This morning my coworker Cynthia talked about the Charlie Brown Christmas tree she bought over weekend; she felt so sorry for it, she almost cried when she saw it looking so pitiful on the tree lot. As someone who has been known to *ahem* anthropomorphize the occasional item, I sympathized greatly. Naturally this got us talking about how depressing that cartoon is, with its poor, mocked Christmas tree who is only considered worthy in society’s eyes when it becomes a flashy, showy, garish replica of all the other trees; when it’s forced to surrender its individuality in order to become acceptable to the derisive and conformist masses (okay, I didn’t actually say that last bit out loud, although—let’s be honest here—nobody would’ve been surprised if I had). From there we got started on those other depressing classics, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and Frosty the Snowman.
So, I thought I’d take a break from fretting ceaselessly about my finances and my increasingly chilly condo to expound on the dreary tidings brought to us by certain traditional Christmas specials.
But let me preface this by saying that I do, in fact, like Christmas. I really do. Not from a religious standpoint, because I’m not religious, but I love the secular, usually pagan-oriented side: decorations, lights, traditions. I love giving gifts and receiving gifts. I decorate most years (not this year, though, because of my move) and I own several Christmas CDs. I do loathe how the holiday comes earlier and earlier each year, so before Halloween has even occurred, Christmas items appear on store shelves, lurking smugly in the periphery around the glare of bats and pumpkins. It used to be that Black Friday was the start of the Christmas season, and that was great for me, because it gave me a month to enjoy all the trappings. But now Christmas is starting in October, so by the time the holiday actually arrives, I’m over it. No single day can really live up to months of anticipation—it’s bound to feel anticlimactic in the end. And afterwards it feels so much worse, because there’s this hallow sense of letdown that, as a kid, could be weakly alleviated by New Year’s Eve/Day (because it was a family-oriented holiday that was always fun), but as an adult doesn’t do much to help that deflated sense of “What now?” that comes after Christmas. And I do have to wonder what’s lacking from modern life to such a degree that it causes us to cleave frantically and wild-eyed to Christmas, distending it to ridiculously bloated proportions that leak into every crevice of our awareness and daily activities. Just what the hell kind of void are we trying to fill in our lives?
Anyway, back to my review of Christmas specials.
Granted, there’s a great lesson to be learned in A Charlie Brown Christmas’s treatise on the overcommercialization of the season and the hijacking of a religious holiday by runaway secularism, but at the heart of the matter is this: all but one person felt compelled to mock a sad little tree who looked different from all the other trees. And the tree apparently only deserved their respect after they forcibly transformed it into what they thought it should look like—a mirror image of all the other Christmas trees. It wasn’t, “Oh, it’s beautiful and special the way it is.” It was, “Let’s plump up its branches and douse it in tinsel, ornaments, and lights, and then it’ll be beautiful and we’ll stop laughing at it.” Nice lesson there.
Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer examined the outcast story from a slightly different angle. In this version, the mocking and ostracism didn’t end when he became Stepfordized, but rather when his unusual nose proved beneficial to society at large. He was considered a freak until he was able to provide them with material gains.
This story breaks my heart on so many levels. First of all, the sheer rejection he faced was staggering. Rather than defend him and bolster his self-esteem by reiterating that the problem wasn’t with him, but with the other intolerant reindeer, Rudolph’s parents forced him to cover his “defect” in shame. Look, I know they were only trying to make life easier on him, but behaving as if his nose were truly a badge of shame that needed to be hidden at all costs really wasn’t the kindest move they could make. Even Santa—kind, beneficent Santa—treated him like damaged goods. If he had stood by Rudolph, everyone else would’ve been forced to stand by him as well. Santa’s the iron-clad ruler of the north; nobody would’ve dared to go against him. If Santa said, “Rudolph is fine the way he is—we’ve gotta respect him even though he’s different, and BTW, you bigot shitheads, different isn’t bad,” everyone else would’ve toed the line. No reindeer or elves would’ve dared to openly mock Rudolph after that point. Mentally they probably still would’ve ridiculed him, but hey, at least the brazen, sanctioned bullying would’ve stopped.
Secondly, the Island of Misfit Toys? Jesus H., if that doesn’t break your heart, nothing will. But on the bright side, being banished to a deserted island just because you’re different is at least better than being tossed in a landfill or sent to a work camp. And the toys did find homes at the end…although I wonder if anybody would’ve bothered with them if they hadn’t been so dazzled by Rudolph. If “freak” Rudolph—versus “heroic” Rudolph—had begged them to find homes for the misfit toys, would anyone have bothered?
So, okay, Rudolph was a freak until he was able to use his nose to save Christmas. Then the other reindeer didn’t love and adore him because he was a good guy, but because he gave them something they wanted. I’d like to think they would’ve eventually come to their senses and realized that, hey, Rudolph really is cool, with or without his guiding nose, but, given my general lack of faith in humanity, I’m doubting that this was the case.
The Grinch Who Stole Christmas is depressing on an obvious level, of course—he burgled every home in Whoville and robbed them of their loot. And yes, it all turned out to be for the best, because it taught everyone the true meaning of Christmas, helped his heart grow 10 sizes, etc, etc. But here’s what depresses the shit out of me: the Grinch’s treatment of his dog. Forcing him to haul heavy sleds up perilous mountains was just one of the many ways in which he displayed flagrant animal abuse. This always upset me—even when I was an ignorant kid who blithely stomped on bugs and carried around a rabbit foot for luck. It bothered me to the point where I had to close my eyes during that scene. It’s been a few years since I’ve seen the show, so my memory is a bit rusty, but if I recall, the Grinch’s epiphany didn’t cause him to ever apologize to his dog and make amends for his appalling and abusive behavior. If I’m wrong about that, please correct me.
Frosty the Snowman is also depressing, but not in the same subtle and insidious ways as the other specials. No, it’s depressing simply because Frosty DIES. It’s admirable that he gives his life to save Karen, sure, and we all know that he comes to life again (hmmm, messianic parallel, anyone?), but before his resurrection children are treated to the traumatizing sight of him slowly dying before their very eyes. Yeah, Merry Christmas.
’Twas the Night before Christmas—one of the lesser-known Christmas specials—casts Santa in a most unfavorable light. Here he’s the merciless autocrat who abruptly cancels Christmas for all of Junctionville simply because one little mouse pissed him off with a letter to the editor expressing doubt about Santa’s existence. Granted, the letter was signed “from all of us,” but how can a man who professes to be omniscient not realize that not everyone in Junctionville truly felt that way? And really, Albert the cute nerdy mouse was entitled to his beliefs. I’m an agnostic, and so, if the mood strikes me, I want the freedom to write a letter to the editor denying god’s existence without fear of retribution. If I am wrong and there is a god, I sure wouldn’t want my entire town to be punished because of my belief. The Santa of this special isn’t quite a terrifying tyrant of Old Testament proportions, but nonetheless, I sure wouldn’t want to get on his bad side.
Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town has one kick-ass element going for it: it’s set in a place called Sombertown. Otherwise known as Scranton. HAW HAW HAW. No, Sombertown is wherever I live, truthfully, be it Scranton or London or Frederick.
(A second kick-ass element? Mrs. Claus starts off as a voluptuous va-va-voom schoolteacher named Jessica with mile-long eyelashes that your average woman would kill to have.)
Sombertown is ruled by a tinpot dictator named Burgermeister Meisterburger who has outlawed all toys; anyone found with a toy is arrested and thrown in a dungeon. Niiiiice. It seems like all or most of the town’s children are forced to toil in a Gulag-like state of permanent hard labor. Eventually a young and red-headed Santa triumphs in the end, after being on the Burgermeister’s Most Wanted list for a few years, blah blah blah. Of course it has a happy ending. But that doesn’t negate the fact that the holiday special opens up in a bleak burg called Sombertown where children are forced into hard labor, now does it?
Truthfully, I don’t think I’ve ever seen The Year without a Santa Claus. If I did, it was wiped clean from my memory. And who can blame my memory traces for heading for the hills? The show features a baby version of Vixen getting sent to a pound in the southern US, where she soon becomes deathly ill from the heat. Umm, okay?
Anyway, “heartwarming” Christmas specials and things like Sid and Marty Krofft programs might help to explain why we Gen-Xers can be kind of fucked up and neurotic. Just a thought.
song heard most recently before posting:
Porushka—The Revels Chorus, Dmitri Pokrovsky Ensemble, and Karelian Folk Music Ensemble
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Friday, December 14, 2007
sigh
This week is turning out to be one of those silly roller coaster weeks. It started out marvelously, despite the shitty slug-crawl of my new commute, because I finally found out exactly how much my car insurance is dropping just by leaving the ridiculously overpriced kingdom of Montgomery County (it’s going down around $55/month) and I also learned that my health insurance costs will go down a bit since I’ve been at my job for five years. And things continued to shine because I finally managed to snag my mailbox key (after being without my mail for a week and a half) and I also received a really sweet card and housewarming check from my grandfather.
Then things went south. I learned (through the gigantic pile of accumulated mail waiting for me in my box) that condo fees are going up an extra $25/month. Not a lot, and they’re still cheap fees for this area, but I was annoyed because I didn’t see it coming and because it was one of those two-steps-forward-one-step-back situations. It’s like, “Oh, yay! My health insurance and car insurance costs went down! Aaaaaand my condo fees immediately went up.”
Then I got the icing on the cake: the news from the HVAC guy. The hope was always that my home warranty would cover the half-broken HVAC unit as long as the inspection report said nothing about it not working properly. Well, the HVAC guy unfortunately thought (and rightfully so; I got the final verdict the next morning) that the warranty company won’t cover the repairs after all, because the previous owner made no effort to maintain the HVAC unit. Not maintaining something makes it ineligible for warranty coverage. And the fact that the previous tenant was at fault—instead of me—makes things even worse because it’s showing that the problem is a pre-existing condition, no matter what the inspection report says.
So I paid $150 for the HVAC repair visit, only to be told that the $450 I paid for that warranty is basically useless. I mean, it could cover something else down the line, but the HVAC unit is, hands down, the most expensive item in the condo, so it’s not exactly a victory to find out that the warranty might cover the replacement of, like, a piddly broken stove at some point. I’m going to try to cancel the policy and get a refund. Why keep the policy if it does no good?
Now I’m looking at thousands of dollars in repairs (like around $5000, according the HVAC guy, although my sister’s honest and reasonably-priced HVAC guy will be taking a look at the unit soon and may offer me a better deal). I guess I'll have to hit the bank or credit union and apply for a loan to cover the repairs, since setting up my household drained my savings. Let’s hear it for the American dream, y’all!
Added to that, I just lost my second of five freelancing projects, as the publisher decided that these two journals no longer need a proofreader. After I lost the first gig (about two weeks ago), I became incredibly paranoid that I’d lose all my other projects as well, which means I’d be f-u-c-k-e-d, because I can’t live on my non-profit salary alone—especially now that I’m a homeowner. And I really, really felt in my gut that I was going to lose, at the very least, my biggest freelance project—the one that pays me the most money. And sure enough, I got the news yesterday (my gut can be so freakishly accurate!).
Fortunately, one of my production editors told me that some other of the other journals published by his company need freelancers, and he gave me a lead on one of them, so hopefully I’ll be able to recoup the money I’ll lose with those two journals disappearing.
I’ve also been told that there are freelancing jobs listed on Craigslist; I’ll get on there soon to suss things out. As much as possible, I want to stick with freelance editing, versus getting a second job elsewhere, because unless that job involves, like, cleaning offices or doing data entry alone at night, I’m going to be miserable doing whatever I do, since I’m an asocial mess. I just don’t want to deal with the public.
My last resort would be leaving my non-profit job for a corporate job that pays more. This would solve the second job equation once and for all. But that’s truly a last resort, because I love my job and love working for a cause that means a lot to me.
Being an adult is truly a headache sometimes.
song heard most recently before posting:
Here We Come A-Wassailing/Bottom of the Punch Bowl—Bonnie Rideout
Then things went south. I learned (through the gigantic pile of accumulated mail waiting for me in my box) that condo fees are going up an extra $25/month. Not a lot, and they’re still cheap fees for this area, but I was annoyed because I didn’t see it coming and because it was one of those two-steps-forward-one-step-back situations. It’s like, “Oh, yay! My health insurance and car insurance costs went down! Aaaaaand my condo fees immediately went up.”
Then I got the icing on the cake: the news from the HVAC guy. The hope was always that my home warranty would cover the half-broken HVAC unit as long as the inspection report said nothing about it not working properly. Well, the HVAC guy unfortunately thought (and rightfully so; I got the final verdict the next morning) that the warranty company won’t cover the repairs after all, because the previous owner made no effort to maintain the HVAC unit. Not maintaining something makes it ineligible for warranty coverage. And the fact that the previous tenant was at fault—instead of me—makes things even worse because it’s showing that the problem is a pre-existing condition, no matter what the inspection report says.
So I paid $150 for the HVAC repair visit, only to be told that the $450 I paid for that warranty is basically useless. I mean, it could cover something else down the line, but the HVAC unit is, hands down, the most expensive item in the condo, so it’s not exactly a victory to find out that the warranty might cover the replacement of, like, a piddly broken stove at some point. I’m going to try to cancel the policy and get a refund. Why keep the policy if it does no good?
