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.

negative space now sufficiently filled

There is an area in my apartment, namely on the outskirts of the cat box/desk/computer/drawing table area, where junk just piles up. It is the dead space between what would be two rooms, but as there is no wall to divide these spaces, therefore no logical use for this space, stuff, e.g. crap, gets relegated there. And this is ongoing. The old TV. The spider community. School work. Furniture. The plant. Whatever is in queue to be the next to thing to go out of the apartment and my life forever, winds up in that space.

Currently this space is filled with old clothes. This began about a month ago. It was bound to happen. It was too clear for too long. Things were calm. So I started a project with my old clothes that should have been finished long ago. And if this were a reality TV show where a team, led by a (tastefully dressed, always understated, less is more, knows her best side, never minces words, has both an American and a British accent so that you don't know where the hell she is from) self proclaimed decluttering expert, were enlisted to remove the clutter from my life (and pay me a million dollars), this would have been resolved long ago. Of course it's just a pile of clothes. And reality TV would have had no part of my pile of clothes. Of that I'm certain.

(begin daydream sequence)

Idea for an episode of (insert name of reality TV show). Today's topic: the junk drawer. With all the gravity and seriousness in the world, the same that is necessitated by the instance of people who have more or less entombed themselves in their homes with junk, where issues of extreme laziness, lack of self respect and mental illness are put into sharp, unforgiving focus, where the root cause of the most self punishing of messes is identified.. Today, we give you the case of the junk drawer: Can this drawer be saved? The handheld camera weaves from the junk drawer (now pulled open by our host, exposed, raw and horrifying, a neglected drawer/ this is the money shot) to the reaction of the host/decluttering professional (uncensored judgment diluted by the authority of condescending mock concern) and then to the client (now desperate, now sufficiently ashamed). They all sit down to discuss the problem. Just where did things go wrong? How did our client get so far off track? Slowly they get to the bottom of the client's problem, as they get to the bottom of the drawer. Why has the client channeled all of her anxiety into this drawer? And why this particular, most public of kitchen drawers? Why not a more secret, vanity table or desk drawer? How are her other drawers? Let's enlist our resident team of helpful psychiatrists. And, somebody, please give this woman a day at the spa. Then (after a commercial break) there is a transformation. It turns out there were specific reasons that led to the poor condition of the drawer. The viewer is relieved to see that the client can heal her past. And the prognosis for the drawer is good. It's remade to be orderly and useful. Look, the pencils no longer roll around. The batteries, once loose and unwieldy (thus impossible to deal with) are now contained. And remember the Post-Its? They have been moved out of the drawer altogether, and have been resituated nearer to the computer, where they can be put to better use. The whole thing ends happily, though with a cliff hanger, which makes everyone a little uncomfortable. The question is: will the drawer remain in it's newly restored, functional state?

(end daydream)

So, I decided that my closet is not a museum. That every article of clothing need not be saved by me for future reference. I mean, how pathetic? I can just hear myself blathering on and on:

..Oh, yes, just let me reach back into the archives of my clothes for a moment to retrieve blue skirt # 1089934 from the 1996 series, or "The Sofia", if you will (depending on which system I'm using to catalog my museum of clothes at that time) ..so that I might further illustrate my long winded (certainly drunken, certainly maudlin) story..

Finally I took every skirt, dress, purse, shoe, belt, jacket, pair of pants (and the one sad, lonely skort) out of my closet. That was the first step. I knew this instinctually. Without any help from the organizing authorities. Then I asked myself honestly about each item: am I ever going to wear this again? How long has it been since I've worn this? How does this item make me feel? It went on and on, and was far more disturbing than I would have ever imagined. And, it didn't look good for about 75% of my clothes. The garbage bags were brought out. I realized I had been saving things as testimony to whatever happened when I wore certain items. And it's not like all these were wonderful memories:

..this was the dress I was wearing when I found out he had a girlfriend.. ..I can't remember much about this jacket, but it makes me feel anxious, and why is there blood on it..? .. I was wearing this coat when I lost my wallet in it in the snow.. so that I had to put everything into hock in order to pay my rent ..and it was six months before I got everything safely back out of the pawners.. why didn't I ask my parents for the money..? ..what the hell was the matter with me..? ..I was a bad, bad irresponsible girl.. etc, etc.

