Roman Grimiko

Roman Grimiko awakes incredulous that he has lived to see another day. An offending bit of sunlight falls across his face:

Christ. You've got to be fucking kidding me..

Roman's wife, a petite woman of about sixty, who is usually up well before the sun, has left a small breakfast for him on his night table. The plate is covered with several cloth napkins in a purely symbolic gesture meant to retain the heat.

There on the plate is his usual plain omelet, pickled beets and a slice of toast cut diagonally twice (into four pieces), already buttered, with a dab of grape jelly on each portion.

It's an old joke between the Grimikos, the toast. The fight they had when they first married regarding the proper way to slice toast. How Roman has regretted this joke ever since.

And, there's a cup of black coffee (now ice cold) and a juice glass filled half way with dark wine.

His wife, of course, is at church and will be for the rest of the day.

This breakfast was a loving and mostly useless gesture on the part of Mrs. Grimiko, who knew Roman would not wake up in time for it to be still edible.

Roman, appreciating his wife's thoughtfulness, takes the juice glass of wine and downs it. Then makes his way downstairs to refill it.

Later, he gets dressed and walks through the wet, leaf strewn neighborhood with his malfunctioning umbrella for his bath.This is possibly the happiest part of Roman's day. There his oldest friends will either be bathing or taking saunas. And, afterward, there is always chess and discourse.

shit..

Roman remembers that his eldest daughter will be at the house around three. The thought makes him more nervous than happy. His daughter always has something to say about the business that never quite fits in with his perception of things. At some point, however, they will cook together, and that will change the dynamic a bit in his favor.

He laughs darkly at this. It's a good laugh. Yes, of course. He will ply his daughter with food:

dumplings for the dumpling..

Roman likes to prepare everything for coming the week on Sunday. It's his way of getting out of church. And it works. It turns out that Roman is the superior cook in the family. And this arrangement, which has been in place for over forty years, seems to make everyone happy.

So far he has two small chickens stuffed with sweet onions and paprika roasting in the oven, a pot of goulash slowly simmering on the front burrner, while beef stock brews on the back.

He has half a dozen peppers stuffed with sausage and rice baking in a shallow dish, while a bread pudding with raisins and apples bakes along side it.

His wife will then heat things as the week unfolds, mostly taking credit for all of the cooking.

Yes. It's on Sunday, there in the kitchen, that Roman is at his best. As he explains opera to his daughter, occasionally throwing scraps of sausage to whatever injured kitten he is currently tending to, Roman cooks and dreams of one less day.

It's Sunday. And this is Roman Grimiko at his best..

pizza

I tore the pizza from its box in a manner that betrayed not only my hunger, but my utter disregard for removing pizzas from their boxes nicely. I'm always surprised by what little actually stands between me and any given frozen pizza.

It's just a box and some plastic. And it seems like it should be more. That there should be some literature. Or maybe a pamphlet telling me the history of this pizza. Or maybe a prize or some temporary tattoos.

I threw the pizza into the oven. Loudly. Crashingly. And, when I did, the temperature was set so high (in the interest of time) that there were a few (albeit small, totally manageable) flames that leapt out at me.

But I didn't care.

This was progress. I was absolutely famished. And while it baked I could, in the meantime, soothe myself with the fact that this was much faster than ordering in. Or, for that matter, making pizza from scratch.

So, I had some wine and cheese in the interim (without taking note of any spectacular sunset that might be happening at the moment, nor waxing any other wine and cheese specific bullshit about how great I am, or how great you are, or how great life is).

I knew two things:

1. This, my supposed new oven (was anything in this house really mine? Was anything in this house really new?), has a thermometer permanently affixed to its interior for a reason: this oven gets hotter than any other oven in the world.

2. Though I could eat almost anything frozen, I would refrain from doing so this time. I would wait. Even if it meant eating god damned wine and cheese without acknowledging sunsets all god damned day.
And so it began.

