New brews in the news

Took a break from my whirlwind Hollywood life-a-go-go to do a little domesticated hobbying this weekend.

Okay, the truth is a friend of mine bought me this kit and he came over and we put it together and started a batch of...... mead? Nope. (We already have two huge batches of that going in the storage room!)

Beer? Nope.

Wine? Nope again.

Vinegar.

Yes, you heard me - vinegar. Red wine vinegar, to be exact. Three months from the day this batch was started, I will have yummy, usable red wine vinegar! Vinegar to cook with. Vinegar to treat minor skin irritations with. Vinegar to clean windows with. Vinegar to make yummy salad dressings out of. Vinegar to rinse my hair with. Vinegar to make cool medieval summer drinks with. Vinegar to steep with herbs in cool glass bottles and give for holiday gifts. And, most important of all, vinegar to make more vinegar with.

See, there's this weird amoeba-like thing that grows inside a wine vat if you leave the wine to spoil. It's called, oddly enough, "mother of vinegar". You put that in an opaque container, with air to breathe (thus the clean dish towel between the lid and the container), and some red wine, and some water, and in a couple of months - voila! Vinegar.

Once the first batch has reached maturity, the next batch will take only about one month to mature, because it will have a pre-operating base to start from. The first batch takes the longest, because the "mother of vinegar" only comes in about half a cup of liquid.

Now I have a perfectly legitimate excuse to start perusing the thrift stores, antique shops, and ebay for unique old glass bottles. (Cork stoppers are cheap and easy to find.) I'm going to stock up my herb garden this summer, and use my own homegrown herbs in each gift. Tarragon, Chives, and Dill are some of the most popular with vinegar.

It's just an added bonus that the crockery and the little wooden stand look so damn cool in my kitchen!

Multiple airgasms!

Oh man - today was COMPLETELY worth the sunburn! Bear and I went to the air show at Jones Beach today... I got a complete and total fix for one of my deepest, darkest addictions... FIGHTER JETS. There just isn't anything like war planes. They make me hotter 'n the fourth of July. The faster, the better.

Okay - the highlights: (I took these pics with my digital today - which I carefully kept OUT of the sand, having heard horror stories from other dig photographers that ventured onto beaches...)

I got to get up close and TOUCH a Blackhawk helicopter. AAAAAAGH!!! - incredibly cool. The coolness factor was upped significantly by soldiers in fatigues and black leather combat boots crawling all over it. I wanted to shave my head and shout "call me G.I. Jane!". But I didn't. (Something of which Bear is glad, I'm sure.)


Just look at the slope of that body, like eyebrows darkening in a scowl... look at the rivets - the meshing of metal to metal - the blades, waiting silently for the power to come - taking this black hawk to the skies again...

We walked across the sand, until we reached the water's edge, to the dead center of the show's staging area. This way, we got a cooling breeze off the water, we could see the waves crashing in front of us, and the planes were as close to us as they were gonna get.



This is the A-10 Thunderbolt II, a plane nicknamed "The Warthog" - probably because of the funny way it looks due to the engines being humped up on the back instead of under the wings. One huge mother of a plane.

Later on came the SkyTypers - flying North American SNJs.

The SNJ, by North American Aviation, a two-place advanced trainer, was the classroom for most of the Allied pilots who flew in World War II. Called the T-6 Texan by the Army Aircorp, the Harvard by the RAF, and affectionately known as "the pilot maker" by its crews, the SNJ was designed as a transition trainer between basic trainers and first-line tactical aircraft.

Here's a shot of the skytypers together in letter perfect formation :

And a detail of the topmost plane from the above picture:

One of the best planes in the show I did not take pictures of... first, it was too damn FAST. Secondly, watching it fly was something of a spiritual experience for me, which I did not want to ruin by trying to take pictures of it. I just wanted to revel in the experience itself.

It was a Russian MiG, which, thanks to advertising and big buckeroonies, is now called the "Red Bull MiG". Since I didn't get a picture of it with my camera, I borrowed a really exciting one that gives you a little of the feeling I got when it swooped down, almost touching the ocean, and then soared skyward, nose straight up into the blue, until it merged with the sun and almost disappeared. It literally brought tears to my eyes. I realize this is weird, but there's nothing I can do about it.


Later in the show, there was a sort of lump-in-the-throat procession of four planes, flying in formation... the F-15 Eagle, the F-16 Falcon, the A-10 Thunderbolt II (our old friend, the Warthog), and the small P-51 Mustang. They called this the "Heritage Flight". According to the Air Show website, "The USAF Heritage Flight showcases the evolution of Air Force aviation - from World War II to the modern fighters and attack aircraft that make up today's Air Force."

Here's the way I saw them when they first came out -

And here's how they looked from the side as they made one of their fly-bys:

Watching them fly made my heart swell up inside like the Grinch's heart when it grew three sizes and busted the little metal frame. I could hear Lee Greenwood singing, "I'm proud to be an American, where at least I know I'm free, and I won't forget the men who died who gave that right to me..." in my head. Completely corny - I know, I know.

