDS? Silence, my favorite music, my cats’ purrs, the wind, the rain.

43. ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES? Beatles.

44. THE FURTHEST YOU’VE BEEN FROM HOME? Russia.

45. DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT? No, sadly! Besides deceiving myself.

46. WHEN AND WHERE WERE YOU BORN? June 4, 1974, in Lebanon, PA


song heard most recently before posting:
Kissing in the Rain—John Williams (music), Miriam Stockley (vocals)

blame and everything after

“Blame confers an awesome power. And it’s simplifying, not only to onlookers and victims but to culprits most of all. It imposes order on slag. Blame conveys clear lessons in which others may take comfort: if only she hadn’t—, and by implication makes tragedy avoidable.” –Lionel Shriver, We Need to Talk About Kevin

The Blame Game, regarding Virginia Tech, has begun. Actually, it began about two minutes after the killing ended. This, I think, is par for the course in most societies. Or maybe just American society—I don’t know. Blame makes people feel better, and blaming someone who can subsequently be punished works best, because it’s hard to blame a dead man. It’s even harder to blame a man who was clearly mentally ill. Severely mentally ill. But somebody needs to be blamed, so where shall the blame be cast?

I’m not a big proponent of flinging blame every which way. Of course it’s easy for me to say that, since I never lost anybody through tragedy or negligence. But I just don’t understand how persecuting someone—say, the Virginia Tech president or Cho’s parents—is going to properly rectify this situation. It can’t be rectified. The damage is done. Nobody is coming back to life. All we can really do is study which mistakes were made and try to prevent them from happening again.

For whatever reason, I feel the need to break down this blame game into its individual compartments:

Blame #1. The Virginia Tech security team and administration are responsible. The campus have been locked down after the first shootings. The school have done more to alert students to what was going on. They waited two hours to send an email to all students and did nothing to lock down the campus.

Well, the cops thought it was an isolated domestic dispute and assumed the shooter left the campus. No, they shouldn’t have made that assumption, and it’s terrible that people died because of it, but here’s the thing: no one could’ve guessed what was going to happen. It’s like how, on 9/11, so many people weren’t told to leave the first tower when it was hit, because everyone thought it was an isolated incident that could be gotten under control. Many lives could’ve been saved if everyone had been ushered out of the building right away—out of both buildings—but really, no one could’ve guessed what was lurking on the horizon: a second plane, two collapses. Hindsight really is 20/20, you know? I told some friends that this reminds me of a Swedish proverb I once heard: “The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected.”

Shawn pointed out that no one can lead a normal life if every event leads to a lockdown. Said Melissa: “Of course they should have not just assumed that the first gunman had left the state, but they did and there was something that told them that was the right decision, and I can guarantee that there are few people in the world who wish they could turn back time and lock down that campus more than the VT administration. We’re so quick to judge in this society, I suppose so we can tell ourselves oh, that would never happen to me because I would do x, y and z and absolutely prevent anything bad from ever befalling me. That, and we’ve learned to sue everyone for everything and assign blame improperly.”

Blame #2. America’s gun culture is to blame. Guns are too easy to get in the US.

I don’t like America’s gun culture because I don’t like guns. I’ve never held one; I never want to. I flinch when foreigners think that all Americans are card-carrying members of the NRA and are packing heat at any given moment. No, folks, we’re not all like that. I think I know a grand total of two people who own guns.

The gun issue is a complicated issue; it is gray and dense and can’t neatly be squeezed into the rigid confines of black and white, right and wrong. My personal belief is that rigid gun controls are essential, but there’s little point in trying to completely outlaw guns, because people who want guns will continue to get guns whether they’re illegal or not. Prohibition failed miserably. Drugs are still illegal and there’s no shortage of them in this country. It’s illegal for kids under age 21 to drink in this country but they still do it. All the time. Does that mean drugs should be legal and kids should be allowed to drink? I’m not saying this should or shouldn’t be the case—all I’m saying is that making something illegal doesn’t necessarily make it vanish into the ether.