As I checked continually for progress, I saw that the edges of this pizza were melting. And the pepperoni, though not my favorite ingredient, was crisping up quite nicely.

And, if it matters, I could actually hear the sizzle of the cheese that had dropped down into the fire (a second fire was, at this juncture, burning independently of that which came more evenly from the boiler).

The pizza was almost done.

Then I got the bright idea to add some water to the fire to really smoke this pizza (imagine the flavor). It was then that the first thoughts about how this pizza might actually kill me began popping up in my mind.

Yeah, I hear those sirens, too..

The whole house was on fire. No matter, it was from this inferno that an unprecedented culinary detail emerged:

The sauce, which at the parameter had caramelized to a practically candied condition, was sweet, delicately spiced and otherwise still velvety at the epicenter. And, aside from what had happened at the edges, the four cheeses maintained their integrity. In fact, at that point, with the pizza and most of the neighborhood ablaze, I felt that (though clearly still too hot to eat) it was only a matter of minutes before the pizza had rested and properly redistributed it's juices.

No. I was all in.

lather, rinse, repeat

1. This blog is like someone I got stuck working with who always laughs at her own jokes, makes fake phone calls when she's bored (mostly on her hairbrush; mostly to her mom) and brags compulsively as a form of malice.

It's the constant bragging that really irks me. It seems to set in motion a now well worn routine of "their constant bragging" versus "my attempt to deflect their constant bragging".

This involves two opposing actions:

a. not to seem jealous = because I'm not
b. not to seem like I care = because I don't

It's a delicate balance. And, no matter the subject of their bragging, it's the idea that they want me to be jealous that distracts me from my original goal (that is, to dispel any notion that I am at all swept away by any of their self promoting ideas). This alone tends to bungle the operation (theirs and mine).

And it shows.

It breaks down as follows:

a. I'm not jealous
b. and I don't care
c. I might appear jealous by virtue of not caring
d. thus: I must pretend to care
e. without sounding jealous
f. even though I'm not jealous
g. and I don't care

And on and on.

And this is just between my blog and me. It gets worse with actual people.

2. After years of developing my recipe, I've finally learned how to make the perfect meatloaf.

And, guess what, it tastes just like the McCormick meatloaf packet.

McCormick packet = $3.00
My meatloaf recipe = $600.00

So, McCormick wins (again).

4. Each year I take note of the first leaf that falls in Autumn. It's funny how this always happens when I'm around.

I never pick up this leaf. I don't want to disturb the ecosystem. Of course, this was not always the case. Thus every single fall leaf collected by me (in both the tri-state area and Ireland) has since been returned to their rightful locales.

This took eighteen months and cost millions of dollars but it was so worth it.

Next mission: seashells

village idiot

So everything is ok, again. I guess.

I did admit to this woman that I barely know (at her card shop today) that I'm now almost constantly nauseous due to moving here. But that was only after she came right out and said how constantly horrified she had been since she moved here.

It turns out she, too, lived in the Wicker Park neighborhood for many years before moving to this particular suburb.

I thought today that, yes, I'm conflicted and, no, I didn't choose to be here, but better to start actively enjoying the architectural history and nice people of this town - because I'm going to be here for a while.

And, because, even if it all does go on within the private confines of my mind, I can't continue being this much of an asshole.

So, I decided to embrace the whole thing.

It's a brand new positive attitude that I made up in my head to overwrite the guilt I had for absolutely hating moving here - when, quite simply, I should be grateful I have such a nice place to live. That is, any place to live.

Did I mention that I lived here a long time ago?

I did. But I've forgotten almost everything.

Like, Euclid. It's a street. But, as recently as this morning, I couldn't tell you where Euclid was.

Sometimes my boyfriend will ask me where "such and such" is located, and I realize that I could walk him anywhere to anything - I've just forgotten the names of all of the streets.

What bothered me most was not being able to locate my dad's office building.

