brain damage

I think I might have a touch of brain damage.

I've had a song stuck in my head for four days. I hear this song so much, that I don't even hear it anymore. Then I'll stop what I'm doing ..and wait, no, no ..it's still there.

It's always there.

I'm starting to think that there might be something wrong with me.

Me. My brain. Both me and my brain.

The Flower Called Nowhere, by Stereolab. It's supposedly about boats. Small boat. But I've come to the realization that it's about taking life for granted. And if you know this song, you know that it has a certain, spiraling-slowly-around-as-the-traffic-rushes-past-you, other worldly, sort of ..I do believe I am floating very pleasantly right towards disaster but it's so nice that I think I'll just keep going.. quality.

It's not for every situation. This song.

And hearing it in my head all of the time is starting to mess with my life. Particularly at work.

It all started a few days ago, after I hit my head at work. And I hit my head about a week before that, too. As well as about a month before that. And I had a serious head injury not too long ago.

So, I'm beginning to think that there might be a correlation. Between hitting my head and hearing this song.

I don't know. And I used to like this song.

I finally googled to find a solution to this problem. One thing I heard again and again was to simply listen to the song. Actually listen to it. In reality. On the disk. Reason being, that your brain might not be able to conclude the song. So, even as I knew that my brain knew the ending of this song, I tried this. A couple of times.

It was so boring. I have to say.

And it didn't work.

It's funny how slowly it dawns on a person that there might be a problem. At first, this didn't bother me. Of course not. It happens to all of us. When does a day go by where you don't hear somebody say, ..Help! There's a song stuck in my head..!

But then a day does go by. And I'm thinking ..Ok, what song is going to get stuck in my head today?

And there it is. Again.

me and my piece of paper

Now spell check free!

The kitten is doing fine. Since you asked. It was touch and go for a minute. For instance, she will eat on her own one day, then require the eye dropper the next. Sometimes it's formula. Sometimes it's cat food. Sometimes it's neither.

I don't know what her deal is.

But it's ok. I'm going to cut her some slack for the time being.

Otherwise, I'm just sitting here. Waiting for my sandwich to arrive..

There was some minor drama in my life last week. Which, due to a need to write it down and sort it out, briefly necessitated that I start another blog. But only briefly. I didn't go through with it.

Too bad. What happened is unbelievable. That is, no one would ever believe me. And, funny to such a degree that I get chills just thinking about it. And the rest of it is just sad. However, in retrospect, the sad parts (which account for the remainder of what happened) are hysterically funny when taken out of context. With a small percentage of the whole thing (6%) being heartbreaking. With that 6%, I'm afraid, not at all being funny when taken out of context. And, if I may be so presumptuous, you would probably be disappointed in me for about 2% of the story.

And, I just realized, I have told no one what happened. Which is weird. It feels like I've told people about this.

As mentioned, I didn't write in the other blog. I did set it up, though. I chose a template and everything. I used my full name and social security number as both the address and title for this other blog. I felt such an address would, if nothing else, keep me honest as well as invite an whole new level of trouble into my life.

But I caught myself mid process, and aborted the whole thing. What was I doing?

I used to just write stuff and save it to a file. And, really, why can't I simply write on a piece of paper anymore? It used to be like that. Just me. Me and my piece of paper. No audience. Real or perceived. Just that of my pen.

Just the pen and me and a piece of paper and vodka.

And whenever too much paper or truth or lies ecrued, I would toss my couple of notebooks over a particular bridge into the Chicago River. Just toss them in. Or I would set them on fire. Just small fires in my kitchen sink. Harmless. A couple of sheets of paper at a time. No big emergency or anything. Though it smelled bad, and probably made the neighbors nervous. But it never set off any smoke detectors. Mostly because I disable all smoke detectors right off the bat. And it felt good. The purging, drowning, or otherwise burning at the stake of my diary. Obviously, this was before I had a shredder. Though, trust me, I've done that, too..

Not recently, though. Not recently enough.

a small plastic man on a motorcycle

There is an item on my shelf that I look at now and then, as well as admire and occasionally dust. It's a small action figure of a man riding a motorcycle. Though the motorcycle can not be attenuated in any way, the man riding the motorcycle can be posed in several different ways. As well as taken off the motorcycle altogether.

They are separate items intended to be regarded as one item.

Which, neither here, nor there, is important to remember when I am dusting. As it is easy to forget that they, the action figure and the motorcycle, are two separate items (particularly while dusting). So that some part of the whole usually gets dropped (in the process of dusting).

In any case, this particular piece of plastic rendered and molded to look like a man riding a motorcycle (posed in any number of ways) is impossible to ignore. As a subject he is rather intense. He's clearly taken a wrong turn in life. And is currently going through something that stands wholly outside the parameters of what is considered normal human experience.

Several clues have lead me to draw these conclusions.