I think Cho still would’ve gotten his hands on a gun even if they were illegal. It probably would’ve taken more work to obtain one, but it still would’ve happened. And if he hadn’t snagged a gun, then he would’ve achieved his goal through some other means. Strapped a bomb to himself, perhaps. Gone crazy with a machete. I know it seems like I’m being overly nihilistic here (“Whatever will be, will be; what’s the point of even trying”), but I just don’t see what good will come out of us saying that maybe this wouldn’t have happened if guns were illegal.

Blame #3. Blame the victims.

Yes, some people out there are bitching that the students didn’t do enough to subdue Cho. What a steaming stack of bollocks. In their situation I probably would’ve shit my pants and then passed out in terror. Okay, so maybe the number of people slaughtered would’ve been slightly lower if someone had tackled the guy, but how quick would you be to tackle a blank-faced dude with two guns and a belt of ammo wrapped around him? Especially when he catches you by surprise? Nobody can predict how s/he would act in this situation. Heroism is rarely planned; it just happens. And it did happen at Virginia Tech—just not in a huge, climactic way that ended with Cho being subdued.

People are comparing the Virginia Tech students with the passengers on Flight 93 on 9/11, wondering why the students didn’t follow the passengers’ lead and overcome their captor. Comparing these two situations is like comparing proverbial apples and oranges. Passengers on Flight 93 were brave, but they also had a lot more time to come to grips with what was happening. It’s not like they only realized they were being hijacked seconds before the plane plowed into the White House. They had time to realize what was happening and had time to call their loved ones to get the scoop on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. They knew how their predicament was going to end and they were able to convene to discuss how to handle the situation. The Virginia Tech students and professors didn’t have this option. All they had was quick thinking and adrenaline, and neither one is a guarantee when a sudden, shocking cataclysm drops on your head.

Blame #4. Psychiatrists, Cho’s parents, and his professors are responsible—they didn’t do enough to get him locked up when they suspected he was unstable.

By now we’ve learned that more than a year before the massacre, Cho was accused of sending unwanted messages to two women and was taken to a psychiatric hospital for 48 hours—the longest they could hold him without any proof he was a danger to others. He was released with orders to undergo outpatient treatment. Also, his violence-filled writings and odd demeanor disturbed professors and students so much that he was removed from one English class and was repeatedly urged to get counseling.

Despite all this, I don’t see how anybody can be held accountable for failing to get him thrown long-term into a mental hospital. We live in a country where you can’t get somebody institutionalized against their will simply because you suspect he might be dangerous. You need some semblance of proof. And thank god for that!! I, for one, am glad this is the case. Not because I relish the idea of potential killers populating my daily life, but because I don’t want to live in a society where suspicion alone is enough to condemn a man who may be innocent. I don’t want to live in Soviet Russia, North Korea, or Myanmar, mmm’kay?

The operative word here is that people suspected he was unstable. Yes, he did turn out to be unstable in the end, but nobody knew this beyond a shadow of a doubt until he opened fire. It’s possible he lied his ass off when he was in that mental hospital—giving them the answers they wanted to hear. Violent writings do not automatically equal homicidal behavior. I wrote some creepy shit back in the day, too, and I’m no killer. Pestering crushes, being deemed “weird,” showing strange behavior, and having flattened affect can—although not always—indicate the presence of a mental illness, but the presence of a mental illness does not immediately indicate homicidal tendencies. And, biggest of all, being a loner does not automatically mean you’re a killer!

I know I’m being hyper-sensitive here, but I loathe when the media fixate on killers being loners. It just adds fuel to this society’s already rampant suspicion of anyone who likes being alone. Not all loners are one gun away from becoming killers! And not all killers are loners! Let’s recall Ted Bundy and the BTK killer, shall we? As a lifelong loner, this whole attitude is so offensive to me.

