but George is great

Yeah, George is great.

The above are a couple of lines from Shampoo.

Scintilating. Still, those lines make up my favorite dialogue in the whole movie. I always watch that scene over and over.

Every Saturday morning I start over. I say things to myself like:

..this is the week where I vow to go to yoga (at either of the relatively equidistant yoga places nearest to me) and not just walk by (whatever happens to be) the (nearest) yoga place (either one, it makes no difference) but to go inside (because, yoga, it's everywhere) and practice the art of yoga (anywhere).

Or:

..this is the week I vow to stop vowing things.

But then I go check my email. And then I check my blog. And it looks dusty. It needs an update.

So I ask myself, should this post be about watching Shampoo again, or about the fact that I have millions of things to do today?

Then I (still somewhat in my vowing to change-everything-this-weekend mode) light up fifteen cigarettes and drink a half gallon of espresso. Though, just one demitasse at a time. I'm civilized. I haven't lost my mind. And I think about (and, besides, the bottom line is that coffee and cigarettes are good for me) this Shampoo thing.

(Distraught, in a Russian accent:)
Why I watch Shampoo so much? Again and again? How come! Why so many times, this Shampoo? Why!

Then I conclude that it's Lee Grant. She is probably why I keep returning to Shampoo. Something about the way she says things. Like the word bank.

..So you actually went to the bhangck? ..You really want your own shop?

Now that I think of it, the way she says shop is almost as good as the way she says bank.

..You really want your own schahp?

There's a silent R in between the H and the P. But I didn't put it in because it looked confusing. It's there, though.

Yeah. Shampoo.

Of all the truly bad movies that I love, Shampoo it isn't the worst. Exposed would be the worst.

Exposed, the international thriller (taking the viewer on a spellbinding trip from Wisconsin to New york then to Paris, then breifly back to Wisconsin) starring Nastassja Kinski and Rudolf Nureyev. It's not available on DVD. It never will be. It is, however, available for $1.60 on VHS. That's mint condition. Never taken out of the package. Never watched. Because nobody has ever watched Exposed.

..what else do you play so beautifully..?

If you've seen Exposed, and you haven't, because no one has ever seen Exposed (except for me) then you know this line. And if you know this line, then you know why it's so great.

However, it is not the best line in Exposed. The best line is delivered (in all seriousness) by Nastassja Kinski in her thick West Berlin accent. She says,

..I'm from Wisconsin.

And nobody bats an eyelash. In the film anyway.

..Ihm fr-lohhhm Vishcrnsihn.

Yes. On some level, I'm sure we all are. From Wisconsin, I mean.

............
Alright.

Right now I'm supposed to be looking for several outfits for my brother's wedding, which takes place over the course of two (consecutive) days. That is, act one (of the wedding proper) is followed (much later) by act two (the receiving of guests and party crashers disguised as guests). With all the other wedding stuff happening in the week previous. Meanwhile, parts I and II are sort of like a wedding sandwich, when you think about it. With a generous intermission (of non-wedding nothingness) in the middle.

The wedding. It's in two pieces. It's a Two Part wedding.

I can't wait. I can't believe it's almost here. My brother's wedding is going to be a really, really beautiful thing (things).

I've heard stories of these crazy weddings that are week long events. Made up of things like nightly cocktail parties (hilarity ensues), roastings (always embarrassing affairs), mock abductions of the bride (everyone becomes mock nervous), mock stolen wedding ring ordeals (everyone becomes mock appalled), some deer hunting (everyone becomes either mock or literally nervous and or appalled, it being difficult to differentiate between the two), scavenger hunts, Easter egg hunts, badmitten, progressive dinners, wine tastings, waffle parties, Polka festivals, and, sometimes even a house raising.

..It's a house built with love by your family and friends..! None of whom are architects..!

And, of course, there's always a nice gift bag at the end.

(out music)

maybe not

I have to wonder what I expected.

Google Earth, supposedly a great tool and touted to be loads of fun.

I downloaded the program.

I don't know what I was thinking when I did this. I just can't handle images of Earth as seen from space. I don't even like to look at the atlas. When I see the continents so big and realistic on a page I have to look away. Bas relief maps make me queasy. But then the installation of the program was complete. And there it was. Planet Earth. As seen from space.

I hate that.

It turns out that the start point for any search in Google Earth is way, way the hell out in outer space.

Still, I plugged in my own address, and suddenly (there is no warning, it just starts like all of this is perfectly natural) I was plunging towards Earth. Really fast. The landscape and every object on it becoming sharper as it became closer. As if you have been tossed out of an airplane. Not willingly, with any tutorial or a parachute (or having signed any waivers) but malevolently. With hatred. For the purpose of offing you.

This all happened in what I imagine was real time, that is, the real amount of time it would take a person to fall to the earth. From an airplane. Unwillingly. And land right on top of their building. Quite unnaturally.

And I did. I did land right on top of my building.

I admit, I had covered my eyes with the lattice of my fingers so that I saw only bits and pieces of the action.

And I decided that I didn't like this.