Now I’m looking at thousands of dollars in repairs (like around $5000, according the HVAC guy, although my sister’s honest and reasonably-priced HVAC guy will be taking a look at the unit soon and may offer me a better deal). I guess I'll have to hit the bank or credit union and apply for a loan to cover the repairs, since setting up my household drained my savings. Let’s hear it for the American dream, y’all!
Added to that, I just lost my second of five freelancing projects, as the publisher decided that these two journals no longer need a proofreader. After I lost the first gig (about two weeks ago), I became incredibly paranoid that I’d lose all my other projects as well, which means I’d be f-u-c-k-e-d, because I can’t live on my non-profit salary alone—especially now that I’m a homeowner. And I really, really felt in my gut that I was going to lose, at the very least, my biggest freelance project—the one that pays me the most money. And sure enough, I got the news yesterday (my gut can be so freakishly accurate!).
Fortunately, one of my production editors told me that some other of the other journals published by his company need freelancers, and he gave me a lead on one of them, so hopefully I’ll be able to recoup the money I’ll lose with those two journals disappearing.
I’ve also been told that there are freelancing jobs listed on Craigslist; I’ll get on there soon to suss things out. As much as possible, I want to stick with freelance editing, versus getting a second job elsewhere, because unless that job involves, like, cleaning offices or doing data entry alone at night, I’m going to be miserable doing whatever I do, since I’m an asocial mess. I just don’t want to deal with the public.
My last resort would be leaving my non-profit job for a corporate job that pays more. This would solve the second job equation once and for all. But that’s truly a last resort, because I love my job and love working for a cause that means a lot to me.
Being an adult is truly a headache sometimes.
song heard most recently before posting:
Here We Come A-Wassailing/Bottom of the Punch Bowl—Bonnie Rideout
Monday, December 10, 2007
back to reality
I haven’t disappeared into the ether—no sir. But I did the next best thing. I moved. To the stixxx (holla, Frederick!).
Moving—when you’re too cheap to hire professional packers and movers and when you’re a bit of a hoarder—is guaranteed to knock you on your ass. In expectation of this, I took all of last week off work and dropped fully and completely out of life as I focused on unpacking shit, rearranging shit, wringing my hands, hemorrhaging money, running errands, and cursing. My TV watching was minimal, because the DirecTV dude won’t come until the 15th, and my rabbit ears ain’t working so well. My internet surfing was minimal because my connection at the new place is terrible (yes, I’m still on dial-up; yes, I’m a cheap bitch). I feel really out of the loop; for all I know, Bush has been assassinated and Paris Hilton has been named the interim president. For a week I disappeared, but now I’m back.
By the end of the first day I looked like a junkie, my arms were so bruised. Over the course of the week I managed to break a few things and rip off a piece of my finger with a disco ball. Yes, a disco ball. Later, after soaking my wounded finger until it was a mushy mess, I pulled that revolting long sliver of embedded disco ball right outta there and prayed no other mirrored shards remained.
There has been a snafu or two during the whole moving process, but for the most part, things went really smoothly, and for that I’m grateful. And this homeowner thing? Is pretty cool. I think I can get used to this.
song heard most recently before posting:
I’ll Be Home for Christmas—Flipped Fedoras
Moving—when you’re too cheap to hire professional packers and movers and when you’re a bit of a hoarder—is guaranteed to knock you on your ass. In expectation of this, I took all of last week off work and dropped fully and completely out of life as I focused on unpacking shit, rearranging shit, wringing my hands, hemorrhaging money, running errands, and cursing. My TV watching was minimal, because the DirecTV dude won’t come until the 15th, and my rabbit ears ain’t working so well. My internet surfing was minimal because my connection at the new place is terrible (yes, I’m still on dial-up; yes, I’m a cheap bitch). I feel really out of the loop; for all I know, Bush has been assassinated and Paris Hilton has been named the interim president. For a week I disappeared, but now I’m back.
By the end of the first day I looked like a junkie, my arms were so bruised. Over the course of the week I managed to break a few things and rip off a piece of my finger with a disco ball. Yes, a disco ball. Later, after soaking my wounded finger until it was a mushy mess, I pulled that revolting long sliver of embedded disco ball right outta there and prayed no other mirrored shards remained.
There has been a snafu or two during the whole moving process, but for the most part, things went really smoothly, and for that I’m grateful. And this homeowner thing? Is pretty cool. I think I can get used to this.
song heard most recently before posting:
I’ll Be Home for Christmas—Flipped Fedoras
Friday, November 16, 2007
hair loss, Intercourse, roller derbies, farms
The crazy-ass dervish continues. What’s weird is that aside from my propensity for walking and driving fast, and aside from the fact that I love skydiving and love riding on roller coasters and speed boats, I really tend to be a lethargic slug who prefers shambling leisurely through life. And all this nonsense involved with being constantly on the go, because of preparing to move and needing to buy crap for the condo and shop around for painters and people who can install my wood laminate floors? Oh, this won’t do at all!
I’ve been slammed with a boatload of freelancing lately, too; l haven’t even had time to watch my latest crop of Netflix DVDs. I can’t wait until the effects of the Hollywood writers strike are finally felt, because lord knows I can’t quit the TV on my own—I need it to quit me. And as soon as my shows go off the air because of the strike, I can finally turn my attention to all the other pressing matters buzzing angrily around my head.
Anyway. Last weekend I played hooky from my life and headed home to Pennsylvania. On Saturday my first order of business was getting all my hair chopped off.
before
after
I’ll be sending a 10-inch braid to Locks of Love soon…whenever I can get my overwhelmed ass to the post office. So yes, I’ve been driving around for a week with a swathe of human hair and three gigantic pumpkins on my back seat (that’ll be explained later). Some coworkers and I were cackling about how hot it would be if I crashed my car and the rescuers found a long braid of human hair and huge smashed pumpkins among the wreckage.
In the afternoon Melissa and I went to Intercourse to shop for Amish furniture for my new pad. On the way there, we stopped for lunch at a Mennonite restaurant on the outskirts of town. As we gobbled down our grease-laden food over prayer-filled placemats, we talked about her desire to become prison penpals with Amanda Knox. We also talked about some funny (and by “funny” I mean “warped”) things that I won’t even repeat here. Suffice it to say, there’s no doubt that we’re headed to hell.
In Intercourse I bought three jars of pepper jam and managed to snag three Amish tables for only $180! God, I fucking love the Amish sometimes.
In the evening we rustled up a gaggle o’ lesbians and gays and hit a roller derby in Lancaster. Yes, you heard it right: we actually went to a roller derby.
Apparently roller derby is making a comeback, and Lancaster’s now got its own league. We went to the final championship bout of the season, in which the Hex Offenders and the Distel Finks battled for victory (every team in the league has a PA Dutch-inspired name; those two teams’ names denote Amish hex signs and distelfinks). It wasn’t as theatrical as I expected, but it was still awesome beyond words, even with the high-ish entrance price ($12). However, we had no clue what was going on. The game made absolutely no sense to any of us. All I know is, never go to a roller derby with a bunch of lesbians when you’re the only person with a camera. All night long it was “Photograph her ass!” and “Make sure you get a shot of her tits!”
This past Wednesday the fine folks at Larriland Farm allowed some coworkers and me to spend a damp November morning hoisting pumpkins, picking apples, and pulling beets for charity. These were all crops that weren’t sold during the summer and fall harvest and otherwise would’ve gone to waste. We donated everything to Poplar Spring Animal Sanctuary, a refuge for farm animals.
We left with a station wagon and truck full of goodies, with three more gigantic pumpkins stored on my backseat. As an added bonus, the farm had some cute dogs who kept us company while we picked apples.
This upcoming weekend will be spent doing hardcore condo supplies shopping and a shitload of freelancing. Thankfully next week is a short week (my office is closed Thursday and Friday for Thanksgiving). I’ll be going to my mom’s house in Harrisburg, PA, for Thanksgiving dinner, which will hopefully involve eating mountains of vegetarian ham (if the damn vegan meat store where I buy it actually bothers to stay open one evening; every night I’ve gone there over the past week, they’ve been closed when they were supposed to be open), PA Dutch potato filling, sweet potatoes, corn, dinner rolls, and opera fudge!
song heard most recently before posting:
Cherry Bomb—John Mellencamp
I’ve been slammed with a boatload of freelancing lately, too; l haven’t even had time to watch my latest crop of Netflix DVDs. I can’t wait until the effects of the Hollywood writers strike are finally felt, because lord knows I can’t quit the TV on my own—I need it to quit me. And as soon as my shows go off the air because of the strike, I can finally turn my attention to all the other pressing matters buzzing angrily around my head.
Anyway. Last weekend I played hooky from my life and headed home to Pennsylvania. On Saturday my first order of business was getting all my hair chopped off.
before
afterIn the afternoon Melissa and I went to Intercourse to shop for Amish furniture for my new pad. On the way there, we stopped for lunch at a Mennonite restaurant on the outskirts of town. As we gobbled down our grease-laden food over prayer-filled placemats, we talked about her desire to become prison penpals with Amanda Knox. We also talked about some funny (and by “funny” I mean “warped”) things that I won’t even repeat here. Suffice it to say, there’s no doubt that we’re headed to hell.
In Intercourse I bought three jars of pepper jam and managed to snag three Amish tables for only $180! God, I fucking love the Amish sometimes.
In the evening we rustled up a gaggle o’ lesbians and gays and hit a roller derby in Lancaster. Yes, you heard it right: we actually went to a roller derby.
Apparently roller derby is making a comeback, and Lancaster’s now got its own league. We went to the final championship bout of the season, in which the Hex Offenders and the Distel Finks battled for victory (every team in the league has a PA Dutch-inspired name; those two teams’ names denote Amish hex signs and distelfinks). It wasn’t as theatrical as I expected, but it was still awesome beyond words, even with the high-ish entrance price ($12). However, we had no clue what was going on. The game made absolutely no sense to any of us. All I know is, never go to a roller derby with a bunch of lesbians when you’re the only person with a camera. All night long it was “Photograph her ass!” and “Make sure you get a shot of her tits!”
This past Wednesday the fine folks at Larriland Farm allowed some coworkers and me to spend a damp November morning hoisting pumpkins, picking apples, and pulling beets for charity. These were all crops that weren’t sold during the summer and fall harvest and otherwise would’ve gone to waste. We donated everything to Poplar Spring Animal Sanctuary, a refuge for farm animals.
We left with a station wagon and truck full of goodies, with three more gigantic pumpkins stored on my backseat. As an added bonus, the farm had some cute dogs who kept us company while we picked apples.
This upcoming weekend will be spent doing hardcore condo supplies shopping and a shitload of freelancing. Thankfully next week is a short week (my office is closed Thursday and Friday for Thanksgiving). I’ll be going to my mom’s house in Harrisburg, PA, for Thanksgiving dinner, which will hopefully involve eating mountains of vegetarian ham (if the damn vegan meat store where I buy it actually bothers to stay open one evening; every night I’ve gone there over the past week, they’ve been closed when they were supposed to be open), PA Dutch potato filling, sweet potatoes, corn, dinner rolls, and opera fudge!
song heard most recently before posting:
Cherry Bomb—John Mellencamp
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
surviving settlement
Yes, it’s official: I’m the landed gentry. Now all I need are some serfs and liverymen. As do all condo dwellers.
Yesterday morning my iPod started acting wonky (to a degree where I assumed I’d have to send it off for repairs again), and I thought, “Great. This is a sign that today is going to be a disaster.” Thankfully, though, I managed to talk some sense into the iPod.
I worked a half day and headed to Frederick to do my final condo walk-through. Then my realtor Allie and I headed to lunch at an Irish pub in downtown Frederick called, appropriately enough, Jennifer’s.
While there, I learned about a gruesome local domestic murder that made me feel utterly sick.
Around this time we learned that someone somewhere didn’t sign or file some kind of deed, which would of course affect my settlement. Then Allie thankfully got a call that everything was okay—the problem had gotten straightened out.
On the way to settlement we were stuck in gridlock (it wasn’t even 4pm!) and I glanced up at the sky and saw this:
I was like, “Is that a rainbow?? What the hell?” It hadn’t rained in over a week! I guess it was just a weird quirk of light—something atmospheric created a faint, rainbowish impression on the clouds.** It cheered me up, though. Instead of seeing a negative sign (like my wonky iPod), I deluded myself into thinking that maybe the sky was functioning as a positive sign, indicating that everything was going to be okay.
At settlement, after I signed a zillion papers, we learned that the deed issue hadn’t been resolved after all, and it was looking like I’d have to take off another afternoon and return to Frederick to re-sign all the settlement papers. But at the last minute—just before we all split for the evening, dejected—a phone call or fax from someone arrived and the realtor selling the condo announced that we were good to go. It was like a last-minute stay of execution.
So I got the keys and the place is now officially mine.
I’m excited, but the excitement is getting crushed by the sheer density of how much still needs to be done! I imagine that everyone at settlement was wondering what was wrong with me. I could barely crack a smile and I showed no flicker of emotion. I totally looked like I was dead inside. But everything was just so overwhelming! And I have so much left to do!
On the bright side, I didn’t have to pay any closing costs, and I got back $1750 of my $2000 good-faith deposit. Also, Allie gave me a card and $100 in Home Depot giftcards to help pay for paint, which was really nice and very much appreciated. Equally bright news: folded into my closing costs were the first six months of my condo fees, so I won’t have to pay them until next spring. And my first mortgage payment isn’t due until January 1st—one month after I expected it to be due. You can’t beat that!