I knew I was in the general vicinity, but, whole new structures had been built to blend timelessly with what were the original structures. So, while everything looked right, it felt askew.

And I had no proof as to how it once was.

I kept asking myself why I hadn't taken more pictures while I lived here - why no one had.

I felt certain, however, that I was close to my dad's office. Very close. That it was probably that building right there.

But there was no way of knowing.

When I later asked my mom the exact address of my dad's office she laughed like I was being silly.

The truth is, I never knew the exact address of my dad's office. I guess I simply felt my way there by instinct in the past. I've always sensed that it was probably on Marion Street. Maybe Westgate. But nothing more specific than that.

Today, though, with the exact address in my hand, I was able to locate my dad's office.

I see now why it was so difficult to find.

Because my dad's office is just a glass door with a street number on it.

And, if you bother to notice, it's a gray staircase.

But, that's not how I remember it. What I remember is the office itself.

Up on the second level, the office was three or four state-of-the-art rooms of work space designed and built by my dad.

With three or four people who worked and laughed there all day.

And sometimes I'd get dropped off there and get to play with architectural tools at one of the big drawing boards all day.

I remember getting to keep the change after picking up take-out cups of coffee from the restaurant down around the corner. The same restaurant where we often picked up lunch.

I usually ordered either the tuna or the cheese sandwich with chips, a pickle and a coke (which, like the coffee, came in me-generation orange and yellow swooshed take-out cups).

Upon returning to the office, one was always confronted by the chemical scent, that, although you had forgotten about it - or had adjusted to it, had always been there (as it came continuously from the rendering pens, no matter how tightly capped).

And, there was the ubiquitous rubber chicken, that, for some reason, featured prominently in what seemed like every joke made between my dad and his associates, in those days.

No.

None of that would have been evident from street level.

Not even back then.

So, I don't know what exactly I thought the exterior of that building would indicate about my dad's one time presence in that building, today.

Maybe a shadow or a smudge. Maybe an outline left from his logo - or his ego.

Of course, there was nothing to that effect.

And certainly nothing that plainly stated:

John The Architect Of 1972 Once Had An Office Here

I stood there for a second, anyway.

Taking it in. The glass door. The street number. The stairs.

But only for a second. I began to feel weird just for standing there.

There was, nearby, a mom sitting on the bench tending to her baby in a stroller, who simply stared at me.

And then, a woman with many bags bouldered out of the T-shirt store and almost tripped over me.

Because, of course, she hadn't expected me, as no one ever stands anywhere.

And then, a man and his small daughter, both wearing helmets, walked by with their bikes looking 100% mentally healthy.

And there I was.

Possibly lost. Dressed in an outfit that I now wear everyday, because I can't find any of my other clothes.

A getup that would be fine save for the addition (and incredible contrast) of what are definitely the biggest, whitest gym shoes ever (long story).

That's me.

The village idiot. Looking 100% the part.

clear a space

I need to pay my bills.

I keep rearranging them into new, more attractive stacks.

But I can't open them.

There's something about parting with what's left of my money that I'm against.

Something about that doesn't sit well with me.

There are now two of me. One who pays the bills on time, and one who, no matter what, can't allow the bank account to sink below a certain point.

Even as it gets horrendously down to the wire, I notice I am talking myself into accepting this new state of "not paying bills".

It's ok, I think, I'm broke. There's nothing I can do. And, I don't have any problems, only the perception of problems.

There's even been a few, "in a couple of years we will all laugh about this" - interjected, here and there.

All desperate little platitudes that even I don't buy.

I've caught myself doing things to throw off worrying for a while. Like taking Excederin PM as early as 7pm - or establishing breaks from "all thinking".

But, it doesn't work.

Even while asleep, there is a strange new brand of bad dream to contend with = my subconscious is not ok with any of this.

And, I'll admit, even while I was working, doing my bills made me anxious.

I had to first clear a space.