I just worry there’s a real risk that anybody who is different, acts unconventionally, writes strange things, or listens to strange music will become suspicious in everyone’s eyes—labeled a potential killer. I’m not saying everyone should turn a blind eye when there’s a person displaying noticeably strange, erratic behavior. But there has to be some sort of middle ground between automatically assuming every weird, introverted person is a killer and automatically assuming s/he’s just shy and harmless.

Moving on to far less significant things...

FilmFest is here, and, as always, there are a slew of films I want to see. Whereas in the past my selections were limited because of cash flow issues, this year it’s a time issue. I've just got too much freelancing on my plate to allow me to see many films. I think I’m going to squeeze in a Finnish film tomorrow and a French film on Friday, even though doing so will put a serious cramp in my freelancing schedule. Also, there’s an exhibit at the Sackler Gallery I really want to see, and because it ends on Sunday, I’ve got no choice but to hit it this weekend, which further impedes my freelancing. This is one of those rare instances when I’m not backed into a corner because of procrastination, but because I only just learned about the exhibit a few days ago. But, you know, regardless of my time crunch, I gotsta make room for art!


song heard most recently before posting:
Ngankarrparni (Sky Blue Reprise)—Peter Gabriel

Rest in Peace

Bernard Patrick Reilly

July 16, 1935 – April 19, 2007

Bernie was a man amongst men; a gentleman and mentor to all who had the privilege of knowing and working with him. His devotion to his career was only ever exceeded by his love for his children and longing for his departed wife...God knows, he spoke about both daily! May God be with his family during this time of sorrow. He was a wonderful friend and mentor to so many.....his mark on the world will never fade!Thank you, Bernie for all that you have done for so many over the years! Thank you so much. –RG

Bernie was a devoted friend who knew the true value of a friendship. He loved his family and was devoted to them without question. He remained in love with his wife long after her death and showed a sense of loyalty that I admired so very much. He was a man who lived his life to the highest ethical and moral standards. He was a man of real courage. He was a man of “true grit.” He was the most well read and intelligent law enforcement officer that I had ever met. He was always well versed on the latest in law enforcement techniques and management even long after he retired. He was the most progressive police chief and true leader that ever served the Lebanon City Police Department. He was my friend, my mentor, my teacher and my guide—I loved Bernie and I will miss him forever. –Greg Holler

I will always remember Bernie as a mentor, colleague, neighbor, leader, and most importantly, a friend and confidante. He provided constant guidance to all who served with him in LPD, and nurtured us as his own children. I fondly recall the many conversations we shared over the back fence and on the front porch on Hanover Street, regarding law enforcement specifically and society generally. Bernie was both intelligent and compassionate, and served the City of Lebanon with unwavering dedication. He served as an inspiration to all of us.Rest in peace, my friend. I will miss and never forget you. –Gary L. Boyer, Sr.

I met Bernie during the sixties when he was both a patrolman and a part time student at Millersville. I knew him as both. And I respected him as both. Whatever he did he did with passion and compassion. Bernie was not so much concerned about doing things right but more with doing the right thing. And that he did consistently and flawlessly. He was a man of enormous skill and character. Lebanon has lost one of their finest. My deepest sympathies to his family. –Mike Bowman

I had the pleasure of getting to know [Bernie] toward the last year of his life. It was evident that this was a man a superior character and integrity. He displayed such grace even in the face of such terrible news. His only concern was for his family. His joy was talking about his children and grandchildren and remembering his wife lovingly with much dedication and devotion. –Jan Valentin

Lebanon City Police Department was fortunate to have Bernie Reilly, but others in law enforcement also benefited by Bernie’s knowledge, leadership, and kindness, As a Derry Township Police Officer I was privileged to know Bernie. It is with great sadness that I acknowledge the passing of a Policeman’s Policeman. –Jim Negley

He was a wonderful, sweet, intelligent, loving, family oriented man who told the best stories ever!! –Roni Bentz

