girl at large

Snow Days

It started last Sunday (my birthday!) and was a welcome winter break---even the rumor of snow and ice here is enough to bring Portland to a stand still. I had the day off, and enjoyed watching the pretty white flakes fall, as I finished making my own snowflake ornaments for the holiday.

By Tuesday, I was house-bound, ice-bound and bored. My apartment is up a steep hill, then around a bend, and up another steeper hill (think San Francisco covered in three inches of ice). It's a hill that never sees a plow truck. Or salt. SALT, people, SALT! Yes it ruins your car, yes it kills the salmon---but it melts the ice!

I had an adventure I'm not ready to share yet, due to embarrassment, on Monday when I tried to get out by car. Let's just say that was the nicest cop I've ever met.

On Wednesday, after a friend helped me get to my car to get to work, the white stuff started flying again. My treacherous hill was even more treacherous. So, I had to get....chains. Yes, chains. It's medieval, but here in the hilly Northwest, it's what they do. This story is less embarrassing. In fact, I come off quite capable, almost butch.

I left the empty store early and headed to the tire store. After waiting in the Russian-style queue, I got my bag of tire chains. I joined the others huddled around the television in the corner, not to catch the lastest news, but to watch a tire-chain installation instructional video.

Crouched down in the cold, wet and dirty curb, I managed to wrestle the tire chains on. Greasy, muddy and with frozen fingers, I pulled out slowly and headed home. Well, I headed to the grocery store for reinforcements of wine, firewood, and chocolate first. Then home. As I made it up the first and easiest hill, I had to pull aside to let the wrecker through---towing a UPS truck! As I had made my slow way through the slippery streets, I noticed that some cars had chains on the front, some on the back tires. At the last minute, just before I was going to attempt to mount the hill that had terrifyingly defeated me on Monday, I asked the UPS guy if I had the chains on the correct tires.

"Do you have front wheel drive?"
"Um, I have no idea" -quick check of owners manual, yes, it's front wheel drive. Who knows these things?
"Then they should be on the front tires"

Out in the muck again, embracing my tires as I removed the chains from the rear wheels and put them on the front. It's a messy, dirty job. But once you put them on the first time, you'll always remember. I'm a pro now. And I'll be damned, those ancient traction devices did the job--I made it up the slippery slope and safely home!

I've made it in to work the last four days, despite the continuing storm, which is worsening tonight. No more excuses, no more snow days--I am a lady with chains!

I Could Too!

Today's work place quote:

" I could rock a suede skirt." -me

-look of doubt from co-worker

"I could too! I could totally ROCK a suede skirt" -me, incredulous and insistent

-24 year old co-worker walks away with look of mixed amusement and pity, not at the prospect of my about-to-be-thirty-six year old bottomside straining under an unfortunate hide, but at my lame and inexperienced use of the word "rock".

Yesterday's Revelation

It just occurred to me:

I should be PAINTING!
I should be having SEX!

Maybe You Can Help Me

Ah, Therapy. After an orientation meeting more than a month ago, today was, at last, my first therapy appointment at Kaiser (my health care plan provider--a huge, corporate and unpleasant medical beast).

My goals for Therapy are simple--just want to improve a few key issues, work through my workaholic-ism, and figure out why my libido is kaput.

In reception, I answered a questionaire explaining my complaints and issues. I described the libido issue extensively.

Perhaps I should have done that AFTER learning which therapist I was assigned to! Don't, don't, don't be an ADORABLE, smart, funny man my age. Just don't!

God help me, it's poop soup all over again.

Oh, The Irony. (It is Irony, right?)

Falling in love with a tv series where everyone, everywhere, smokes. Every scene.
And I've just quit.
It's cruel. And yet so good. Mad Men.

102nd Thing To Do Whilst Not Smoking

I had given Mom a small set of drawers to use during her stay. Today, as I fidget for more to do, I tackled emptying them out so they can be moved to storage. Here's what I had to triage; some items destined for the trash, others to Goodwill, and if I can locate her particular Greek isle, to send back to her aboard Daste:

-package of Hammond's Old Fashioned Peppermint Sticks
-6 magazines and catalogs
-half pack of Extra Winterfresh gum
-bottle of MucinexDM
-Mission Impossible II DVD
-piece of Japanese printed silk fabric
-one black sock
-two bras
-one pair undies
-half pack of Kleenex
-temporary wrap-on sunglass thingies from the eye doctor's visit
-a pair of gloves
-one brown sock
-one black sock that does not match the other black sock
-one airline travel pack (sleep mask, toothbrush, toothpaste, socks)
-Tea Tree Oil spot stick
-tweezers
-Portland walking map
-wood-handled back brush
-3 euros, twenty US cents

Did I mention this is a small set of drawers? (very small--only 12" wide, 14" deep, 26" high) Oh, mom.

101 Things To Do Whilst Not Smoking, cont'd

18) Clean out closet.
19) Clean out other closet.
20) Make trip to Goodwill.
21) Empty out ten years of old files. Reciepts, instruction booklets for appliances long gone, maps, clippings, etc. Shred. Shred. Shred.
22) Make week's supply of Crumble.
23) Wash, iron and rehang shower curtain and liner.
24) Bleach grout.
25) Bathe dog.
26) Clean all picture frames and glass.
27) Hang mirrors long forgotten in back of closet.
28) Clean computer keyboard (Q-tips!).

101 Things To Do Whilst Not Smoking

1) Vacuum the mattress.
2) Clean the plastic tracks of the sliding windows (Q-tips!).
3) Bleach the refrigerator.
4) Alphabetize the bookshelf.
5) Re-organize the bookshelf by topic instead.
6) Re-organize the bookshelf by color and size, within topics.
7) Wash, iron and re-hang all the curtains.
8) Snip each pulled thread from the bathtowels.
9) Undo twenty rows of a scarf-in-progress.
10) Examine pores.
11) Make elaborate four course meals.
12) Calculate the price differences for tv, internet and phone services from the phone company vs. cable company. Call both, get best offers. Calculate savings vs. benefits, over a year. Change phone service, add DVR and internet to Cable plan.
13) Hand wash, dry, fold and put winter sweaters into sweater bags, complete with cedar chip, for the season.
14) Switch to all padded hangers.
15) Clean baseboards.
16) Magic Eraser the fireplace surround.
17) Update tetanus shot.

Goodbye Old Friends

Caffeine, out. Cigarettes, out. Salt, out.

They may get those vices, but I'll be damned if I'll give up my beer. They'll have to pry the bottle out of my cold, dead hand. I am from Wisconsin afterall.

But Everybody's Doing It

I have insurance, and if I can be converted into LOVING my chiropractor, than how bad could therapy be?

We've been having Work Therapy at work. And it's, well, working. I LOVE our work therapist. I figure if it's helping that much at work, maybe I should consider some personal therapy. This is a more difficult decision to come to than you might think. For me, going to Therapy is not, as it seems to be for many, like popping into the corner Starbucks. My Latte does not come with a pump of Prozac.

You see, at one dark time in my life (ok, two dark times), I really NEEDED therapy. Serious therapy, and meds. Serious meds. It was a frightening, lonely experience. Being hospitalized for Crazy at a young age, unless you get a book contract, is not a point of pride. I've worked diligently to get the Crazy behind me, and continue working hard to keep it's tentacles at a safe distance.

So, admitting that I might need HELP to accomplish a few personal things is tough. In my mind, it's like admitting I need help to poop. It's just not done. Therapy is for serious Crazy, not Just-Kinda-Struggling-A-Little.

But, I'm coming around. Maybe a weekly chat with someone will help me focus on the things I want to change and/or improve. Maybe asking for HELP will not result in a long-term stay at Hotel Crazy.
Here are my complaints:

-The lack of sunshine and warm weather in Portland makes me suidical. (Ok, not literally, and I know I should rephrase this when speaking to a doctor.)

-I feel I'm entering my Angry Years. Everything, and everyone, pisses me off. And I get no satisfaction from my anger--I'm furious, everyone else sees "Silly Kate". Did you not just hear me say Fuck Off? Right, I never actually say that, I just very politely stew. Ok--I want to LEARN to say Fuck Off.

-My libido has died. I can't determine if my libido has died because I'm not getting any or if I'm not getting any because my libido has died. Memorial Services pending.