**Thanks to my dear Debbie for pointing out that the rainbow was actually a sundog!
song heard most recently before posting:
Reunited—Peaches and Herb
Yesterday morning my iPod started acting wonky (to a degree where I assumed I’d have to send it off for repairs again), and I thought, “Great. This is a sign that today is going to be a disaster.” Thankfully, though, I managed to talk some sense into the iPod.
I worked a half day and headed to Frederick to do my final condo walk-through. Then my realtor Allie and I headed to lunch at an Irish pub in downtown Frederick called, appropriately enough, Jennifer’s.
While there, I learned about a gruesome local domestic murder that made me feel utterly sick.
Around this time we learned that someone somewhere didn’t sign or file some kind of deed, which would of course affect my settlement. Then Allie thankfully got a call that everything was okay—the problem had gotten straightened out.
On the way to settlement we were stuck in gridlock (it wasn’t even 4pm!) and I glanced up at the sky and saw this:
I was like, “Is that a rainbow?? What the hell?” It hadn’t rained in over a week! I guess it was just a weird quirk of light—something atmospheric created a faint, rainbowish impression on the clouds.** It cheered me up, though. Instead of seeing a negative sign (like my wonky iPod), I deluded myself into thinking that maybe the sky was functioning as a positive sign, indicating that everything was going to be okay.
At settlement, after I signed a zillion papers, we learned that the deed issue hadn’t been resolved after all, and it was looking like I’d have to take off another afternoon and return to Frederick to re-sign all the settlement papers. But at the last minute—just before we all split for the evening, dejected—a phone call or fax from someone arrived and the realtor selling the condo announced that we were good to go. It was like a last-minute stay of execution.
So I got the keys and the place is now officially mine.
I’m excited, but the excitement is getting crushed by the sheer density of how much still needs to be done! I imagine that everyone at settlement was wondering what was wrong with me. I could barely crack a smile and I showed no flicker of emotion. I totally looked like I was dead inside. But everything was just so overwhelming! And I have so much left to do!
On the bright side, I didn’t have to pay any closing costs, and I got back $1750 of my $2000 good-faith deposit. Also, Allie gave me a card and $100 in Home Depot giftcards to help pay for paint, which was really nice and very much appreciated. Equally bright news: folded into my closing costs were the first six months of my condo fees, so I won’t have to pay them until next spring. And my first mortgage payment isn’t due until January 1st—one month after I expected it to be due. You can’t beat that!
**Thanks to my dear Debbie for pointing out that the rainbow was actually a sundog!
song heard most recently before posting:
Reunited—Peaches and Herb
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
on and on and on
Oy to the vey. Life has been a bit of a manic dervish lately, what with me getting slammed with a tsunami of freelancing at the same time I’m planning my upcoming move. I feel like I’ve hardly had time to breathe.
Me taking a minute to freak the fuck out.
I’ve been feeling a bit angsty over the past few weeks, too. What it boils down to is that I feel like I’m fine with my life until I find out that former classmates/friends/acquaintances got married, spawned, got a master’s degree, etc. Times like that make me dislike my own life because there are no advances. Aside from buying the condo, I mean. My life is exactly the same now as it was five years ago. I’m in the same apartment, at the same job, in the same position. I’m still not dating anyone and still not doing anything different, new, or exciting. I’m exactly the same.
I dissected all of this with Missy, and since time is a bit tight right now, I think it’s easier to just copy parts of my emails to her here, rather than reinventing the wheel. Why share it? Well, why not? At least it will explain to folks why I haven’t been very communicative lately.
So anyway, that’s how I’ve been feeling lately. After I move and get my condo set up, I just need to focus more attention on finding my raison d’être. The only things that even remotely appeal to me are traveling and photography, which means I should make more of a concerted effort to fit photo safaris into my life and save money for future trips. Actually, I’ve already begun the latter.
Ever since I got back from Iceland, I’ve plotted how I can get back there and see the entire country (as compared to my three days in Reykjavik and the Golden Circle). I figured the ideal scenario would be to rent a car with my dad and drive the entire perimeter of the country on its ring road. I thought it would be nice to spend some one-on-one time with him, and since he’s a massive hiking/nature enthusiast who doesn’t like being around people very much, I figured getting him to Iceland—with its sublime natural scenery and startling dearth of people—would be a slam-dunk case. But it turns out he’d prefer to go back to the western US and do more marathon hikes out there, which is totally understandable.
So I found myself back at square one. Going alone really wasn’t an option, because although I have no qualms with traveling alone to many places abroad, spending 2-2½ weeks alone in the empty wilds of Iceland ain’t one of them. I’d want to split driving duties with someone, and I also wouldn’t want to be alone if something went wrong, like if I got desperately lost or ended up with a flat tire or got into an accident.
That’s when I decided to ask Missy to join me. I knew she always wanted to see Iceland and the northern lights, and, like me, she’s been feeling a bit adrift lately, so the solution seemed simple. And it was. She eagerly accepted my invitation and now we’ve begun the long, arduous process of saving for it. Our tentative plan is to go in September 2009, if we manage to save enough money by then. Two years and counting...
song heard most recently before posting:
Sister Fatima—Don McLean
Me taking a minute to freak the fuck out.I’ve been feeling a bit angsty over the past few weeks, too. What it boils down to is that I feel like I’m fine with my life until I find out that former classmates/friends/acquaintances got married, spawned, got a master’s degree, etc. Times like that make me dislike my own life because there are no advances. Aside from buying the condo, I mean. My life is exactly the same now as it was five years ago. I’m in the same apartment, at the same job, in the same position. I’m still not dating anyone and still not doing anything different, new, or exciting. I’m exactly the same.
I dissected all of this with Missy, and since time is a bit tight right now, I think it’s easier to just copy parts of my emails to her here, rather than reinventing the wheel. Why share it? Well, why not? At least it will explain to folks why I haven’t been very communicative lately.
When stuff like that happens, I always go into a tizzy of questioning my life and wondering what’s missing. It’s odd because I never felt the need to keep up with the Joneses, and yet here I am, wondering if I should follow their lead and get my ass down the aisle and into the maternity ward, even if it’s not something I particularly want. At times like these I start to feel like an autistic person who is one step out of beat from the rest of society. It’s somewhat fitting that I’m hopelessly incapable of following sequences of steps (like with dancing and aerobics), because emotionally, that’s exactly how I feel sometimes: like I’m one or two steps behind everyone else, and no matter how carefully I try to do so, I’m unable to keep time with them. Not that I necessarily want to keep time with them...but having the ability to do so would be nice every once in a while.***
Part of me wants to do something to shake off this stasis and another part of me is happy with things the way they are. After all, I’m not an ambitious person and therefore don’t want to climb any corporate ladders. And I tend to be a creature of habit—someone who takes great comfort in routines—so I actually like that life is pretty safe and predictable. Plus I have no desire to date anyone and I really do love my job. Honestly, the only thing sorely missing from my life is traveling, but it’s not like inertia or my lack of ambition is what’s keeping that from my life. I’m not traveling simply because I don’t have money to travel, but once I save up some money, I’ll begin traveling again. So...I don’t know. The part of me that wants to shake off this stasis really doesn’t make much sense, because I can’t imagine that living my life differently would really make me happy. I mean, dating wouldn’t make me happy and switching jobs wouldn’t make me happy. Maybe I just need to take a class or pick up a hobby—something that will prove to myself that I’m evolving, even if only in tiny increments.***
I think part of the problem—part of what drives the angst I feel in these situations—is that I haven’t yet found a raison d’être. Not just a dream, but an actual reason for existing. Everybody needs something that fills them with joy. It’s that thing which is the luminous little spark inside of you. Something that eclipses everything else in its orbit. Something which gives you a reason to get out of bed in the morning (aside from obligation, chores, and that onward grinding push for survival). Something which will enable you to continue going onward after everything else has been taken from you. For some it’s a spouse and kids, for others it’s art, singing, creating, gardening, whatever. And I haven’t really found my “thing.” It used to be writing, but now...eh, not so much. So I look at so-and-so and I’m like, “Well, see, clearly he found his raison d’être, because now he’s a happy-looking family man, and meanwhile I’m still here standing here tracing my toe in the dirt, biding my time, just kind of...existing.” And it’s a stupid mentality, really, because you shouldn’t let one relationship or talent or hobby define who you are. You shouldn’t let one single thing be the pivot on which you spin. Besides, nobody knows what goes on behind closed doors. It’s easy to say that so-and-so must now be blissfully happy and feel utterly fulfilled because she found her so-called soulmate, and it’s easy to say that my Scranton classmates have found their raison d’être because they’re now all successful lawyers and corporate crusaders with spouses and two kids, but in reality, I don’t know what bodies might be beneath their floorboards. There could be marital tension or a feeling of emptiness from working at a soulless job. They could be feeling just as lost as I sometimes feel. Who knows.***
I do feel like I need to inject something new into my life—something I’ll genuinely enjoy, like taking some kind of art class—as a means of trying to figure out what my raison d’être is. But I should also try to stop feeling like I need to fix other areas in my life that may not even be broken.***
I’m not sure how, or if, I want my life to change. The only thing I’ve striven toward over the past two years was buying a house. Now that I have the condo, I wonder if it’s going to be terribly anticlimactic and I’ll be sitting in there thinking, “Now what?”***
I never thought I’d stay in this area this long (it’ll be 10 years next month), and I’m not really happy with this area, yet I don’t feel compelled to go elsewhere, because the older I get, the more comfortable I get. I’m sure I’d love living in the Pacific Northwest, and 10 years ago I would’ve had the balls to do it if a job would’ve been available to me there, but I don’t think I have the balls anymore. I don’t even think I’d have the balls to move to London if the opportunity arose. I’m just so safe and comfortable where I am, and nowhere else in the US (aside from the Pacific Northwest and maybe Maine) appeal to me.***
I’d be all for taking a class for fun, but doing a full stint in grad school? Never. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t know what to study. Nothing beyond my major ever appealed to me and my major itself didn’t exactly rock my world.***
And I don’t want kids, but I also think about what will happen when I’m old and alone, with only nursing home companions to keep me company. (Why does that even matter? I love being alone!) And I think about what will happen before that point, when my family starts dying and I have nowhere to go for the holidays except to friends’ houses, where I’ll feel like I’m intruding in their lives. I always have to remind myself that having kids doesn’t guarantee that I won’t be alone when I’m old. My kids could disown me or die before me or just be such hateful shits, I wouldn’t want them around. Or they could turn out like [Ms. X]. That’s the big thing that scares me about having kids: the idea that I could do everything right and still end up with [Ms. X] or a serial killer or a rapist as my child.***
I do spend a lot of time wondering what the point of everything is. Not in the same way I did before I was medicated, though. I’m just thinking of the big picture—why we sweat and toil and pay bills and wash dishes and do all this stuff that never leads anywhere, day after day until we die. Just thinking about it is exhausting. Like life is one big boulder and humans are Sisyphus permanently pushing it up that hill. It’s not that life necessarily seems bad—just futile. And yeah, I agree that most people will say that Christ is the point of life, and we’re here to do good works in his name and just savor the fact that we’ve been given the “gift of life,” etc, but that just doesn’t cut it for me. Sometimes being faithless makes life really freaking difficult.
So anyway, that’s how I’ve been feeling lately. After I move and get my condo set up, I just need to focus more attention on finding my raison d’être. The only things that even remotely appeal to me are traveling and photography, which means I should make more of a concerted effort to fit photo safaris into my life and save money for future trips. Actually, I’ve already begun the latter.
Ever since I got back from Iceland, I’ve plotted how I can get back there and see the entire country (as compared to my three days in Reykjavik and the Golden Circle). I figured the ideal scenario would be to rent a car with my dad and drive the entire perimeter of the country on its ring road. I thought it would be nice to spend some one-on-one time with him, and since he’s a massive hiking/nature enthusiast who doesn’t like being around people very much, I figured getting him to Iceland—with its sublime natural scenery and startling dearth of people—would be a slam-dunk case. But it turns out he’d prefer to go back to the western US and do more marathon hikes out there, which is totally understandable.
So I found myself back at square one. Going alone really wasn’t an option, because although I have no qualms with traveling alone to many places abroad, spending 2-2½ weeks alone in the empty wilds of Iceland ain’t one of them. I’d want to split driving duties with someone, and I also wouldn’t want to be alone if something went wrong, like if I got desperately lost or ended up with a flat tire or got into an accident.
That’s when I decided to ask Missy to join me. I knew she always wanted to see Iceland and the northern lights, and, like me, she’s been feeling a bit adrift lately, so the solution seemed simple. And it was. She eagerly accepted my invitation and now we’ve begun the long, arduous process of saving for it. Our tentative plan is to go in September 2009, if we manage to save enough money by then. Two years and counting...
song heard most recently before posting:
Sister Fatima—Don McLean
Monday, October 15, 2007
something from the "you learn something new each day" files
Just as I was 25 before I learned the official name for my lack of smelling ability, I was 33 before I learned the official name for my favorite sitting position.
See, all my life, I’ve had a very particular way of sitting on the floor with my legs splayed—a way that always elicits exclamations of “How can you bear to sit like that?!”—and I only just learned that it has an actual name: W-sitting. Who knew!
See, all my life, I’ve had a very particular way of sitting on the floor with my legs splayed—a way that always elicits exclamations of “How can you bear to sit like that?!”—and I only just learned that it has an actual name: W-sitting. Who knew!