When the body sinks into death, the essence of man is revealed. Man is a knot, a web, a mesh into which relationships are tied. Only those relationships matter. The body is an old crock that nobody will miss. –Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Flight to Arras

We sometimes congratulate ourselves at the moment of waking from a troubled dream; it may be so the moment after death. –Nathaniel Hawthorne, Journal, October 25, 1836

Perhaps the best cure for the fear of death is to reflect that life has a beginning as well as an end. There was a time when we were not: this gives us no concern—why then should it trouble us that a time will come when we shall cease to be? –William Hazlitt, Table Talk

Perhaps passing through the gates of death is like passing quietly through the gate in a pasture fence. On the other side, you keep walking, without the need to look back. No shock, no drama, just the lifting of a plank or two in a simple wooden gate in a clearing. Neither pain, nor floods of light, nor great voices, but just the silent crossing of a meadow. –Mark Helprin, A Soldier of the Great War

song heard most recently before posting:
It’s Good (to be Free)—Oasis

interrupted

It’s one of those times when the world seems anemic and grim, when I shrink in disgust from what we cavalierly call civilization. The horror continues unabated in Iraq; today alone 170 people were killed in Baghdad. It doesn’t seem like anybody can staunch the flow of hemorrhaging violence in that country. Steady and resolute, the genocide continues in Darfur. In the past month the DC area has witnessed a slew of murders in PG County, a hit-and-run road rage incident in Montgomery County that left two people dead, a domestic murder-suicide in Montgomery County that left two little children and their father dead, and a domestic murder-suicide in Frederick County that left four little children and their father dead and their mother missing. On and on it goes.

And then there’s Virginia Tech. There are layers upon layers of tragedy here. Young lives interrupted. A Holocaust and cancer survivor who endured so much, only to be gunned down in his classroom in the mountains while protecting his students. Freshmen just starting out in life. Seniors on the cusp of graduating. Aside from the professors who were killed, all the victims were kids. Just kids. Just over a decade ago I was one of those kids. Not at Virginia Tech...but in the end, a college is a college is a college. When you’re a 20-year-old college student, whether you’re in a community college in Montana or a massive university in Munich, you don’t expect your world to end on a bluebright Monday morning in April. You don’t expect your world to end when you’re sitting in class in your sweatshirt and jeans, backpack at your feet, notebook and pen or laptop in front of you, thinking about Finals and summer break, maybe, or just thinking about when you can grab your next cup of coffee.

There’s nothing I can really say about this tragedy that hasn’t already been said—more astutely and eloquently, I may add—by the media and folks online. There are a few issues I discussed with friends that I’d like to mention here as well, but I will only do so in a few days’ time. Why? Well, over on the BBC News boards, accusations are flying between pro- and anti-gun believers. Between Americans and countries where guns are illegal. The Virginia Tech situation is bound to devolve into a screaming match about America’s gun culture and whether the right to bear arms is really a right at all. This is on top of the blame being heaped upon the university’s administrators and security force for not doing more to stave off the tragedy. I guess that’s inevitable, but here’s the thing: do we really need to talk about this now? Only two days have passed since the massacre. We don’t even know the names of all the victims yet. Not a single victim has been buried yet. Before everyone starts slinging blame, hunting for scapegoats, and lambasting the US’s gun policies, can’t we just have a period of peace when people reflect on what really matters—the victims and the people left behind?