And, last but SO not least, the "piece de resistance".... THE BLUE ANGELS! I have a small Blue Angels story of my own...

I was living in Nashville, TN, and my dad had come down to visit me. We went into the center of what they call a "city" down there (ha!) and were having dinner in the best steakhouse in Nashville - The Prime Cut.

I noticed the waiters pushing a bunch of tables together on our side of the dining room. Soon, a bunch of young guys all wearing blue tee shirts and sporting crew cuts came in and sat down to eat. About halfway through our meal, I suddenly realized that there was an air show in town that weekend.

I nearly choked on my steak. I leaned across and whispered to my dad, "I THINK THOSE ARE THE BLUE ANGELS!". He said yeah, they probably were. I was out of my chair before I knew what I was gonna say... I went over and asked one of them, and he said yes, they were. I asked what I'd have to do to get a ride in an F-14. A bunch of them laughed and said, "Join the Air Force."

But I was serious. I want a ride in a fighter jet more than almost anything I can think of. Of course I'm too old to join - and too poor to afford to buy a ride - but I keep hoping one day I'll make a connection..... but anyway, I had dinner next to the Blue Angels. That was a thrill.

Back to today - here they are (four of the six, who flew today, anyway) in tight formation (there's no other kind with these guys!):

And one more - if you look closely, you'll see that the two center planes are flying upside down. Can someone get me a glass of water? It's getting hot in here...

One of the best parts about seeing the Blue Angels fly is that they always fuck with your head a little... they send three or four of the six out over the water, to distract your attention, and then one of them comes up low and fast from over land directly behind the crowd, and completely scares the bejeebers out of everyone. The engines are so loud that you can scream and not hear yourself- it's just unfuckingbelievably cool.

HOOYAH!

Worth every penny

This morning, I realized that another mystical moment was at hand... The Day of Clothes Shopping.

Like the "Law of Laundry", there is a precise cosmic planetary alignment (the exact combination of which is secret from all but the gods) which allows me to leave the sanctuary of my abode, travel forth unto the merchants of clothing, and find there raiment in my exact size, at a good price, in a short amount of time.

When this day comes, it makes itself known with a subtle, subconscious whisper. Neither inclement weather nor the pull of Turner Classic Movies can keep me from my quest on this very special day. It only comes once every ten years or so - and it is not to be ignored.

The manner in which one gets dressed on this day is crucial. One must make sure to wear only clothing which is quickly and easily removed and put back on, unless one wants to spend an inordinate amount of time cooped up in a small, harshly-lit cubicle hopping around on one foot. Not my idea of a good time, so I dressed with all appropriate forethought. Tee shirt, jeans, and slip-off shoes.

I went. I tried on. I found sales. I bought. And all was well.

On my way home, I stopped by the local 7-11 to pop in and grab my Lotto ticket for Saturday night's drawing. It's the 7-11 I go to every week. A heavy-set Indian girl with long, shining black curls approached the cash register. She's there every week - I've seen her every week for the past gazillion months. Apparently I have not made the same impression on her that she has on me - she doesn't know me from Adam's housecat.

I'd gotten a lucky parking spot, directly in front of the door. Since a Lotto ticket was to be my only purchase, I left my purse in the car and carried my sole dollar bill into the store with me.

The cashier with the long hair was looking at me strangely, with an intense gaze, directly into my eyes. I stood there, calmly looking back at her, and asked for one quick pick Lotto ticket for Saturday night's drawing, please. She kept looking at me, staring into my eyes, until I began to wonder if I had a big smear of something on my face.

Then she said, "How old are you?"

Nonplussed, I said, "Thirty-nine. Why?" I had no idea where this was going. Did she think she knew me from somewhere? Was she trying to figure out if I was a teacher at her child's school?

She squinted at me and said, "I'm supposed to ID people who buy Lotto tickets."

I laughed, and said, "Thank you. Thank you very much."

That little exchange was worth the dollar I paid for the Lotto ticket.

Someone else's magic

Sometimes, when I'm bored, I hit the "next blog" button to see what enticing, juicy tidbits of the blogosphere await my discovery.

Suddenly, there seems to be a plethora of blogs entirely devoted to suggesting that you listen to their favorite "indie" or "underground" bands. Which change every day.

I understand the magic of being a fan of a band nobody's ever heard of. Really, I do. I lived through the 80's, was a band "roadie" (read: I had a car, they didn't), dated a lead singer, the works. But I will never, EVER go out and buy (or even look up online) any of these bands suggested by people I don't know. I just don't care about The Pixie Nuggets. I'm not interested in hearing anything Cumin Bjorg Orange has to say.