Me W-sitting as a toddler.The reason I looked it up online last week and found out the name is because recently I’ve noticed that Olivia does it a lot when she’s playing on the floor. Neither of her parents ever sat this way, and no one in either of their families (aside from me) sat this way.
Olivia W-sitting during Christmas 2006.
And again in October 2007.
Also, a few years ago, I noticed Heather’s daughter Elizabeth sitting this way, and when I commented on it, Heather told me that her brother Justin and sister Whitney have always preferred sitting that way, too, and when their mom spoke to their doctor about it, she was told that some specialists believe it’s a sign of creativity, artistic temperament, and giftedness. Well, Elizabeth, Justin, and Whitney are, in fact, all very creative, artistic, and gifted. So I thought, “Oh wow, if that’s true, that’s really cool, because that’s my favorite way of sitting.” And when I saw Olivia doing it over and over, I thought it was a good thing. But all the research I’m finding is actually saying it’s a bad thing! It supposedly causes pigeon-toeing, hip dysplasia, and a host of other orthopedic difficulties. None of them affect Justin, Whitney, Elizabeth, or me. (But some doctors also say that W-sitting can eventually lead to loose kneecaps or early hip arthritis, so it’s possible that its toll on us has yet to be seen.)
Apparently W-sitting isn’t overly uncommon among toddlers,** but most outgrow it by age five. I never outgrew it, though, and I don’t think Justin, Whitney, and Elizabeth did, either.
Sadly, I haven’t found a single shred of evidence hinting toward a correlation between W-sitting and giftedness, but of course I’ll keep pathetically looking!
**I have learned that two friends of mine (Angela and Skevy) also used to W-sit as children. However, their teachers/dance instructors scared them into stopping it by filling their heads with horror stories about what would happen to their legs if they didn’t learn to sit properly.
song heard most recently before posting:
Let’s Dance—M. Ward
Thursday, October 11, 2007
we're not all killers!
*groans*
Here we go again: yet another school shooting (this time in Cleveland). Astoundingly, there were no fatalities in this latest round, apart from the shooter himself, but a few people were injured.
My intense annoyance with this trend is twofold. First of all, when they interviewed some of the shooter’s classmates on the news, one of the first things out of each mouth was, “He was a loner.” Then they started talking about how he wore a lot of black, was considered a goth, liked Marilyn Manson, yadda yadda yadda, and only then did they get to the “Oh yeah, and he recently got suspended, and he had a history of getting into trouble and showing psychological distress, and he’s been making threats” bit. The most important, relevant information got buried beneath the screeching, distracting headline in everyone’s head: HE WAS A LONER. As if that alone explains why he went on a shooting spree. As if loner is a synonym for killer.
I expounded on this topic twice already on this blog, including this bit:
Second of all, I’m annoyed with the shooter himself, not only because, duh, he went on a shooting spree, but also because what he did was so clichéd. Shooting up your school is just such a tired cliché! I know how painful it can be to not fit in with your peers—to be maliciously or casually ostracized, to be ridiculed for being different. And I’m sure being openly bullied—physically and/or verbally—is equally painful and downright devastating. But shooting up your school is. not. the. answer.
The alienated kid deserves better than to become a walking cliché. It’s bad enough that half his classmates already can’t stand him because he’s “weird” or introverted or different. But now, on top of that, he has to be loathed by people nationwide forevermore because he thought the only way to strike back at his jackass classmates was with a gun. His name will be permanently entwined with mass murder or attempted mass murder. He deserves better than that.
Not to mention the fact that bullies aren’t the only people who die in school shootings; innocent people die, too. Kind people die. But not even the bullies and ostracizers themselves deserve to die. They may be malicious, borderline-sociopathic, little Neanderthal shits, but it doesn’t mean they deserve to be killed by their victims. Vigilante justice never dissolves evil at its root. It just hacks off a branch that may or may not grow back.
It’s said that the best revenge is living well, and I really do ascribe to this belief. The best thing any outcast or bullying victim can do is survive, flourish, look good, feel good. Sadly, we don’t live in a fairy tale society where mistreated orphans always become princesses and the wicked always get their just desserts. Sometimes, yes, sometimes the bullying brutes in high school come out on top. Sometimes they rise to the top of their field, armed with trophy wives, McMansions, and BMW SUVs, while their victims struggle to make ends meet and spend the rest of their lives alone. It happens. And it’s really fucking unfortunate, but it happens.
Still, even when this happens, it’s up to the outcasts, the mistreated, and the bullied to continue to live well. To be the best and most successful people they can be. To find happiness and purpose in their lives. To be good people. To not waste a minute thinking about the people who taunted, tortured, or ignored them, even if those people are currently living the sweet life with wealth and success. Those people who made your life so miserable really don’t deserve a minute of your time, your energy, your angst. They don’t deserve the time involved with planning a mass shooting spree. They don’t deserve to be canonized while you—the shooter—are reviled. What they deserve is to lose the power that comes from having victims. If their victims walk away with their heads held high, and go on to be as happy, fulfilled, and productive as possible…well, that’s truly the best revenge you can inflict upon them.
Some quotes on this matter from my collection:
If they’re not worth hanging out with, why are they worth killing? You wouldn’t help them in a time of need, but you’d go to jail or commit suicide to show them exactly how worthless you think they are? You don’t want them as friends, but you’ll accept them as victims? Why would you want any connection to them? –The Misanthropic Bitch, on the Columbine shootings
Black trench coats? Marilyn Manson? Nazi propaganda? Writing in all caps on a Web page? Using the personal quote: “It’s fun being schizophrenic?” Copying KMFDM lyrics? How obtuse can one be? Even in death, those kids were clichés. All black clothing. Pisspoor planning. Done-to-death one-liners. When the fuck is someone going to shoot up his school wearing a bunny costume and singing Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy”? –ditto
song heard most recently before posting:
Extra Ordinary Thing—Aqualung
Here we go again: yet another school shooting (this time in Cleveland). Astoundingly, there were no fatalities in this latest round, apart from the shooter himself, but a few people were injured.
My intense annoyance with this trend is twofold. First of all, when they interviewed some of the shooter’s classmates on the news, one of the first things out of each mouth was, “He was a loner.” Then they started talking about how he wore a lot of black, was considered a goth, liked Marilyn Manson, yadda yadda yadda, and only then did they get to the “Oh yeah, and he recently got suspended, and he had a history of getting into trouble and showing psychological distress, and he’s been making threats” bit. The most important, relevant information got buried beneath the screeching, distracting headline in everyone’s head: HE WAS A LONER. As if that alone explains why he went on a shooting spree. As if loner is a synonym for killer.
I expounded on this topic twice already on this blog, including this bit:
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.
Second of all, I’m annoyed with the shooter himself, not only because, duh, he went on a shooting spree, but also because what he did was so clichéd. Shooting up your school is just such a tired cliché! I know how painful it can be to not fit in with your peers—to be maliciously or casually ostracized, to be ridiculed for being different. And I’m sure being openly bullied—physically and/or verbally—is equally painful and downright devastating. But shooting up your school is. not. the. answer.
The alienated kid deserves better than to become a walking cliché. It’s bad enough that half his classmates already can’t stand him because he’s “weird” or introverted or different. But now, on top of that, he has to be loathed by people nationwide forevermore because he thought the only way to strike back at his jackass classmates was with a gun. His name will be permanently entwined with mass murder or attempted mass murder. He deserves better than that.
Not to mention the fact that bullies aren’t the only people who die in school shootings; innocent people die, too. Kind people die. But not even the bullies and ostracizers themselves deserve to die. They may be malicious, borderline-sociopathic, little Neanderthal shits, but it doesn’t mean they deserve to be killed by their victims. Vigilante justice never dissolves evil at its root. It just hacks off a branch that may or may not grow back.
It’s said that the best revenge is living well, and I really do ascribe to this belief. The best thing any outcast or bullying victim can do is survive, flourish, look good, feel good. Sadly, we don’t live in a fairy tale society where mistreated orphans always become princesses and the wicked always get their just desserts. Sometimes, yes, sometimes the bullying brutes in high school come out on top. Sometimes they rise to the top of their field, armed with trophy wives, McMansions, and BMW SUVs, while their victims struggle to make ends meet and spend the rest of their lives alone. It happens. And it’s really fucking unfortunate, but it happens.
Still, even when this happens, it’s up to the outcasts, the mistreated, and the bullied to continue to live well. To be the best and most successful people they can be. To find happiness and purpose in their lives. To be good people. To not waste a minute thinking about the people who taunted, tortured, or ignored them, even if those people are currently living the sweet life with wealth and success. Those people who made your life so miserable really don’t deserve a minute of your time, your energy, your angst. They don’t deserve the time involved with planning a mass shooting spree. They don’t deserve to be canonized while you—the shooter—are reviled. What they deserve is to lose the power that comes from having victims. If their victims walk away with their heads held high, and go on to be as happy, fulfilled, and productive as possible…well, that’s truly the best revenge you can inflict upon them.
Some quotes on this matter from my collection:
If they’re not worth hanging out with, why are they worth killing? You wouldn’t help them in a time of need, but you’d go to jail or commit suicide to show them exactly how worthless you think they are? You don’t want them as friends, but you’ll accept them as victims? Why would you want any connection to them? –The Misanthropic Bitch, on the Columbine shootings
Black trench coats? Marilyn Manson? Nazi propaganda? Writing in all caps on a Web page? Using the personal quote: “It’s fun being schizophrenic?” Copying KMFDM lyrics? How obtuse can one be? Even in death, those kids were clichés. All black clothing. Pisspoor planning. Done-to-death one-liners. When the fuck is someone going to shoot up his school wearing a bunny costume and singing Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy”? –ditto
song heard most recently before posting:
Extra Ordinary Thing—Aqualung
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
inspection
Today marks five years since I’ve been at my job (which is the longest I’ve ever worked anywhere), and I kick-started the day by having my home inspection bright and early at 8:30am. It seemed to go well. My realtor was there and my brother in law joined us, too, which was nice. Everything looks good except for the central a/c unit, which, as I predicted, isn’t working. I really need to talk about this with my realtor in depth and find out the best way to either convince the home warranty people to replace the unit, rather than just fixing it, or convince the bank that owns the property to get this fixed/replaced before I move in. I didn’t think this was an “as-is” property (which would allow the bank can wipe their hands clean of fixing things), but who knows. Buying a house—even if it’s just a little condo—is so fucking complicated!
The condo has really been dominating my landscape, along with freelancing. Everything else (like getting my car to the mechanic for its 90,000-mile tune-up) is falling by the wayside. But I do need to carve out some time to hit the Corcoran Gallery soon, as they have an Annie Leibowitz exhibit and an Ansel Adams exhibit starting soon. This will definitely be the biggest downfall to living in Frederick: no longer being a hop, skip, and a jump from downtown DC. I’ve gotten so spoiled spending the last five years living so close to the city!
To distract myself from the gnawing anxiety of home buyership, I filled out one of those random questionnaires circulating on MySpace:
1. What is your salad dressing of choice?
Honey mustard, I guess, but I rarely eat salad, so it’s hard to say!
2. What is your favorite fast food restaurant?
A tie between Subway (I love their Veggie Delite subs) and Burger King (because they offer veggie burgers and onion rings). But if I feel the need to eat fast food while abroad I always go to McDonald’s, since they still sell the phenomenal old-school apple pies there that McDonald’s in the US ditched a million years ago.
3. What is your favorite sit-down restaurant?
I don’t really have one—I’ve been to loads of amazing restaurants over the years.
4. On average, what size tip do you leave at a restaurant?
20% unless the service was awful.
5. What food could you eat every day for two weeks and not get sick of?
Breakfast cereal and Cedarlane vegetarian ham and cheese pockets.
6. What do you like to put on your toast?
Butter, maybe with a little jam.
7. What is your wallpaper on your computer?
At home: a picture of Plath and Freyja cuddling. At work: a picture of Olivia in one of her Disney Princesses dresses.
8. How many televisions are in your house?
Two. And I live alone!
9. Are you right-handed or left-handed?
Right.
10. Have you ever had anything removed from your body?
You mean aside from my ability to hope and dream, which was yanked out by life? I don’t think so. I’ve had four major surgeries but nothing was removed during them. Well…actually…I think a bit of bone from my skull may’ve been removed during one or two of the surgeries.
11. When was the last time you had a cavity?
Two or three years ago.
12. What is the last heavy item you lifted?
The weight of the world, currently residing on my shoulders.
13. Have you ever been knocked unconscious?
Just by anesthesia!
14. If it were possible, would you want to know the day you were going to die?
I don’t think so. Knowing me, I’d just fixate on it and ruminate constantly about that date. It would consume my every waking thought.
15. If you could change your name, what would you change it to?
Something not shared by 12 zillion other Gen Xers—something like Freyja or Finley (two names I love).
16. What color do you think looks best on you?
I’ve been told garnet red looks good on me, and I guess light blue, too, since it matches my eyes.
17. Have you ever swallowed a non-food item by mistake?
Probably just gum, fragments of gnawed pen caps, and harmless nonsense like that.
18. Have you ever saved someone’s life?
Not that I’m aware of. But who knows…maybe I inadvertently saved someone’s life in a Sliding Doors kind of way by, like, leaving for work late one morning.
19. Has someone ever saved yours?
See above answer.
20. Would you kiss a member of the same sex for $100?
Sure.
21. Would you allow one of your little fingers to be cut off for $200,000?
No, because I’m really freaked out by deformities like that. But if I were offered $2 million…maybe. I’d just hire a therapist to get me over my deformity issues!
