Archive for September, 2006

Ok, I guess

When someone tells you that they are sorry, does it ever make you feel as good as you think it will when you’re daydreaming about them coming to their senses? When someone admits that they did everything wrong, does it make a difference, really, since they already did it? If what happened really mattered, does sorry ever really change anything?


Coming out of the (Shoe) Closet

I’ve never been particularly succeptable to clothing fads. By that I mean if something was trendy and I liked it and it was flattering on me, then I might buy it. But I would never buy something simply because it was trendy. So, how can I justify my purchase of these?

These are probably the ugliest pair of shoes under creation.

Yes, I now own a pair of black Crocs. And let me tell you this, my doubting friends. I have issues with my feet so shoe shopping, while enjoyable, produces limited choices for me. My feet, inside of said Crocs, are the most comfortable they’ve been in years. They weren’t lying when they said that the shoes mould to the shape of your feet. I love my ugly shoes. I’m pondering other colors.

Try them on. You’ll be a believer.

(I should so get money for this plug.)

This is the Receipt from the first time we had Italian Food Together…

I save things. I’m almost 30 years old and I still have (properly folded) notes passed to me in high school. I have movie stubs and show tickets. I’ve got broken jewelry. I even have a few rocks. I save them because they remind me of good things, yet I can remember the good things without these reminders. I like to have them. I have almost every letter I’ve ever gotten in the mail in a shoebox in my closet. I’ve tried to throw this shoebox out every time I move, but I just can’t do it. Most girls I’ve spoken with have some sort of shoebox like mine. Maybe more than one. . .maybe one for each relationship.

My question is: are guys sentimental like this? Do you have the slip of paper she wrote her number on that first meeting? Do you have the envelope with a return address that you’ve already memorized? What do you save and why do you save it?

The Balloon Festival

Not one balloon did I see at the balloon festival. Balloons have pretty stringent weather requirements. Saturday it was raining and Sunday there were high winds. The one time the balloons did go up, we missed them.

Still the trip was nice. It’s beautiful country up there on the New York/Vermont border. Here are the pics:

Flicker Photo Set

I did have a bit of a scare. I found a tick on my leg on Sunday morning. We watched the bite area on Monday and since it looked like this:

I made a doctor’s appointment. So the good news is that I probably don’t have Lyme’s Disease. The bad news is when my friend removed the tick she squeezed so hard that she gave me a haematoma on my leg at the site of the bite–hence the red and purpleness.

One last thing: Go here. Wes drew my picture, as he promise a long time ago.

Time Flies when You’re Focused on Being Completely Self-Centered

Today “Cycle” is 2 years old. Yes, it’s my two year blogiversary. It’s been an interesting, if not particularly well-doumented year. I went through a long blog dry spell. I hooked up, I broke up, I kissed a stranger in a keg room in back of a bar. Oh, I didn’t tell that story? My bad. It was funny, too.

My anniversary post last year was well received so I thought I’d do the same thing again this year.

Here are some “clips” from my better posts from September 2005-September 2006.


A little over a year ago I had all four of my wisdom teeth removed under general anesthesia. It all went off without a hitch. Yes, it hurt, but I didn’t have any of those horrible after-effects that they warn you about, like dry socket. I did everything they said: iced it, didn’t drink through straws, didn’t eat the forbidden foods.

Still, the four holes in the back of my mouth were rather interesting things to have. I can still just barely feel them now, but they felt like craters at the time. And they took a really long time to heal. My first follow up visit, I was fairly confident that they would praise my diligence and due care, but when they cleaned them out for me and I spit into the cup it kind of looked like a chunky brown soup. Which was quite shocking, but also fascinating at the same time.

They gave me this contraption (it resembled a hypodermic syringe only the pointy end was wider) with instructions to suck water into the the syringe and then stick the pointy end in each hole and depress, flushing the contents of the gaping black holes in my mouth after every meal. This had a certain appeal to it, I will admit. Firstly, after I was done, my mouth felt so clean. And secondly, spitting the backwash into the sink and trying to guess what the pieces were from was an interesting diversion. Thirdly, I got to carry around a syringe.

I kinda miss my black holes.

I’m sure you are all sitting on the edge of your seats wondering how I handled the noisy neighbors situation. Well, because it wasn’t loud music or TV, it didn’t seem fair to go to the apartment managers for a noise the neighbors might not even have been conscious of. However, both my roommate and I are big chickens and we really don’t want to approach the folks next door ourselves. My roommate is mostly annoyed with the occasional, yet all too frequent, thumps and bumps; but my biggest beef, as you might remember was the vibration I could feel through the wall my room shares with their apartment.

So I’m not sure what she’s going to do. But I took action.

I rearranged my room. Now my bed doesn’t touch that wall and I hardly notice it at all.

That’ll show’em.


Now that I have begun my 30th year on this planet, I’d like to impart some of the wisdom I have gained over the years.