See, the only obscure band that anyone will ever truly be a fan of is the one THEY discover, by accident, while trawling downtown pubs or during whatever cosmically charged circumstance brings them together. This is what makes it magic. You can't borrow someone else's magic. You can't just go to a website, read the words "oh god you HAVE to travel to Philly tomorrow night and hear 'The Snotwaffles'... you will SO not regret it!", and then get on a bus, go to Philly, hear "The Snotwaffles", and fall madly in love with them. It doesn't work that way. It's someone else's magic.

Music, at least in my world, transcends mere fad-dom. It's not like clothing, or movies, where you can turn out a product that you're pretty certain a good portion of the population will like. Music is a form of magic - liking it, or loving it, sometimes has more to do with the circumstances happening when you heard it than your actual musical preferences. The song that was playing during your first kiss with someone special is likely to make a lasting impression on you, regardless of whether you actually liked the band or not. Music makes memories, while your silver spangled leg warmers from 1983 never cross your mind any more. Well, they didn't used to, but now I've brought them up and there they are, crossing your mind. You're welcome.

So I add the band promotion blogs to the pile of blogs in a language I can't read, blogs that exist solely to advertise a product, blogs that make no sense whatsoever but just keep repeating strange phrases in random order, blogs by eleven year old exchange students with hot pink backgrounds and anime characters.... the ones I skip past quickly, still looking for diamonds in the rough - guided by my own magic.

if only DaVinci could have known her....

Well, folks, the day has come. No, not the birthday of Angelina's new baby. I have a feeling she may have already had the child, but is keeping it a secret. But I tigress. (rrowr!)

The day has come when I've found someone who may (notice I said MAY) actually be more obsessed with Angelina Jolie than I am. I know, I know - it just doesn't seem very likely. However... I was thinking about my weekend foray into the arts, the channeling of my obsession into a drawing, (a drawing which absolutely nobody has commented on, and which I must now conclude everyone thinks sucks) and it occurred to me that other devotees may well have, nay, must definitely have, channeled their obsessions in a similar fashion.

I hied myself to the hotspots of all things Angelina - (www.souliejolie.com and www.wutheringjolie.com) - and there before me spread a boundless banquet of artistic renderings of my earthbound goddess. Some were sublime, some were hideous caricatures (some intentionally, some not).

One of the more sublime was an artist (whose website is HERE- for any who care to peruse) who has taken Angelina and put her face on all the most famous women of the world... from pilots to queens, from goddesses to WWII nurses... it's just amazing!!! Aside from the pictures, the artist also presents a small history of each person he represents, when available.

Here are some which touched me in some way specifically. The first is a portrait of Madame Rimsky-Korsakov. This is special to me because Bear and I found this portrait in a small antique shop during one of our forays, and discovered that I look more than passing like her. My hair is not quite as long, but is gaining on her.

I became interested in finding out who this woman was, and was fortunate to also find a company that sold a full-sized color poster of this painting, which now hangs in our living room. Here is the artist's rendering of Angelina as Mme. R-K.



Another special one was Angelina as Audrey Hepburn in "Breakfast at Tiffany's". The first date my parents ever went on was to see this movie.


Then there's Black Agnes, the queen who defended her Scottish coastline castle against the English, against all odds, and all by herself. An amazing woman, and a beautiful picture... click to see the enlargement, the small version does it no justice.


One of my favorite 40's girls of all time is Rita Hayworth. And here is Angie, as Rita was seen in the movie "Gilda", as a painted pinup girl on the side of a fighter plane. How freakin' cool is THIS?

And just one more, because....... DAMN - it's beautiful!

In other news - we went to see "The DaVinci Code" last night. I liked it. One of my favorite parts was the slide show going on behind Tom Hanks during his character's lecture at the beginning of the movie. Also, the albino monk was hot. And freaky. He was freaky-hot. 8-)

being drawn in...

This is what I did this weekend...


This particular pose is from a scene in "Original Sin". I paused the DVD (happily, the picture doesn't fuzz over the way a videotape does when you pause it!) and grabbed Bear's sketch pad and pencils, and this is the result.

The next picture is the view from our patio table. That's Bear's coffee cup in the foreground. All those little green mounds just behind the railroad ties are brand new additions to our garden. Instead of dumping a box of "flower garden seeds" there and hoping for the best this year, we decided to plant some perennials. Delphinium, black-eyed susans, white flax linum, and lavender among them. More pictures to come - when they're in bloom!



The next shot is overlooking my coffee cup, "The DaVinci Code" (I'm only halfway through it so far) and the ivy covered arch into the circle garden. If you squint, you can make out the bird bath in the center of the circle, and the bird feeder hanging exactly level with the top of the fence.


We had a wonderful, peaceful Sunday... full of birdsong, warm cozy kitties, a little rain and a lot of sun, wind in the windchimes, and we rounded out our day of rest by listening to Deepak Chopra and eating a kick-ass batch of homemade spaghetti and meatballs. With enough leftovers to eat on for a week! Whooah!

What's the beef?

Lately I've come face to face with several instances of a phenomenon that puzzles the shit out of me.