1) His hair is on fire.

Though it is unexplained (he has yet to explain any of this to me) it is reasonable to presume that there was (or is) another, worse original fire that caused his hair to catch on fire. One worries about this.

2) The wheels on his motorcycle have also caught fire.

But there is a slight discrepancy in the above statement. One that I didn't consider right off the bat. That is, that the wheels on his motorcycle are not just on fire (though they probably were at one time) but rather are now made out of fire. This motorcycle runs on fire.

3) He has lost all his skin. His face is just a skull without skin or eyes.

Fire will do that.

He does have all of his teeth, though. So that he often looks like he is grinning a crazy, evil, permanent grin. But upon further contemplation, I realize that he isn't grinning. It's just that all of his teeth are exposed. He can't help it. He knows that the expression on his face is alarming. But, then, he isn't sorry:

ALL OF THIS IS ALARMING

And he just hasn't time for things like, "I'm sorry" or "thank you" or, for that matter, "please".

And one tends to let this slide.

4) What he is wearing is highly suspect.

It is what can only be called Post Apocalyptic black leather gear. Post Apocalyptic black leather having a certain, unmistakably serious quality (as fabrics go). And I've taken note that it is as serious and scary from a distance as it is up close.

5) All of this is made worse by hundreds of metal spikes that he has attached to outfit.

And he carries a thick, heavy chain (looped diagonally from one shoulder to his waist). I am certain that it (and the spikes) are probably necessary under the circumstances.

Though, again, what those circumstances are is beyond me.

And, it's just a hunch, but whenever I dare to look at him, I can't help thinking that all of this has just happened. That this represents Day One. That, as recently as yesterday, everything was just fine with this guy. That he was sitting at work pretending to be busy, thinking about maybe grilling some steaks, and making a mental note to remember to water the ficus.

And pow.

Something happened. But what? What is his deal?

This is the thing.

no, you didn't ask but I'm telling you anyway

Goodbye Seth: Once and for all. You. Your record of my hair. All of it.

Today I went out walking around not knowing what I was doing. But I knew. I was looking for a salon. It was time. It had to be done.

I noted several salons as I walked around the immediate neighborhood. I eyed each of them critically, and took note of what they were called. Cliches. No. Beauty School Drop Outs. No. I finally wandered into one of them. And I looked like I was wandering, too. I could tell that they knew right off the bat that I was a wanderer, which is altogether different than a walk-in. I know. I remember. I used to work in a salon. So, whatever this place was, it was ok. Ok, but nothing remotely like the place that I normally go to to have my hair cut.
Why did I do this? Why did I betray my normal stylist? The stylist that I have been going to (at minimum) twice a year, for eleven years? Where, in the end, my hair was so long, that I didn't go in for cuts as often as my stylist would have liked? Yet, he made time to (accept my money) cut my hair, anyway? Just not as often or as extremely as he would have liked (to accept my money) cut my hair?

First of all, I should say that he (I'll call him Seth) is a great cutter of hair. I liked his hair cuts. And I liked the salon. I especially (as it got to be five, six, seven years) liked the way it (which is very nice salon, nicer than most things I do for myself, if not more expensive) always smelled the same. Kind of the way that Thanksgiving dinner always smells the same. I knew where I was when I walked into that salon. And it was good, believe me it was good. Very, very good smelling. That salon. And the interior was nice. I liked how they had this super calm-to-the-senses, nearly Buddhist aesthetic mixed with raw industrial elements. There was something for everyone in that design. But no. Not this time. And I didn't want to wait a million years for an appointment. And, I hate to say it , but I think I've grown weary of Seth. No fault of his own, but he just knows too much. Even though I barely talk to him. Eleven years will lead to that. This sense of he's practically family (and he has indeed cut the hair of nearly every person in my family, which only adds to my distress).

I just wanted an escape. From my hair. And from Seth.

Because I wanted to cut my hair to shoulder length. With a lot of layers. I wanted something more Do Re Mi. Something more something-or-other. Something less of me (the current me), and more of that someone else that I've been at times. I wanted not be this, but, instead, that. I wanted to go to France. Via my hair. Understand, I'm not impulsive. This has been boiling up in me for some time. Just that certain things happen in life, and suddenly I need to be smarter. To have my shit together. Today. Quickly. Because that woman, the one that has the shorter hair with all of the layers, has her shit together. I remember her that way (it has been a long time, but I'm pretty sure about this). She eats right. She doesn't make a fool of herself. She's a bit quieter, but still present. She mostly laughs at the jokes, instead of making them. But that's ok. She doesn't worry. She likes life. Herself. She is a lady. She walks down the street in the rain with her umbrella. Wearing a little black A-line dress. Carrying her bag of oranges from the street vendor. Singing her quiet, lilting, somewhat heartbreaking ballad about the irony of life and love (in a musical set in a small, vaguely European seaside town, that is about the irony of life and love). That girl. I know her. She's ok.