-I have problems with money. I don't have money problems, I have a problem with money.

-I want to make big changes in my life, and I wonder if I can or should. The issues above are all in the way of the changes I want to make--namely, I want a family. No libido, problems with money--kinda key issues if you want to make babies.

So, there it is. I have Therapy Orientation this afternoon, wish me luck! Maybe I'll learn to LOVE my therapist too.

I'll Just Buy a Dremel and Do It Myself

I had a tooth dream last night. You know the type--one or more of your teeth fall out. They are very real feeling, and leave me feeling distressed when I wake up. The horrors of my dental experience this year elavate the distress. Let me share the saga, in a timeline:

November 2007: I call Kaiser Permanante, my health insurance plan/provider to make an appointment for an annual Cleaning. The first opening is in December. And that's only for an initial 'consultation'--no actual cleaning can take place without that first. Ok.

December 2007: The day before, I get a voicemail cancelling my appointment because the dentist won't be in. I call to reschedule, the next opening is in February. Ok.

February 2008: My consultation appointment reveals one large cavity and one small one. I knew about the large one. Hygenist: "Where is the cavity you said you can feel?" "Um, it's the gaping hole right there" "Oh, yes indeed!". Indeed. Absolutely nothing happens at this appointment--no cavity filling, no Cleaning. They schedule me for two appointments--in March. One of the appointments is to extract the remaining root of a wisdom tooth--that I can't feel, that doesn't bother me and that TWO previous dentists have just left alone.

March 2008: The wisdom tooth root is extracted--and in the process, the tooth next to it is CRACKED. Things you never want to hear in a dentist's chair: "Oops" Another hour and half in the chair to repair it and one of the cavities. Two months of chiropractic visits to get my tensed-up back corrected. Still, NO CLEANING.

April 2008: The second appointment, for the second cavity. This one actually goes quickly and painlessly--it's a tiny little cavity, didn't even need any novacaine. Hmm, couldn't they have done this during the last visit? Seriously, it took 6 minutes. Nope, no cleaning yet...wait for it...

April 2008: I get a voicemail cancelling my cleaning appointment because the hygenist is out sick. I call to reschedule--the next opening is at the end of May, at 7am.

May 2008: Woo-hoo! Cleaning day! I get in the chair, at last, before the sun even rises. The verdict? I'll need FOUR appointments to do all the cleaning required because it's been so long since I've been in. My favorite part--"Why haven't you been in sooner?" Really? You really want me to answer that?!?! The hygenist completes part one of the cleaning--a painful scraping with no visible results. I'm scheduled for the next available opening for round 2----in AUGUST.

My brain starts a high-pitched squealing here. EEEEEEEEEEEE.

Back Again

I did my back in again this week. On Dad's advice, I got myself a "nifty little garment", aka a back brace. Soooo sexy. Just about as attractive as the grunting sounds I make when trying to pick up a pencil.

I can't bend, I can't turn, I can hardly walk--I'm doing the 'back pain' shuffle. I gave the dog her water this morning with a watering can because I can't reach her bowl. Good thing she's wired to eat anything, anywhere--I tossed a handful of dog food on the floor. She thinks it's a new game-Find the Kibble That Rolled Under the Fridge.

My doc gave me meds --Vicodin and Flexeral. The Flexeral works great, loosens it up so I can move and maybe try to walk it off a bit. But I'm in so much pain, I have to give in and take the Vicodin afterall--which gives me just a tiny window to get a few things done around the house before I fall into a drooling stupor. Kate + meds= snoozeville.

I got the meds by phone, but in desperation, I did go in to see her yesterday. I really strained it this time--there's a huge knot over my right hip, the muscles are in nearly continuous spasm. She advised having my "Husband, Boyfriend, Girlfriend or Partner" help work out the knot. Blank look. "Boyfriend?". "Partner?, Girlfriend?" Bless her, she was so focused on being 'pc' with the inclusion of a same-sex significant other that she didn't even consider there'd be a big fat Nobody.

And I thought the worse pain I would feel this month was the dental work last week. Oh, how I wish that were true.

Things People Say

Just a few gems that I've been subject to this week at work---

"I just don't know if I can order those chairs today, I just lost $150,000 in the market!". (Excuse me, how rude is that? Lady, look at me--I'm a retail clerk. I'll never, in my entire life of working, have $150,000 to gain or lose!)

"You look like you lost A TON of weight!" (Um, I haven't lost any, but thanks. Wait, just HOW FAT did you think I was?)

Ah, the charmed life I do lead.

Overwhelmed with tasks, customers and staff....it started at 10am.

"Kate, the women's toilet is clogged."

Ok, ok, whatever. Can't you see I'm busy here? You take care of it. Of course, I didn't say that. What I said was "Ok, I'll look into it in a minute". A minute turned into three or four fire-filled hours, solving problems, taking orders, and answering phones. Then:

"Kate, I think there's a dead rat in the utility room".

Jesus. What do you think I can do about it? And again, not what I said out loud, which was this: "Alright, I'll look into it."

All day long, time after time, staff member after staff member --"Toilet's still clogged". "Something smells dead in that back room". Someone even used the toilet a second time!

When I was 18 and striking out on my own, working loser clerk jobs and dreaming of being a grown up, of 'making it', of having a career....yes, this is what I dreamed my life at 35 would be like....success, respect and ability, talent and meaningful work....

Clogged toilets and dead rats. Yep, that's me on my 35th birthday--living the dream.

Welcome! (I think).

Mom has arrived! In less than 24 hours she managed to:

-comment on the size of my breasts, the shape of my eyebrows and the 'cuteness' level of my butt.
-find the only dusty spot in the house. Who wipes down the top of the refrigerator?
-use more toilet paper than is allotted the average Ukranian village in a month.
-spread debris through out my previously tidy house, including balled-up kleenex, empty cigarette packages, boating magazines, gloves, and what looks like a personal support garment.
-insult my television. Can appliances have hurt feelings?
-wear a red "Wisconsin" sweatshirt, momentarily throwing me back into 1991.
-out-crass the crassest person I know.
-make dinner of an unidentifiable meat package left in my freezer since move in day.

Oh Mom, so glad to have you here!

Snappy Replies

A few ideas for replying to the too-often asked "Are you married"?

I had a husband, but I killed him, that's why I'm here at the paint store buying a plastic tarp. Have a nice day!

No, I prefer to sleep with other people's husbands. Is yours busy today?

Not anymore, I sold him on E-Bay. Shipping was a bitch.

Yes, but I'm the second wife. He and I and his other three wives live in a trailer on the edge of town.

I'm going to make chit-chat cue cards.

I have anxiety about having to make small talk with the technician when having a manicure. Here I am, spoiled beyond reason with the extra dough and time for such a luxury as a bi-monthly manicure. I have no family to keep me home tethered to the washer and dryer, so I work 6 days a week instead, and take home a healthy salary to spend on only myself. I live like 1% of the planet.

And all I can think is, what a hassle this is to have to talk to this person I don't really want to talk to, for no reason other than I talk to strangers for a living and I'm tired of it today. I feel like a horrible, stupid, wretched person who doesn't deserve what she's got and should be hung by her pretty fingernails for being so unkind to a perfect stranger just trying to do her job in a friendly manner.

Then the technician opens with "Are you married?".

WHY DOES EVERYONE KEEP ASKING ME THAT? NO NO and NO, I'm not married, I don't have kids, I'm about to turn 35 and CAN'T WE PLEASE FIND SOMETHING ELSE TO TALK ABOUT!?!?!

I don't feel so bad about it afterall.

Past and Future, both in envelopes.

The Breckenridge brochures arrived in today's mail, along with a notice from the US Dept. of Education ---my little cottage specs and my biggest debt in the same mail pile.

This is the second time that the US Dept of Ed. has messed up my automatic loan repayments--all this time, nearly two years, I thought my monthly payments were being automatically deducted. They weren't. Now the loan is in default. And this time, it's not my fault!

I actually got through to a live person at the other end of the 800 number, and this time, they promise me the arrangements will be kept. Of course, now, it's a higher payment and a black mark on my already sketchy credit rating.

But at least it's a step forward. Maybe my little cottage on the coast is meant to be. Perhaps I was meant to get serious about taking care of this messy bit of finance so I can see a path to getting my little cottage mortgage.