According to many website sources, even MSNBC (from whom I borrowed this cute picture), it's a widely-known fact that couples tend to like the same things, dress alike sometimes, and even look alike physically.

This is not the phenomenon of which I speak, however. The thing that has me puzzled is:

Why does this piss people off so badly?

Even as highly individualistic humans, we have some things in common. We all like days off. We all like good food. We all like music of one kind or another. We all like to do enjoyable things with other people who also enjoy the same things.

So why, when people decide to get snarky, do they criticize a couple's shared interests as though being in accord were somehow a punishable offense?

To support my point, two quotes. The first is from a media source, discussing Brad Pitt with regard to his relationship with Angelina Jolie. The second is from my own sister, who for some reason has recently decided that I am the antichrist.

I. "The magazine notes that the insider dishes Brad not only dyed his hair black, but got a tattoo just like his inked up girlfriend Angie. He then abandoned the US to globetrot with Jolie and promote her pet causes and play 'Mr. Mom,' the source reveals. 'And a few weeks ago he even got a Mohawk to match Maddox,' another friend spills. 'It's just unbelievable'."

Oh, no - not that! A haircut like Maddox? Heinous! Incredible! How could he? Sheesh. Next thing you know, he'll be having a BABY with that woman! The nerve.

II. "You dress, walk and talk EXACTLY like (Bear) and everything he thinks and feels YOU think and feel and I'm just..."

Oh, there are so many things I could insert after that "just".... like - just butting in where I have no right to, just voicing my nasty opinions to see how many times I can criticize you in one paragraph, just taking out all the frustrations in my stupid life on you... the list is endless.


So - what is it? What's everyone's beef with couples? Why all the griping when a couple loves to spend time together? Loves the same hobbies? Loves the same music, the same style of clothing?

Doesn't it make sense that two people who like the same things would get together? Doesn't it also make sense that two people who love each other might even (gasp) learn they like things they didn't even know about before they met this person? Isn't making your life work in harmony with someone else's life supposed to be the point of marriage?

What's the beef?

Your Item is Past Due

According to media sources, today is Angelina Jolie's due date.

Wonder who the ballsy bastard will be who gets the first picture of the baby... if she really wanted to screw the paparazzi, she'd arrange a private photo shoot and put the pics on the internet herself - thus completely taking all the wind out of the media's sails... and SALES.

Signs of insanity

For some time now, I've been hankering to post pictures from the two trips I took to Scotland. This is a daunting task, since I took utter shitloads of pictures, and not with a digital camera. The sheer amount of time I will spend scanning and editing the pictures is mind boggling.

I'm going to do it - oh, yes my little chickadees, I am! Just not right now.

In lieu of a full onslaught, I thought I might sneak up on it a bit by first sharing my "signs of insanity."

They need no introduction and no explanation - although I may not be able to restrain myself from adding captions, because I'm just so damn self involved. They're my pictures, after all... and I'm even IN some of them! Self involvement just oozes from this post - I LOVE IT.

Enough bullshit - on with the pictures. First, the obligatory "I can't believe they named it THAT" pics.

It was actually anything but!

Don't ask. I have no idea.

Well, no WONDER the connection is so shitty!

You can walk around without any pants on,
-if you've a mind to, but for god's sake
KEEP THAT LIGHT COVERED UP -
there are CHILDREN here!!

People are much nicer in Scotland, so you don't
encounter humps as often as you do here in the States.

Those dockside Scots are such a gas!

This was taken in England.
See, in England, neighbors' dogs
don't shit in your yard. They "foul".
Sounds so discreet, so delicate...
and yet -
note the steam rising from Fifi's fouling.

RUN AWAY! RUN AWAY!!!
Yes, that's me, keeping a wary eye out for the vicious creatures.

This is your official warning - the gods are
WAY PISSED at you.

And, last but not least, my favorite sign of insanity...

Damn, I'm glad they included a picture,
so I'd know what those things darting out
in front of my rental rollerskate were...

stress

I'm home with a bad back today. My jaws have been aching for about two weeks now. Bear tells me I grind my teeth in my sleep.

Am I complaining? Maybe. But the point is that stress, in one form or another, is the cause of the things I just mentioned.

One of my favorite bloggers, Finslippy, has just posted about the stress involved in parenting a small child.

See, one of the reasons (besides perpetual financial anorexia) I never wanted to have a child is because of days exactly like the one Finslippy described. But here I am, with my bad back and neck, my clenched jaw, and the monthly dizzying dips into the depths of despair when bills come due.

What I wonder is whether stress is really a result of the situations we are dealing with in everyday life, or if it's a type of demographic disease. I'll be 40 on my next birthday. Most of the bloggers I read are in their 30-40's, and they all seem to be going through similar stress reactions, whether they live alone or with someone, whether they have money or don't, whether they're married or single, whether they have kids or cats.