I wanted that.

Just not with Seth. Which was unfair of me. This would have made his day. Seth has been waiting for this. He really likes cutting off all of my hair. Transforming me into someone else. Playing the part of some kind of magician or, in his mind, Prometheus. And, as he has only had this experience with me once in this life time (way back in the very beginning) he has waited a very long time for this event. And don't get me wrong. I'm merely quoting him. He calls it an event. He has asked about it many times. When the big event will be. And he doesn't mean my wedding day. He means my hair. He's mad like that.

So I wanted to avoid Seth's complete hoopla that I would have been confronted with if I had gone in to see him. As well as his questions. His thousands of questions. Because Seth knows the whole psychological history of my hair, as well as keeps a record of it. A printout that he refers to whenever I come in. I assumed that it has notes in it so that he would remember me, my job, what to chit-chat about, but he finally showed me the stuff that's in my file. For instance, to my horror, in 1996 I came in for a drastic cut. I was going through something. It was a hair emergency. And In 1999 (his least favorite of the years, indicated by the big frowny face he'd drawn in a red Sharpie over the typed data: a lengthy, unforgiving diatribe) I had grown it out long. Very long. Where it has remained ever since. And he totally disapproved. Which he has told me outright. Many times. And he hated that I never had any damage or real need for him to hack off my hair. He had to do the tiny trim that I asked for. In his notes I saw that he originally attested my long hair to the fact that I had gone back to school. He thought I was regressing. Which was true. But then, all of the information that Seth had on me (in his permanent file on my hair) was true.

Every single word.

So I went into Salon Blue. Blue not being my favorite color (except the shade of blue of that one couch that I really wanted, which was perfect). But I liked their location. It was a vibe. I just went in. Without any preparation. No phone call. Nothing. It was equally bold as it was weak. I never do such things. And as I mentioned earlier, they knew right away. That I was a wanderer. They said,

Are you ok? Do you want some water while you wait? An aspirin? A hit off of Kristi's joint?

And

Don't worry. It's cool. We've all been there..

And all I had done was enter the building. I never said a word. And I quickly realized that I didn't have to. It was like being brought into the emergency room. They know it's bad. Don't try to speak. It's ok. You're alright now. Just let us take care of you.

I said, ok.

I never so much as told Kristi what I wanted. I just pointed to a tear sheet that was taped up on a wall. I said, Her. It was a photograph of a woman with great shoulder length hair, who looked dead serious yet calm. And a little like me. Who was clearly in a post orgasmic state. Who's hair was piece-y, like it was already a little bit dirty. And Kristi got it. Me. My hair. My problems. She just took out the biggest pair of scissors I've ever seen in my life and cut off a lengthy portion of my hair. Then she showed it to me. For shock value. Like, Look what we've done. There's no going back now. Then she asked if I'd like it in a box. I said no, but I'll admit it. I did. I did want my hair in a box. To have my hair in a box. I just didn't know that this was done. And the box (I later found out) was coffin shaped. I really could have kicked myself. But, I got past it. And then, after my hair was washed, Kristi proceeded to cut my hair.

Later, when I woke up, Kristi handed me a mirror. She said, Look at the back. I invented that. And the back was good. She flipped it up a little with her fingers. She explained how she was always inventing things for her clients. I thought of how this "inventing things" would have caused Seth to run screaming directly to the Beauty Police to have Kristi placed under arrest. But I was in a different country now. And the back was good. I dare say better than ever. She then said in a half whisper, I bet you hate your hair the first day you wash it (she was right, I really do). She said, ..this makes it dirty again. I said, Oh, I've heard about this. The "dirty little secret". Yeah. So she put some onto my hair. And instantly it looked second-day. And so I got up and started towards the front. But then I stopped and turned around. Kristi, I asked, how often to I need to come in to maintain this? And she said, When you start feeling like you hate life.. come in. Not a minute sooner..

Good answer. It might be years.

mildew, spiders and one light bulb

Oh joy!

What seemed like just five minutes ago (but was actually an hour and forty-five minutes ago) the laundry room in my building was piled with a million bags and baskets of laundry. Other people's laundry that either needed to be washed or dried. It was hard to determine what exactly was going on with those bags and baskets (some baskets trying desperately to be anything other than mere laundry baskets, like the bushel-of-apples style basket) or what it meant in terms of time. And I didn't want to get too close to try to determine the wait time for the machines. I hate other people's laundry.

At times like these I try to recall how I once dreamed of living in a building with laundry facilities. That I'm lucky that I no longer need to go to a laundry mat. That this (basement with mildew and spiders and one light bulb) is an unprecedented luxury.

Sometimes I forget.