I realize that this entry seems out of the blue, there are about five or six entries I haven't written yet to describe how I got to ordering trailer home brochures...will post soon, under the category "Cabin on the Coast".

a new low

I've tried speed dating, Match.com, set-ups, social clubs.. you name it. And nowhere can I find a date that isn't deeply, deeply wrong.

Is searching the Craig's List Missed Connections in pathetic hope that you might have been noticed by some stranger, is that as sad as it feels? Even sadder when I realized the only place anyone would have the opportunity to notice me is at the grocery store?!!?

vorbotten

I know, I know...I haven't blogged regularly in ages...aside from being overwhelmed with work, lately I've had Technical Difficulties. Each attempt at posting brought the same malfunction message: "FORBIDDEN".

I don't know what irritated me more: being Forbidden from my own damn diary, or feeling like a complete moron for not being able to fix it, despite all my brother's assistance.

We finally figured it out tonight, it was something simple I was doing wrong but couldn't see clearly for lack of good sleep and perhaps because of the the nasty cocktail of back meds I still need on occassion. Anyway, it's all good now and I owe Tom a Krispy Kreme or something.

Thanks Tom. (who, by the way, hardly has time to deal with a cranky sister with minor malfunctions..he's launching a HUGE project (WoWtv) full of it's own, much more important and more interesting functions.

Vicadin anyone?

I recently informed that I've been inexcusably remis in my blogging....more than 25 days without entry...well, let me share the explaination:

Me a few weeks ago: shuffling, old lady style, pacing back and forth because sitting is intolerably painful. Bent forward in an awkward position, grimacing. The grimace is for the August 1994 copy of House Beautiful laying on the waiting room table. The awkward position? The result of another 'thrown back' incident. I move furniture every day, have for years. I'm fat, but freakishly strong. What did me in? Leaning over (from the waist, forgot to bend the knees, take note!) to empty the waste paper basket. The. Waste. Paper. Basket. That's right folks. First thing in the morning, a simple wrong twist and I'm toast.

Worst of all? Let me tell you...

After managing to drive myself to the Urgent Care Center, I had to wait nearly three hours to be seen. It was tough enough to leave work as it was, waiting with nothing to do was torture. I come from midwestern stock, where the highest honor is given to those who drop dead at work ("He was a hard worker" = "I loved him" to a Lutheran). How humiliating to explain that a puny little trashcan did me in...why couldn't I have been lifting a car from off a trapped child? At last, I get in to the exam room and am handed the gown. I can barely stand, can't sit at all, can't lift my arms above my head--the only way to keep white-hot pain at bay is to shuffle back and forth at a 45 degree angle. Getting undressed takes half an hour. Getting the gown on? Well, let's just say I had to be creative...the wrap-dress is back in style, right?

So, crunched and crabby, completely freaking out that I might be useless at work or, god help my Midwestern soul, NOT MISSED during my convelesence...there I barely stand, in yesterday's skivvies...

...and in to the exam room walks THE MOST GORGEOUS MAN ON GOD'S GREEN EARTH.

Your mother was right about the fresh undies thing. Every day ladies. Every. Day.

quote of the day

Someone I have to see nearly everyday: "You look nice today, Kate...". Compliment, good. Wait for it, here comes the insult-disguised-as-expanded-compliment: "...you have your own special little style, don't you? And somehow you make it work". Nice, well done. Excellent stealth-attack, admirable use of the non-compliment, I never saw it coming.

Untapped Talent

I have difficulity with gardening. Overcoming my fear of houseplants wasn't easy, but I've done it (as long as they are smaller than the dog). But I still can't get the hanging fuschias to last longer than a month. Currently, I have two hanging Dead Things. I do however, have a way with growing other things...

I have a small patch of grey hairs at my temple, under the bangs. I'll be wearing bangs into perpetuity of course. Seemingly manageable, these little white devils have been until recently restricted to this small garden patch of aging. Until recently. Until last week, when under Law and Order style lighting, tweezers in hand, I saw in the magnifiying mirror to my horror that I had escapees! There, on the other side of my part..a long white hair! The more I looked, the more I saw. Like day workers crossing the border, white hairs have jumped the fence of my colic and been spotted in all areas of the Cute Hairdo.

I'm grateful that they are pristine white as opposed to dull grey. I like that these new residents maintain the same part-curl texture of the previous tenants, lazy as it is (either curl or not, you know? why this half-ass effort?). But to be so migratory? To set up camp in so many locales? To be so, so ...visible!

There are many things I planned to have before I had white hair...a degree, a kiddie or two, a serious relationship, a house...heck, I don't even have a full-size refrigerator yet!

It's been one of those weeks.

In the car, three blocks later.....realized that "Oh, not much, just spring cleaning" was NOT the answer cute fellow that I ran into again in grocery store was after when he asked what I was doing this evening.

In the laundry room, two seconds after putting cap back on bleach bottle, realized that this load was NOT whites....

In the bedroom, three minutes after finishing up last phone call to credit card company....realized that wallet was in OTHER pair of jeans, NOT Lost or Stolen.

Habit

We all have them--the dried-out Sharpie, the unrefillable mechanical pencil, the leaking pen. Why do we hang on to them? Why do we refuse to throw them away when they so obviously no longer do their jobs, and continue to irritate us?

Why have I just reached for the same offending, leaking pen (with the globbed-up tip) when it just not ten minutes ago left a stain on my hand?

I wonder what the 70 year-old lady in the fish bowl next to me had in her handbag.

My boss said something the other day that I will add to my list of favorite sayings:

"You've done a great job wallpapering the bedroom closet, but the fire that started in the kitchen is now in the living room".

It's a perfect analogy for the retail business--keep your head down too long on a piddly project, and you miss the bigger picture (usually sales). It also applies to my experience at the Portland Airport Security Checkpoint.

I had a metal card-holder in my back pocket (especially when traveling, I like to keep one credit card and form of ID in my purse, another set in my pocket--if a thief gets one, at least I have the other). I had forgotten about it when emptying my person of metal goods before walking through x-ray. I had removed my earrings, necklace, coat, shoes, even my belt. These security checks are humbling enough, does the container for my personal belongings really have to be a dog dish? Don't get me started.

So, the machine beeps at my card holder. I immediately realize my oversight and pull it out, "Oh, here, it's this, I forgot, so sorry." Not good enough.

I'm pulled aside into the clear-glass paneled exam area (the 'fish bowl'), told to stand with my feet apart on the diagram (designed for 6ft tall men) and then patted down by Attila. She didn't even want to look at the offending object. It was tossed aside, along with my passport (!) and ticket, onto a chair in plain view and easy reach of anyone still lingering at the exit of the security area--which was a lot of people. Putting on their shoes and buckling their pants. Out of context, it looked like the last five minutes of an orgy.

I don't mind being hand-scanned. I can spread my legs and open out my arms wide. I don't mind being cooperative. I do, however, mind the loud running commentary: "I'm going to touch your breasts now, How's that underwire working for ya?, Ok, free government back rub!" Free government backrub? Excuse me? No one can bear to hear lame attempts at funny when being stared at by fifty strangers, held in an akward physical position and fondled by a government agent in an ill-fitting uniform. Could we perhaps do this with some dignity??

After another few humiliating moments, I was allowed to proceed. Which meant making my way back through the fray to pick up my belongings (out of the school desk tray and dog dish). My coat, shoes, and purse had not been further inspected, I was free to go.

In my purse? A lighter, a crochet hook and thread scissors. All contraband.

getting cranky

I'm one of those people who lives life quite happily without a cell phone. I'm also turning into one of those people who becomes frustrated, annoyed and generally cranky when surrounded by folks chatting, yelling, shouting, babbling into their tiny cell phones.

On the return flight, as we taxied to the gate on arrival, seat belt light still on, the passengers behind me and to my right and to my left all made cell phone calls. The tires weren't even cool yet. If it were up to me, cell phone use on planes would be banned altogether. Isn't it bad enough that we are all packed in there together in the same stale air for umpteen hours? Do I really have to listen to your one-sided, shouting conversation?