This was an excuse. A time waster that made sense and was seemingly neither "bad" nor "crazy".

While I did this - I would add some super-sane domestic treat (wrapped up in a task) - like making coffee.

Yes. I needed to make some coffee, but first I needed to wash the pot.

I would do this by hand - because it's always much better that way.

This very naturally led to washing all of the dishes.

Which led to cleaning the entire kitchen. Sweeping, mopping - possibly, laundry.

By the time I finished, making coffee was out of the question.

It was now late afternoon. No. What I needed now was a salad.

This required washing and chopping vegetables.

But first, I needed to select some music. Which (in and of itself) required that I first put away all of my wayward discs.

And this had to be done with care.

And sometimes required windex - as discs, as well as their cases, can become dusty - even in just a few days.

So, I would put my discs away (in a semi-alphabetical order that made sense to me, but bothered me for not being purely alphabetical) and when I was done, I would find some music that might put a better spin on my bill paying.

But first - I would eat.

And whenever I was done eating, I would run out (just for a few minutes) as, by then, I certainly needed something from the store, like aspirin or vodka.

So that, once I had returned, I could clear a space (on the table) so as to do my bills.

This meant folding, possibly filing - and otherwise putting things away.

And then, and only then, in a quasi-calm state that was meant to suggest (to me - nobody else was there) that none of this was making me the least bit anxious, I could begin doing my bills.

At this point I always liked to imagine myself as this "woman doing her bills".

Routine. No flashing lights. No sirens.

It didn't matter that I really was a woman doing her bills - it felt otherwise.

Yes.

I need to pay my bills.

Right now.

Today.

But first, I need to clear a space.

how does this work?

No one said, one day when you grow up you are going lose your dream job and all your money and your dignity and whatever certainty you had in yourself and, then, finally, when you're invited to live at your mom's house, it's going to be suddenly (for no good reason) upgraded to an invitation to live in the coach house, instead.

The couch house, instead.

That's a whole house.

With two floors. A staircase. My god. I was excited about the hallway when I moved into this apartment. I'm still excited about the hallway (it's a really long hallway with doorways, a light fixture, and it's own echo).

But this.

This means all kinds of happy things.

This means I don't have to put all of my furniture into storage.

This means privacy.

This means a basement.

A basement. Just think of it. A dark, damp place downstairs where I can do the laundry as slowly as I like.

Where I'll be able to think.

Where I'll be able to stow my mops and brooms and everything I hate.

It's so good.

So why do I feel bad?

Because I haven't earned this. Because I never wanted a house.

Because I can't enjoy anything until I find a job.

And, you know, I will. The second I've moved to a suburb that I never wanted to live in - and into a house that I don't deserve.

I will.

through a lens, reluctantly

At some point this morning I'm going to put something into a box, and, with that, the moving process will begin.

I've been looking at this box for close to two hours, now.

Though, I've been thinking about this box for months.

This box.

This box - both proverbial and real.

I wonder what was the last thing that I took out of this box when I moved here?

Or, what was the first thing that I put into it - when I moved away.

Though, let's be honest, some of those things never quite made it out of their boxes - that last time.

Could this blog have been more about things going in and out of boxes?

So, in a genius maneuver, meant to support avoiding putting anything in to that box - I started taking photos.

I know that the photos - those of whole rooms, with people in them (living life) have, already been taken.

That ship has sailed.

That is, the real photos of my home were taken well before any knowledge that we were moving ever crossed any one's minds.

I don't like staging things.

Whenever I've done that, in the past, I've noticed that all I was left with - was the memory of me staging something.

That, and whatever desperation that went behind bothering to "stage" something.

(not whatever beautiful or ugly thing I was attempting to re-capture)

This is why so many of my photos have been since excised.

I've instead documented only the odd, small, here-and-there domestic "accident" that somehow made this place home.

Up close and out of context.

No bullshit. No lies.