Still, I get frustrated with the situation of the laundry room. I'm sure that everyone in the building does. Everyone except Mary. I think Mary likes the laundry room. Mary, who once (when I was late in getting my laundry out of the dryer) was found by me to be folding my laundry. I'll never forget it. How I instantly hated her for folding my laundry. I remember initially saying sorry (for making her wait for a dryer), but then (as I saw what was really going on) my eyes and actions (and maybe even my posture) saying something to the effect of:

What on EARTH do you think you are doing?!

Actually, I might have said this part out loud. And there might have been yelling. I don't recall. I was confused by the incidence of so many negative emotions hitting me all at once. No doubt Mary saw herself as supremely neighborly in folding my laundry. I, on the other hand, saw what she was doing as grossly intrusive. If not sickeningly martyr-like. And I quickly determined her to be passive-aggressive (such a hostile transgression masked rather uncleverly as helpfulness) and just horribly, horribly inappropriate.

No. You do not fold your neighbor's laundry. Maybe at the turn of the last century. Maybe. But even those women (in long white smocks with black button up boots) that I am imagining (leaving calling cards in scented envelopes just to say hello) knew each other. Mary and I don't know each other. We just live in the same building. The fact that I know her name is remarkable. And Mary's name might be Kathy. I don't know. And she doesn't know my name, either. It's that minimal respectful distance in such close quarters (where personal space is at a premium) that everyone (except Mary) is trying to maintain. It's the way we avert our eyes on the train, though we are packed as sardines. Yes. I hated Mary for folding my laundry. It would have only been worse if she had opened my mail and read it to me.

At that point, I took the clothes from her (and I detected the faintest of resistance on her part; she now felt some ownership of my laundry, I think, and I could tell that for an instant she still thought that all of this was was ok, and that she expected a compliment) and put them (once again) into the nearest washing machine. I put the quarters (thank God I still had quarters) into the slot, and pointedly turned the temperature gauge all the way up to HOT! (passive-aggressive/ fight fire with fire). I did this fast. Without apology. With a cigarette dangling from my mouth and my eyes fixed on her the entire time. And she returned the look. Unwaveringly. Holding on for dear life to her position of righteousness. It became a sort of standoff. And though she was wrong, very wrong, and she knew that she was wrong, Mary did not break her half of the Stare of Mutual Incredulousness that had, by then, been established between the two of us (mine rightfully; hers more desperately). She stood firm. Even though I am sure that she was devastated, she was stubborn to the bitter end, that Mary. Or Kathy. Whatever her name was.

I never saw her again.

And it was no more than a half an hour later when I discovered that it was in fact Mary's own clothes that she had been folding when I mistakenly tore her laundry away from her, and put it through a second cycle of washing.

So, I know that I am pointing out the obvious when I say that sharing a laundry room can be tricky at times. That timing is essential. And, tonight was no exception to the obvious, well known, and at times boring facts about laundry rooms that I have outlined here. There was so much laundry in queue to be either washed or dried in my laundry room, that it was hard to differentiate between the two. Apparently a system had been developed between the tenants. But it was lost on me. It just seemed that every tenant in the building suddenly had a ton of laundry to do. There was the sense that some emergency had transpired. About laundry. And that, whatever it was, it was epic. It has never been like that in the laundry room before. I should also mention that at this juncture one of the washing machines appeared to be broken. It was a bad. Bottom line. So I put down my laundry bag and turned around to go upstairs. By the time I reached my apartment, I was in a rotten mood.

My whole world came crashing down:

I hated everything now. I had nothing clean to wear. Not for Father's Day. Not for Monday. So I sat here and paged angrily through a magazine and hated my life and all of my clothes. My dirty clothes. Why didn't I do laundry last night? Clean or dirty, it didn't matter. I wanted to throw away all of my clothes. Not just into the garbage, but through the window. While yelling. At this point, I really hated my clothes. Mostly for not being clean. I was tortured by the idea of, What will I wear tomorrow? The next day? What will I do? Which led to, What am I doing with my life? Why don't I have my own washing machine by now? Which led to (alternately), Who am I? And, Who the hell do I think I am? And finally to something about, I hate this kitchen..

It went like that for a while.

But then I went downstairs (mostly to recollect my bag of laundry before some cat made it their bed for the night) and all of the piles of laundry were gone. And every machine, be it washer or dryer, was empty. And it looked like someone swept. And the broken washing machine was again lit up, saying, $1.25. So everything was ok. So I put my laundry in. Now I'm just waiting to change loads.
..........

Note to self:

Watching Francis should be done only when one is well rested and otherwise not menstrual.

Avocados are not that good for you, require patience, and are only to be eaten when actually ripe.

Placing phone calls while still partially asleep is a big mistake.

Your new permanent raspy voice is not because you are finally becoming Marlo Thomas, but because you are tired and have been smoking too much.

..........

putting the google on frankenmonsterblog a second time prooves to be a big mistake

Something is terribly wrong.