On the same topic, overhearing cell phone conversations is not only annoying, it can be downright alarming. Overheard in Chicago:
"Well, all I'm saying is I don't want you to do anything crazy like get a gun and shoot someone."

nosy checkers

When I have a bad day, I have a feel-better routine. First step? Stop into the grocery store on the way home from work for the supplies. The supplies? Frozen pizza (the horror!), one gourmet chocolate brownie, a bottle of Framboise and the latest copy of People magazine. It's a recipe for recovery from exhaustion, work stress, even a break up. It helps me anyway.

What doesn't help? The check out clerk commenting on my purchase. Commenting on every single item. Beep, comment. Beep, comment. Beep, comment. Sharing these comments with other customer in line. Both people chuckling. Bagger joining the hilarity. "Oh, somebody's single!" "Oh, someone's addicted to this (waving bottle of booze around)!" "Oh, look at that, looks like a great night in" "Isn't it Friday night?"

Just give me my f***ing groceries and leave me alone already!

I came back to America for what again?

it'sjustwork.it'sjustwork.it'sjustwork.it'sjustfurniture.it'sjustfurniture.it'sjustfurniture.

more wine, please.

Are we what we eat? Or are we where we shop?

I just spent an hour in the grocery store (could you guess?) and I am in the depths of depression. I usually single-girl shop at the local "gourmet" grocery store and the deli across the street. Portions are reasonable (where else can you buy one pork chop?), the fresh produce is respectable and they have some familiar foods from frenchieland that I would otherwise miss. What little cooking I know, I learned there, with those ingredients, so I enjoy having them. And they have cheese. Real cheese.

However, in a recent drive to save pennies (for a car, oh the pun!), I've decided to cut back my somewhat luxurious food budget. Into the Fred Meyer I go.

What a mistake. You know what I really noticed? Not one single human being anywhere near the food. Oh shoppers and cell-chatters sure, but service people? No. No butcher. No deli person. No cheese man. Even the humans at check out have been eliminated: U-Scan.

I looked hard, but didn't see much food either. Only plastic. Everywhere I looked, everything packaged, boxed and wrapped in plastic. Vacuum-sealed, sealed for my protection, economy-packed, you name it.

Call me crazy, but I want an aproned man touching my chops before he wraps them. In paper. The car can wait.

The McMansion on Steriods.

As this subject pertains in a small way to my work, I have to tread lightly here. Let's just say, that for work purposes of the networking/chatting people up nature, I recently attended a local event showcasing the latest in home building and aspirational living. Let's call it SNOT.

The grand opening SNOT event was Black Tie. After parking in a rocky, dusty field, we trudged in our Black Tie attire up to an entrance adorned with balloon arches. Next to the balloon arches; porta-potties. Classy.

We were attended to by 12 year old ticket takers. Twelve year olds were a dominant feature in this event--as greeters, ticket takers, servers, escorts. Sunburned adolescent girls in too-tight prom dresses seeing to the needs of the so-called movers and shakers of the community, picture it. Jail bait seals many a real estate deal.

The designated mingling, drinking and eating area was a gravely, dusty bit of road strewn with food tents and white plastic Walmart tables and chairs. I'm reminded of Walleye Weekend, only fishing enthusiasts don't wear bugle beads.

SNOT Opening Gala goers, having dished out $100 per person to attend, were treated to hot-lunch line trays of unidentified asian-esque stirfry and bbq chicken wings. Yum.

Next, a self-guided tour of SNOT's Dream Homes. Dream Homes include the following features:

-orange-peel wall finishes (walls should hurt when you brush up against them)
-top-of-the-line plastic moldings, windowsills, and door frames
-hollow-core laminate doors available only at the big box hardware stores
-room layouts that make the most of 20 ft ceilings and the least of 5000 square feet
-kitchens that take 20 minutes to circumnavigate (by the time you find the sink, your pizza is done!)
-Butler's Pantries for the butler you'd never have because it's not pc
-a laundry room big enough to house that stray migrate worker family
-on the second floor, nylon wall-to-wall carpeting to soften the sounds of your desperate wailing
-'wood' laminate flooring in the public areas so visitors know that you really are classy
-faux-finished cabinetry throughout
-for 1 million more, you can have the faux-Tuscan look complete with wall murals of a place you've never visited because the people don't speak English
-three-SUV garages
-outstanding examples of both The Roofline Museum and The Window Museum (guaranteed minimum of five varying rooflines and a minimum of eight, count 'em eight!, different window shapes)
-swimming pools that you can use four whole a weeks of every year!
-a stunning, expansive view of the proof of our progress: power lines
-oversized, professional-grade kitchen appliances that say "I could really cook if I knew how".
-Master Bedroom Suites featuring a drop-down big screen television set over the bed, complete with thundering surround sound (it's so much easier to ignore a lacking sex life with surround sound)
-a matching big-screen 'theater room' to numb the little ones into submission

All this for a mere 3 million dollars.

My little 500 square feet in the city has never looked better. So glad to be home.

did i really live there?

damn you, Rick Steves, and your PBS special on the Cote d'Azur--I'm soooo very frenchie-homesick!!

what is he thinking???

It's also the little (to us because we don't pay attention) policies and positions of our current government that gain us such ill-will from other parts of the world, for example, his (GWB) stand on marriage and abstinence over condoms, described in this article from IHT about how even marriage in Africa can kill.

grrrr.

Oh Canada!

It's alot easier than you'd think to emigrate to Canada.

open letter to my roommate

Miss Ruby and her playdate, Monsieur Oscar

I love you RoobieDoobie, but there is dog hair IN the keyboard of my brand new lovely computer. DOG HAIR. In the keyboard.

I can deal with it on the bathroom floor (on every floor truthfully), on the sofa, woven into the handtowels, floating in bunches under the chair legs, lingering on the curtain edges (by the way, why exactly do you sit under the window with the curtain wrapped around your head?), on the bed, and on every piece of clothing I own, but... the computer keyboard?? The brand new shiny computer?!?! What gives little dog?

What exactly is it that you do when I'm away?

double entendre

Male customer, to me, as I reach up and slide the rug racks back for his viewing convenience:

"Nice rack!"

I'm forgiving him only because he had his two kids with him and was mortified at the slip--he honestly meant the rug rack.

it's all too much

Just when I think I can't take it anymore, American life throws another one at me: strawberries.* A simple fruit treat, right? Wrong. Now they are "GIANT" strawberries. Even the ones not labeled "GIANT" are monstrously-proportioned specimens.

That I can't fit in my mouth. And trust me, I can fit alot of things in my mouth (sorry Grandma). Am I the only one who enjoys popping in a berry and enjoying it in one bite (maybe two)? We're talking four, five bites a piece here people. They're not strawberries, they are miniature melons from the planet Giganto.

I dreamt of a book I wish I could write last night:

'BIG AMERICAN LIFE'
Why we believe bigger is better, and why we might be wrong.

And don't even get me started on cell phones---and I do get that, contrary to everything else in our expansive land, they are actually getting smaller and smaller, to the point of being ridiculous lozenges. Lozenges that rule people's lives. When was the last time you let a shrill, screeching, interrupting annoyance rule your every waking minute? Isn't that why we leave our mothers?

*I know this will all wear off in time, but I hope that a few things stay with me---the calm I feel when I realize that I don't have to answer a ringing phone. The desire for little more than I need. The pleasure of a regular, sit down evening meal, even with just myself. The health of walking, rather than driving, to the corner store. I'm writing these things down, so when I get lazy and re-accustomed to this fastness and hugeness, y'all can find this page and remind me.

oops

I popped into the pharmacy the other day to have a prescription filled---there was a wait, so I left my basket of other sundries at the counter and agreed to return for the prescription after finishing my shopping at the grocers next door.

I forgot to return. Completely. Until three days later.

One of the items in my basket of pharmacy goods was a bottle of MEMORY supplements.

more of the same.

four month itch

a shot from the November roadtrip....wishing I was back on the road. any road.

bristling

I nearly lost it in the dental care aisle of Target the other night---too many toothbrushes to choose from. Seriously, there must have been nearly 200 different types on display. I didn't know where to begin. Why I should be made to decifer and contemplate MEANINGLESS differences in type, features, benefits?? Either it has bristles or it doesn't. Either it's a toothbrush or a stick.

Other than size and softness/firmness differences; any dentist will tell you that they are all the same. It's HOW you use it that makes the difference--don't you remember those little pink pills in second grade? Oh, I'm ranting...but really...