22. Would you never blog again for $50,000?
Hell yeah!
23. Would you drink an entire bottle of hot sauce for $1000?
I’d try it, but I honestly don’t think I could make it all the way through without vomiting.
24. Would you, without fear of punishment, take a human life for $1,000,000?
Ditto Seabold’s answer: It depends on the target.
25. What is in your left pocket?
There are no pockets on the dress I’m wearing.
26. Is Napoleon Dynamite actually a good movie?
It’s okay. It had its cute and funny moments but I don’t quite understand why it became such a huge pop culture phenomenon.
27. Do you have hardwood or carpet in your house?
Carpet now, but once I’m in my condo it’ll be hardwood (laminate) all the way, baby!
28. Do you sit or stand in the shower?
Stand. My shower is tiny, and who regularly sits in the shower, anyway? (OMG, I just typed that as “shits in the shower.”) But when I’m really sick yet still have to shower, I’ll sometimes sit just because I’m afraid I’ll pass out if I stand.
29. Could you live with roommates?
Nope! Maybe a significant other someday, but other than that? No way!
30. How many pairs of flip flops do you own?
Just one; they were given to me by my sister and I wear them if I’m barefoot and need to run outside and it’s wet.
31. Last time you had a run-in with the cops?
When I got my last speeding ticket, which was maybe a year or so ago.
32. What do you want to be when you grow up?
Retired. And not being forced to live on dog food because of it.
33. Who is number 1 on your top 8
On MySpace? Uh...Shawn, I think? Because he was the first person to accept my friend invitation.
34. Last friend you talked to?
On the phone it was Heather; over email it was Angela.
35. Last person who called you?
My sister.
36. Person you hugged?
My niece, this morning.
37. Current mood?
Meh. Worried. Pensive.
38. Listening to?
Nothing right now. I was listening to a Paul Potts CD as I drove to work earlier.
39. Watching?
Nothing right now; tonight I’ll watch House.
40. Worrying about?
Buying a condo. Money.
41. First place you went this morning?
My condo, for its home inspection.
42. What can you not wait to do?
Get completely settled into my home.
43. What’s the last movie you saw?
Vacancy.
44. Do you smile often?
No. And because of that, I don’t have to worry about smile lines!
45. Are you a friendly person?
Not really, but only because I’m shy and a bit asocial.
song heard most recently before posting:
Por Ti Seré—Paul Potts
The condo has really been dominating my landscape, along with freelancing. Everything else (like getting my car to the mechanic for its 90,000-mile tune-up) is falling by the wayside. But I do need to carve out some time to hit the Corcoran Gallery soon, as they have an Annie Leibowitz exhibit and an Ansel Adams exhibit starting soon. This will definitely be the biggest downfall to living in Frederick: no longer being a hop, skip, and a jump from downtown DC. I’ve gotten so spoiled spending the last five years living so close to the city!
To distract myself from the gnawing anxiety of home buyership, I filled out one of those random questionnaires circulating on MySpace:
1. What is your salad dressing of choice?
Honey mustard, I guess, but I rarely eat salad, so it’s hard to say!
2. What is your favorite fast food restaurant?
A tie between Subway (I love their Veggie Delite subs) and Burger King (because they offer veggie burgers and onion rings). But if I feel the need to eat fast food while abroad I always go to McDonald’s, since they still sell the phenomenal old-school apple pies there that McDonald’s in the US ditched a million years ago.
3. What is your favorite sit-down restaurant?
I don’t really have one—I’ve been to loads of amazing restaurants over the years.
4. On average, what size tip do you leave at a restaurant?
20% unless the service was awful.
5. What food could you eat every day for two weeks and not get sick of?
Breakfast cereal and Cedarlane vegetarian ham and cheese pockets.
6. What do you like to put on your toast?
Butter, maybe with a little jam.
7. What is your wallpaper on your computer?
At home: a picture of Plath and Freyja cuddling. At work: a picture of Olivia in one of her Disney Princesses dresses.
8. How many televisions are in your house?
Two. And I live alone!
9. Are you right-handed or left-handed?
Right.
10. Have you ever had anything removed from your body?
You mean aside from my ability to hope and dream, which was yanked out by life? I don’t think so. I’ve had four major surgeries but nothing was removed during them. Well…actually…I think a bit of bone from my skull may’ve been removed during one or two of the surgeries.
11. When was the last time you had a cavity?
Two or three years ago.
12. What is the last heavy item you lifted?
The weight of the world, currently residing on my shoulders.
13. Have you ever been knocked unconscious?
Just by anesthesia!
14. If it were possible, would you want to know the day you were going to die?
I don’t think so. Knowing me, I’d just fixate on it and ruminate constantly about that date. It would consume my every waking thought.
15. If you could change your name, what would you change it to?
Something not shared by 12 zillion other Gen Xers—something like Freyja or Finley (two names I love).
16. What color do you think looks best on you?
I’ve been told garnet red looks good on me, and I guess light blue, too, since it matches my eyes.
17. Have you ever swallowed a non-food item by mistake?
Probably just gum, fragments of gnawed pen caps, and harmless nonsense like that.
18. Have you ever saved someone’s life?
Not that I’m aware of. But who knows…maybe I inadvertently saved someone’s life in a Sliding Doors kind of way by, like, leaving for work late one morning.
19. Has someone ever saved yours?
See above answer.
20. Would you kiss a member of the same sex for $100?
Sure.
21. Would you allow one of your little fingers to be cut off for $200,000?
No, because I’m really freaked out by deformities like that. But if I were offered $2 million…maybe. I’d just hire a therapist to get me over my deformity issues!
22. Would you never blog again for $50,000?
Hell yeah!
23. Would you drink an entire bottle of hot sauce for $1000?
I’d try it, but I honestly don’t think I could make it all the way through without vomiting.
24. Would you, without fear of punishment, take a human life for $1,000,000?
Ditto Seabold’s answer: It depends on the target.
25. What is in your left pocket?
There are no pockets on the dress I’m wearing.
26. Is Napoleon Dynamite actually a good movie?
It’s okay. It had its cute and funny moments but I don’t quite understand why it became such a huge pop culture phenomenon.
27. Do you have hardwood or carpet in your house?
Carpet now, but once I’m in my condo it’ll be hardwood (laminate) all the way, baby!
28. Do you sit or stand in the shower?
Stand. My shower is tiny, and who regularly sits in the shower, anyway? (OMG, I just typed that as “shits in the shower.”) But when I’m really sick yet still have to shower, I’ll sometimes sit just because I’m afraid I’ll pass out if I stand.
29. Could you live with roommates?
Nope! Maybe a significant other someday, but other than that? No way!
30. How many pairs of flip flops do you own?
Just one; they were given to me by my sister and I wear them if I’m barefoot and need to run outside and it’s wet.
31. Last time you had a run-in with the cops?
When I got my last speeding ticket, which was maybe a year or so ago.
32. What do you want to be when you grow up?
Retired. And not being forced to live on dog food because of it.
33. Who is number 1 on your top 8
On MySpace? Uh...Shawn, I think? Because he was the first person to accept my friend invitation.
34. Last friend you talked to?
On the phone it was Heather; over email it was Angela.
35. Last person who called you?
My sister.
36. Person you hugged?
My niece, this morning.
37. Current mood?
Meh. Worried. Pensive.
38. Listening to?
Nothing right now. I was listening to a Paul Potts CD as I drove to work earlier.
39. Watching?
Nothing right now; tonight I’ll watch House.
40. Worrying about?
Buying a condo. Money.
41. First place you went this morning?
My condo, for its home inspection.
42. What can you not wait to do?
Get completely settled into my home.
43. What’s the last movie you saw?
Vacancy.
44. Do you smile often?
No. And because of that, I don’t have to worry about smile lines!
45. Are you a friendly person?
Not really, but only because I’m shy and a bit asocial.
song heard most recently before posting:
Por Ti Seré—Paul Potts
Thursday, October 04, 2007
home bittersweet home
In an astoundingly whirlwind turn of events, I just bought a condo in Frederick! I saw it for the first time last Saturday, submitted an offer immediately thereafter, and just found out yesterday that my offer was accepted (this wasn’t a slam-dunk case because someone else had submitted an offer as well, and the condo easily could’ve gone to him/her). It was in the back of my mind that the day I submitted the offer was the one-year anniversary of when I arrived from my lovely stint in London, and the day I officially “won” the condo was the one-year anniversary of when I returned. And yes, I also thought about how the five-year anniversary of when the DC sniper attacks began took place the day before I scored the condo. Because I’m morbid like that.
I never wanted to live in a condo or in Frederick (no offense, Frederick!), but single-family homes closer to DC are just too expensive. Those that are somewhat reasonably priced are either in a ghetto or need rehabbing. Condos, meanwhile, are either really tiny or have high condo fees. Or, because they were apartment conversions, they don’t even include washers and dryers. Screw that!
So, I’m pretty excited but also very, very nervous. Like, so nervous, I’m amazed I haven’t vomited yet. Settlement will be on November 5th and I’ll move in later that month. This, of course, will mean having to pay a mortgage and rent at the same time, and don’t ask me how I’m going to do that, but I need time to get wood (laminate) floors and plantation shutters installed and get the place painted. Plus I need to buy a fridge and washer/dryer (with the $2000 appliance allowance the seller is giving me) and a new sofa and armchair (since Plath ruined my current ones during his pre-Prozac urine-spraying days).
It looks like a good neighborhood (**knocks on imaginary wood**). Hopefully I won’t have the noise issues I’m facing in my current place. With a condo it’s always iffy, but on the plus side, this building was built as condos, not apartments, so maybe there’s a bit more soundproofing in place? One can only hope.
It’s cute and cozy and it’s a decent size (just over 1,000 square feet). It has a cute sunroom that faces west, so it gets a ton of light in the afternoon. The price is good for this area. It’s still going to be a financial struggle for me, but if I become frugal and watch my pennies, I think I’ll be okay. I hope.
song heard most recently before posting:
Disconnected—Veruca Salt
I never wanted to live in a condo or in Frederick (no offense, Frederick!), but single-family homes closer to DC are just too expensive. Those that are somewhat reasonably priced are either in a ghetto or need rehabbing. Condos, meanwhile, are either really tiny or have high condo fees. Or, because they were apartment conversions, they don’t even include washers and dryers. Screw that!
So, I’m pretty excited but also very, very nervous. Like, so nervous, I’m amazed I haven’t vomited yet. Settlement will be on November 5th and I’ll move in later that month. This, of course, will mean having to pay a mortgage and rent at the same time, and don’t ask me how I’m going to do that, but I need time to get wood (laminate) floors and plantation shutters installed and get the place painted. Plus I need to buy a fridge and washer/dryer (with the $2000 appliance allowance the seller is giving me) and a new sofa and armchair (since Plath ruined my current ones during his pre-Prozac urine-spraying days).
It looks like a good neighborhood (**knocks on imaginary wood**). Hopefully I won’t have the noise issues I’m facing in my current place. With a condo it’s always iffy, but on the plus side, this building was built as condos, not apartments, so maybe there’s a bit more soundproofing in place? One can only hope.
It’s cute and cozy and it’s a decent size (just over 1,000 square feet). It has a cute sunroom that faces west, so it gets a ton of light in the afternoon. The price is good for this area. It’s still going to be a financial struggle for me, but if I become frugal and watch my pennies, I think I’ll be okay. I hope.
song heard most recently before posting:
Disconnected—Veruca Salt
Monday, October 01, 2007
bathing in blood
Danielle and I had such an awesome time meeting Tim Gunn in Baltimore yesterday. The highlight: when he asked Danielle if she looks so young because she bathes in blood each night. She described the whole thing much better than I could on her blog, so if you have a free moment, I recommend checking it out!
The whole day was a hot adventure of a lifetime, mainly because she blew out a tire on 95 just as we left Baltimore, and blew it out to such a degree where part of it literally turned to dust. Since she drives a Jetta, her tire had an anti-theft device on it that required a special tool to unlock it, and the tool couldn’t be found, so we had to be towed from Baltimore to a VW dealer (it’s where she got the car) in Tyson’s Corner, VA. Our tow truck driver was a toothless gem named Jake who had verbal diarrhea for the entire trip, and the things he said were priceless. Once we got to the dealer, we immediately learned that...d’oh!...the special tool was in the trunk all along. It had gotten stuck in some side panel crevice, which is why we never found it. It kind of felt like a Lucy and Ethel moment. I had a blast all day long.
Here’s a shot of me with Tim Gunn! (Yes I look ghastly; the harsh shadows and bright light did me no favors!)
song heard most recently before posting:
O My God—The Police
The whole day was a hot adventure of a lifetime, mainly because she blew out a tire on 95 just as we left Baltimore, and blew it out to such a degree where part of it literally turned to dust. Since she drives a Jetta, her tire had an anti-theft device on it that required a special tool to unlock it, and the tool couldn’t be found, so we had to be towed from Baltimore to a VW dealer (it’s where she got the car) in Tyson’s Corner, VA. Our tow truck driver was a toothless gem named Jake who had verbal diarrhea for the entire trip, and the things he said were priceless. Once we got to the dealer, we immediately learned that...d’oh!...the special tool was in the trunk all along. It had gotten stuck in some side panel crevice, which is why we never found it. It kind of felt like a Lucy and Ethel moment. I had a blast all day long.