It went mostly like that.

Certain things were of course exempt for this brutal process. A blouse from the 1930's that was my grandmother's, and all of my mom's stuff from the fifties and sixties. But my stuff from highschool? My stuff from the 1990's? From five years ago?

It was ridiculous how things went back and forth from various stacks into other stacks, and finally into sub-stacks, that is, catagories of clothes that seemed to create themselves. With some "stacks" being only one item of clothing, and with reasons, always with reasons (that I have long since forgotten). And with some items fitting into no catagory, but troublesome anyway (..I hate this dress/I wore this dress to my brother's wedding..). And continually needing to remind myself of why I was doing this. That the object wasn't to torture myself but to merely clean out my closet. So, what were supposed to be three simple categories of keep/give to charity/go into the garbage became:

- keep
- maybe keep
- possibly charity
- very likely charity
- charity
- possibly garbage
- what if I gain weight/get pregnant
- what if I lose weight
- maybe with alterations
- maybe as a pattern for clothes to be sewn later
- maybe just the skirt without the bodice
- maybe my mom will want this
- guilt (but my mom gave this to me)
- guilt (every other kind)
- dry cleaning
- possibly dry cleaning/very likely garbage
- this makes me sad
- this makes me happy
- what if I want to make a quilt one day
- garbage now
- garbage later/pending/still deciding
- what if I find the other shoe

So, there was stuff hanging from and stacked on every corner and surface in my apartment. Except in the closets. My kitchen, my living room, every door, every chair was clothes. It was not allowed back into any closet until this thing was settled. I was ruthless. Which was alright. I wasn't making progress. But I could see how I would just as soon as I got through the bittersweet, dark, murky, gloppy, godawful, memory overload phase.

Then I got the call to start the new job that meant I had no time to address this explosion of clothes for two weeks. I hadn't anticipated this. I was happy about the job. But, my apartment remained in this state for the duration. And it was a big mistake. It was unpleasant. And, some of the clothes found their way back into my closet.

So, the second that I had a day off, I sat down and decided exactly what was garbage. And it went out. I didn't even say goodbye, I just threw it all into the dumpster. And without the sense that I had accomplished anything, as I still had a bunch of bags that were, by then, all clean (for the most part, I gave up on some of the cat fur that had gotten on the clothes due to exposure to the kitten) and neatly folded and otherwise put together for charity up in my apartment. Still.

And somewhere along the line, I grew sick and tired of the whole thing.

And, because I made some edits along the way, that is, searched for specific items that I had changed my mind about giving away to charity, the bags were opened and reopened a number of itmes. To the point where the orderly bags of clothes were again reduced to a just a pile of clothes. With the bags and (as of this writing) some laundry thrown on top. The kitten likes it much better this way. She behaves as though this pile of clothes is now her permanent mountain. She plays there all day, jumping onto and off of her mountain. In her mind, I'm sure she roars like a lion when she's doing this. But it's really just this meak little baby sounding meow. Sometimes she chooses to tunnel her way through the clothes, like it's a short cut or something. Which is disturbing, as it's like being on pins and needles, the whole waiting to see if she makes it safely back out on the other side.

Bottom line, the cleaning of my closets has gone through its many stages, only to again unravel into a big mess on my floor. It is as it should be. And if I were at all into feng shui, I would no doubt find that this particular spot in my apartment symbolizes the stomach of my house. The hungry stomach that I keep feeding. Or maybe it's the toilet of my house. Either way. I'm sure it is symbolic of something. Something specific. Something about digestion. Something not good.

But, it doesn't matter. As of tomorrow, the clothes are finally going out. First thing in the in the morning, when the Salvation Army (and, it is no mistake that it is an army with which I have made these arrangements) gets here and drags what is to be, by then, bags of clothing. Kitten not included. Maybe, when they get here (and get a sense the degree of relief that they are providing me) they will bring me one of their famous blankets and hot cups of coffee. I Can't wait. I won't even look as I put everything back into bags tonight. I'll just close my eyes and start folding.

reviews a la frankenmonsterblog

I woke up this morning realizing that my decision to view Maria Full of Grace right before I went to bed was probably not a bad idea. I needed a good nightmare. I hadn't had a bad dream in a long time. It was curious. I was beginning to wonder, where have all of the nightmares gone..? Then I watched Maria Full of Grace. And I had a dream that I swallowed some erasers. Whole erasers. It was under duress that I had done this. Actually, the nightmare was more about the regret I experienced after swallowing the erasers. There was a whole logical plot leading up to all of this (which I won't get into right now, as it might give away too much about the movie). It was one of those dreams where, when you wake up, the realization that none of it actually happened comes slowly to the surface of your mind. And you're just so GLAD.