As I recall, my parents were also very stressed out in their 30-40's. Maybe at this point we are all starting to realize that life really is short, and that the outcome is uncertain, that maybe we are not going to attain the levels of success or achieve the dreams that we (or others) have cherished. Maybe we're starting to see our favorite life expectations and goals being placed one by one on a high shelf in the storage room of our minds, to collect dust.

Maybe the knowledge that terrorism is no longer some vague bad thing that happens in faraway lands, but something that can happen right in our own city, has all of us a little on edge.

I wonder what the answer is. Should we all relax, stop trying so hard? Should we change our goals? Choose easier ones? Should we be happier with less?

Or is that selling out?

Should we demand our fair share, charge ahead towards the goal of success as we see it, no matter how wacked out our nerves get in the process? I don't know. I'm not sure how much of the stress I feel is created by my own inner struggles, and how much is from outside sources. And I'm not sure what to do to relieve it.

There's only so much that hot baths, soothing music, and feng shui can do. Sometimes it's like a bandaid on a broken leg.

What some other girls do...

The following text is from Rachel Papo: Serial No. 3817131 Go there. Look at the pictures, and try to imagine yourself, or your daughter, or your sister, living this life. It's amazing how different our lives really are from the rest of the world...

"The life of an eighteen-year-old girl in Israel is interrupted when she is plucked out of her environment at an age when sexual, educational, and family values are at their highest exploration point. She is then placed in a rigorous institution, where individuality becomes a secondary matter, making room for nationalism. “I solemnly swear…to devote all of my strength and to sacrifice my life to protect the land and the liberty of Israel,” repeats the newly recruited soldier during her swearing-in ceremony. She enters the two-year period in which she will change from a girl to a woman, a teenager to an adult, all under a militaristic, masculine environment, and in the confines of an army that is engaged in daily war and conflict.

I decided to portray female soldiers in Israel during their mandatory military service as a way for me to revisit my own experience. I served as a photographer in the Israeli Air Force between 1988-1990. It was a period marked by continuous depression and extreme loneliness, and at the time I was too young to understand these emotions. Through a series of images showing female soldiers in army bases and outside, individually or in groups, I attempt to reveal a facet of this experience that is generally overlooked by the global community.

Rather than portraying the soldier as heroic, confident, or proud, my images disclose a complexity of emotions. The soldier is often caught in a transient moment of self-reflection, uncertainty, a break from her daily reality, as if questioning her own identity and state of contradiction. She is a soldier in uniform but at the same time she is a teenage girl who is trying to negotiate between these two extreme dimensions. She is in an army base surrounded by hundreds like her, but underneath the uniform there is an individual that wishes to be noticed.

I realized that although I was in a vulnerable emotional state during my service and thought of ways out of it, there was a certain level of acceptance involved. The girls I encountered were so immersed in this lifestyle, in their new reality, and completely divorced from the outside world. How could I explain to them that what they are doing means nothing in the outside world, yet will affect them for the rest of their lives? They have given up who they are for now; they have put their dreams on hold; their lives for the next two years have become a wistful compromise.

These thoughts and feelings constitute the frame of this body of work, and the core impulse for my decision to go back. With this project I wish to seek answers to matters that were left unresolved, and to shed some light on a side of the Israeli Army that is less obvious and predictable and more vulnerable than the way it is commonly portrayed."

In honor of Mothers' Day, I present:

***
MY CHILDREN

More on (or moron) the Gospel of Judas

I'm not a Christian. So this whole thing about the discovery of another ancient text doesn't ruffle my tailfeathers in the slightest. However, it seems to be putting quite a lot of Christian panties in a wad.

My question is this:

The Bible says that God sent Jesus to earth to die for the sins of humanity. So if Judas facilitated that plan - what's the big deal? Why all the vitriol, the hatred aimed at Judas? It just doesn't make any sense.

If Judas had ridden in spanking a fast ass, swept Jesus up behind him and taken off into the desert to hide him from the folks coming to do him in, then wouldn't he have been thwarting the plans of the Almighty? Flying in the face of God's ultimate plan to save the universe?


Having established that little tidbit, I move on to:

If Judas finger feeding Jesus to the feds was part of God's plan to save the world from everlasting hellfire, then does it really make any difference whether he did it as a result of greed or whether he did it as a result of an earlier agreement with Jesus to make sure everything went as planned?

Why are Christians so upset at having their whipping boy removed? Judas was one of Jesus' homies - his closest, most trusted companions.

Do Christians think Jesus was an idiot?
Do Christians think he couldn't read the apostles' hearts?
Do Christians think Judas really pulled a fast one on him?
Do Christians think that Jesus couldn't have done a holy whammy on them all in order to get away alive, if that's what he'd wanted to do?

You can't have it both ways, peeps. If you want to claim you're a Christian, then you have to believe that Jesus was the son of God, and all-powerful. A guy that could turn a sandwich into a buffet for 200, shut off thunderstorms when they got annoying, and use the ocean like a sidewalk when land wasn't handy could certainly take on a couple of mortals in sheets and sandals by himself. He wasn't tricked into anything. Not remotely.