I'm in shock. Something called (I can't even say it) f--- g---- t-- (a word I've never used in my life, or any of my posts) is somehow (seriously, I defy you to find the word t--) mistakenly (or, for that matter, b---) associated with this blog.

I think there was a misunderstanding.

It's all just a terrible mistake.

I'd like to say that there has been a mix up.

I apologize.

Now I'm crying.

Now I'm making a tomato sandwich.

Not good to eat right before bed, but I've had a shock, and I didn't have anything for dinner. I need a sandwich.

I'll be right back..

Yes. I'm glad I ate that sandwich. And, seriously, I'm starving. I think I'll make another.

Update: Ok, I made another sandwich. But then I got an idea. I realized that the part of the day that I hate most (the making of my lunch for the next day) could be over right now if I just put this second sandwich immediately into a baggie, and into the fridge.

So that's what I did.

Sometimes I think I might die from the boredom of the making of future sandwiches. It's just so tedious. But, wow, how great that I made my lunch for the next day and didn't at all suffer from the effects of doing so. Sneaky.

And now I'm having a cigarette. But all I have are fire place matches for some reason, which is ridiculous, and kind of kills the whole convienence of smoking.

I'm smoking anyway. Just to be clear. Despite the yard long match. I would die of laughter if someone (out of nowhere, totally unexpected) lit my cigarette with this kind of match at a party, or out somewhere. That would deffinitely get my attention.

in the cooler, no one can hear you scream

It's a fact.

I'm sorry, for reasons unforseeable by anyone who works here (as we have no way of determining the status of our pineapple juice), we are temporarily out of pineapple juice. Though my barback is currently on a mission to find pineapple juice, I admit that this may take some time. I want to extend my sincerest regrets, and ask that everyone try to recollect themselves. The estimated wait time for pinapple juice is currently: T minus seven minutes. Please align your time pieces accordingly.

I like saying T minus.

I got the phrase T minus from the movie Alien, which I watched a million times when I was growing up. I loved Alien. And I was obsessed with the cover art on the box. I spent a great deal of time looking at that box. I liked the symbolism of the egg in outer space with the green light emanating from it. And the foreboding line:

IN SPACE, NO ONE CAN HEAR YOU SCREAM.

Indeed. Pure genius. And I'm sure it's true.

Alien. The part at the end where Ripley opens the emergency self destruct apparatus and quickly reads the instructions that are printed there. And then, according to those instructions, takes steps to begin the mode of self destruction. She must get herself (and the cat, she never forgets about Jones) onto the smaller shuttle and away from the ship. She has a lot of pressure on her at that moment. Not to mention the added pressure of the alarm that is then sounding off, and that of the (unfeeling computer generated female) voice that begins to repeat (at very regular intervals) just how many minutes are left before the ship will self destruct. ..You have T minus eight minutes ..T minus five minutes.. Ripley does indeed get out in the nick of time. She knows that she will have a lot of explaining to do when she gets back to Earth, but she'll worry about that later (and, of course, in just a few minutes, she will encounter a whole new set of problems).

One time, when I had a paper jam, I (very much like Ripley) found myself opening the door to the emergency apparatus in the back of my printer. I then (just as she) quickly read the universal picto-image instructions found inscribed in that compartment. And I needed to keep my wits about me as I took steps to undo the paper jam. Which was difficult. Especially under the (and the similarities are almost chilling when you think about it) added duress of a message that was issued repeatedly in an emotionally removed, computer generated voice:

Emergency: Paper jam detected.
Emergency: Paper jam detected.

It turns out that the default mode for a paper jam emergency is T minus sixty seconds.
And my failure to respond in time led to the cancellation of that print job.

Print job aborted.

And in space, that would have meant my death.
..........................

You have T minus three remaining waitressing shifts..

Three. At the end of which I will flee the premises in my (small space ship) taxi, for the last time. And (if life is anything like Alien, and I suspect it is) I will feel fairly secure that I have made a clean getaway. I will be tired, yes, but also no doubt relieved and happy to finally be on on my way back to my (planet) apartment. But then, when I get home, I will find that there is a (monster) table of customers waiting for me in my kitchen. They will be shaking their glasses at me (a clever devise meant to emphasize the emptiness of their glass, if not the emptiness of their lives) at which point one of them will say loudly and sarcastically, There she is..! (suggesting that they have been waiting for me, as it is only in the privacy of their own home that they can safely pour the bottle continuously down their throat, as they prefer, and they really, really hate being the resident "alcoholic" at a table amongst "friends" who are drinking more "socially", i.e. slowly, and so need to take their frustration out on someone, and so behave as if they have waited, when in fact they have not, as I, the waitress, have barely finished setting down the original round of drinks before this person has sucked down their double vodka on the rocks with a cherry, the same sticky cherry that they like to place right on top of my tip, making the tip and the cherry all one gesture of garbage-giving, so to speak) I will then realize that this monster is intelligent (making it all the more menacing) and that I somehow unwittingly brought it along with me on my escape mission. So, I will slowly back away from this table of customers and into my clothes closet, where I will (rotely, cautiously) put on my anti-waitressing suit (all the while quietly singing to myself, You.. Are.. My.. Lucky.. Star..) and proceed (with the kitten safely tucked away in the sleep chamber) to open the hatch and allow this last table to be finally sucked into outer space (and away from me and my kitten) forever.