I photographed a small corner of a bookshelf with its few remaining books, naturally askew.

The one leaf of the one particular plant with its one patch of the neighboring building's brick in the background.

The millions and millions of rolled up floor plans.

That stack of various soaps that always hid on the edge of the bath tub.

All of them out of their wrappers; all of them slowly becoming one soap, once more.

(because all soap really does originate from one place, after all)

Just things that I looked at without realizing that I'd been looking.

It's ok.

It really is.

I'm just stalling.

sometimes it feels good to just wash your hands

I was a waitress.

I was sitting on the sink in the ladies room, smoking, crying, mascara running down my face - when another girl who worked there walked in.

She knew why I was crying.

She had witnessed it.

I had been treated in a sub-human way.

my god

She smiled, washed her hands and said to me, "..sometimes it feels good to just wash your hands, you know?"

It was a more touchy-feely time, the nineties (to be sure).

We all were a lot younger back then, too.

And glittery. We wore quite a lot of glitter (in those days).

We were mostly still learning about life (while making incredible amounts of money) all of us thinking it would still be even better, later (somehow).

Though, it still stands today.

What she said.

It does feel really good to just wash your hands, sometimes.

Then this girl dried her hands and told me to "buck up".

Buck up, princess.

That's what she said.

We all said it, at one time or another.

princess

That is what we called each other. All of the time. It was code, though.

Don't be fooled.

princess

Both an endearment and an insult. And meant wholly to keep each other in line.

That is, you never wanted to be called "princess", but if you were, it was probably with love.

Conversely, you never called any known enemies "princess", because then you were "dead".

Such was the anthropological inner workings of that particular nightclub.

buck up + count your money = remember why you are here (princess)

Ok?

Yep. And for some reason this is all I remember about that girl.

sometimes it feels good to just wash your hands

And, you know, I really love to wash my hands.

Not in any crazy compulsive way.

Though, just a minute ago, I did wash my hands (just for the joy of it) and it seemed to change the whole course that my day was taking.

First the cool water (that I let become warm).

(that's how it starts)

Then the soap itself.

Today: a mild, lovely soap.

The lather: generous.

The scent: just so.

Neither astringent nor drying.

Just clean.

Perfectly clean.

And, as I rinse the soap off of my hands, there is (in the end) no residue left on my skin.

Nor anything "stripping" (nor ruining) of my ph balance.

That is, no regrets.

The drying (a whole process in and of itself) went very well: the towel had just been laundered and was still slightly warm from the dryer.

I then employed my hand cream.

This, too, went very well.

I give it an eight (the hand washing - the whole thing).

It wasn't bad.

I then walked back out of the bathroom and went on with my day.

And, isn't that the point?

Of course, I thought of her.

I always do.

While washing my hands.

The girl from twelve years ago.

(or was it fifteen?)

Don't you think of her, too, when you wash your hands?

If not, I promise you will after reading this post. For the rest of your life, you will.

It's my gift to you.

No. No problem; I mean, you're welcome.

And, here, I'm writing about it now (so ironic).

It's the circle of life, you might say. In real time. Right here. At frankenmonsterblog.

I think of her every time I wash my hands.

And now, so shall you.

This is no fault of her own.

It just turned out that way.

So, here we are.

Now I wonder just what thing I said that is now continually assigned to "me"?

I hope it's not, "get out of my face, jaggoff.."

(though it probably is)

Whatever.

(buck up, princess)

the sun on my cereal box also rises

There is something I can't understand.

Like a background noise that is always there but I never bother to identify.

Certain things.

Like this valley I always return to in my mind.

There is a memory in there, somewhere.

I've found myself actually searching my mind.

That valley. Yes.

Where again was that valley?

It would only slowly come to the surface. With me comparing actual vistas to this memory (still unidentified by me at the time) and honestly wondering and marveling about the very mysteries of life.

This was not only an authentic valley, but was ideal as a valley.