Review of Maria Full of Grace:

Maria Full of Grace. It's a good film. I'll rent it again. Or, I'll watch it again before I take it back. Either way. Go see Maria Full of Grace.
.......

Like I said, I don't like to give too much away about the film in my reviews. I will say this, though, I enjoy writing reviews. And not just about movies. For example, I recently switched brands of cigarettes. This was in order to (further degrade myself) sort of shake things up. Because switching is so unpleasant.

Review of Parliament Lights:

Parliament Lights taste bad. And vaguely like men's cologne. Not right away. It takes a minute. And then there's the taste that can NOT be removed. Not by Listerine. Not by vodka. And this taste is not the taste of just any cologne, but the one I imagine is issued to inmates as they are being released from jail. Just slap it on. It kills bugs, and is effective as a warning to the local women. Maybe it's some sort of industrial soap that I am tasting when I light up a Parliament. Like Lava. Or Ajax. Now, I like the way Ajax smells. And it turns blue, which is a lot of fun and boarders on being elegant. It's a nice touch, this turning blue. Ajax has it all over Comet. It really does. Just NOT as a personal product. Or a cigarette taste. Bottom line, the associations that I've drawn from smoking Parliament Lights are not good. The packaging is stellar. Or it was stellar. I've noticed that they've tweaked with it a bit. Which effectively killed it's retro/Euro associations for me. Before it was like, ..Wow! I bet JAMES BOND smokes Parliaments Lights..! It had such cache. But not so much, anymore. And if they ever change the packaging for Lucky Strikes there will be an uproar. From me. Just me. But, still, imagine the hoarding (kind of like when Campbell's Soup threatened to update their design, then suddenly changed their minds, and, well, I've got plenty of tomato soup. That's all I'm saying). So. Parliament Lights. Good for quitting. I used to smoke Marlboro Lights. Their packaging is pure genius. Peaceful. Clean. White. Benign (pun absolutely intended). Like you're going to Heaven. Which I'm sure is no mistake.
What is that Japanese cigarette called? Ghost? Spirit? ..Skeleton?


In the interest of reviews (and being green) I wil recycle this one last time:

Don't miss this one: From the very opening scene the audience is captivated. First by the score, which is brightly percussive throughout the entire piece. We are then immediately introduced to the story's lead character. Here's a thirtyish woman with her hair down, having a good day. She conveys that she's secure in the world and within herself. She smiles to herself and, without any irony, seems to really enjoy doing her laundry. But, as viewers, we begin to sense something's not quite right. We start to catch on to what's really behind this woman's smile, as it never drops from its utterly brilliant degree of joy (no easy feat for the actress, I'm sure..). At first her smile portrays a reassuring purity of motive.. some rare quality of truth and simplicity of her nature. But her smile becomes unnerving to the viewer, as we start to register that this is not a real smile. It is a truly chilling device that sets the tone for the rest of the story. As quickly as we start to suspect this character's secret frustration, it is validated. And the action starts to spin and escalate, drawing the audience further and further into the most private reaches of this character's heart and troubled labyrinth of a mind. In this moment, we sense her frailty and self hatred as she drops ( ..for those of you who haven't yet seen this piece, please read no further.. ) a just laundered sock on to the basement floor. Here is where all the incredible suspense and tension of the opening sequence really pays off. The director is remarkable for his trust in his audience. He understands that the viewer not only associates laundry with basements (and for that matter with dirty floors), but quite notably that they, as human beings, have undoubtedly had the experience of dropping a just washed sock back onto a dirty floor. And this is all executed with a subtlety and elegance that speaks to, rather than down to, the audience. As a viewer you are spellbound. You are not only taken hostage, but willingly surrender for this tightly wound, unrelenting holding up of a mirror to ourselves. What this piece lacks in dialogue, it makes up for with it's keen and and almost embarrassingly honest portrayal of the human condition. We cringe as we recognize ourselves in this woman. It begs us to ask, Who hasn't dropped a just laundered sock back on to the dirty floor? This leads us to the turning point, where an incredible gang of villains suddenly comes on to the scene. They are what can only be described as types of dirt. One portraying something linty, another something sticky, and the other two something unidentified (and all the more horrible for their very vagueness). They dance and posture en masse with a kind of in-your-face quality rarely addressed in American films today. The portrayal of this dirt betrays an almost outright refusal to ever be confused with any other generic, run-of-the-mill bad asses, thanks on the part of the director and these four bright new-comers. They are some of the most original characters I've ever seen drawn onto the screen. They are neither scary, cold, or tough. They indeed wear the same smile as our hero does. For this perhaps they are doubly menacing. They seem to celebrate their badness with true abandon, which only underscores our worst fears. They are mocking us. And they are very dirty. I must also mention that it is at this juncture of the story that the action very nearly becomes a musical number. It is super stylized in it's choreography, and as a reviewer, I can only guess that this sequence was informed by such classics as The West Side Story, or Sweet Charity (Bob Fosse, move over..). The ending is sublime in its delivery of a mixed message. Our hero, seemingly unfettered by all of this (seemingly, that is, to those unseen, off screen characters, and well understood by the viewer to be oblivious to our hero's personal moment of truth) lifts the ruined sock from the floor and puts it back into the washing machine. It's a moment of surrender for her and for us. She doesn't give up. She continues.. as must we all. But don't blink. Just as our hero does this, another revelation into human nature is brought rudely out of the dark, as we see that only the lint is still on the sock. The other three have abandoned him. Or is it sacrificed him. And it's an agonizing scene as the lint continues to dance unaware of what is about to become of his fate. Sacrificed by his pack for his lack of street smarts in the gritty hard-knocks world of dirt. It's survival of the fittest. And apparently here, a piece of lint is not the fittest, or even the smartest of the bunch. The audience gasps as they watch her place the sock with the lint still on it back into the washing machine.. the same machine that washes away the dirt. All of the dirt.


*frankenmonsterblog's reviews of All detergent commercials are neither meant to promote nor discourage the use of All detergent.

spring is in the air

But at work it is Christmas. And Halloween.

Mostly Christmas and a little bit Halloween. I spent the entire day styling a mantle for a catalog that will come out this fall. I attached douglas fir pieces using putty, pins, wire. It took all day. When I get the knack of things, it will supposedly only take me a couple of hours to do this sort of thing (I asked). I later arranged books to look casually placed in another set. It's incredible how fast it all comes together. Then the client calls and tells the set designers what needs to be changed/adjusted. I'm still figuring out where everything is, and I'm afraid of ruining the final product. It takes me a long time. I re-did the garland a bunch of times. I have a million pin holes in my fingers and pine tree gunk (with dirt stuck to it) all over my hands. It will take thirty minutes to remove it. It's a dirty job. And I still (one week later) love it. Even more so now.

This morning I put shave foam in a mug swirled around to look like whipped cream. And then sprinkled cinnamon on top of it. Yum. Then I stuck two chocolate candies in it. I smelled like my dad's aftershave the rest of the day as a result. But that was OK with me. And I watched the soft stylist make the bed for the bedroom set. They use all this bunting to jack everything up into supreme cushiness. It's an art what they do. He makes a piece of fabric look like it's just thrown over the side of a chair in this very methodical way. I couldn't replicate it. The back of objects in the sets have tape and wire and molding putty holding everything in place. The back of my Christmas tree was a ghetto. It wasn't even lit. Everything just out of the range of the lens is this wonderful disaster. The mantle and everything on it, pure Christmas, just a darling domestic scene. A fireplace at a brick wall. But the wall ends. And it is lifted up on jacks to be the right height. And immediately outside of these parameters are screens and lights and ladders, and concrete and a bunch of metal carts filled with product, and wire cutters, props, glue, hammers, a thousand rolls of tape, a thosand pieces of evergreen, and everything I've gathered from around the building as tools, and sketches, and notes, and coffee cups, and dust. As well as all the debris that falls to the floor in the process of putting this thing together. In this case anyway, the mantle set doesn't show the floor.

And I'm dead tired. Hungry. My hair is a mess. And I need a bath..