And, as much as I hope it doesn't come down to that, I like being mentally prepared.

Doris

Part one:

We're here today with reknowned Life Engineer, Doris.
Doris, you've been called a lifestyle guru.. a life doctor.. the patron saint of clutter.. crazy and presumptuous.. a heartless bitch.. the descriptions just go on and on.
Let me ask you, do you find each of your cases unique?

Oh, yes, each person's mess, that is, life winds up the way it does for a variety of reasons. And all you have to do is scratch the surface and the story begins to reveal itself. You can even create a matrix like this one here (pointing to an elaborate three dimensional model) as a means to trace back just exactly how, for example, that unaddressed pile of clutter left in the kitchen led to one's avoidance of the kitchen in general.. which led to the dishes never getting done.. which led to the ordering of many pizzas.. to emotional bankruptcy.. and finally, financial ruin. As well, you can see clearly in this document the unique events that led to this particular sock winding up on the floor, rather than in the clothes hamper. It's all quite interrelated.

That's remarkable.

Yeah, it really is.

So who do we have here today?

This is Marie.

Hi Marie, how are you?

Fine, thank you.

Are you a little anxious?

A little.

Ok, so what's the particular case with Marie?

Marie has invited us to intervene concerning a couple of problems. For starters, you wrote in your letter that you need help regarding the spoon from the coffee. Can you elaborate?

Yes. My coffee cups don't have saucers. So, as you can see, the spoon that I used this morning to stir my coffee was placed back onto the table.

And remains there, still, I see. This is a problem.

Yeah. And because of this, I've taken to avoiding spoons altogether. Sometimes I just stir my coffee with my finger..

Ok. If I could stop you right there. Let's take a deep breath and back up a little bit.
Marie, as I'm listening to you and analyzing this, I'm aware that something is not quite right. I mean, I'm looking at your coffee right now, and it appears that you take it black.

I do.

No sugar?

No.

Then, I guess my question is, do you really need to stir your coffee?

You know.. I guess I never really thought about it.

Marie, is it possible that this problem is a non-problem? Perhaps an old habit that you've outgrown?

Maybe. Wow. How do you do that?

(Turning to me) You see, sometimes a client can do away with a problem simply by looking at it in another way.

Right, right. And that requires a second party to come in and see things as they really are.

Bingo. Objectivity is half the battle.

Fascinating.

Ok. Next issue at hand. You wrote that your living room is usually a mess, and that it's difficult when people come over, as there is no where for them to sit down and relax.

Yes. I'm bad..

Marie, did it ever occur to you that if you stopped living in your living room, it would always be tidy?

No. But..

Wow.

Ok, finally, you wrote that your feet hurt so much at the end of the day that the last thing you feel like doing is straightening up or making dinner. Marie, let me see your shoes.

They're not very comfortable.

I think we're going to have to arrange a little field trip for you..

Oh my God! You don't mean..?

That's right. Our team of personal shoppers are going to take you on an extreme shoe shopping adventure! The limo is already out front.. are you ready, Marie?

Oh man, I feel like a movie star or something!

(While Marie went off with the team in search of more comfortable shoes, Doris and I stayed back at the house to prepare a special surprise: We cleaned Marie's kitchen)

Now, you see this here? This is the classic sign of someone holding on to things in their life that they've outgrown (Doris holds up a small photo album). What is our motto? Throw! Throw! Throw it away! (Doris tosses the photo album into the garbage). Believe me, she'll thank us later. And what is this? (Doris spots a small crucifix that Marie has hung above her kitchen sink). This, THIS is a classic example of an object that interferes with the flow of energy in one's home. Just think about it, every time Marie goes to do the dishes or wash her vegetables, she is met with this universal symbol of.. guilt. No wonder her sink is such a mess. This is self sabotage, pure and simple..

Yeah, but, Marie probably thinks..

Interestingly enough, people are their own worst enemies when it comes to this kind of thing. It's almost an unconscious thing. But that's what I'm here for (Doris tosses the cross into the garbage). Wow! You can already feel the energy clearing up in here, can't you..?

I have a question..

You know, at this rate, we better grab some more garbage bags. I see about a million things that just have to go..

Next week Part two: Marie's extreme shoe shopping adventure..