And not just for its lovely, rolling green terrain.

No. It was other things, too. Little things.

Like the light.

Was it just me, or wasn't it obvious that the sun had just come up in this valley?

The way the air feels at that time of day. The dew. The sound of birds only emphasizing the odd, early quiet.

The smell of yesterday's rain now washed out by sunlight.

The sun glinting on things in the distance - here and there.

Everything growing.

The sky - yellow and pale, maybe a bit redder at the horizon.

The horizon being quite hilly from where we stand.

It really draws a person into this "valley" (wherever this valley is).

I mean it - it makes me dizzy. The depth, the distance. That weightless feeling. The height versus the sheer expanse.

It's almost like I could fly right into this valley (though, that would be frightening and completely against my will).

Did I mention that the trees in the distance were in silhouette?

It's all right there.

All of it.

On a can of peas.

(if not box of frozen spinach)

Ok. If it's fake, if it has anything to do with advertising, if it's been around since before I was born then:

your commercial is definitely working on me

For example, her.

You know her. The lady on the can of tomato paste?

She with the black hair and the basket of tomatoes.

She never did say very much. She just smiles and laughs.

The landscape on this can is quite lovely, too.

The sky is incredibly blue and crystal clear.

There are no clouds in sight.

What time is it (on this can of tomato paste)?

Late afternoon.

About three-o-clock. Not quite time for a glass of wine.

The tomatoes still needed to be picked, though, and the sauce (o-mi-o-my) hadn't even been started!

but that's ok, everything is ok

Because she, mostly unrivaled by Mona Lisa, has this (mostly unrivaled) tomato paste.

Here, in either Italy or South America (the can doesn't really say).

To be clear, I'm three years old, sitting in a shopping cart in a grocery store in Chicago. And I'm holding a small can of tomato paste.

It is out of sheer boredom and a precocious ability to entertain myself (that will prove useful for the rest of my life) that I'm absolutely mesmerized by this image of a happy woman with dark hair and eyes (that looks just like my mom) to the point of "study".

I ascertain that her smile is genuine.

Yes.

She likes her life.

Her work.

Herself.

She likes her red dress.

And me. She likes me.

And, so, this will be the tomato paste that I use for the rest of my life.

Yes.

It's decided.

recurring dream

I have a recurring dream.

It takes place when I'm about four or five years old.

My mom and my older brother are there, too.

We're walking through a carnival.

It's night time. The place feels abandoned. Some garbage is blowing around.

And it's cold. We're wearing our winter coats.


At first glance it's a colorful place. But only because it's supposed to be.

Upon scrutiny, I see that the whole thing is rusting at the edges, that the paint is peeling and that everything is eroded by time.

And it seems that we are the only ones there.

It always starts with us walking through a gate with a turnstile.

As many times as I've had this dream, and as obvious a metaphor as it is, I can't put my finger on it.
The Wiz is the closest visual reference I can think of - but, even that is way off.

It's not a spooky dream. It's not a nightmare.

There are couple of alternate endings:

One is where I get on an elevated train.

But, before I get on the train, I notice that it's falling apart. It's extremely rickety and seems to run right into the sunset.

It's built higher up than any actual train. There seems to be nothing else on the landscape, save for this train.

The landscape is a wasteland.

The train is a cross between el train and roller coaster.

I always get onto this train. It either goes to a really bad part of town - or stops suddenly. Mid-air, as the track simply ends.

Not that we fall off, or anything. It just ends. Ride over.

Sometimes there is a steep, three or four stories high, single flight of metal stairs that I have to climb down to get off the platform.

This, in itself, is a recurring theme in my dreams.

I'm always climbing down the sides of buildings on little, rusted out fire escapes or small metal ladders.

The other ending is that I wind up at this apartment (that has been featured in many of my dreams) that I have never been to in real life.

This apartment has whole rooms that I never use. This apartment is disturbingly big.