If you believe that Jesus was the real deal, then you have to know that Judas was not only an intentional part of Jesus' dad's plan to get Jesus dead (wow, sounds kinda weird when you put it like that, doesn't it?), but the most important player in the whole story! He was the best supporting actor on the Jesus Show!


Judas was framed.


What I always wondered is - was he a good kisser?

An obstacular morning

On my way to work this morning, I followed Bear to the local bagel shop to grab a cup of coffee and steal a few extra minutes of his company. There's a stop sign between our house and the bagel shop, and during my politically correct pause, an Audi coming the other way turned the corner and got between Bear's vehicle and mine. No biggie - it's not like I'm being towed there.

All three of us made the next right, onto the street where the bagel shop resides. When possible, Bear always pulls ahead one parking slot, to allow me to park easily. The Audi slips right in behind him. Damn! I'm left sticking out in the street like a sore thumb. Luckily, Bear sees what happened and pulls ahead another slot (luckily there WAS another slot - it's a popular bagel shop) and I parked.

So began my day.

After attaining my cup of coffee, my next quest was to get gas in my vehicle. Normally, at this time of the morning, traffic is pretty light. However, as I neared the block where my gas station is, a city bus pulled over to the curb and stopped, and a landscaping truck with a huge trailer pulled alongside it in the right lane. There was just enough room for me to skim by and make a right at the corner, allowing me to enter the gas station from the side street - not my usual route, but it was okay. Or so I thought.

As I swung around to get my truck positioned at a pump, the aforementioned landscaping truck pulled in off the street, headfirst towards me, and completely blocked my path. They had a clear ten feet to continue on past me so that I could proceed, but the driver just sat there, staring stupidly at me with his trailer hanging out in traffic. I waited longer than my patience indicated, hoping that he would just go on and pull around, but I could see it was a standoff. I threw my truck in reverse, and backed around the entire station into a free slot.

I opened my wallet to get my cash card, and saw the slot where it usually is was empty. DAMN. I remember Bear giving it back to me the other evening, and I stuck it in a shirt pocket. A shirt which, of course, I am not wearing right now. So I grab my credit card and jump out of the truck, swipe the card, and begin to reach for the pump handle. Suddenly there appears a swarthy little man. He's standing by the door of my truck, pointing upward. I look up, at the sign which says, "FULL SERVE".

BOLLOCKS.

I said it was okay, I didn't mind doing it myself. He says hey, you're paying the money, might as well let me do it. Then I look at the price of the regular gas I'm buying, compared to the price of the regular gas at the self serve pump. SHIT. I get back in my truck, not exactly reveling in the extra service (which doesn't even include a window wash or oil check) due to the knowledge I'm blowing money I didn't want to spend because of those jerks in the landscaping truck.

It went just like that, all the way to the office.

There was the state police car that jumped into traffic from the left median at about 35mph, causing the entire crowded highway behind him to jam on their brakes. He completely fucked up the drive for the next five minutes or so, until he got off at an exit and we could resume our prescheduled 70mph.

There was the idiot in the teal Toyota doing 45 for no apparent reason, completely oblivious to the fact that some people have jobs, and are expected to get there on time.

Just when I thought I was home free, about to pull up to the curb in front of the office building, a cop nosed slowly out of the driveway just next door. He watched me park, and then crept slowly around the corner, looking at me, looking at my truck, acting suspicious.

I am SO glad I got my overdue inspection done last week!

Next time, suckah....

How to lose money on ebay - Part Deux

Okay - as if selling things for $0.01 wasn't bad enough, I got completely befuddled while juggling incoming checks for $1.60 and accidentally sent the guy who bought "Immortal Beloved" the "Othello" video. AAAACK!

The poor girl who is now waiting for Othello to arrive any moment told me she needs it for a school project. The guy who bought Immortal Beloved is not responding to my desperate emails which inquire DID HE ACTUALLY RECEIVE OTHELLO INSTEAD? Immortal Beloved, as yet unshipped, sits smugly on my loveseat and mocks me.

So what did I do? I went on ebay and did a panicked "buy it now" of Othello from another seller...... (for $8.99!!) and had it shipped to the girl who bought it from me for a penny.

Now I'm going to ship Immortal Beloved to its rightful bidder - (this guy just got two videos for a penny).

And I will fall back, sweating, on my bed - vowing never again to get involved in selling anything on ebay unless I'm

MAKING A SHITLOAD OF MONEY ON IT.

forget physics - it's the LAW OF LAUNDRY

There is a HUGE pile of clean, folded laundry on the loveseat in NASA. Towels, jeans, sleeved shirts, a billion tee shirts. Socks, underwear, the works. It's larger than usual, because it not only encompasses the enormous bag of clean laundry I just picked up from the 'mat today, it's also the clean laundry from last week's load that didn't get put away.