Samsung: still confused about the seasons

According to my cell phone (in particular the screen saver which is in calendar mode) it's May. And apparently, in the estimation of the cell phone programmers at Samsung, the onset of the next ice age is not only imminent, but has been definitely scheduled to occur in the month of May. This month. Yes. Something is going to happen. And if you saw my cell phone right now, you'd have to agree. It just doesn't look good for the month of May.

Samsung has yet again led me to seriously question their sanity due to the calendar screen saver feature on my cell phone. If I am to at all believe in the natural progression of the seasons (or at least the fictional progression of the seasons as seen on TV and in greeting cards) then Samsung is in desperate need of a reality check. I admit that there is nothing wrong with the calendar itself, (the numbers are all there and are mostly accurate) but the background images are senseless. It's getting to the point where I'm beginning think that this this calendar is in no way based on the seasons.

And that blows my mind.

Back story: You might recall that February's screen saver was a winter scene so grim that it necessitated the use of my land line for much of the remainder of that month. Admittedly that image was not all that off base. February is a winter month. And that was a winter scene. Extreme and hard to shake, yes, but it isn't Samsung's job to tip toe around the truth about winter. I concluded that the people at Samsung were realists. I had never read their mission statement, nor explored their company (beyond looking closely at the screen saver). And I thought perhaps it was high time that I did.

But this became a moot point. February turned into March. And as the two were compared (at first involuntarily, then later with much scrutiny), it became apparent that realism was not the issue. As March was so very unreal. I was aghast. March, with it's sudden and profuse mass of red tulips, and what appeared to be mild weather with a cloudless sky, was quite a shock. Though this interpretation of March was wrong and outrageous, it did lead me to think well of Samsung. Maybe they were a little idealistic or naive. And that was ok. I liked their innocence pertaining to the weather. And, if nothing else, March was good for a laugh.

Then with April came a seasonally non-specific goldfish. Which I chose to ignore. Which may have been my first mistake. The goldfish was a little too forgettable. Suspiciously unremarkable. And it lacked any dynamic quality. It looked not like a fish that was swimming in a pond so much as it looked like a fish thawing on a plate (ready to be lightly seasoned with salt and pepper, and placed into the broiler). And as a subject, I must say that the goldfish was situated rather carelessly in the page. In a method that suggests that the concept of composition was a non-issue to whomever took the photograph. In the end, I didn't give the goldfish much thought. And I think it was due to the overall benign effect of the goldfish that I was able to let down my guard. As by the end of April, I had forgotten all about this Samsung nonsense.

Until now. May. And I'm afraid that Samsung's intentions are again highly suspect, and need to be immediately put back under the microscope (so to speak, I don't actually have a microscope). Here May accosts the cell phone viewer with an icy mountain. Just a mountain covered with snow that is so white, so impossible, that it boarders dangerously on the ethereal [in a Large Marge voice: ..and so their fates were sealed that winter on the mountain with an icy kiss ..as one by one they alternately froze and starved to death ..then went quietly up to Heaven ..all of them ..like so many puffs of smoke ..gone ..forgotten]
And this two months after the relentlessly summery interpretation of March. No. Any casual viewer of this screen saver would have to agree: there are NO people on this mountain. It is frozen. Solid. And probably has been that way for a millions of years.

In fact, the only sign of life, or sign that this mountain is part of Earth's landscape (as opposed to being a photograph of any mountain from any number of moons), is the presence of an intense, seemingly unstoppable sun. The kind of sun that blinds a person (either from the sunlight itself, or from the snow's reflection of it, it doesn't matter). The kind of sun that no doubt shines uninterrupted into the farthest reaches of outer space (thereby seriously misinforming any intelligent life that might exist in outer space about the life or warmth of this particular mountain). No. Believe me. I'm looking at my cell phone right now. And there is No life on that mountain.

sweet and sour frankenmonsterblog

You get a free eggroll with this order. And maybe some dumplings.

Two things have happened. Actually three. The first thing breaks down into two pieces:

a) the end of my career as a waitress (cringe as I say career)
b) the start of my career as a designer (career, this time without cringing)

I start my new job in the middle of May. This surprised me (even though I had just had an interview) because I had very cautiously not allowed myself to develop any expectations about this new, better, altogether wonderful design job.

I have wondered many times what it would be like to give my notice to my boss where I work as a waitress. He will say: Oh, now, FINALLY a smile! Where was that smile the last TEN years..?

Verbatim on Saturday. Mark my words.

It was like I was waiting to graduate from waitressing school. Four years went by. Then another four. I believe I now have the equivalent of my MA in waitressing (with a minor in bartending).

Though, if you can believe it, the whole putting waitressing behind me isn't the thing. And I always imagined that it would be a very big deal, that it would be fodder for many jokes, and colorful stories. But it isn't the thing. The other job. That is the thing.