Here’s a shot of me with Tim Gunn! (Yes I look ghastly; the harsh shadows and bright light did me no favors!)
song heard most recently before posting:
O My God—The Police
Sunday, September 23, 2007
"socializing" isn't always a four-letter word
This weekend proved to be a tad surreal. On one hand, the old familiar framework was in place: attempting to sleep late while Freyja pawed at my covers and Plath screamed in my ear; working on freelancing for hours on end; watching Netflix DVDs; and exchanging messages on Facebook. On the other hand, it also involved a bounty of two activities that I almost never do: drinking and socializing.
On Friday afternoon some coworkers and I went out for a long al fresco lunch and each of us enjoyed a glass of sangria while there. Pretty tame, admittedly, but it’s also like, Ohmigod! We’re drinking! On our lunch break! And then we have to go back to work! Ohmigod, we’re so scandalous! Sometimes being a stodgy old fogey is just grand.
On Friday night I was off to a coworker’s farewell party—which also turned into an early Oktoberbest celebration (at least in name). I had some bottles of English cider left over from the Princess Diana death anniversary party, so I took those along and some people were really excited about it. I grabbed one of the bottles for myself and enjoyed my time with the assemblage of coworkers and significant others who were there. The weather was great and it was a perfect evening to hang out under the party lights and trees. One of the benefits to parties thrown by my coworkers: all the food is vegetarian. In fact, the hostess of this particular party even labeled which dishes were vegan versus vegetarian. I love it.
Last night I helped another coworker belatedly celebrate her birthday. We had dinner at a Mediterranean restaurant we discovered in Georgetown two years ago, then spent a bit of time drooling over all of the unattainable goods in Anthropologie. Although talking myself out of buying a gigantic metal J for $98 wasn’t too difficult, talking myself out of buying a tabletop metal and wood J sculpture thingy for $28 was a lot more difficult. Oh how I coveted that damn thing! But sanity prevailed in the end, disappointingly. Afterwards we headed to Strike Bethesda, as she really wanted to go bowling (which would also mean kicking my ass at bowling, because let’s face it—I’m not exactly athletic). Once we got there and saw how ridiculously high the prices were ($35.95 for one hour’s use of a lane? Come on!), we decided to scrap our plans.
On a whim we headed over to Dave & Buster’s in Rockville. We had drinks, played the various games (well, Susan did, anyway—I was too cheap!), and stalked a hot gangly nerd. As always, Susan questioned my taste in men after I furtively pointed him out to her (not that he would’ve noticed—he was way too engrossed [one could even say to an obsessive degree] with the interactive Police 9-1-1 game). Based on my ragtag assemblage of geek crushes, I suspect the girl basically thinks I’m a nutcase...and perhaps she’s right. After we got tired of stalking him, we hit the road.
Also? I’m totally freaking the fuck out about this house situation. I just don’t know what to do. I can’t decide if I can make that monthly mortgage payment work. I can’t decide if buying this house will be the stupidest move of my life (because I may not be able to afford it, and house prices may continue to decline, so if I just wait for a few more weeks/months, I may be able to find a more affordable home) or if it will be the smartest move of my life (because no better properties at that price will appear, and passing on this house means passing on my one chance to have a decent home at a semi-affordable price). I analyzed my monthly expenses to within an inch of their life, cut costs from them as much as possible, and poured over my freelance earnings for each month during the past two years to try to figure out how much they could save my ass if I buy this house. I’ve become an old pro at fretting and wringing my hands while being completely paralyzed with indecision.
Long live the joys of adulthood.
song heard most recently before posting:
Symphonic Dances, Op. 45: Non allegro—Sergei Rachmaninov
On Friday afternoon some coworkers and I went out for a long al fresco lunch and each of us enjoyed a glass of sangria while there. Pretty tame, admittedly, but it’s also like, Ohmigod! We’re drinking! On our lunch break! And then we have to go back to work! Ohmigod, we’re so scandalous! Sometimes being a stodgy old fogey is just grand.
On Friday night I was off to a coworker’s farewell party—which also turned into an early Oktoberbest celebration (at least in name). I had some bottles of English cider left over from the Princess Diana death anniversary party, so I took those along and some people were really excited about it. I grabbed one of the bottles for myself and enjoyed my time with the assemblage of coworkers and significant others who were there. The weather was great and it was a perfect evening to hang out under the party lights and trees. One of the benefits to parties thrown by my coworkers: all the food is vegetarian. In fact, the hostess of this particular party even labeled which dishes were vegan versus vegetarian. I love it.
Last night I helped another coworker belatedly celebrate her birthday. We had dinner at a Mediterranean restaurant we discovered in Georgetown two years ago, then spent a bit of time drooling over all of the unattainable goods in Anthropologie. Although talking myself out of buying a gigantic metal J for $98 wasn’t too difficult, talking myself out of buying a tabletop metal and wood J sculpture thingy for $28 was a lot more difficult. Oh how I coveted that damn thing! But sanity prevailed in the end, disappointingly. Afterwards we headed to Strike Bethesda, as she really wanted to go bowling (which would also mean kicking my ass at bowling, because let’s face it—I’m not exactly athletic). Once we got there and saw how ridiculously high the prices were ($35.95 for one hour’s use of a lane? Come on!), we decided to scrap our plans.
On a whim we headed over to Dave & Buster’s in Rockville. We had drinks, played the various games (well, Susan did, anyway—I was too cheap!), and stalked a hot gangly nerd. As always, Susan questioned my taste in men after I furtively pointed him out to her (not that he would’ve noticed—he was way too engrossed [one could even say to an obsessive degree] with the interactive Police 9-1-1 game). Based on my ragtag assemblage of geek crushes, I suspect the girl basically thinks I’m a nutcase...and perhaps she’s right. After we got tired of stalking him, we hit the road.
Also? I’m totally freaking the fuck out about this house situation. I just don’t know what to do. I can’t decide if I can make that monthly mortgage payment work. I can’t decide if buying this house will be the stupidest move of my life (because I may not be able to afford it, and house prices may continue to decline, so if I just wait for a few more weeks/months, I may be able to find a more affordable home) or if it will be the smartest move of my life (because no better properties at that price will appear, and passing on this house means passing on my one chance to have a decent home at a semi-affordable price). I analyzed my monthly expenses to within an inch of their life, cut costs from them as much as possible, and poured over my freelance earnings for each month during the past two years to try to figure out how much they could save my ass if I buy this house. I’ve become an old pro at fretting and wringing my hands while being completely paralyzed with indecision.
Long live the joys of adulthood.
song heard most recently before posting:
Symphonic Dances, Op. 45: Non allegro—Sergei Rachmaninov
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Why can't buying a house be so much easier?
This house-hunting thing and mortgage-shopping thing has become the bane of my existence.
Thus far I’ve spoken to four respectable lenders (as compared to potentially dodgy lenders on the internet) and none of them have given me numbers I can deal with. I can’t pay $1,500-1,600 a month for a mortgage. I just can’t. So logic says, “Okay, you’ve held on for this long; why not just keep waiting until housing prices drop further?” Yes, I’m paranoid that there’s going to be another housing boom and I’ll lose my chance to buy a place, but I recognize that it’s not a very realistic fear. Everyone on the news is saying that prices will continue to drop for another year or so; although they might just be panicmongers, there’s really no reason for me to not believe their core message, just like there’s no reason for me to think that interest rates will suddenly skyrocket. My immediate problem is that I actually found a great house on Friday night.
We (my brother-in-law Bryan, my realtor Allie, and me) went to look at two houses in Frederick. The first house seemed okay on the outside. It looked like a relatively quiet, working-class street of duplexes. Allie told me it was highly Hispanic and I was like, “I don’t care. I just want to live somewhere quiet, where I don’t have to worry about hordes of people standing out on the street at night, talking loudly and playing music and whatever.” Really, my neighbors can be black, white, Asian, three-headed, whatever, as long as they’re not dangerous and/or noisy. In terms of race, ethnicity, and religion, all people are the same in my book.
The backyard was huge and had potential. The much-anticipated hot tub was a washout, though—it looked like something from a horror movie. The yard had two water features: a long, narrow, canal-like pond which looked like it might have a small waterfall mechanism, and a full-scale pond. It was massive! At first I was charmed by it but then I realized just how much work it would entail. It would need one or two pumps and god knows how much other maintenance in order to keep it from turning into a West Nile virus factory. Unfortunately, we couldn’t get into the house. The listing agent had warned Allie that the renting tenant might not let us in, and he was right. The house was dark when we arrived, the blinds were drawn, and no one answered the door. What the hell? Why isn’t the seller doing anything about that? When my previous landlord was selling his house, I had to let prospective buyers wander through my apartment no matter what time of day it was! Allie offered to come back and take digital pictures inside the house for me, which sounded good to me. But later Bryan—who had previously grudgingly admitted that the street didn’t look too bad—began saying how this neighborhood has the highest crime rate in all of Maryland—worse even than Baltimore and PG County. I was thinking, Uh, great. Well, if I’d really had a keen interest in the house, I possibly would’ve ignored his warnings. Or, I should say, I wouldn’t have taken them at face value. Instead, I would’ve done independent research to try to figure out just how unsafe the area is. But the thing is, I didn’t have a keen interest in the house. It was cute on the outside but it was too expensive ($190k) and the yard seemed too daunting. So I just told Allie to forget about taking the digital pictures for me.
The second house has so much potential. That’s the great house I mentioned earlier. Is it my dream house? No. It’s just a run-of-the-mill brick townhouse from the 1960s on an average street in Frederick. But the street seemed quiet and nice (granted, it was raining, so that could’ve kept the hooligans inside), and the house is next to a church, which gave me a strange feeling of safety, even though I’m completely areligious. Allie did a bit of research and found that there isn’t a lot of turnover in that neighborhood—people stay there for quite a few years. That’s a good sign. Plus, although the house has a HOA fee, I wouldn’t need to get homeowner’s insurance, which would save me money. Apparently with condos you only have to get renter’s insurance. I never knew that before.
The house itself was average but it was a perfect size for me. There’s a dining room, albeit one that’s basically part of the living room, and there’s also room for a table and chairs in the kitchen. There’s a half-bath downstairs and the basement is quite large. It has an unfinished section to serve as a laundry room and the finished section could serve as my storage area and as the place where I eventually put an exercise bike (I’ve decided that my lazy ass needs to get in some semblance of mediocre shape). The master bedroom had been split into two children’s bedroom with a makeshift picket fence (yes, an actual fence!) and the owner offered to either take it down to restore the room to its original state or put up a permanent wall to create two rooms. This would give me a guest room and an office. There are loads of closets—I was impressed by that. The house has a fenced in patio that would really be perfect for me. It’s small, but still big enough for a café table and chairs, a bird feeder, and lots of potted flowers. It would give the cats fresh air yet keep them safe, because the wooden fence is high.
Negatives: the appliances and windows are all quite old and would probably need to be replaced pretty soon, and for some inexplicable reason the central air doesn’t extend to the upstairs, so that would have to be done. Not just because I like it cool when I sleep, but also because it’s more energy-efficient. I mean, any air blowing downstairs is going to drift upstairs, which would keep the downstairs from getting very cool, and thus the a/c would pump harder to keep the downstairs cool. Aside from those things, though, the house is in good shape and would look splendid with wooden floors and my jewel-toned walls.
But at $179,500, I can’t afford it. That’s the bottom line. Even with getting two mortgages to keep PMI at bay, which would save me money, I can’t afford it. And that just makes me so incredibly sad, I can hardly bear it. Bryan thinks the pricetag is crazy and the house should only cost $165k at the most. But Allie said that a counteroffer should only go down to $175k. If it did go lower, maybe I could afford it. I don’t know. Maybe it’s worth trying? The seller almost had the house sold but the deal fell apart the day before settlement. He has already moved into a new house and wants this place gone so he doesn’t have to pay two mortgages. Maybe he’d be willing to settle for less money.
What else can I do? I’m going to contact a mortgage broker friend of Bryan’s tomorrow and see if I can magically get better numbers out of him. He’s a very nice, very honest guy; I got some decent numbers from him back in 2005 when I first started thinking about buying a house, and he did a fabulous job with refinancing Kristen and Bryan’s house twice. Maybe I’ll ask how much my monthly payment would cost if the house cost $165k, just in case. It probably wouldn’t be much lower, though. That’s the frustrating thing about mortgages: a price drop of $10k really makes no difference in your monthly payment.
This is all so close, and yet so very unreachable…
song heard most recently before posting:
Symphony No. 29 in A, K. 201, 1st movement—WA Mozart
Thus far I’ve spoken to four respectable lenders (as compared to potentially dodgy lenders on the internet) and none of them have given me numbers I can deal with. I can’t pay $1,500-1,600 a month for a mortgage. I just can’t. So logic says, “Okay, you’ve held on for this long; why not just keep waiting until housing prices drop further?” Yes, I’m paranoid that there’s going to be another housing boom and I’ll lose my chance to buy a place, but I recognize that it’s not a very realistic fear. Everyone on the news is saying that prices will continue to drop for another year or so; although they might just be panicmongers, there’s really no reason for me to not believe their core message, just like there’s no reason for me to think that interest rates will suddenly skyrocket. My immediate problem is that I actually found a great house on Friday night.
We (my brother-in-law Bryan, my realtor Allie, and me) went to look at two houses in Frederick. The first house seemed okay on the outside. It looked like a relatively quiet, working-class street of duplexes. Allie told me it was highly Hispanic and I was like, “I don’t care. I just want to live somewhere quiet, where I don’t have to worry about hordes of people standing out on the street at night, talking loudly and playing music and whatever.” Really, my neighbors can be black, white, Asian, three-headed, whatever, as long as they’re not dangerous and/or noisy. In terms of race, ethnicity, and religion, all people are the same in my book.