Does having so much choice TRULY improve our lives?

should have posted this on inauguration day

click on image to read, funny stuff!

travaille

Did I say something about missing work??

merry f***in' christmas!

Overheard from the hallway of my building earlier this month; gal to guy behind apartment door:

"If I wanted you to put the f***ing Christmas lights there, I would have told you to put the f***ing Christmas lights there!!"

Can you feel the holiday magic?

america on my nerves

New names for the obvious. A sign on the bus uses the term "mobility device" in reference to a wheelchair. When did 'wheelchair' become offensive? Is it not a chair with wheels? Why is that wrong? I'm going to start calling my purse a 'personal object transport device'.

Large hunks of meat under heat lamps, guy in little mutton chop paper hat serving--ah, the classic buffet dinner. Stuffed mushroom anyone?

Puritan priorities run amok. Why is a naked nipple more offensive than mutilation murder? And don't get me started on video games with features like 'first person shooting'. (and these games are running violent ads in prime kiddie-time---which doesn't technically bother me, but show two chicks holding hands while wearing white and you'll start a riot? I don't get it).

Responsible parking. Ok, so this is a good thing. But not nearly as entertaining as seeing a Mini or Smart or Citroen bump it's way back and forth into a non-spot between two poles. Or better yet, between two other cars.

Why the f*** are strangers smiling at me all the time? Do I know you? Oh, right, people are friendly here. Still working on dropping the suspicious 'street face'.

Cross-merchandising. When I go to a deli, I expect to find cheese, sausage, sliced meat, and the like. I don't want to search for my sandwich goods beyond 1,000 square feet of picture frames, glass-jarred pasta no one will ever eat and stacks of scented candles. Scented candles in a deli?? Cheese-scented ones, that I could take, but jeez...stick with the main goods people.

Expensive coffee that doesn't cut it. Hot and wet is the bare minimum requirement; sometimes it misses even that boat, and---HUGE does not make up for crappy. Yes, I swear to god for the fifth time today, like I do every single day, that I do "really only" want the 8 oz latte. Not 12 oz, not 16oz, and god help me I'll never need 32oz of ANYTHING. I really do mean "small". Trust me.

Signs for the stupid. "Do not sit on sharp spikey things" "Do not use these stairs if you have heart condition, diabetes, or other disability" "Do not insert fingers into electric outlet" "Don't cross in front of moving train" "Contents May Be Hot"--and my favorite on this, the update: "May be hot and cause burns"---now we have to explain what hot liquid can do??

Oversized. The grocery store designs, prints, distributes and displays a MAP of each location. Not a city map listing their locations. No. A map (or 'plan') of the interior of each individual store should you have trouble locating the milk (which you will, because it is hidden behind 8 rows of scented candles). Shit is just so big.

oh, the things people say

--"Miami's airport was crowded with tourists whose vacations were ruined or interrupted by Frances. "I think it's a big fuss over nothing," said 35-year-old Geraldine Lamb, who was visiting from London."--
Right-o sweetheart.

"Nothing" being Hurricane Francis, just on the heels of last month's deadly Hurricane Charley.

head check

I just hate that I'm one of those women. I just hate it. It is the ulitmate in insulting cliche to end up this way. Yet, there is nothing I can do about it. The universe (yes, I blame you) has made it so that I am One of Those Women--you know: just over thirty, biological time bombs, half-ass career (I use the word "career" lightly), no equity, chronically single (I tell you, a decent-smelling bricklayer with a nice mom would do GREAT right about now), divorced (starter marriage nearly a decade under the belt), clinging to individual expression through handbags and shoes (attempts at such rendered null and void by sheer numbers of other women doing the same thing with a limited selection of said handbags and shoes--it's a supply and demand thing), wandering place to place, looking for that next 'cool' place that will make everything ok, still pissed at Daddy, etc., etc.

So, I'm this far head-up-my-own-ass when the Russian school children held hostage crisis breaks into utter chaos, bloodshed and horror.

And I'm a shit. A self-ish, self-centered, pathetic shit.

unbelievable

Tonight's ITV news story re: Hurricane Charley included a clip of G.W.B., and I quote, "...people's lives are turned upside down...". The man is standing in front of an overturned mobile home.

We were promised teleportation by now. What happened to that?

Job hunting sucks. Apartment hunting sucks. Doing it all from a zillion miles away? Ugh.

Thank god for H. and wine. lots of wine.

it's the going back that's hard

ohmygod. i'm moving to Portland in a month. i've never even been there. i don't have a job. all my stuff is in Savannah. my furniture is rented to someone else until January. i don't have an apartment. i don't have a job. i have to transport the dog with me. i will arrive with only two suitcases. i can't sleep on handbags and shoes. i don't know anyone there. i don't have a job. i won't have a computer. or towels. or silverware. or a bed.

but i will have those Italian handbags.

freak out time.

i think i'll just live alone....

I've spent hours, days, nights, an eternity researching housing in Portland...beware "Roommate Wanted" ads. Requirements such as these set my teeth on edge:
- Female non-transgender-biased roommate wanted for (tiny, moldy) room in attic. Absolutely NO smoking, must be cannibas-friendly (what the ?!??!). Absolutely NO meat. (well, you're not going to get any being that way, sweetheart). All vegan household. No washer/dryer, but (dark, dank) basement can be used for hobbies, activities, whatever. Cats ok, Dogs ok, already have four of each. Join us!-

Right. Sure thing. I'll be right over.

leaving home means taking leave of their senses

despite over six years now, collectively, of living in tourist destinations i cannot fathom what thought process allows overwieght middle-aged men, most often overly-blessed in the body hair department, to depart with their shirts if the temperature rises above 70F degrees. a particularly popular thing to do when walking around town or sitting next to me at an outdoor cafe.

Is it the Civil War or is it Maybelline?

we went to see the original (read: English) version of Cold Mountain last night. now, it's been a long time since i've seen a movie, but i think i recall the basic concepts. all apologies to handsome (and talented) Jude Law and Renee Zellweger who did the best she could with what she had, but that movie was painfully long and at times, laughable. 'The Dukes of Hazard' had more believable (and consistent) southern accents. and i loathe love storylines based on nothing but intense eye contact and southern belle heavy breathing. i've got a 1-900 phone number for that if i want it.

and who wears LIPLINER when they're impoverished and starving?!?

where to?

now i've got Chicago in mind again ....California, Savannah, Chicago??....there are too many choices and no sure fire way to find out which place is right for me. is rating the replies to singles postings a fair way to judge a city? it's making for some interesting data:

SAVANNAH: these men, no surprise, are either full-fledged rednecks (send picture of pick up truck) or desperately trying to flee the redneck stereotype.

CHICAGO: never before have i seen the phrase "successful man" so much. do you have a willy and balls? there you go, you are successfully a man!

LOS ANGELES: all these guys claim to be tan, buff, tall and athletic. yuck.

SAN FRANCISCO: when did being too busy to have a social (or any) life become sexy? i don't get it. and if everyone really liked the outdoors all that much, we'd all be living in tents.

maybe i'll just enjoy the time i've got left here and throw a dart at a map the week before i leave.

boys!!!

Dale is back, we've got Tom here with us, and this weekend Nick came for a visit.

i've put the toilet seat back down no less than 32 times in three days.

other than that, no complaints---it's nice actually to have boys around again. no matter what i make--they eat it. (i'm not known for much in the cuisine department, aside from American-style pancakes--which they ate with their hands!)

retail savant

i've been working on my resume (cv) this month and have come to realize that i've spent far, far too much of my life in retail and it's time NOT to return. how to jazz up the qualifications? after a little research and help from sis, it's looking like i'm actually quite highly qualified in---

Cash Management (making change)
Inventory control (counting how much stuff has been pilfered by staff)
Purchasing ("Ok, that's 2 Big Macs, 1 McFish, three Diet Cokes...")
Research and Development (reading magazines)
Data Archiving (that's a beautiful way of saying Filing)
Customer Relations (not as sexy as it sounds)
Telephone Reception ("Yello. Nope, closed on Sundays. Sorry.")
Marketing (sticking flyers on windshields in the parking lot)
Shipping and Receiving (unpacking boxes)
Staff Supervision (telling other people to unpack boxes)
Scheduling (telling other people when to unpack boxes)
Merchandising and Display (putting stuff from boxes on shelves)
Refuse Management (taking out the trash and empty boxes)

well, lucky me.

another holiday rant

there seems to be a general concensus that if you are at a loss as to what to give someone for Christmas, the best option is to find an item (the more useless the better, a knick knack in need of frequent dusting is tops) that resembles and or pays homage to something they already own and enjoy. prime examples: Dogs (poor bastards that have pure breds), Cats (prime example: crystal kitty cat figurine from The Old Man for 21st birthday), unique Cars (vintage, pick up, VW Bug, Mini, etc), Boats (mom does not need sailboat tea towels, i promise you), Horses, Cabin. or if they have a hobby--nothing beats a fridge magnet about their favorite pastime: Sewing, Painting (love that little painting palette notepad circa 1992), Fishing, Golf, etc.

i'd say these gift items should be made illegal and dumped en masse into the Atlantic, but then what would the people of Hong Kong and Taiwan do?

when in doubt, just send a card. really, it's the thought that counts. besides, i can't see to find my fridge handle anymore.