They were on the fence about a putting anyone in a permanent position. When I got the message from my sister-in-law, I was ecstatic. I had been telling myself that there were other set design jobs out there. But this was the one I really wanted. I believe my previous posts about that job attest to this (and read nearly like Valentines). The word love was used more than once. And I know that I spoke of the prop room as one might speak of Moscow, or Paris.

I'm just a little nervous. It's such a 180. Last winter, when I first asked with my sister-in-law about openings at her company, I had already been avoiding all things design related for some time. I had been out of school for too long. Too many strange things had happened where I couldn't concentrate or get myself started. I stopped reading the trade magazines. Fabric. Pattern. Furniture. All of it was lost on me. Even color. Sure, I still talked about color, but it was rote, as if I was reading off of a page. I felt like such a fraud.

But now? Now even my colored pencils no longer make me sad. That is, the pencils (literally a thousand pencils) that my dad gave me when I first went back to school. It wasn't that long ago that being confronted by those pencils (and they're impossible to miss) was the product of guilt. They (there in their lucite containers, all sharpened, all pointing east, all color catagorized by my dad) seemed to mock me silently. Like ever present reminders just collecting dust. Waiting to be used. Not being used. It was a real waste. But now I hear myself reintroducing myself, ..hi pencils.. remember me..?

Relationship with colored pencils >RESTORED<

Part 2 now funnier and more vague:

So that's good. All good stuff. But, then, just as the interview/jobs stuff was going on, I received a phone call about a case that I'm involved in, which necessitated that I go to a police line up. Which was ridiculous, in terms of the timing. Here whole days could go by where all I do is sit around and watch the Batman reruns marathon (for example). But apparently, (and I don't believe in astrology) every important thing that was meant to happen to me this year, was scheduled to happen to me all at once on Tuesday afternoon. And I had no idea.

Actually, this was not totally unexpected. I knew a month ago that there might be a line up. I just wasn't about to hold my breath. This incident occurred eighteen months ago, and I've found it best to try to accept that it might never be resolved (at least in the legal sense). And to never, ever believe the police when they suggest that there's about to be a Crack In The Case! Because they tend to suggest such cracks forming in the case all of the time.

Still, I wanted to be as helpful as possible. They have no case without me, in my case (this person has several cases against them). So, before I was found to be officially useless as a witness (due to memory loss, something they could have determined long ago) I went to the line up. I felt ill at ease but I had my wits about me (though nothing even remotely resembling moxie) and quite a few (three or four million) police detectives around to protect me. Not like anything was going to happen. I just felt very much like leaving the building. I had a strong urge to leave. That was what I was thinking the entire time. The cops seem to know that this is going to happen. They just keep offering coffee and bottled water and leading you back to your chair. I think they do this because they feel helpless. And because they really, really want you to stay in the building.

Ultimately, I couldn't identify the person. Not in the way that was necessary. The minute you say, I think.. it's over. Think is an opinion. And when you say, 90% of me thinks.. it's really over. There is no 90% at Area 5 Police Headquarters. That is what Detective B explained to me (though I kind of knew this already from other experiences I've had in this case). If only there could have been a line up within an hour of the criminal activity. Or, a week.

The next day Detectives A and B came over to (gently) issue me a verbal waiver where, until something changes with my memory, I am no longer to be considered a witness to what happened to me. Then Detective B leaned in and told me in a very serious (now serious, because before it was quite laugh packed) tone that they know (for reasons he couldn't disclosed) that the person responsible for what happened to me was definitely in that line up. He was identified by someone (with the preferred certainty of 100%).
I was assured that, with or without me, this person will eventually be put behind bars. He has so many cases against him.

Sometimes I try to imagine what being in that kind of trouble would feel like. And for some reason I gain no satisfaction from the idea of this person being brought to justice.

And being waived as a witness leaves me ambivalent. It's both a relief and failure. It's confusing. I'm at least three different people when it comes to what happened to me. I'm (1) pathetic-vulnerable me, (2) emotionally-removed-numb-I-don't care me, and (3) intrigued-by-the-ugliest-most-gruesome-things-likes-to-turn-over-the-rock me. And that last one, though it sounds gross, is actually quite good.

So, Detectives A and B and I all finally said our loud goodbyes (their loud goodbyes, cops talk really loud) and they left. For good. Forever. For now. But not before Detective A forgot his police radio on my kitchen table (that crazy Detective A!). We all had a good laugh about that later (that is, a few minutes later, when they came back to get their radio). I'm going to miss Detectives A and B.

And I genuinely hope to never see either of them ever again.

Update:

Tonight I'm going to give my boss my notice. I'm not sure what will happen. He will either say, ..That's nice, now immediately leave the building..! (and I kind of need to continue working right now, though a vacation would be nice). Or he'll be cool, and let me work the remainder of my two weeks (then assign me my trainee).

I must say, I'm a little jazzed.