1) Just because you have been watching the Olympics, does not mean that you can lay a 2×4 from your bed to your dresser and use it as a balance beam. It will snap in half before you even get near the middle and a sharp wood shard will rake the back of your leg. (Wisdom circa age 8)


I stepped up to the electronic ticket machine and for some reason I couldn’t figure out how to get a ticket for just one ride. I have this thing…I’d rather pay extra, drive to the next exit, eat something I didn’t order, etc. rather than have everyone stop their lives while I figure out what I was supposed to be doing. So I just bought an unlimited ride one-day ticket for $7.

So then Becky strides through the turnstile, being encumbered by a huge silver rolly suitcase. But I cannot get myself and the suitcase through the turnstile at the same time. “It’s fine,” I think, “I have an unlimited pass.” So I shove my suitcase through and tell Becky to grab it, at the same time as she is saying “but I don’t think you can. . .”

Guess what. Turnstiles are smart. They have memories like elephants. I couldn’t run my card through again. There’s a rumbling in the distance. I’m on one side of the turnstile and Becky is on the other with my suitcase.

I couldn’t think of anything else to do but step back to the ticket machine. This time I find the one ride ticket.

My last subway ride in New York cost me 9 bucks. Becky thought it was funny.


Dear Kevin:

Yeah, I do think it’s weird.
And, no, I will not be posting a picture of my injured toe…especially now.

Sorry to “intrigue” you and then leave you hanging. I’m sure there’s a website out there somewhere that can accomodate you, though.

Thank you for your well-wishes.



Last night I had my third dream in which P*r*s Hil**n and I were hanging out. This one happened to involve her falling down and needing a ambulance, which I called for her, my good friend. When the medics arrived they picked her up and threw her in the ambulance but she flew out the door on the other side and landed in the middle of the street.

Conversations in the Dentist Office Waiting Room

Me: . . .

TV: This is Lauren Hutton. I turned down 27 infomericals over the years. But this makeup is more than something I just put my name on. This is something I believe in.

Guy: hmph.

Me: . . .

TV: My makeup is specially formulated without the mica and shiny metals that get deep into the lines on your face and actually make you look older.

Me (thinking): huh. mica. shiny metals. do i have lines on my face? wonder how much it is.

Guy: This is the longest commerical I’ve ever seen.

Me: Polite mumble. (thinking) please please please don’t start talking to me. your sneakers velcro. please please.

Guy: That’s stuff’s junk. Just junk. Doesn’t do all that.

Me: mumble. (thinking) but it’s all in one convenient disc, specially formulated to match my skintone and only $19.99. i can’t be old enough to be thinking about buying this can i? but Lauren Hutton does look really good. please stop talking to me velcro man. where’s the damn hygenist?

Guy: Like lipstick on a duck.

Me: . . .


Scene: hors d’oeuvres table at the house of Cavi’…cousin?

Cavi (scooping dip): I made this amazing Creme Brulee. I’ll have to make it for you so you can try it.

Me: Really? Cool. Do you have a torch . . . Janette Isabella?

Cavi: I brought one. Yeah.

Me: *grin*

Cavi: Humor is so much more funny when you’re smart.

Me: Absolutely.


I’m watching the Olympic women’s figure skating. And I think Dick Button is mad that they woke him up from his cryogenic state for these games. Scott Hamilton and whoever that woman is are all “yes!, she’s really enjoying her Olympic experience. She knows she won’t medal, but she’s really going after it.” And “look at her, look at the fire in her eyes, she’s out for redemption.” After which, whoever wasn’t talking says something equally nice, or even maybe says something slightly derogatory, but still sweet like, “I’ve seen her looking better but the pressure of this Olympic ice is intense.” Meanwhile, all night long Dick has been living up to his name by saying things like “Well you’ll forgive me for saying this, but I don’t see any fire, I think she’s a slow, clumsy, out of shape cow. I hope that’s not being mean.” And then there’s this awkward silence while Scott thinks, “man if you weren’t 200 years old and hadn’t skated your Olympics on an outdoor rink in a blizzard, and if I wasn’t afraid your head would completely fall off your body from your recent cryogenics, I’d so hit you now” and the woman is trying to come up with a way to politely disagree but she can’t think of anything to say because he’s Dick Button for God’s sake.


Left PA at 4.55 am.
Arrive Nashville 7.30pm (really 8.30 but we gained an hour with the time change)

La Quinta. Spanish for “You’ll get to your room and you’ll be really tired, but have to go to the bathroom, whereupon you’ll figure out too late that your toilet is plugged up. You’ll try to fix it yourself by lifting the bar inside the tank and the toilet will overflow onto the floor. You’ll use every towel in the hotel room to soak it up. When you call the front desk the woman will tell you that she doesn’t know how to use a plunger and that maintenance will come out in the morning. You’ll remind her gently that you’ll probably have to use the bathroom again sometime before you check out. She’ll tell you that there are no other rooms available, but she’ll give you a key to a room across that hall that’s not big enough to accommodate your party, but at least the toilet works. Then you realize that if you have to go pee in the middle of the night it will entail walking across the hallway in your pajamas. You’ll resolve to go to sleep and forget that you just drank two glasses of iced tea at Cracker Barrel.