Holiday-rage

it is not necesary to stand THAT close to me in line!!!! (deep breath) i've grown accustomed to the French idea of personal space, mainly, that there is no such thing. but today, at the post office i nearly lost it! and then, this guy starts telling me how to use the damn machine, the machine i've been using for a year! that i'm using just fine without your help buddy! i'm just waiting for it to finish printing the damn stamps. and no, i can't just get a book of stamps because these are going international and take a funny amount, i know this!! back off! danger! you're standing too damn close! and telling me what to do?!?! (another deep breath)

so, in these moments, when i just want to be left alone to finish my business and i have a cold and my nerves are shot and sending 48 Christmas cards (of which i'll get a return percentage of close to ZILCH) to my friends and loved ones in three countries seems more than i can bear and the guy is now literally STANDING ON TOP OF ME (excuse me?!? please don't put your package on the scale ON TOP of my letter!?! can you NOT see me?)---i do the naughty thing---pretend i don't understand and go into english. and you know what?! the jerk was ENGLISH! so much for queu-ing up nicely mate.

bday resolutions

step one of year 31: Get Out There

action taken: am signed up for local English-speaking singles night this upcoming Wednesday. (hopefully, it will not result in a repeat of last year's disaster date!: "Um, you've got a sandwich crumb in your beard there." "Oh, I'll get it later." Later?!?!....)

preparations: must launder The Sweater pronto.

results: pending

i can too change my stripes! besides, it's all about polka dots this season.

seems the most shocking thing i can do these days is say something like: "I might take up ski-ing.", which i said to Maria, Phil and Mom when we all ran into each other in the lane earlier today. i think Maria hurt herself. What?!? Don't look at me like that!?! I just might you know!. huh.

well, ok, my definition of 'ski-ing' would technically be sketching, reading and crocheting whilst sipping spiked cocoa in the chalet--but it's a start!!!

(and i remember the days when i shocked folks by piercing my nose and dying my hair purple...ah, those were the days. how old am i going to be tomorrow?!?)

old before my time?

am tuckered out with yet another cold--don't mind sleeping in, having a stuffed up head and feeling groggy, but couldn't it at least be the result of a hangover?

as Duncan so kindly pointed out to a mutual friend--"That attractive young American girl living here is sitting on the sofa, with the dog and blankets and cushions and the tele on and she's knitting. On a Friday night!" something's wrong with this picture!

the great American soul-crushing Mall

when ever i dislike a job (or miss having one!), i shall think of Pretzel Boy and immediately feel better. (warning to those with sensitive dispositions--lots of f**ks and c**ksuckers in that rant link). my suckiest job duties and the stupid things people say in the wonderful world of retail:

measuring men's OUTseams for rental tuxedos: No, I'm not going to measure your INseam, and no, I haven't heard that request a thousand times before. ha ha. and no matter how much you suck in your stomach and thrust out your pelvis, I am not going to look up and eye your 'package'. nice try buddy.

bank teller: Certainly Sir, you're so funny and clever, I'll give you a million dollars right now! Here you go! Have a nice day!

steaming clothes in the back room of JCPenney: still have a scar of a row of steamer head dots on leg. not a funny way to initiate the new girl. though that putting the tagging gun through my finger, now that was a laugh riot.

massing out Christmas ornaments, the overnight shift: i am waaay over the glitter makeup thing.

selling high-end kids shoes to yuppie brats and their toddlers: me, squatting on floor, wrangling three year old boy into $100 Italian dress loafers: "Ok, Billy, here we go." uptight mother: "His NAME is WILLIAM. WILL-IAM." poor bastard.

selling high-end shoes to PC-paranoid yuppie Madisonions: pedicures people! pedicures! and no, there is no such thing as recycled Italian leather mules. unless you try the Salvation Army down the street--just follow the scent of patchouli.

cleaning apartments: here's a tip folks--your cleaning lady is on to you..being nice and tidy and clean the first visit when you are getting a time/cost quote is not cool. not when with every week after you become more and more slovenly. clearing bathtub drains of pube clogs is extra.

interior design consulting: just because you bought one chest of drawers (the cheapest we sell) six months ago does not mean you can call me at home at 8am on my day off and ask me what color toss pillows you should buy--cherry red or tomato red. get cherry tomato red for all i care! you're calling me (at home!) from ANOTHER STORE for crying out loud! how did you get my home number anyway?!?

handling bridal registry shoppers at housewares store: You're going to the wedding and you don't know the name of the bride OR the groom? um, no, the computer can't "tell me that". and knowing the first name of the bride's stepmother's first husband isn't a big help.

i thought it ended with the SAT's

my sister is in the process of being career counseled (by a professional). she took a series of questionaires/tests to help identify what she is naturally geared towards and what her ideal working circumstances might be. the list she received this week of careers she's well-suited for includes: Fish Farmer, Politician, and Hypnotist. huh.

i took one of those types of tests a number of years back (in part to assess my trustworthyness when applying for a job at a bank) and the results said not only should i not have anything to do with the visual arts but also that my visual abilities were so bad i should have my eyes checked. huh.

just go back to bed and start over

it's been kind of a crummy week at 10 rue Marceau. between me and Duncan, there's not a drop of wine or bit of chocolate safe in the house! and now, i've come over to Antibes (pottery class this morning, that cheered me up some) to upload shots of the new work, add some sorely needed pics to the blog..and what have i done? forgotten the *&^$&@ cord!!!

ugh.

must be the lousy weather..the gray skies, chill and damp and rain have really gotten everyone in a sour mood lately. yep, we'll blame it on that.

more chocolate anyone?

no time is so lonely as time-difference time.

green is not good

have come down with some horrid cold/flu combo. gee, thanks Delta Airlines. ugh. feel like crap-ola.

i return from France and all you want is the SALT?!?

remember when i asked everyone if there was anything they wanted me to bring back for them? as in a PAINTING? well, no takers for any of my work stateside this trip. but DOZENS of requests for the SALT! ha! Aunts and Uncles, friends, friends of friends...out for drinks last night, Grant: "You don't by chance have any of that salt?" jeez, what did i start?! of course, i did have a container in my purse, specially for him. i had a feeling eight containers would hardly be enough. i didn't pack like three (very cute) outfits to make room for that stuff folks! next thing you know, a complete stranger is gonna stop me in the street.."You the girl with the salt?" oh wait, we're in Savannah--"Yoo da ladie wid da salts?"

the salt, for those not in the know, is Fleur de Sel, sea salt harvested naturally in France. it's a table salt, a finishing salt..large humid pink-gray grains and honest god tastes better than any other you've ever used. who knew salt could taste other than, well, salt? but it does.

i've returned to the land of:

NON-DAIRY CREAMER -just think about that for a minute. eeew.
ONE SIZE FITS ALL -sure, right.
LAST CHANCE FOR STARBUCKS BEFORE TERMINAL TWO -at JFK, i laughed out loud.
STYROFOAM CUPS -i swear, that's what's causing all the cancer.
MUFFINS BUILT LIKE MISSILE SILOS -they are unbelievable huge. hm, wonder how i got fat?
BEVERAGE MAY BE HOT WARNINGS -now, that is just funny. hm, it's a cup of HOT coffee?!?!
WE USE REAL MARGARINE -honest, that's what the sign said, and so proudly!
THE TO-GO CUP -ok, this one's handy..not finished with your cocktail, friends want to leave? take it with you!