And those rooms (that I never use) are filled with someone else's extensive, dusty collection of glass items (and it looks like the prop aisle at my old job - except that I had this dream before I ever worked there).

The kitchen is small and the window looks out onto water.

But not Lake Michigan, or the river. It's the Atlantic.

Though I've never seen the Atlantic (except while in Ireland).

This is definitely the Atlantic, as seen stateside.

This dream always leads into one of two other dreams.

(but I can't get into that or I'll be doing this all day)

I should mention that, just last night, there was a documentary on tv about old amusement parks.

Some of them date back to the early 1900's.

Somehow, whole elements of my dream were addressed in this documentary.

Fact: I've never been to Coney Island.

Or, for that matter, Riverview - Chicago's equivalent..

Mostly because Riverview closed in 1967. The year I was born.

But I've heard people talk about it. One thing I always hear is how run down and crime ridden it became in it's final years of operation.

So, can anyone clear this up for me?

convenience store

Wait. This liquor store.

What again is the problem with this liquor store?

It always hits me when I walk in. But, by then, it's too late.

It was about two years ago that I got a call from the credit card people informing that there had been strange activity on my card.

At the time, I hadn't used the card in close to a year.

But, then, there was this barbecue we had to go to (all of a sudden) and, just as we were about to step onto the train, we realized: we forgot the beer.

So we stopped at the aforementioned liquor store.

And I used my credit card.

I remember that we then left the liquor store and went directly to the barbecue.

Hours passed.

There were a few mosquitoes. But that was ok.

It was the fact that the guest of honor's husband was a rocket scientist that seemed to bring everyone together.

This went on for about an hour:

Seriously, he's an actual rocket scientist - isn't that so funny?

There were some problems with the neighbors, though.

They kept coming into the yard and demanding parts of the pig that was being roasted.

I thought they were kidding.

The roasting of a whole pig. I don't get it. I never have.

This has nothing to do with vegetarianism.

I do like baked apples, though (so there's that).

In all honesty, I didn't think that anything odd was going on.

I thought the party throwers knew the pig-enthusiasts.

I really did.

It was funny.

Like tv.

Yeah.

Everything was about what one would expect.

But then the sun went down.

And that's when things took a turn for the worst.

This barbecue, which took place in a neighborhood that seems like a good idea when the sun is shining, but becomes filled with crazy people and gun shots right around 8pm - wasn't worth it.

The fun.

The hilarity.

It was about at 8pm that it felt like time to say goodnight to our host.

And, about ten minutes later, we were home.

finally

I turned on all of the lights and the stove and AC and the tv and threw away all kinds of recycling (just put it right into the incinerator) and made hundreds of phone calls.

I was just so happy to be home.

Truly.

I had never been so relieved to see an eastbound Division Street bus as I was that night.

There might have been one other time. But that one was going west.

It was about eight years ago.

I was worried about being late for work and had been working with a teacher's assistant on something that completely confused me.

Somehow, I had forgotten that I worked that night, and (checking several times) realized that didn't have enough cash to take a cab (which in all fairness would have probably taken just as long as the bus).

But that was "work-related" bus happiness.

Not really the same thing (bus-wise).

So, at any rate, we got home ok.

From the barbecue. That night. Almost two years ago.

Hungry, we went right into the kitchen to make grilled chicken salads with beats, ginger, cilantro, and the merest whisper of homemade sesame dressing.

As well, left-over tacos, cold spaghetti and half a bag of potato smiles.

Then, at some point, our friend came over (to make a series of crank calls) and, seeing as she brought over a magnum of vodka, we drank vodka.

And, I remember that I slept well.

Yes.

Then, the next day was a Sunday. So I had lots to do before the work week started all over again.

Mondays: they're either good or they're bad.

And, seeing as Mondays set the tone for the whole week - the things I do on Sunday can be very important.

Especially as, depending on where they fall within a month, certain Mondays can effect an entire
month - if not season.