There are people who don't see anything wrong with this scenario. Bachelors, harried mothers with sixteen kids and no spare time, and the like. Indeed, my mother had friends who lived upstate, and we never visited them without seeing the prerequisite mountain of laundry on the living room sofa. If we wanted to sit down, we had to shove the stuff over, or we'd have to stand. It wasn't exactly the picture of a warm and hospitable welcome.

Notwithstanding other people's lack of concern for displaced laundry, I don't find the situation acceptable. The thing is, you can't just put everything away. It's not that simple. Sneaking up on it doesn't work, either - I've tried putting it away casually, one piece at a time. (This strategy may include wearing the laundry straight from the couch.) Put away a pair of socks here, all the knickers at once the next day. Seems like it would work - that one day, you'd look and be suprised to find that all that was left to put away was one hooded sweatshirt, one that you wanted to wear today, anyway.

But that's not what happens. If you try the sneak attack, time creeps up on you in return, and you find yourself with the overlapping laundry load extravaganza that faces me today. Like time and tide, laundry waits for no one. It keeps getting dirty at an alarming rate, and it keeps coming back clean from the laundromat every week, just like clockwork. The soft and subtle approach does not succeed.

So, then - what is the answer? The bullish, headstrong, nose-to-the-grindstone attack? Sounds good, too, doesn't it? Just do it! Here is where we first come face to face with the Law of Laundry. The first rule of the Law of Laundry is:

1. A full-on attack of the clean laundry pile is only successful if attempted the moment you walk in the door from picking up the laundry.

I don't know why this is true. Maybe it's because your brain is already in "laundry mode". Maybe it's because the laundry is still radiating warmth from the dryer, making it more pliable and easier to fit into closets and drawers. But maybe it's something more - a magical space between the worlds that opens up as soon as you enter your abode bearing a warm, freshly washed bag of laundry. It is what it is.

If you stroll in, put that bag of laundry down, and say, "I'm just going to check my email before putting this away", or "I think I'll make a cup of coffee, check through the mail, and then put the laundry away", you've broken the spell. That laundry is not getting put away for a long time. Face it. Accept it. Go ahead, check your email, make your coffee - just know that those little pleasures come at the expense of your getting that laundry out of sight for the forseeable future.

Well, if that rule is true, you say, then how does any laundry ever get put away if it's not done following the Law of Laundry, Rule #1?

Glad you asked! This is where the next rule of the Law of Laundry comes in.

2. There is a magic time, unknowable and unplannable, when the laundry may be put away efficiently and speedily. It is up to you to find it.

Just as a fine wine is a perfect balance of certain grapes, the right wooden cask, and precise timing, the putting away of laundry has its own alchemy. A blend of determination, forbearance, frustration, and an ability to recognize the magic moment when it happens.

I will be going along, happily ignoring the pile of clean, folded laundry on the loveseat day after day, only acknowledging its existence perfunctorily each morning when I need a pair of socks or underwear for that day. Part of my brain thinks that Bear might just take it upon himself to put the laundry away this week. Laughing, the smarter part of my brain says no, he's not - but I don't care. It doesn't really matter whether it gets put away or not. The world is not going to end because I have some un-put-away laundry on the loveseat in my computer room. Another part of my brain, however, is monitoring the passage of days, the existence of the laundry, and searching for the magic moment. That moment when, against all odds, it is possible to attack the pile of laundry and decimate it completely within the smallest time frame.

Then one day, the alarm goes off in my head. It's time! Like Christmas Eve, when the lion can lie down with the lamb, the magic laundry moment arrives, and I walk into NASA, bend down, and pick up the first shirt. From there, all is a blur. I move from loveseat to closet, to bureau, back to loveseat, to bedroom, to bathroom, and back again. Before I know it, all the laundry is snug in its various proper places, and I'm wondering what the big harouche was all about, anyway. Putting the laundry away is such a breeze! I'm amazed that it took me so long to try it... until I remember that it is not up to me. I do not put laundry away of my own willpower. It is not because of my own greatness, or my own desire to have a clean house that I am able to clear that loveseat for the next pile of clean clothes...

I bow my head in obeisance to the Law of Laundry.

Poem for the day

Dirge in Woods

A wind sways the pines,
And below
Not a breath of wild air;
Still as the mosses that glow
On the flooring and over the lines
Of the roots here and there
The pine-tree drops its dead;
They are quiet, as under the sea.
Overhead, overhead
Rushes life in a race,
As the clouds the clouds chase;
And we go,
And we drop like the fruits of the tree,
Even we,
Even so.

~written by George Meredith

Snowballs from the universe

Sometimes I become aware that the universe has been targeting me with a snippet of information over a long period of time. A little factoid or image or saying or bumper sticker will appear in my line of vision, nearly ignored by me. Then it will reappear a short while later, triggering an almost imperceptible mental nudge. Still later, when only vestigal traces of it are left, hanging shredded on the barbed wire fence around my mind, it will reappear yet again, making me sit up and take notice. I say, "Hey - what IS it with this? Is it following me around?" (Or something like that.)

For instance....