And it all went so smoothly up until that point…


The character in the movie was so like him. And the storyline. God, that storyline glued her to her seat and made her want to flee the room at the same time. But no, she hadn’t cried and she wasn’t going to cry. It was done and that was all.

The credits rolled and she rose slowly from the couch and said her goodbyes with the soundtrack still playing in her brain. Though it was pouring, she walked slowly to her car, unable to shake the feeling that she was somehow on the verge of something, the edge of something.

It was about then that the fireworks started. The last hurrah of some summer carnival nearby. That the noise shook her car felt right somehow, like it matched the frequency of her body. She drove away with colors spreading across her field of vision, looking like an impressionst painting through the raindrops. The lump in her throat turned into a sob and the sob turned into a force she couldn’t stop. She cried and drove, her love exploding into pieces in the sky above her, leaving only the smell of gunpowder in the air and a smoky haze under every streetlight.


The past was asking me hard and hurtful questions like “Do you want this just to prove it can work?” A voice from my present, namely my brother, was also quite loud and persistent: “Why do you always choose unavailable men?”

My heart was louder. “You love him, you love him. He’s not unavailable–or if he is, it’s only temporary. You love him, you can do this. You can make it work. You never stopped loving him from when you knew him in college. You compared every guy to him. Here’s your chance. Make it work.”

I thought I loved him. I listened to my heart.

And I’ll admit the idea of coming full circle was alluring. The reasons for relationships, for loving someone, are complicated. Deep inside, I have always chastised myself for not waiting until marriage to have sex. Whatever you might call that, it’s there. And somehow the idea of ending up with the gentle, loving man I started with was somehow redemptive. Not to mention romantic and wonderful. It would be like all that went in between–the guilt, the fear, the betrayals– never happened.

We were so good together, when we were actually physically together. It’s flicking at the raw to wonder too much if we could have made it in the same country. I think we could have, but I’ll never know. I so much wanted for this to be it. But it takes more than that. As another song proclaims: “Sometimes Love Just Aint Enough.”


George Mallet [rhymes with dismay]: And in national news, August 22 could prove to be a day of violence or a day of prayer.

*cut to story and reels about the various religious beliefs about what August 22 represents. mention that Iran chose to annouce the continuation of their nuclear program on August 22 as opposed to August 31st.*

*cut to interview with expert who has written a book on the subject rife with doomsday prophecy*

George Mallet: AND if the world doesn’t end today, you might be in the market for a new car. . .

Me and remote: *click*


It’s all a fight.

To keep moving when you’d rather stay put.
To be still when you want to run.
To choose the hard road because there is something worth having at the end of it.
To keep loving someone when you can’t see their face.
To keep loving someone when you know how it feels to lose someone you love.
To live when you know you are going to die.

You have to pick your battles. Save your strength. Pick out what you think is worth fighting for. If you can’t fight for love, over and over, scar crossing scar, climbing over fear and loss and depression, and all the minefields in your brain. . .then none of the other fights matter.


So that’s it. I’ve stuck with this a lot longer than most things I’ve tried. And the reason is mainly because of you. I can’t tell you what it means to me that you come every day, or once a week, or once a month, because you are interested in what I have to say. It’s easy to feel quite small in this big world. The 30 or so people a day who come to my blog make me feel like I have some sort of a larger voice. Thank you, I really appreciate it.

A White Dress and EVOO

For some reason, I watch the Food Network a lot. Keep in mind that as a rule I don’t cook and I can’t think of a time when I’ve ever made use of anything I learned while watching cooking shows.

Last night I had a dream that I went to Rachael Ray’s wedding as her specially invited guest. When her husband (who I don’t think I’ve ever seen on TV and must have made up completely in my head) read his vows to her he proclaimed that he would be taking the last name of Ray. He said “I love the name Ray, I love Rachael, and I love what her name has come to represent to America.

I started to tear up and went to sit on the stone wall next to Paul Deen. “That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard,” I said to the Southern Belle. “I know, child, y’all coming over for dinner after right?” said Paula.

tags: ;;;

Lazy but Beautiful

I’m going away this weekend, so I have a lot to do at work to get my stuff ready for my backups. Therefore, I’m going to resort to a lazy post today.

These were taken Sunday morning at around 9 a.m. The light in the backyard was sublime. Look how it looks like light is coming from the center of each flower.


A blog about my life and other stuff.

Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song,
A medley of extemporanea;
And love is a thing that can never go wrong;
And I am Marie of Romania.

Dorothy Parker, Not So Deep as a Well (1937)