You think it’s a day like any other. What you don’t realize is anything can happen. And then it does. It happens. And there’s so much left unsaid. And it was all just wasted time. –Harriet Sansom Harris, in Six Feet Under


I could have told him that nothing was safe and that no matter how careful you were and how hard you tried, there were still accidents, hidden traps, and snares. You could get killed on an airplane or crossing the street. Your marriage could fall apart when you weren’t looking; your husband could lose his job; your baby could get sick or die. I could have said that nothing is safe, that the surface of the world is pretty and sane, but underneath it’s all fault lines and earthquakes waiting to happen. –Jennifer Weiner, Little Earthquakes


What you were preparing against—that never happened! All the best-laid plans could not prevent the disaster against which no plans had been laid. –George Stewart, Earth Abides


Bottom line is, even if you see them coming, you’re not ready for the big moments. No one asks for their life to change, not really. But it does. So, what are we, helpless? Puppets? Nah. The big moments are gonna come, you can’t help that. It’s what you do afterwards that counts. That’s when you find out who you are. –Max Perlich, in Buffy the Vampire Slayer


You must not let terror overtake you.
It is a bone breaking in the middle of the night.
It is a misspelled word.
It is everything you thought you knew
becoming unknown, the leaves
stripped from the tree,
all the greenness orange and dry,
it is a pain past bearable, you must not.
–Susan Griffin, “Prayer for Continuation”


But everything went wrong for me and upside down, the nature of things was reborn for me. – Vinsentsos Kornaros, Erotokritos


Learn the darkness.
Gather round you all
the things that you love, name
their names, prepare
to lose them. It will be
as if all you know were turned
around within your body.
–Wendell Berry, “Song in a Year of Catastrophe”

song heard most recently before posting:
Thief of Your Heart—Sinead O’Connor

Easter with the Sopranos

Easter, Easter, Easter. I spent it working, reading (a fabulous disaster book), updating my quotes pages, and watching the first disc of Season 2 of The Sopranos. Oh, and listening to my upstairs neighbors gather with their extended clan for the sole purpose of tormenting me with their noise levels. (So, in turn, I jacked up the volume on my TV so their Easter would be peppered with Tony Soprano bellowing “You fucking fat sack of shit!” and the like.) Also, the first thing to fully wake me on Easter morning wasn’t the noisy neighbors getting ready for church, but the sound of Plath vomiting on my bed. Then I realized that my period had started, too. Happy Easter to me!

Well, it’s not a holiday I celebrate anymore, anyway. To me it really only matters if you’re religious or a kid. Or, if neither applies to you, it’s worth celebrating if you have nice family traditions to uphold. We started going to a fancy Easter buffet at the Hershey Lodge and Convention Center when I was in junior high, I think (or maybe 6th grade at the earliest), and this was something I always enjoyed. The meal was great, there were loads of decorations and a big ice sculpture, and a tux-clad pianist played lovely tunes while we ate. Plus the hostess looked like Dionne Warwick, which, back in the ’80s, I thought was kind of cool. This all began before my parents divorced and my grandmother died, so as the years progressed, the tradition felt like a relic from a better era (even though, okay, technically things were much better after my parents split—those are two people who never should’ve married each other). But when we stopped going to Hershey ’round about 2001 or 2002, because they were raising their prices and the food quality was dropping, I took that as my cue to stop celebrating the holiday altogether. There just didn’t seem to be any point to schlepping up to PA for a holiday that didn’t matter to me.

My sister invited me over for dinner, but I wanted to make some headway with my latest freelancing project and also tackle some long-overdue website updates. Plus I just didn’t feel like getting dressed or going anywhere. Getting dressed and going somewhere are so overrated. For Easter dinner I ate some vegetarian salmon and that was the extent of my celebratory fressing.

My plans to check out the cherry blossoms with Mom and Bill on Saturday fell through. We cancelled on Friday night because we thought the weather was going to be worse than it was. The weather was okay in the end (it remained quite cold but we only received a dusting of snow), but by then it was too late to really do anything about it. I added quotes to my website, watched an excellent German film (The Tunnel), read the aforementioned disaster book, and edited two chapters of my freelancing project.