But, seeing as I was already there, I navigated through my neighborhood a little bit. I should mention that I felt very much like a spy as I was doing this. Which, for about a minute, was a good feeling. And not just any spy, but a Russian spy. Or a little bit like someone who works for the FBI. But this good feeling quickly became a creepy feeling.

And I noticed that the top of my building didn't look at all like what I had expected. But there were tell-tale signs that I was in the right place. And I pulled in close enough to see certain cars that I've seen around here. As well, the big mountain of dirt that has always been in the side yard. So, I followed the streets through my usual route to the el. And I stopped my cursor at the coffee place, which I do less and less in real life, and even stopping there with my cursor made me feel a little guilty (why exactly is my day better when I go get coffee?) Then I went to the lake shore, taking horendous short cuts never before taken in real life. I mean, I simply criss-crossed through town, jumping over the Kennedy, because I could. I visited the museum, and stopped for a moment at the building where I went to school. After which, I took mostly side streets. Finally, I followed the express way to my mom's house, which was nearly unidentifiable, as there are many trees where she lives.

And then I went back home. That's when I noticed that one of the buildings that recently went up on my block was not there.

That's when I concluded that these were old satalite images.

For some reason, I thought it was a live, streaming image. I was relieved that this was not the case. It seems more reasonable. Or less disturbing that it isn't a live image.

Yeah.

I'm afraid of this tool.

I think I'm going to get rid of Google Earth. Probably in the morning. Tuesday at the latest.

served on a bed of rice with a velvety reduction

The kitten turned off my computer, again.

I have to admit, it's one of the more clever things that she does.

Earlier this morning, she discovered her own reflection in a large mirror I have proped up against a wall. She ran back and forth, along with her own reflection, a million times. Periodically, she would stop to check behind the mirror to see if the "other" kitten was back there. Then she got wise, and backed up (so as to never take her eyes off this other kitten) and ran right into her own reflection.

Really, it was less like running and more like bounding, or something a kangaroo would do.

She's so plastic and light weight that she didn't get hurt or discouraged doing this. Because she did this many times. For about an hour. So, satisfied as I was that she was occupied, I went about my business. I made some coffee, cleaned off the table, looked at my bills. Then I went to check my email. That's when, without apology, the kitten walked over and switched off the computer.

Then she just walked away, like she was bored with the whole thing. Because normally, when she does this, she will wait over by the serge protector for me to arrive (my arrival being fairly immediate) so that, once I'm there (twisted in a position where I can not only see behind my desk, but also get my arm back there so as to extract this kitten from the scene of the crime) she (the big payoff, I believe) will proceed to use her small size and incredible quickness to narrowly escape being apprehended by me. And either run or roll away. Only to hide somewhere. For a duration of no less than forty minutes.

But not today.

It's like she's crazy - CRAZY to the point where one starts to think that it will never end. Then, abruptly (by the grace of God) she settles down to a more reasonable degree of activity. And then it's alright. Then it's like, everything is going to be ok.

Today I need to do some shopping. I need clothes.

It's funny, how I used to buy things at thrift stores because I liked to wear vintage clothes. And, how now I shop there because I can't afford anything else.

I feel as though I wear the same nine or ten things over and over at work. Probably because I do. I got rid of all of my clothes a few months ago. That was back when I still wore a uniform at work. Back when I didn't need so many clothes.

In the studio it is dusty and full of exposed nails and splinters. Everybody there dresses down. And, now, all nine or ten articles of my clothing are dressed-down items. Due to exposure to the studio. Which is fine. I guess I've developed a sort of uniform there, too. The constant being holes, dust and smudges.

I think it's time that I enforce an idea that I had developed years ago. That is, wear only black and red clothing. That's it. Maybe white (but only touches of white, like a bit of white collar sticking out - though, crookedly, like I don't care). That way, everything goes together.

I got the idea from something I had read about Diana Vreeland when I was in the sixth grade. She only wore two or three colors. Of course, she was rich and eccentric. She did this because her jewelry (more acurately sculpture, that is, artifact, bones; maybe pieces of mummies - much of it gifts from various designers and, presumably, archeologists) required a blank canvass of sorts as a back drop.

Of course, my mom wouldn't hear of it.

And, of course, I currently have no need for a blank canvass. Nor anything remotely like a tiger tooth or antler in the way of jewelery. Not that it was ever about that.

I could pretend that I did, but really what would that achieve?

I'm not into deluding myself. Not even in the name of Diana Vreeland. No. Quite the opposite. I like to look right into the ugliest, hardest to confront parts of my mind. And sort of sit there. With a bottle of vodka. And a couple of kleenexes.

I think I'll do it. The red and black thing.

"..becoming a caricature of oneself, that is, reducing the personality (as one might a red sauce) to a tincture of "persona" is every woman's priveledge, if not duty ..especially as she gets to be in her late thiries.. think Bette Davis.. think Endora from Bewitched.. those women didn't get that way overnight.."

So true.

If only I had a penny for each time I've been so instructed.

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.