What is it with women who adopt Asian infants? With the exception of the lovely not-remotely-average mega-celebrity Angelina Jolie, every single woman (that I have seen a picture of) that has adopted an Asian baby has been in her mid to late 40s, majorly overweight, butt ugly, and has that crazy-desperate "if I can't find a man to love me, I'll buy a kid who will, because they HAVE TO" look in their eyes.

There are about a bazillion blogs/websites out there dedicated to "live through my Chinese baby adoption process with me", a few of which I have come across accidentally in my random blog searches. Honest to Betsy, the pictures of these women with their brand new little codependent addictions could be interchanged from site to site, and no one would ever notice. (Nevermind the fact that listening to them recount every trip to the baby super store to pick out booties would be about as fun as shaving my tongue with a sharpened guitar string.)

Now, I know life ain't about looks. I realize there is more to a person than their outward appearance. And I am glad that there are people in the world whose hearts are big enough to love children who did not spring from their own loins. Really, I am.

And I'm (almost) completely avoiding the topic of whether or not the screening process for adoptive parents is all that it should be... I have seen adoptive parents with their kids in public that are just a step away from an episode of "Mommy Dearest" ... some of these women are SCARY. But I digress.

All I'm saying is, I have no personal interest in the subject of people adopting kids from China, and yet every time I turn around, there's another blog, or newspaper article, or book at Borders (my most recent brush with the topic). And the pictures of mother and child are hysterically alike.

I mean, with all the different people in the world, you'd think there'd be a couple of tall, skinny, pretty women in the mix. Or maybe even a GUY.

Heck, they may be out there.

They're just not the ones that are haunting me at the moment.

A few thoughts about today before dashing off to bed

Found out today that Jane Kachala died. She was my pen pal for a while. She lived in Africa with her husband Moses and her baby, Comfort. My mother met her while she was in Africa with her church group, building an orphanage for all the kids whose parents have died of AIDS. Jane died of AIDS-related tuberculosis. I don't know if her baby or her husband have been infected. Only time will tell, I suppose. Life is as fragile as water in Africa. It is gone too soon from those who want it most.

I received my first payment from someone who bid on my videos on ebay. The video sold for one cent. The postal rate was $1.59. The guy sent me two dollars in an envelope and told me to keep the change. What a nice guy. I almost feel bad taking his two dollars. I could have just sent him the video if he wanted it.

Am participating in my very first "webinar" tomorrow. It's about grant writing. My boss is paying $159 for me to take an hour and a half "webinar" on grant writing, so that I can then write to apply for grants for our company. What I really want to know is who the hell thought up a stupid word like "webinar". They couldn't just be happy with "online seminar", could they? No, they couldn't, apparently.

Bear got free passes to go see a movie, from some office supply company that his office orders from. We went to see "Silent Hill". It was supposed to be this way scary flick. I think that the working title was actually "Dykes in the Mist". It was not only not scary, but had quite possibly the least detectable plot of any movie I've ever seen. Perhaps if they'd named it "A Random Series of Really Disturbing Images" it would have come off better. More honest, at least.

After losing 15 pounds on the weight watchers' program, I have fallen off the wagon. As a result of eating improperly yesterday, today I ate nothing but fruit during the day, trying to get back on track. By the evening, I was so hungry I didn't stop to think about the three garlic knots, huge slice of sicilian pizza, and large root beer I crammed in my gob. Not to mention the popcorn and Coke-flavored slurpee I had at the movie. SHIT.

To add to this craptacular non-fitness, I haven't been to the gym all week. Meant to, but stayed up too late Sunday night to get up at 4:30AM Monday. Last night, I just felt like shit in general - allergies? Flu? Stupidity? Dunno. Slept in again this morning. What a botched mess of a diet/exercise program. Gotta get back on track before I lose all the ground I've gained.

Mom wants me to come down to NC to visit her on Mother's Day. Guilt trip extraordinaire. I told her it's impossible to fly standby on a holiday weekend. Which it is. I still feel like crap about it, anyway. I can't begin to tell her that I can't afford to park my car in the airport over the weekend because I'm so stinking broke, because then she starts on the broken record about how my life would be perfect if I just sold everything I own and move down there to live next door to her. Ack. No, it wouldn't be. Help.

My tax guy finally called me back. That was nice of him, considering he didn't file my taxes on time, got me an extension, and then didn't call me for a week. I was wondering if he'd gone for a swim with cement shoes on or what. Apparently my last dickhead boss won't give him the W2's, so he's getting the runaround. Figures. At least I might actually get money back this year instead of owing again. I know, I know - it's better to owe at the end, but I'm in such bad shape that it actually IS good to be getting some back.

Still no tenants. My contract with my current realtor ends May 21st. I am going to see if they're willing to call it a wash and let me find a realtor who ACTUALLY KNOWS HOW TO FIND TENANTS for someone renting an apartment. It's amazing what the presence or lack of $1500 a month can do to a person's finances.

That's it - I'm off.