Since I’m moving backwards here, I’ll mention that I cleaned on Friday night for the first time in ages. I even went to Target beforehand to stock up on new cleaning supplies. Although I knew Mom probably wouldn’t visit after all, because the weather forecast wasn’t looking so great, I decided that a clean apartment would be good for me; perhaps it would even disrupt this paralyzing stasis I’ve been in lately. But really, part of what drove me to clean was my embarrassment over Wednesday’s intruder seeing my disgusting apartment. He used or at least looked at my toilet, and it was foul. It seriously looked like a toilet from Trainspotting. I was just so humiliated, it drove me to clean.

Oh…wait. Did I ever mention my intruder? It’s not a huge deal, really. Last Wednesday I got home from work and one of the first things I noticed was that the door to the laundry room was hanging wide open. I figured the cats must’ve pushed it open—it’s happened before, although never that wide. Then I noticed that my thermometer/hydrometer, which is perched on a little shelf outside the kitchen, was facedown on the floor. Then I noticed that the big plastic container of cat food that I keep in the laundry room was sitting in my living room. Then I noticed that my toilet seat was up, like a guy pissed in it. What. The. Fuck. Well, I’m not that stupid—I understood that someone had been in my apartment. And that someone was clearly one of my upstairs neighbors (the laundry room connects my apartment to their side of the house) or a service employee sent in there to examine the house’s phone connection box, or the water valve, or the gas/electricity meter (all of them are in my apartment). But why? That’s what I want to know. Why would they come into my apartment? And not call me beforehand? Or, in an emergency (like if flooding were imminent and the water valve had to be turned off immediately), why didn’t they at least tell me afterward? Nobody said a word to me. I was pissed. And I felt violated to some degree. Plus, let’s not forget that the last time they had a service employee enter my apartment without asking me, he broke the stained glass star I’d just brought home from Iceland. And there was that one time my previous landlord entered my apartment (without first asking me), to fix one thing or another, and ended up breaking one of my San Francisco magnets and the stained glass Chagall piece I bought in Chicago. So, to say that I’m touchy when it comes to upstairs people entering my apartment without my permission would be an understatement. And since then, I have been locking my door every day. Yes, I learned my lesson, thanks.

So…back to Friday. I’m not an unclean person (haw haw haw, well, in some ways I am)—I’ve always prided myself on keeping a clean and tidy apartment. But ever since my landlord and landlady died two years ago, leaving me thinking that I’d have to move, my apartment has been in disarray. Possessions are packed away and boxes are stacked everywhere. I gave up dusting and cleaning except on a sporadic basis because I just didn’t care anymore. All I want is to get the hell out of there, but naturally the housing market exploded when all this began, and I couldn’t afford a home. I could move into another rental, but…ugh. No thanks. I need to avoid that if I can, for a lot of different reasons.

Anyway, so I cleaned on Friday to eliminate the Trainspotting toilet and all the other nastiness plaguing my apartment thanks to my apathetic sloth. Halfway through the cleaning frenzy I ended up getting badly scratched by Freyja, who I tried to put into the living room while I was vacuuming the bedroom. She’d been in the bedroom and got a crazed, wild-eyed look of panic when she thought I was going to corner her with the vacuum. I decided to carefully pick her up and move her into the living room so she wouldn’t feel trapped. Simple, right? It misfired. She became a puffy, yowling ball of knives and within seconds I was spurting blood. Excellent. But I have to say that I’m impressed with her ability to rip a gash in my chest without actually tearing my shirt. That’s quite a skill to have.

Speaking of cats, the disaster book I just finished mentioned that the narrator’s cat was a gray tabby who yelled a lot. I nudged Plath and sneered, “Why does that sound familiar?” Then the cat disappeared for a while and the narrator was afraid that one of her starving neighbors ate him. I scooped up Plath in a death-clinch, buried my face in his stomach, and screeched, “Plathy, I won’t let the neighbors eat you! I WON’T! I’ll smother you and your sister before I allow the neighbors to eat you!! I’ll keep you safe, I promise you! I won’t let you be their dinner!!!” He was just like, Oh, Jesus Christ.



song heard most recently before posting:
Con te partiro—Andrea Bocelli