tart it up to toke up

after a nine hour flight to NYC, making my way through customs, getting my suitcase re-checked through to Savannah and i still had two hours to kill. what do you think i wanted more than anything else? a cigarette of course! i know JFK airport..near gate 15 there's a bar, i can have a smoke! and maybe a cocktail, what the heck. wait! NY passed that no smoking anywhere ever law. no smoking--not even in a BAR. you must be kidding me, i just came from France where you can smoke in the doctor's office waiting room!

you should have seen me..scrambling up and down escalators, through mouse maze corridors desperate for a way to the outdoors! finally, a glimmer of sunlight through sliding glass doors, and there in the distance, yes..the elusive, secretive creatures known as 'smokers' dejectedly huddled together. now, how do i get out there? that's right, charm the security guard.

lesson? always wear a low cut sweater when flying in the American north.

by comparison: the Atlanta airport? the stewardess on the flight ANNOUNCED the location of the smoking lounge as we taxied to the gate!!! i love the south! :)

only four more days

it's cold and rainy again today, not at all what i signed up for people! and guess what? it's 75 in Savannah! and i'll be there soon, i leave on Sunday. damn, i've got a lot to do before then. like drop another dress size.

meow

a few pics of Jack for Ma and Pa so far away. enjoy! fyi: don't ever call me a cat. i hate that. of course, to the French, that's what my name reads like.."Kaaht". ugh.

you can never escape the cheese

of all the luck! i finally get a decent (as opposed to horrifying and ridiculous) reply from an online match service (a rather nicer phrase than online dating, don't you think?) and WHERE is he? just WHERE is he from? MADISON BLOODY WISCONSIN. and WHAT is his screen name? wisconsin fucking BADGER! click here and scroll down to Oct. 4th blog entry. oh, thank god it's funny, cause otherwise i'm just going to be reduced to tears.

crush continued

my favorite blog guy, Jeff Philips, has posted quite a few new shots on his photoblog. i love him. seriousy, i think i do. why is it always photographers? there was that fellow in highschool with the Brownie collection and the vespers. i've been known to develop unhealthy attachments to wedding photographers on occasion..the one at Tom's was yum. and of course, who can forget Mr. Short-Pants? i even had a pretend boyfriend once in Savannah..he was a photographer too.

if the theory of being attracted to men similiar to your father holds true, i need to meet a short, balding, near-sighted photographer who as a hobby dabbles in cardiovascular surgery. hmm.

how can it be that i don't own a single pair of socks?

i'm such a wuss. it's chilly here tonight, like in the mid to low 50's (13C)! thank goodness mom brought over (to Cannes) not only my dog, but The Ugly Sweater as well. but i can't find anything to keep my toesies warm and to top it off, somehow the hot water decided to call it quits this afternoon. i don't think i can face a cold shower in the morning. i might have to stay in bed under the covers all day tomorrow instead.

if i had a gallon of chocolate ice cream, i would have eaten it all by now

gorgeous, unique jewelry store. charming sales gal/owner. very helpful, cheery and interested in helping Erin, 'the young' find a ring that suits her and thrilled to help me, "MAMAN" find an appropriatly stylish necklace.

that's right: i was mistaken for THE MOTHER of my same-age girlfriend. dear god, what did i do to deserve this?!?!?!

she and i both realized right away her error of course (or so i choose to believe!), but she was too embarrased to ask if she was wrong, i was too mortified to correct her. so it continued. "Maman" bought a very sassy necklace--you know; for an old lady. "La Jeune" can go to hell!

Madame Kate

update from master researcher Peg re:my Visa nightmare. so far, it doesn't look good. though the Artist Visa allows me to live here, it does not allow for working. she did discover however, that i can legally work as a prostitute without a visa, as long as i don't have a pimp.

or i could aways try (harder) to find that EU husband. hmm, that's the same thing isn't it?

phobias are quirky, right? guys think that, right?

Erin and husband Doug and baby Sam at a UW Madison Badgers football game...i just couldn't bring myself to post the one with Daddy and son and BUCKY BADGER...sorry, but furries frighten me. and sports furries? (shiver)

my friend Erin from highschool (that's starting to sound like one big long name--Erin From-Highschool) is coming for a visit next week! with her son Sam, whom i have never met before, aside from that baby shower weekend when i saw the shape of his foot through his momma's belly. (i'm still hoping i did i pretty good job of making an 'oh isn't that a sweet miracle of life' face instead of the 'oh my dear god that's the grossest thing i've ever seen' face.) let's just say that my abilities with children are on about the same level as my abilities with houseplants. for those not in the know, i never actually had a houseplant IN my house because they frighten me. if you think about it long enough you realize that GROWING is in fact a form of MOVING. and then forever after, houseplants are just creepy.

ok, so that whole thing came out completely wrong. i am of course, very much looking forward to spending time with my friend and her lovely little boy. as long as they don't bring a badger or a fern.

scentiment

my sister, bless her, slept with her husbands t-shirt last night because it smells like him. awww...ack! isn't there a code of conduct when Married People spend time with Chronicly Single people?!

speaking of needing a doctor

as i've promised mom not to "rag" on her anymore about her domestic habits, or 'lifestyle choice" in regards to tidiness, i will vent via blog. because i can't help it, i just have to let it out somehow! and this should spare her having to listen to me grumble, i mean, i do totally understand..it is her house afterall. no problem. but for me, it's like living on a different planet (and i do that enough out there with the frenchies). i have sympathy for her though, for after nine months, i can be certain she suffers from the following disorders (another regretful pun):

clean-upis interuptus, neat-aphobia, non-lid-is put back on-is, post-traumatic mail disorder, lingering laundry syndrome, mop-apnia, and dropping disease

paging Dr. Do-little-to-nothing

seems everyone has a nightmare emergency room story. i'm reminded of the time i threw a disk in my back (lifting a sofa at work) and went to the e.r. because i suddenly couldn't feel my legs or walk...seriously scary and i was blind with pain. after filling out a dozen forms and waiting for close to an hour in an empty e.r. i was told to stand up (i was prone with pain on the floor, literally) walk down the hall and climb up on a very high x-ray table. um, did you not hear what i just said? i'm here because i CAN'T WALK.

good thing we've got Dr.Bob on call.

mama mia! leava me-a alone-a!

little Italian mama driving me nuts continued...i've mentioned the first floor neighbors before...well, here today's installment of the story...the building was cut up for sale as individual apartments (condo-style) rather unfairly..the retired Italian couple on the first floor have a huge back garden, an extended kitchen with another terrace built (illegaly i might add) on top of it, the second floor apartment's original balcony (leaving it with none) AND ALL FOUR caves (basement storage rooms). which, though they claim it was just cleaning work..we know via the workers that they made those caves into extra guestrooms for their noisy grandkids (again, highly illegal). kinda piggy, don't ya think? not that i would mind really, i mean they paid for it, it is their home.

but this is an apartment building, a community...comprimise and neighborlyness required. (you can't leave the front street door open at all hours for instance just because you want a breeze in your place...which they do all the time, it's a SECURITY door people! as in keep it shut! and i know it was you that took down my very polite sign in three languages, that took me an hour, about keeping the street door closed)

but all they do is complain. ABOUT EVERYTHING. and they only stay here for three months out of the year! mom and i are the only ones who live here year round..the other three holiday apt. owners are happy to have us here for security, and seem to appreciate (in various languages) whatever help we can be and how gracious we are about the frequency of short term holiday renters coming and going and causing various amounts of disruption..we never complain, even that one week we had five drunken boat chicks partying all hours downstairs. so, why am i ranting about all this?

because, this morning, AGAIN, in her house-dress glory, she pounded (we have a bell like everyone else) on the door...i know she could hear i was in the shower..until i came out soaking wet. to hand me a bit of broken pot (about the size of a two euro coin) and look cross and wag her finger and give me a lecture for ten minutes in Italian. whaaa?

after apologizing profusely (for what?!?!) i went to investigate our balcony..well, the Mistral winds have kicked up again the past two days...the other night i brought in all the balcony furniture and put all the loose items, planters, etc. in safer positions. unfortunately, and entirely out of my control (it's the WIND!) a potted plant on the floor of the balcony tipped over and cracked..the wind blew a shard of it through the railing and down to the ground.