The backyard was huge and had potential. The much-anticipated hot tub was a washout, though—it looked like something from a horror movie. The yard had two water features: a long, narrow, canal-like pond which looked like it might have a small waterfall mechanism, and a full-scale pond. It was massive! At first I was charmed by it but then I realized just how much work it would entail. It would need one or two pumps and god knows how much other maintenance in order to keep it from turning into a West Nile virus factory. Unfortunately, we couldn’t get into the house. The listing agent had warned Allie that the renting tenant might not let us in, and he was right. The house was dark when we arrived, the blinds were drawn, and no one answered the door. What the hell? Why isn’t the seller doing anything about that? When my previous landlord was selling his house, I had to let prospective buyers wander through my apartment no matter what time of day it was! Allie offered to come back and take digital pictures inside the house for me, which sounded good to me. But later Bryan—who had previously grudgingly admitted that the street didn’t look too bad—began saying how this neighborhood has the highest crime rate in all of Maryland—worse even than Baltimore and PG County. I was thinking, Uh, great. Well, if I’d really had a keen interest in the house, I possibly would’ve ignored his warnings. Or, I should say, I wouldn’t have taken them at face value. Instead, I would’ve done independent research to try to figure out just how unsafe the area is. But the thing is, I didn’t have a keen interest in the house. It was cute on the outside but it was too expensive ($190k) and the yard seemed too daunting. So I just told Allie to forget about taking the digital pictures for me.
The second house has so much potential. That’s the great house I mentioned earlier. Is it my dream house? No. It’s just a run-of-the-mill brick townhouse from the 1960s on an average street in Frederick. But the street seemed quiet and nice (granted, it was raining, so that could’ve kept the hooligans inside), and the house is next to a church, which gave me a strange feeling of safety, even though I’m completely areligious. Allie did a bit of research and found that there isn’t a lot of turnover in that neighborhood—people stay there for quite a few years. That’s a good sign. Plus, although the house has a HOA fee, I wouldn’t need to get homeowner’s insurance, which would save me money. Apparently with condos you only have to get renter’s insurance. I never knew that before.
The house itself was average but it was a perfect size for me. There’s a dining room, albeit one that’s basically part of the living room, and there’s also room for a table and chairs in the kitchen. There’s a half-bath downstairs and the basement is quite large. It has an unfinished section to serve as a laundry room and the finished section could serve as my storage area and as the place where I eventually put an exercise bike (I’ve decided that my lazy ass needs to get in some semblance of mediocre shape). The master bedroom had been split into two children’s bedroom with a makeshift picket fence (yes, an actual fence!) and the owner offered to either take it down to restore the room to its original state or put up a permanent wall to create two rooms. This would give me a guest room and an office. There are loads of closets—I was impressed by that. The house has a fenced in patio that would really be perfect for me. It’s small, but still big enough for a café table and chairs, a bird feeder, and lots of potted flowers. It would give the cats fresh air yet keep them safe, because the wooden fence is high.
Negatives: the appliances and windows are all quite old and would probably need to be replaced pretty soon, and for some inexplicable reason the central air doesn’t extend to the upstairs, so that would have to be done. Not just because I like it cool when I sleep, but also because it’s more energy-efficient. I mean, any air blowing downstairs is going to drift upstairs, which would keep the downstairs from getting very cool, and thus the a/c would pump harder to keep the downstairs cool. Aside from those things, though, the house is in good shape and would look splendid with wooden floors and my jewel-toned walls.
But at $179,500, I can’t afford it. That’s the bottom line. Even with getting two mortgages to keep PMI at bay, which would save me money, I can’t afford it. And that just makes me so incredibly sad, I can hardly bear it. Bryan thinks the pricetag is crazy and the house should only cost $165k at the most. But Allie said that a counteroffer should only go down to $175k. If it did go lower, maybe I could afford it. I don’t know. Maybe it’s worth trying? The seller almost had the house sold but the deal fell apart the day before settlement. He has already moved into a new house and wants this place gone so he doesn’t have to pay two mortgages. Maybe he’d be willing to settle for less money.
What else can I do? I’m going to contact a mortgage broker friend of Bryan’s tomorrow and see if I can magically get better numbers out of him. He’s a very nice, very honest guy; I got some decent numbers from him back in 2005 when I first started thinking about buying a house, and he did a fabulous job with refinancing Kristen and Bryan’s house twice. Maybe I’ll ask how much my monthly payment would cost if the house cost $165k, just in case. It probably wouldn’t be much lower, though. That’s the frustrating thing about mortgages: a price drop of $10k really makes no difference in your monthly payment.
This is all so close, and yet so very unreachable…
song heard most recently before posting:
Symphony No. 29 in A, K. 201, 1st movement—WA Mozart
Monday, September 10, 2007
'round here, something radiates
Today is what I always refer to as my study abroad anniversary. In my head I never marked the day I actually landed in England (good thing, too, because it was September 11th); instead, I marked the day I left. It felt like such a monumental and massive point-of-no-return moment when, literally sobbing, I turned away from my family and friends at Newark Airport and began my long, shaky walk through the airline gate into the great unknown.
Some people argue that studying abroad really only matters if you’re in a place with a completely different language or culture, and England hardly falls into those categories. I’ll consent that studying abroad is more challenging in a Third World country or a country where a different language is spoken. But at the end of the day, this is what I think: going off to live in a different country when you’re only 20 years old is scary and brave in all circumstances. You’re leaving behind the comfort of friends, family, your college, your routines. And even Western, English-speaking London felt like a different world when it came to navigating its weird university system. There was a tough adjustment period and there were times when I wondered if I’d made a mistake. There were times when I really, really missed home and all my loved ones there.
Still, the listing ship of this experience righted itself in the end and I can now look back on my year abroad as one of the happiest times of my life. For someone like me—extremely shy, socially inept, almost paralyzed with clinical depression—what appeared to be the dumbest decision I could possibly make turned out to be the smartest. It set in motion the process of me emerging from my shell. It chipped away at my shyness and fear. I suppose one could even describe it as being my coming of age experience. I made some great new friends and finally found the Holy Grail I’d been seeking ever since I departed for my freshman year of college two years earlier: a normal college experience.
Scranton and I never gelled. While my senior year ended up being somewhat normal, thanks to my beloved David and wickedly fun Kara, my freshman and sophomore years were a wretched purgatorial state. I spent the bulk of them in quarantine, separated from the rest of the student body by a thick, sterile slab of shatter-proof glass. I didn’t connect with anyone and, coupled with my ever-present depression, I turned further inward to a degree where I was essentially a mute hermit.
Goldsmiths could’ve easily turned out the same way. I was resigned to the possibility that it might happen, and I consoled myself by saying, “Well, at least I’ll be in London.” Hey, being a social pariah isn’t so bad if you’re in London! It sure beats being a social pariah in Scranton, Pennsylvania, anyway! Still, there was a kernel of hope inside of me—one that whispered I think it might be okay.
And it was okay. Right off the bat I met Annida—still one of the most important people in my life—and we extended our social circle and had fun and soon I was tip-toeing my way through that dazzling Oz of normal college experiences. No, my time wasn’t spent drinking and snogging, and to that degree, I suppose my experiences weren’t completely normal. But suddenly I had friends hanging out in my room, walking to class with me, eating breakfast with me. Suddenly there were in-jokes and goofy photos and silly experiences. Suddenly I could write about more in my journal than just my ever-present angst and woe. These are all things that your average college student takes for granted, but for me they were as exquisitely, unexpectedly rare as spotting a unicorn while driving to the supermarket.
Goldsmiths is considered by many to be the UK’s leading creative university (especially in art, music, and design), and therefore, it was a perfect fit for me. Scranton, bless its heart, was a fundamentally white-bread school when I studied there. Its student body was primarily white and Catholic. The bulk of the students came from northeast PA, New Jersey, the Philadelphia area, and Long Island. There weren’t many other nationalities and ethnicities. Nearly everyone dressed the same: jeans, sweatshirts, baseball caps. Then I got to Goldsmiths and immediately met people from all over the world. On any given evening our table in the dining hall had students from Italy, Greece, Japan, France, Norway, and Malaysia plunking down or stopping to say hello. There were different races, languages, cultures. I saw pink hair, piercings, Mohawks, funky clothing. I was in heaven.
So today, 13 years after I carted my weeping, tremulous ass onto that Virgin Atlantic flight from Newark to Heathrow, I give thanks to Goldsmiths College and all it offered me. Long may she wave!
song heard most recently before posting:
Raining in Baltimore—Counting Crows
Some people argue that studying abroad really only matters if you’re in a place with a completely different language or culture, and England hardly falls into those categories. I’ll consent that studying abroad is more challenging in a Third World country or a country where a different language is spoken. But at the end of the day, this is what I think: going off to live in a different country when you’re only 20 years old is scary and brave in all circumstances. You’re leaving behind the comfort of friends, family, your college, your routines. And even Western, English-speaking London felt like a different world when it came to navigating its weird university system. There was a tough adjustment period and there were times when I wondered if I’d made a mistake. There were times when I really, really missed home and all my loved ones there.
Still, the listing ship of this experience righted itself in the end and I can now look back on my year abroad as one of the happiest times of my life. For someone like me—extremely shy, socially inept, almost paralyzed with clinical depression—what appeared to be the dumbest decision I could possibly make turned out to be the smartest. It set in motion the process of me emerging from my shell. It chipped away at my shyness and fear. I suppose one could even describe it as being my coming of age experience. I made some great new friends and finally found the Holy Grail I’d been seeking ever since I departed for my freshman year of college two years earlier: a normal college experience.
Scranton and I never gelled. While my senior year ended up being somewhat normal, thanks to my beloved David and wickedly fun Kara, my freshman and sophomore years were a wretched purgatorial state. I spent the bulk of them in quarantine, separated from the rest of the student body by a thick, sterile slab of shatter-proof glass. I didn’t connect with anyone and, coupled with my ever-present depression, I turned further inward to a degree where I was essentially a mute hermit.
Goldsmiths could’ve easily turned out the same way. I was resigned to the possibility that it might happen, and I consoled myself by saying, “Well, at least I’ll be in London.” Hey, being a social pariah isn’t so bad if you’re in London! It sure beats being a social pariah in Scranton, Pennsylvania, anyway! Still, there was a kernel of hope inside of me—one that whispered I think it might be okay.
And it was okay. Right off the bat I met Annida—still one of the most important people in my life—and we extended our social circle and had fun and soon I was tip-toeing my way through that dazzling Oz of normal college experiences. No, my time wasn’t spent drinking and snogging, and to that degree, I suppose my experiences weren’t completely normal. But suddenly I had friends hanging out in my room, walking to class with me, eating breakfast with me. Suddenly there were in-jokes and goofy photos and silly experiences. Suddenly I could write about more in my journal than just my ever-present angst and woe. These are all things that your average college student takes for granted, but for me they were as exquisitely, unexpectedly rare as spotting a unicorn while driving to the supermarket.
Goldsmiths is considered by many to be the UK’s leading creative university (especially in art, music, and design), and therefore, it was a perfect fit for me. Scranton, bless its heart, was a fundamentally white-bread school when I studied there. Its student body was primarily white and Catholic. The bulk of the students came from northeast PA, New Jersey, the Philadelphia area, and Long Island. There weren’t many other nationalities and ethnicities. Nearly everyone dressed the same: jeans, sweatshirts, baseball caps. Then I got to Goldsmiths and immediately met people from all over the world. On any given evening our table in the dining hall had students from Italy, Greece, Japan, France, Norway, and Malaysia plunking down or stopping to say hello. There were different races, languages, cultures. I saw pink hair, piercings, Mohawks, funky clothing. I was in heaven.
So today, 13 years after I carted my weeping, tremulous ass onto that Virgin Atlantic flight from Newark to Heathrow, I give thanks to Goldsmiths College and all it offered me. Long may she wave!
song heard most recently before posting:
Raining in Baltimore—Counting Crows
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
nature's bounty
I had a lovely time in Lebanon and greatly enjoyed our Princess Diana death party. Missy decided that she wants her funeral to be an exact replica of Diana’s funeral (minus Westminster Abbey and the zillions of TV viewers, of course), so we had fun planning that. Because that’s what normal thirtysomethings do on a Friday night—they sit around and plan their funerals. Thursday night, meanwhile, involved white trash karaoke and an 11pm trip to Wal-Mart. It was trashtastic.
After joining my grandfather for breakfast at Friendly’s on Saturday morning, I headed home to unpack, do laundry, work on freelancing, blah blah blah. I’d unfortunately forgotten to pack my Effexor when I left for PA, and I was really starting to feel the effects by the time I screeched into my driveway early on Saturday afternoon. Effexor is notorious for having a withdrawal symptom known in common parlance as “brain shivers.” Everybody seems to describe it differently; I find myself unable to describe it at all—it defies my capacity for language. All I can say is that it’s a very weird, unique, uncomfortable type of dizziness.
The weather was stellar all weekend so on Sunday morning I headed over to the US National Arboretum. I’d been there a few times in the past, but never with a digital camera. In the end I pulled some muscles and got some sunburn, but it was all worth it just to spend time in that beautiful place. My photos can be seen here.