I always think of this.

So, I had to iron a particular skirt again. As this skirt always required several ironings.

No matter. I simply got on with my day.

And that's all I remember about that day.

Then, if you can believe it, it was Monday (really Monday).

And that's when I got the call.

The credit card people. They said that there had been strange activity on my card.

There was a four hundred dollar charge for something that, if I heard the person correctly, was either an escort or one very expensive phone call (to that effect).

The liquor store!

Clearly.

They were the last place I had used that card (in a very long time). And this activity happened within hours of that beer purchase.

I got to say, as armchair forensic specialists go, I am up there.

Of course, the credit card people cleared up the whole thing for me.

And, for the most part, I put the whole episode out of my mind.

Still, I didn't go to that liquor store for a very long time.

And when I finally did, I noticed that I always used cash (for some reason).

I didn't think about it too carefully - it was just the way I rolled.

It was dormant in my mind.

I knew to use cash - but didn't concentrate on "why".

Sometimes we buy beer there.

Yes.

But they also have a very nice selection of wine and cat food.

As well, doritos, aspirin and tampax.

It just so happens that they are open late and are quite convenient.

So I shopped there. Just today.

And that's when it hit me.

Like my life flashing before my eyes.

and I remembered everything..

like clock work

At precisely 11:11 (each day, sometimes twice a day) I think of a high school friend who announced whenever it was 11:11 that 11:11 was her favorite time.

This went on for years.

And, if it happens to be 8:22, my mom will say, hi dad.

Because 822 was the address of the two-flat where some member (or combination of members) of my family lived for a million years.

Only, now I do it, too. I say, hi grandpa.

I don't know when this started or how I got involved.

Furthermore, if it's 11:19, or if it's November 19th, I think of my grandmother and my brother because - just because.

You get what I'm saying.

That makes six potential instances (each day) where I think of these people or things.

In summary, if you want to be remembered make certain to announce your favorite time to people. Really drive it home. Tell them over and over.

Tell them. Then tell them again. Even though they heard you the first time.

Because, I haven't seen this person in years - and I think of her at least once a day.

Each day.

frankenmonsterblog on rye with tomato

Hold the onion and mayo.

question:

How much money is in my back account?

answer:

I have no idea

I am in full-on avoidance mode.

Today, like yesterday and the day before that, it is cloudy with occasional showers.

The sky, during the day, is basically just one color all day.

To be fair, if the sun were shining right now, I probably wouldn't be happy about it.

It's neither warm nor cold.

Neither spring nor winter.

It's April.

No. It's not even April.

It's not any month, nor any season.

It's Thursday. Yes. Technically speaking.

It was just "Wednesday" (as recently as yesterday)..

But NOT anymore!

The following (unlike the above) is a list of nothing of any importance (in no particular order):

The new cell phone (from a couple of months ago) has been replaced with the old phone, again (this just happened)

The old info on my old phone was still intact (I find this to be incredible; almost outstanding)

I now hear my old ring tone when it rings - making me feel as though possibly I have successfully gone back in time.

All of this has led me to wonder if the my "new phone" wasn't the source of whatever it is that's currently cursing my life

The new phone is in a drawer awaiting trial

Hearing my old ring tone is soothing to my ears

I do not want my old new phone back

Jobs are few and far in between

I need to make several decisions - soon

I am a bit hormonal at the moment

Last night I had a dream about my old Sesame Street 45's

I just recently saw The Wrestler

I re-watched The Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind

I need to pay my rent

Will it be for that last time..?

It's anyone's guess.

I'd rather "decide" than wait and wager with my fate

I was yelling about this (at myself) yesterday

What is the alternative? Stay here until they kick me out?

No thanks.

I've been a good tenant. They have been good landlords.

I won't make them "dump" me.

I would rather leave paid in full

Why is it that so many people don't get this?

Everyone keeps saying, "just wait and see?".

Are you fricking kidding me..?