THAT WOMAN NEEDS TO FIND SOMETHING ELSE TO DO BESIDE DRIVE ME CRAZY. she should take up house-dress sewing or something. whew! this is a serious rant, maybe the heat is getting to me.

the elderly of all types are falling victim to the heatwave

amidst more than ten thousand alleged heat-related deaths in France, a famous ancient tree at Versaille is lost as well.

and then my downstairs neighbor has the gall to complain (AGAIN) about the tiny little trickle of water the airconditioner in the bedroom makes in the MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT. i only run it from about midnight to 5am so i can get a decent night's sleep. it drips down on to her GARDEN for christ's sake. and only once in awhile..last night was the first time it leaked in two weeks. but, first thing this morning..there she is, in all her housedress glory, pounding on the door and pitching a fit. in Italian. how do you say "give me a break lady, it's a 101 degrees and we're all suffering! and a little water isn't going to ruin your precious EMPTY terrace!" in Italian? did i mention she's never out there anyway?! ugh. ok, rant over.

ulti-MAIL-tum update

(see Monday's entry below)

nothing in the mailbox yet, (it's too soon i know) but i have faith that i will see some handwritten letters and postcards soon..and i can't wait!

seems i may have one winner already, Aunt Maria had sent us a package regarding the McMullen family reunion a few days prior to my rant...not technically the idea, but i think i'll let her slide.

late night web cruising? guilty as charged

GUYS!!!! some practical hints for posting a personal ad online:

do not use a picture of yourself:
-getting your hair cut
-hugging an ex-girlfriend
-in super-short basketball pants
-about to sneeze
-wearing a beret
-wearing a “World’s Greatest Mom” sweatshirt
-doing the Chicken Dance
-from highschool (particularly if you are currently 35)
-shirtless while holding a bunny rabbit

do not begin your essay with:
-“I like to fight. I do something called Ultimate Fighting...”

don’t use screen names like:
toobiginmypants
screeminmonkey
gigalo785
funkymule
psykoknife

any wonder why these things don't work?

ULTI-MAIL-TUM!

ok folks, today's earlier bonhumeur has evaporated in the face of yet another sad, empty mailbox (aside from the previously mentioned New Yorkers earlier in the week). it's even been two months since my Grandmother Eileen has written me about the status of the weather and contents of the obits in Edgar, Nebraska!

email is fine and dandy, but to follow are just a few of the reasons that i (and sometimes i feel that is i alone!) regularly practice the ancient art of handwriting letters and postcards.

handwritten letters/postcards:

>can be sniffed. crunchy types: never underestimate the ability of patchuli oil/incense to travel internationally.
>can be carried in mon sac a main for a few days in anticipation of random joyful re-reading at a cafe, on the plage, in the train, etc.
>can be tacked to a wall or frigo without having to put another 50 euro ink cartridge in the printer.
>(old envelopes) make handy bookmarks and post-it-note replacements
>can be held for ransom if containing scandalous confessions written whilst drunk.
>can be riffled through in old shoe boxes a decade later, on a significant birthday or after a nasty break up to reassure oneself that yes, indeed, someone loved them once enough to write it down.
>have nifty stamps and postmarks on the envelopes that can still, amidst all this technology, amuse a youngster. (even if only long enough to tear them up)
>rarely contain viruses.

so, i am issuing a CHALLENGE. the first three people to WRITE a letter/postcard to me will receive a one year magazine subscription of my choice and a Christmas card from me, every year, for life.

17 rue Docteur Rostan apt. 2
Antibes, France 06600

do i LOOK like a doormat?

jesus but people are clueless. does no one have feelings anymore? and don't give me that "you're too sensitive" crap...i'm just wanting consideration! normal, polite consideration for how i might feel. sometimes, human beings are just crap.

and then my 'doormat' side says, "oh, but they probably just don't know they are being insensitive/rude/over the top/careless/selfish/thoughtless...it's not really their fault if they didn't know, i'm sure they didn't mean it that way..." BULLSHIT! i've had it!

but i'll still think nothing of it tomorrow and go on letting them get away with it.

ugh.

no reason in particular

i wish there was a punctuation mark that fell somewhere in-between the exclamation point and the period. you know, one that conveyed the 'eyebrows up' expression of surprise or amusement. the exclamation point is too "oh my god!" or "yippee!" (and the multiple !!! is unforgiveable, though i too fall victim to the usage)...and the period is too well, unexpressive. hmmm..i have nothing better to think about at the moment.

tomaaato tomahtoe

if one more ENGLISH person corrects my ENGLISH pronunciation i am going to scream...in AMERICAN

interesting thing, not a single FRENCH person has ever corrected my FRENCH pronunciation unless i asked for help....

lonely heart

seriously, i really do need to meet a boy. that little italian number the other night (whether or not a certain someone thinks he was a geek..hey, geeks have incomes!) got me thinking...

sorry, pervs, i'm not going to tell you WHAT i'm thinking!...

two done, three appointments to go

ok, Aunt Anna, these are special just for you. pic one, not the most attractive, but i'm not used to doing teethy pics..had a hard time even finding one for this project. pic two: after this mornings work..the middle front two are done. and they hurt like the dickens. feels like i've had a mac truck sitting on my mouth. it's hard to tell, but i think they do look much better (much whiter in person). the size feels better already, not so thick and stick-outy.

i thought a Brazilian was a nut

i have decided that the clean, un-marred bikini line is a feat i am incapable of achieving, a test of my womanhood and sexiness that i have failed miserably. (how did those poor indian, um, native american boys feel when they returned from the right of passage hunt empty-handed? less native american?)

shave, wax, depil cream; all the same results: horrible red rash, bumps; in effect a sort of creeping crotch-rot look. and painful. treatment(?): tea tree cream, aka: diaper rash cream. looking of third world disease and smelling of nappy? most certainly NOT sexy.

same shit, different country

just got back from a big party on the Cap D'Antibes...lots of twelve year old girls in next to nothing talking to fifteen year old yachtie boys who know next to nothing.

where the hell are all my peers? (especially of the opposite sex) oh, yeah right...having jobs and babies and lives. without me.

thank god there was vodka.

Euro-problems

i said awhile back (October 2002 archives) that i knew moving (again) wouldn't solve my problems, that they always come with you..they'd just become "Euro-problems". well, i was right. its not the end of the world, but i'm feeling frustrated tonight. i know i can do this art thing, and i'm loving every minute of it....but...as you know, the first school didn't work out and the second is just a day and a half every other week..not enough. i'm searching out some other options later this week, in Cannes for example...i really need to get out of the house more...i'm using the little balcony as a studio of sorts, but it is feeling cramped as well. i'm dying for my own studio space..but how to get/pay for it? i can't get a job here yet (still trying to figure out the visa thing, which is a serious bitch, but i do have a new option, more on that later)..and even if i could, that would seriously cut into the time i need to develope my work. the work isn't really ready to sell seriously yet, so there is no money from that (aside from Aunt Anna's recent purchase of LTM1..thanks Annzie!)...its a giant hamster wheel going 'round and 'round..to nowhere!

forgive my rant, it's probably just PMS.

disclaimer for previous harsh entry

turns out i'm not a good listener. no patience for whiny bullshit. i highly recommend that everyone has a run-in with the big C by age 30, it puts some perspective on things right off.

by the way, its coming up on my six month clear date....girls, have you had your SMEAR yet this year? if not, do it for me. thanks.

get over it

ok folks...there comes a time in ones life that you realize that everyone (EVERY SINGLE PERSON IN THE UNIVERSE) has/had undesirable childhood/parent/partner relationship issues....GET OVER IT...hopefully by a certain age (lets just say 28-30) you can see that A) people in Calcutta have it far worse B) you can't choose your relatives for a reason C) parents are human beings D) the choices are yours to make E) blaming everyone else for your problems GETS YOU NOWHERE

as you can read, i'm a tad frustrated at the moment...i hate whiners. JUST GO AHEAD AND FIX IT ALREADY AND STOP BOTHERING ME ABOUT IT YOU BIG BABY. FOR GOD SAKE YOU ARE A GROWN WOMAN. ok, there, i feel better now.