My holiday was mostly spent watching DVDs, reading, and updating my website. It was wonderfully relaxing.
Some excellent links:
Beautiful, sumptuous bridal photos taken in a scene of breathtaking urban decay.
Fab design ideas.
I love altered books.
The #1 reason why my lazy ass needs to learn how to cross-stitch.
song heard most recently before posting:
You Don’t Know Where Your Interests Lie—Simon and Garfunkel
After joining my grandfather for breakfast at Friendly’s on Saturday morning, I headed home to unpack, do laundry, work on freelancing, blah blah blah. I’d unfortunately forgotten to pack my Effexor when I left for PA, and I was really starting to feel the effects by the time I screeched into my driveway early on Saturday afternoon. Effexor is notorious for having a withdrawal symptom known in common parlance as “brain shivers.” Everybody seems to describe it differently; I find myself unable to describe it at all—it defies my capacity for language. All I can say is that it’s a very weird, unique, uncomfortable type of dizziness.
The weather was stellar all weekend so on Sunday morning I headed over to the US National Arboretum. I’d been there a few times in the past, but never with a digital camera. In the end I pulled some muscles and got some sunburn, but it was all worth it just to spend time in that beautiful place. My photos can be seen here.
My holiday was mostly spent watching DVDs, reading, and updating my website. It was wonderfully relaxing.
Some excellent links:
Beautiful, sumptuous bridal photos taken in a scene of breathtaking urban decay.
Fab design ideas.
I love altered books.
The #1 reason why my lazy ass needs to learn how to cross-stitch.
song heard most recently before posting:
You Don’t Know Where Your Interests Lie—Simon and Garfunkel
Thursday, August 30, 2007
The Shuffler - vol. 2
Vol. 1 is here. The following songs were all belched out during yesterday’s evening commute and this morning’s commute:
What a Feeling – Heather Nova
On her Siren album this is second only to Winterblue as my favorite tune.
Oh Had I a Golden Thread – Eva Cassidy
One of my least favorite Eva Cassidy songs, actually, because the roller rink-esque organ music grates. But oh, that voice!
Uchu Ryoku – Yoko K.
Last year I went to a joint PostSecret/Found event and I thought the DC musician who performed the electronic background music for the PostSecret side of the show was just phenomenal. As soon as her CD was released by a local label, I snatched it up. This is a splendid groove from that album.
Upside Down – Tori Amos
Quite possibly my favorite Tori B-side. When I was at Goldsmiths I had Annida write my favorite line from this song (“I found the secret to my life: I’m okay when everything is not okay”) in calligraphy, and I hung it in my dorm room.
Running to Stand Still – U2
My favorite song from The Joshua Tree. I love the line “You got to cry without weeping, talk without speaking, scream without raising your voice.”
Schankheden – Swap
I really dig Nordic folk music, and this song in particular makes me want to get up and dance. So y’all better step back right now—you don’t want to lose an eye.
The Angel Song – Great White
Power ballads are so fabulously cheesy. Fallen angel ripped and bruised! Life is rude, treats you bad, tears your wings away! Hollywood ain’t paved with gold—it’s just a trick of light! A spider’s web of tangled lives lays stretched across the hills; from distances it’s glistening
like El Dorado’s halls! The streets are hard, they’re mean and scarred, where only fools find gold!
Vehicle – Bo Bice
I wish his post-American Idol career had been more fruitful. This is a fun tune and he has a nice voice, so where the hell is he?
Auf Achse – Franz Ferdinand
When I first heard them, they were the first new band I’d gotten excited about in a long time. This CD rocks!
Love Takes Over Me – Kylie Minogue
David, Kylie fan extraordinaire, exposed me to this great song.
Eye of the Tiger – Paul Anka
I just love Anka’s big band covers of ’80s and ’90s songs!
Love Montage (I Saw Him Once/In My Life/A Heart Full of Love) – Les Misérables
Aw, Les Mis. Fabulous musical. And fabulous book, too. I read the unabridged version on my own in 9th grade, then read abridged versions in my English and French classes later in high school.
Renaissance Affair – Hooverphonic
My first introduction to trance-pop. I miss your touch and your embrace…delicate and ethereal desire.
Meanwhile:
Missy and I have been raging Anglophiles lately, and I’m not quite sure what triggered this onslaught of fervor. Whatever the cause, tomorrow’s 10-year anniversary of Princess Diana’s death seems like as good an excuse as any to take the day off work and, with her Anglophiliac parents, be total dorks who spend the day watching Di’s funeral, reading Di memorial magazines, stuffing our gullets with British junk food, and watching her parents’ copy of Season 2 of Life on Mars. They have the capability of watching foreign DVDs, so they bought both seasons of Life on Mars from England. And since BBC America never bothered to play Season 2 of LoM, this’ll be my one chance to finally see it, while pounding back Ribena, choccie digestive biccies, Irn Bru, Heinz chocolate puddings, and more.
Viva la Britain!
song heard most recently before posting:
Renaissance Affair—Hooverphonic
What a Feeling – Heather Nova
On her Siren album this is second only to Winterblue as my favorite tune.
Oh Had I a Golden Thread – Eva Cassidy
One of my least favorite Eva Cassidy songs, actually, because the roller rink-esque organ music grates. But oh, that voice!
Uchu Ryoku – Yoko K.
Last year I went to a joint PostSecret/Found event and I thought the DC musician who performed the electronic background music for the PostSecret side of the show was just phenomenal. As soon as her CD was released by a local label, I snatched it up. This is a splendid groove from that album.
Upside Down – Tori Amos
Quite possibly my favorite Tori B-side. When I was at Goldsmiths I had Annida write my favorite line from this song (“I found the secret to my life: I’m okay when everything is not okay”) in calligraphy, and I hung it in my dorm room.
Running to Stand Still – U2
My favorite song from The Joshua Tree. I love the line “You got to cry without weeping, talk without speaking, scream without raising your voice.”
Schankheden – Swap
I really dig Nordic folk music, and this song in particular makes me want to get up and dance. So y’all better step back right now—you don’t want to lose an eye.
The Angel Song – Great White
Power ballads are so fabulously cheesy. Fallen angel ripped and bruised! Life is rude, treats you bad, tears your wings away! Hollywood ain’t paved with gold—it’s just a trick of light! A spider’s web of tangled lives lays stretched across the hills; from distances it’s glistening
like El Dorado’s halls! The streets are hard, they’re mean and scarred, where only fools find gold!
Vehicle – Bo Bice
I wish his post-American Idol career had been more fruitful. This is a fun tune and he has a nice voice, so where the hell is he?
Auf Achse – Franz Ferdinand
When I first heard them, they were the first new band I’d gotten excited about in a long time. This CD rocks!
Love Takes Over Me – Kylie Minogue
David, Kylie fan extraordinaire, exposed me to this great song.
Eye of the Tiger – Paul Anka
I just love Anka’s big band covers of ’80s and ’90s songs!
Love Montage (I Saw Him Once/In My Life/A Heart Full of Love) – Les Misérables
Aw, Les Mis. Fabulous musical. And fabulous book, too. I read the unabridged version on my own in 9th grade, then read abridged versions in my English and French classes later in high school.
Renaissance Affair – Hooverphonic
My first introduction to trance-pop. I miss your touch and your embrace…delicate and ethereal desire.
Meanwhile:
Missy and I have been raging Anglophiles lately, and I’m not quite sure what triggered this onslaught of fervor. Whatever the cause, tomorrow’s 10-year anniversary of Princess Diana’s death seems like as good an excuse as any to take the day off work and, with her Anglophiliac parents, be total dorks who spend the day watching Di’s funeral, reading Di memorial magazines, stuffing our gullets with British junk food, and watching her parents’ copy of Season 2 of Life on Mars. They have the capability of watching foreign DVDs, so they bought both seasons of Life on Mars from England. And since BBC America never bothered to play Season 2 of LoM, this’ll be my one chance to finally see it, while pounding back Ribena, choccie digestive biccies, Irn Bru, Heinz chocolate puddings, and more.Viva la Britain!
song heard most recently before posting:
Renaissance Affair—Hooverphonic
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
parlaying angst into fame
Back in February I submitted some old high school-era poems and journal entries to The Cringe Book, which will be published next year by Crown Publishing. I picked the worst of the worst: words laced with overwrought, morose, angsty, vaguely humiliating histrionics. Yesterday I received an email from the editor telling me that two of my journal entries have been accepted for publication and will appear in Melodrama section of the book. Awesome!
(And I know I shouldn’t laugh at myself, because, melodramatics aside, I really was critically, dangerously depressed, and that is a very serious issue. However...I just can’t help but chuckle at how maudlin I was about the whole thing!)
Anyway, the editor wanted me to write a few lines about the entries—basically my adult perspective on the entries I churned out as a teen. This is what I submitted to her:
Re: the June 20, 1989, entry:
Anne Frank inspired me to name all my journals, which is why this entry is addressed to a person. Because, after all, the petulant woes of a middle-class American teen are so similar to those of a Jewish girl forced into years of terrifying, rat-like hiding by a genocidal regime.
I was 15 when I wrote this entry; I thought I was terribly “deep” and had an “old soul” because I half-heartedly worried about the plight of Romanians and Ethiopians. But not enough to actually, like, donate my allowance to them, mind you.
Re: the February 14, 1991, entry:
Well, Happy Valentine’s Day 1991 to me! This entry perfectly illustrates an equation that even a math idiot like myself can understand: severe clinical depression + 16-year-old angst + self-absorption = overwrought histrionics.
I love how trivial things like quiz bowl and my high school musical rehearsals (as compared to, say, the Gulf War, which took place one month earlier) were the last straw—the catalyst for me crawling beneath my bed, weeping to the sounds of a Puccini tape, and renouncing at all. Motherfucking Mame sent me into a depressive tailspin. I love it.
song heard most recently before posting:
Sad Lisa—Cat Stevens
(And I know I shouldn’t laugh at myself, because, melodramatics aside, I really was critically, dangerously depressed, and that is a very serious issue. However...I just can’t help but chuckle at how maudlin I was about the whole thing!)
Anyway, the editor wanted me to write a few lines about the entries—basically my adult perspective on the entries I churned out as a teen. This is what I submitted to her:
Re: the June 20, 1989, entry:
Anne Frank inspired me to name all my journals, which is why this entry is addressed to a person. Because, after all, the petulant woes of a middle-class American teen are so similar to those of a Jewish girl forced into years of terrifying, rat-like hiding by a genocidal regime.
I was 15 when I wrote this entry; I thought I was terribly “deep” and had an “old soul” because I half-heartedly worried about the plight of Romanians and Ethiopians. But not enough to actually, like, donate my allowance to them, mind you.
Re: the February 14, 1991, entry:
Well, Happy Valentine’s Day 1991 to me! This entry perfectly illustrates an equation that even a math idiot like myself can understand: severe clinical depression + 16-year-old angst + self-absorption = overwrought histrionics.
I love how trivial things like quiz bowl and my high school musical rehearsals (as compared to, say, the Gulf War, which took place one month earlier) were the last straw—the catalyst for me crawling beneath my bed, weeping to the sounds of a Puccini tape, and renouncing at all. Motherfucking Mame sent me into a depressive tailspin. I love it.
song heard most recently before posting:
Sad Lisa—Cat Stevens
Friday, August 24, 2007
snow day in August
I got an unexpectedly free afternoon today. At around noon I heard a groaning noise as the ambient electronic noise in my office suddenly exhaled its last breath. Everything went dim and I heard periodic curses volley around the cube farm (many from myself, since I’d been working on some business cards in Quark and hadn’t saved my changes) as people realized, “Aw crap, the power’s out!” We have power surges every so often, and last week the power went out for a minute or so, but it’s never been like this.
We sat around and shot the shit for a while, speculating that maybe terrorists set off an EMP (okay, so maybe last bit wasn’t exactly a “we” but a “me”), then resigned ourselves to working on the few meager tasks that could be eked out with no computers and no bright light. Without tapping keys, clicking mice, humming dehumidifiers, ringing phones, and a/c blasting from the vents, the office was eerily quiet. The silence and low chatter was broken every few minutes by the abrasive and insistant beeping of our computers’ battery back-ups.
45 minutes later a coworker—serving as a kind of town crier (in lieu of a working PA system)—yelled out that everyone was supposed to gather in the atrium for a staff meeting. We found out that a generator had blown, plunging half the city into darkness. Since Pepco didn’t have a clue what caused the problem or when it would be fixed, we were all sent home. So, yay! A free afternoon! Thank you, baby Jesus!
song heard most recently before posting:
On—Bloc Party
We sat around and shot the shit for a while, speculating that maybe terrorists set off an EMP (okay, so maybe last bit wasn’t exactly a “we” but a “me”), then resigned ourselves to working on the few meager tasks that could be eked out with no computers and no bright light. Without tapping keys, clicking mice, humming dehumidifiers, ringing phones, and a/c blasting from the vents, the office was eerily quiet. The silence and low chatter was broken every few minutes by the abrasive and insistant beeping of our computers’ battery back-ups.
45 minutes later a coworker—serving as a kind of town crier (in lieu of a working PA system)—yelled out that everyone was supposed to gather in the atrium for a staff meeting. We found out that a generator had blown, plunging half the city into darkness. Since Pepco didn’t have a clue what caused the problem or when it would be fixed, we were all sent home. So, yay! A free afternoon! Thank you, baby Jesus!
song heard most recently before posting:
On—Bloc Party
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